Another inch. And another. She pulled herself to her feet, hunching almost double to stand in the much shorter width of the cab, and scrabbled for the door handle.
The carriage driver’s shadow fell across the window and he hauled the door open from the outside. He leaned in, hat dripping and greatcoat-clad shoulders slick with rain, and grabbed her by the arms. With his help, she heaved herself from the cab and tumbled out onto the ground below. Rain swiftly plastered her hair to her face, destroying the careful coiffure Mrs. Cunningham had arranged for her that morning. And it was cold, so cold.
The driver left her side, and as she pulled herself to her feet in a tangle of wet silk, she saw him struggling to free the horse. The road had been washed out by a mudslide coming from the hill to her right, and the carriage was within a foot of the drop off to the dale below. The horse’s every spasmodic lurch dragged it closer to the edge, the swift flow of water and crumbling earth promising disaster.
At last, the driver freed the horse. It shot to its feet and bolted. Jane watched it go, great hooves churning up the muddy soil.
Her driver swore viciously, then turned to her, feeling for his hat and righting it on his scalp. “Are you all right, ma’am?” he asked. “The mudslides, they come out of nowhere this time of year. I barely saw it before it hit us.”
“Yes, just rattled,” she said, looking back at the carriage. It had stopped its wild slide. “Your horse—”
“I’ll find him.” The driver came over to the carriage, reaching out and touching one of its wheels, then giving it a tug to see if he could right it. It didn’t move. “Best that you wait here, ma’am.”
At that, a great jag of lightning split the darkened sky, followed by a seemingly endless rolling boom. The rain came harder, and the wind with it. The carriage was useless for shelter, and the rain would only continue. She looked behind her, up the road toward Lindridge Hall.
Augustine would not be happy, but he would hate for her to be out here in the elements even more.
“No, we’re not too far yet from my husband’s house. I’ll walk back,” she said.
He frowned, looking past her. “Are you sure, ma’am? This isn’t weather to be out in.”
“I will be out either way,” she said. “Find your horse and get yourself somewhere dry, sir. I’ll be safe.”
The driver hesitated, then tipped his hat and turned from her, taking off at a jog. He looked over his shoulder only twice, both times at his carriage.
Her case—where was her case? It was no longer on the back shelf. She peered over the edge of the road for it down below, but it wasn’t there, either. Turning in a wide circle, she finally spotted it thrown some distance behind the carriage. There was nothing in it to combat the rain, except for a hat, and she didn’t relish the thought of soaking the rest of her clothing just to get it out. So instead, she hefted it into her arms and began to walk.
The slip that had formed so disastrously on the surface of the road with the initial rains was quickly giving way to true mud, and as she walked, the weight of her gown and her case made her boots sink in deep. Each step was met with a great sucking pull at her soles, and she quickly moved to the shoulder of the road, so that the grass might provide her some protection from the earth’s covetousness. Half a mile was nothing on a sunny day, or when she intended to be out in bad weather, but now, with the rain beating on her shoulders and thunder cracking the sky every few minutes, every yard was a small victory. The night chill was settling fast into her bones, rattling in her chest. She clawed her fingers more tightly around the case, hugging it to her.
At last, she rounded the bend and saw Lindridge Hall looming once more out of the darkness. Night had descended entirely, and only one light burned in the manor’s many windows. But between the lightning flashes and a lingering, unearthly grayness from above, she could make out its form. She hurried for it, nearly tripping over her sodden skirts, and threw herself upon the doorstep.
Dropping her traveling case at her feet, she brought her fist down on the heavy wooden door, and waited, panting, for a response. The cold tore at her lungs. The portico shielded her from the rain, but not from the winds, and she was growing more frigid every minute that passed.
She banged on the door again, her hands stinging. Then, desperate, she retreated from beneath the portico and craned her head back. The light in the window was still there, unchanging. There were no shadows moving in front of it. No other sign of life.
But that made no sense; she hadn’t been gone more than an hour, and even if Mrs. Purl and Mrs. Luthbright had gone home before the storm crashed upon them, Augustine must still be inside. Surely he wouldn’t leave somebody to freeze on his doorstep. And yet the front door remained resolutely shut, and Jane realized she was afraid.
She was stranded. The cold felt colder, her hammering pulse heavier and more final. She had to get inside. But he would never hear her shouting through the stone walls.
She returned to the door and tried the latch.
It gave.
Jane stumbled inside, holding back a relieved sob, and dragged her case in behind her with a dull screech across the polished floor, into the thick darkness of the foyer. The door shut behind her. Small blue lights danced in the dark overhead.
The gasoliers. She felt her way to the wall, then along it, hands questing across the wallpapered plaster. There would be a switch. There would be a—
Her fingers found a dial, set in an ornate housing, and she twisted it. Light sprang into being, bathing the foyer in a soft glow.
She sagged against the wall, then pulled away, afraid of staining the paper.
“Augustine!” she called out, retreating back to her case, shivering as her soaked gown clung to her skin. “Augustine, it’s me, Jane! Are you there?”
A dull noise echoed from above. She grabbed her case and hauled it with her up the stairs, to the second floor, down the hall to the study. She lit the gas sconces with the dials she passed, blessing Mrs. Purl for leaving them all lit with a pilot instead of extinguishing them for the night. It was the only path she was certain of, and she hoped, desperately, that that was where the light had been shining from.
That it was Augustine who had made the noise.
“Augustine!” she called again, and again there was no response. Her skin was gooseflesh. All she wanted was a hot bath, a change of clothing. If she doubled back, if she went to his room … she could do that herself, couldn’t she?
But why hadn’t he come to the door? For all he knew, she could have been a patient. She could have been Mr. Lowell. He was so dedicated a physician; why hadn’t he come?
She at last reached the study door, the gap between it and the floor glowing warmly, invitingly.
And then it went dark.
She dropped her case with a heavy thud and pressed both hands to the door. “Augustine,” she said, voice catching. “Are you there?”
What if it wasn’t him?
Jane shuddered. This was ridiculous. She was still overwrought from the carriage crash, and she was cold, and if only Augustine would open the door, it would all be made right. It would all—
The door opened a half inch.
The light from the hall spilled in across him, revealing wide eyes, pale skin. His hair was wild, and his posture was of a man hunted. His fingers held tight to the doorframe in terror.