Page 99 of The Work of Art

The other dogs had returned.

Basil had not.

Arthur and William traveled straight out of the gate from the stable yard and onto the grounds, heading toward the fields that lay over the rise ahead. The voices of the other searchers echoed in the distance, their intermittent calls of “Mrs. Heywood!” carrying along on the crisp morning air.

All of the shouting excited the dogs. They barked and whined in the back of the gig, craning their heads to see.

“Stop,” Arthur commanded.

William pulled up the horse. “Do you see her, sir?”

“No.” Arthur alighted from the gig, his cane tottering on the uneven path. He went to the dogs, and one by one, assisted them onto the ground. Jasper raced off over the hill. Dash was quick to go after him, with Fox close behind. “Follow them,” Arthur said, as he climbed back aboard.

William’s face lit with understanding. He snapped the reins, and the horse sprang forward in its traces. “You think they’ll lead us to her, Captain Heywood?”

Arthur hid his growing panic by sheer force of will. “To her, or to Basil.”

The dogs were not trackers by any means. They had neither the instinct nor inclination to follow a trail or a scent. Instead, they ran ahead in a pattern of undisciplined chaos, stopping to sniff the grass several times, or to mark their territory. They barked, yipped, and scuffled with each other as they went, but they progressed, leading Arthur and William along a stone-covered path that led up and over a small rise.

“Wait,” Arthur said. “Do you hear that?”

Amidst the barking of Jasper, Dash, and Fox, a fourth dog’s voice rent the air in a deep, mournful howl.

“It sounds like Basil!” William urged the horse forward in its traces, following after the dogs at a brisk pace. “I never heard him make a noise like that before. Do you suppose he’s hurt, sir? Or do you think… Wait, I see him. There he is, Captain Heywood. He’s sitting by those hawthorn trees at the top of the rise.” He craned his neck. “What’s that beside him?”

Arthur’s heart contracted. “It’s Philly.”

She was crumpled on the ground in a heap of amber fabric. Her eyes were closed, her skin as white as marble. Basil stood guard over her, refusing to move, even as Jasper and Dash leapt around him. Fox ran to Philly, bending his bedraggled little head to lick her cheek. When she didn’t respond, he let out a pitiful whine.

Arthur was out of the gig before William had fully stopped it. He rushed to his wife, and knelt beside her, heedless of the pain it caused his injured leg. “Philly,” he said sharply. He pressed a hand to her face. She was cold to the touch. “Philly, wake up.”

William came to stand behind Arthur. “Is she dead, sir?”

Arthur slid his hand beneath her head. His fingers came away wet. He didn’t need to look to know what it was. He’d felt it countless times during the war. “You’re bleeding, love,” he muttered, feeling the unfamiliar sting of tears in his eyes.

“Someone’s struck her on the head.” William’s voice was thick. “They’ve killed her.”

Arthur realized that he was shaking. Whether with rage or fear, he didn’t know. As carefully as he could manage it, he felt the back of her head, his fingers probing through her matted hair until he found the source of the blood. He withdrew his handkerchief and pressed it to the wound.

With his free hand, he reached inside the neckcloth of her riding habit, trying to determine if she had a pulse. There was nothing. Not a single, solitary heartbeat.

She was gone.

Dead.

A thunderous roar of anguish tore through him, seeming to emanate from the very depths of his soul. The smaller dogs cringed back. William blanched. And Basil growled low in his throat. Arthur wasn’t aware he’d cried out at all until he heard the sound of his own voice. It was the sound of a soldier in the heat of battle.

Philly’s pulse leapt in response to it.

His breath stopped in his chest. He didn’t dare believe what he’d just felt beneath his hand.

“Who could have done this to her, sir?” William moaned. “Who would want to kill Mrs. Heywood? She’s the kindest—”

“Quiet!” Arthur moved his fingers along Philly’s throat, certain he’d imagined it.

Then he felt it again. The unmistakable pulsation of her heart.

It was alarmingly faint, but it was there.