Widow in White

Chapter Twenty-One: Every Dark Corner

The recoil made Laura stumble backwards and drop the pistol. Her ears rang, and the smell of powder smoke — an oddly pleasant bitterness — filled the air.

Down below, Fordham fell to his knees, but he didn't stop moving. Laura turned and fled, stumbling through the yard and onto the road. It was very nearly dark by now, and the sunlight slanting through the woods gave the trees long, clawing shadows. Unable to run any further, Laura staggered down the road. She kept thinking she heard footsteps behind her and turning, terrified it was Fordham, but no one followed. Not Fordham. Not Neil.

Neil.

She stopped and leaned against a tree trunk, her breath coming in rags. He'd been stabbed, hurt. The fire would not spread far in the stone hut, but he still might be burned. She looked back into the shadows of the woods. She ought to help Neil. She ought to go back for him — Fordham was hurt, possibly dead — she would be safe. 

Her feet did not move. She stared into the shadows, willing Neil to come walking out of them.

No one came.

*  *  *

As they came out the gate into the woods, a shot rang out in the distance. Richard felt acid dread sink over him. Without waiting for Mr French to follow, he spurred his horse into a gallop along the road. Trees whipped past his vision, but Richard focused on the road in front of him. It had to be Fordham, he thought. No poacher, no farmer, would be near Neil's woods at this time of evening. He expected at every turn of the path to come across Laura, lying hurt or dead on the ground, and Fordham standing over her.

He rounded a corner and there she was, not lying, but standing still, looking away from him. He pulled up sharply, relief flooding over him, his horse squealing, and swung himself down from the saddle, heedless of the pain that shot up his right leg.

"Laura!"

She turned towards him, her face white, almost grey. He limped forward, using his rifle as a cane, and pulled her fast against him. She was wearing Neil's coat, and her cheek against his neck was icy cold.

"It's alright," he said. "You're alright now."

He didn't know if it was true — she was trembling in his arms and chilled all over, though the evening was warm — but it seemed the right thing to say. He let the rifle fall to the ground and rubbed her shoulders, kissing her hair.

"You're safe."

She wasn't crying, which seemed worse somehow than if she was. She only bent her head against the crook of his neck and took shaky, rattling breaths. She seemed to be trying to speak, but what faint sounds she uttered made no sense to Richard. Behind them came the sound of a horse cantering, and Mr French rounded the corner then reined in his horse.

"Her ladyship, I take it?"

"Yes. She's hurt." Richard stroked Laura's hair, which was gritty with dust and cobwebs. "I don't know where Fordham or my brother are."

At that, Laura raised her head. "Neil. He needs help," she wheezed. "He's been stabbed. And there's a fire—" she broke off choking, seemingly on her own breath. Richard stood back a little to give her some air and noticed for the first time blood staining the front of her dress, half-hidden beneath Neil's coat.

"What's this?" Richard touched the spot gently and found it sticky and half-dried. "You're bleeding. What happened?"

"I'm fine." Laura seemed to be getting a hold of herself now, breathing more deeply. "You have to go and help Neil."