Page 23 of The Scholar’s Spy

The pinkish stone was propped on its side in an arrogant manner, almost as if it were at its leisure, and not like it had possibly been involved in ending a young woman’s life.

Around the rock there was a gap, separating it away from the sandy base, which gave way to a smaller amount of space, a pocket of air and…

His view tightened. Sharpened. Pinpointing something that didn’t belong amongst these rocks.

He could see her hand. Small and dirty, ungloved and unladylike, but one of the most beautiful sights he could ever imagine.

“Help me move it,” Robert said as he stared at the rock, “just to one side. She’s there.” He pointed at the curved gapping surface. “You lean on it, and if she’s there, I’ll snatch her out.”

Mr. Costigan looked decidedly ill, presumably fearful they were about to pull a half-crushed and very dead Miss Abigail out from under the rock.

“She’s not beneath the rock. It’s wedged next to her,” Robert said as he started to push the stones out of the way. “Come on, man, help me. Look, she’s just there.”

Seeing Abigail’s hand sticking out seemed to be enough motivation for Mr. Costigan, because he nodded and set about copying Robert’s movements. Within minutes, another three men from Lyme Regis had joined them. They worked in fast silence, no need for communication, fearful that a break would mean something terrible.

Robert resumed his mantra, the repeated use of her name painful against his lips, whipping the inside of his mouth and tongue, because he deserved such punishment for his mistake in leaving her. Was it his anger earlier—what if this was what had led to her death?

One of the men, Mr. Grose, gave a triumphant shout as the culprit of a stone, sliding it away and Robert dived down to grab Abigail.

When his hand touched hers, relief pounded through him, as the others started to pull and yank at the surrounding limestone. Everyone’s movements were frantic as they tried to free Abigail from nature’s rocky grasp.

Grasping at her, Robert bent and pulled at arm and then elbow, easing and pulling her to snatch Abigail up.

Every man held his collective breath as Robert eased his fingers around the collar of her shirt, feeling for Abigail’s pulse—for life to be retained within her.

She rolled as he eased her away and turned her face toward his. Dirt streaked across her brow, and down over her chin. But when their eyes met, there was the faintest uptick of her lips as she saw him. As if she recognized that he was here, and she was safe.

Around them, the sound of cheers and shouts as more men hurried toward them, eager to be heroes and to help. There were jokes, as they set about prising her limbs out of the softer chalk and helping get Abigail out.

“Can she breathe?”

She was alive.

He hugged her close, uncaring of the others nearby. Her head came to rest against his chest, as everyone else removed the rocks from the lower half of her body. Unable to stop himself, he clung to her, holding onto her with a desperation that Robert could not explain. The only remaining shred of his sanity stopped him from kissing her damp forehead and dirtied curls.

She sat up, coughing and gasping, her fingernails digging into his forearm, and the group of surrounding men let out a resounding cheer. Underneath their celebratory spirit, he could hear Abigail’s rasping, and the shudder of release. She might not wish or be able to speak, but she understood precisely what was occurring all around her.

“Just as well she was dressed so—” Mr. Costigan said.

“Must have made it easier to run,” came another warm reply. This man seemed inclined to forgive Abigail for her oddities.

They slapped his back and congratulated him and made the occasional remark about him rescuing his sweetheart. Robert thought distantly that this was the sort of thing that would help create inroads with the locals. Except he didn’t care about that. His investigation could go hang.

An air of ease, and relief was spiraling out from the group of them, at the sight of Abigail breathing. Mr. Costigan agreed that he’d make for the town to find the older Miss Fossey and fetch the doctor at the same time. A stretcher perhaps as well, could prove useful as everyone said Abigail could not be expected to walk back.

The talk around them ebbed and flowed, as Robert clung more tightly to Abigail.

They hadn’t spoken to each other. It seemed that neither of them wished to. The panic he’d experienced earlier, of the kind he could not recall ever feeling was starting to ease from his body. His previous desire to be at the sea was packed up in that instant, and anywhere that was not close to a potential landslide was suddenly overwhelmingly appealing.

“Lucky girl,” said an older man who Robert didn’t know or couldn’t place. Perhaps a farmer, or certainly someone he should recognize. Either way, the older man slapped Robert’s back in a friendly fashion. “Eight years back, it was a group of four workers got trapped and killed by the last landslip. During the winter it was, a right terrible time.” He sucked against his teeth. “A truly sad business. Thankfully the local squire paid for half the expenses and Mr. Suchet paid the rest—both good men in these parts.”

If any of these people expected a reply, Robert did not, nor could he find the strength to muster one. Abigail likewise seemed done with words. Her breathing was heavy as she stayed still and huddled against his chest.

“Did you see anyone else, or might have been unlucky caught?” The chatter decreased as Mr. Grose looked at Robert. “My cousin’s boy was out this way. Did you see the lad?”

Robert shook his head, as the surrounding men helped him to stand as he lifted her up in his arms.

“I’m going to carry you back.” His tone was as gentle as he could manage. Soft as a feather he hoped, but he doubted he could manage it since it felt as raw as meat given how long he’d been calling her name.