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Dodging a low-hanging tree branch that smashed through the window, Lizzy was able to see that the road curved in front of them, and it looked possible the bolting horses might take their carriage across the meadow and rejoin it in time to make it over the bridge.
She closed her eyes and prayed they would do so in time, for the alternative was to plunge over the riverbank and into the fast-flowing water beyond.
“Hold tight!” she screamed to Mabel who was cowering in the other corner, for the horses, having been intent on making the bridge, it seemed, were now apparently spooked again. Clinging blindly to the window frame, Lizzy had no time to assimilate her thoughts before she experienced the oddest sensation of flying.
As the world flashed past and the river loomed ahead, she struggled to open the door but was flung back against the squabs—the shrill neighing of the distressed horses loud and terrifying.
And then the carriage was thrown even more wildly from side to side before it pitched forward. With a tremendous splash as the equipage made impact, water began streaming into the small space Lizzy now discovered she occupied alone, for Mabel had disappeared through the door that was open on the other side.
Lizzy lunged for the open space, just as the carriage pitched several times before flipping lazily, throwing her sideways, and now Lizzy was floundering like a fish, pounding her fists upon the window, the open door leading only to the depths below.
She opened her mouth to bellow, though she knew it was useless for who would hear her in her chamber of doom? Water was lapping at her shoulders, but when she moved, the carriage slipped deeper beneath the muddy depths. Only if she kept very still, she realised, might the carriage be prevented from dislodging itself from whatever tenuous hold it had upon the steep riverbank.
Good lord, was she really going to die?
Tensely, she waited, as quiet and still as she could. The current was strong. She could feel the ebb and flow; could feel the forces at play, trying to dislodge the carriage. It was only a matter of time.
And Lizzy couldn’t swim.
She twisted her head, trying to see a way out of her predicament.
Was this really the end? She gasped in a breath. Should she accept it? Mrs Hodge had punished her so many times during the past five years for not accepting what God intended; what Mrs Hodge intended. Only when she submitted, meekly, after the birch rod had been administered, was she allowed some reprieve.
Was this what she should do now?
Just meekly accept her fate.
Only, Lizzy would never just meekly accept her fate.
A strange, groaning, sucking noise filled the carriage as it dislodged itself, and began its final descent to the bottom of the river.
Lizzy was not going with it.
With a grunt of determination, she smashed her hand through the window, reaching above the water until she felt a trailing branch; but her momentary salvation was swept away as the carriage was dislodged from another momentary halt in its progression downwards.
Closing her eyes and holding her breath, Lizzy waited for the motion of her floating hearse to steady so she could position herself to achieve maximum leverage. Then, with an almighty kick, she propelled herself out of the carriage and into the flowing river.
For a moment, she was wedged between two immovable objects before, miraculously, she found herself clinging once more to the low-hanging branch of a willow.
Finally, she could breathe.
Astonished at having saved herself, Lizzy now realised that long-term salvation depended upon maintaining her tenuous grip on the willow branch for her wet clothing made it impossible to haul herself into a sitting position on the branch. She was still mostly in the water, which exerted a considerable pull as her grip loosened and the insistent river looked set to claim her.
Carefully, Lizzy shifted position, hoping to hook her leg over a partly submerged tree branch but all that seemed to do was tear her skirt from her bodice.
Lizzy closed her eyes, determined not to cry.
Not only would she be discovered dead—if she were discovered at all before she was swept into the ocean and devoured by the fishes—she’d have no dignity worth mentioning.
This sober realisation brought with it something else. Another spurt of determination that if, by some remote chance, she survived this, she would conduct her life on her own terms, and make her own decisions—come hell or high water.
And right now, the water was very high.
Theodore McAlister dropped his rifle and began to run, ignoring the gabble of apologies from the youngster beside him. There were far more important things to worry about than berating Tom for his stupidity in firing over the road which, admittedly, had been without traffic when he’d sighted the hare. It was the lad’s first shooting lesson, after all.
But the bullet had skimmed the top of the carriage, spooked the horses, and now the entire equipage was headed for the river with God knew how many people inside.
As he crested the hill, he saw the carriage door open and a young woman spill out onto the grass, but as he reached her, the young person stood up, then took a few shaky steps, before screaming after the disappearing vehicle, now headed for the river, that her mistress was inside.
