Simply Perfect

was accustomed to dealing with crises. “And she must have Horace with her—he is nowhere in sight either. She believes he is able to take her wherever she wants to go.” People—both adults and children—were fanning off in all directions, many of them calling Lizzie’s name. Even the Redfields, Joseph could see, and his mother and father and Aunt Clara were joining the search. He was paralyzed by panic and indecision. He wanted more than anyone to begin the search, but where was he to go? He wanted to go in every direction at once. Where was she? Where was she? And then his heart lurched as he realized what Bewcastle and Hallmere were doing not far away. They were both hauling off their boots and stripping to the waist. And then they both dived into the lake. The implication was so terrifying that it jolted Joseph into motion. “She cannot be in there,” Claudia Martin said in a voice so shaky that it was virtually unrecognizable. “Horace would be running around loose.” He grabbed her hand. “We must look for her,” he said, turning his back resolutely on the water. Wilma and Portia were right there in front of them. “I am very sorry, Miss Martin,” Portia said. “But really you ought to have been watching her more carefully. You are in charge of all these charity girls, are you not?” “A blind girl has no business being here at all,” Wilma added. “Hold your tongues!” Joseph said harshly. “Both of you.” He did not wait to either see or hear their response. He hurried away with Claudia. But where was there to hurry to? “Where can she possibly have gone?” Claudia asked, though clearly she did not expect an answer. She clung to his hand as tightly as he clung to hers. “Where would she have tried to go? Let us think. To join you in the house?” “Doubtful,” he said, seeing Lauren and Kit, also hand in hand, hurry toward it. “To find Eleanor and the others, then?” she asked. “They went past the front of the house while I was there,” he said. “They went toward the little bridge and the wilderness walk beyond.” “They would have seen her if she had gone in that direction,” she said. “So would you. There are four searchers going that way anyway. There is no point in our following them.” They had come to the driveway and stood there in horrible indecision again. Lizzie’s name was echoing from every direction. But there were no cries from anyone to indicate that she had been found. Joseph drew a few steadying breaths. Continued panic would get him nowhere. “The only direction no one has taken,” he said, “is the one out of Alvesley.” She looked to their right, down the long sweep of lawn and driveway to the roofed Palladian bridge across the river and the woods beyond. “She would surely not have gone that way,” she said. “Probably not,” he agreed. “But would the dog?” “Oh, dear God,” she said. “Dear God, where is she?” Her eyes filled with tears and she bit her lip. “Where is she?” “Come,” he said, turning with her to stride resolutely down the driveway. “There is nowhere else left to look.” “How could this have happened?” she asked. “I went to the house,” he said harshly. “I went for a walk.” “I ought not to have let her leave home in London,” he said. “She has always been safe there.” “I ought not to have taken my eyes off her,” she said. “She was my only reason for coming this afternoon. She was my responsibility. Miss Hunt was quite right to scold me.” “Let us not start blaming ourselves or each other,” he said. “She had numerous chaperones this afternoon. Everyone was keeping an eye on her.” “That was the whole trouble,” she said. “When everyone is looking after someone, no one really is. Everyone assumes she is with someone else. I ought to know that from experience at school. Oh, Lizzie, where are you?” They stood inside the bridge for a few moments, looking out in all directions, desperately hoping for a sign of the missing Lizzie. But why was she not answering any of the calls? Joseph could still hear them from where he stood. “L-i-z-z-i-e!” he yelled from one side of the bridge, cupping his hands about his mouth. “Lizzie!” Claudia called from the other side. Nothing. His knees felt weak under him suddenly and he almost staggered. “Do we go on?” he asked, looking beyond the bridge to where the driveway wound its way through the woods. “Surely she could not have come so far.” Perhaps she was back at the lake. He felt an overwhelming need to go back there to see. “We must go on,” Claudia said, crossing the width of the bridge and grasping his hand again. “What else is there to do?” Their eyes met and then for a brief moment she pressed her forehead against his chest. “We will find her,” she said. “We will.” But how? And where? If she really had come this way, would she finally end up in the village? Would someone there stop her and care for her until word could be sent to Alvesley? What if she had turned off the driveway and got lost in the woods? “Lizzie!” Joseph shouted again. He had stopped walking at an amazingly fortunate moment. Claudia turned her head, and then she uttered a wordless exclamation and pulled on his hand. “What is that?” she said, pointing. And as they drew closer to a white streamer caught on a lower branch of a tree, she cried out joyfully. “It is Lizzie’s hair ribbon. She did come this way.” He disentangled it and pressed it to his mouth, closing his eyes very tightly as he did so. “Thank God,” she said. “Oh, thank God. She is not at the bottom of the lake.” He opened his eyes and they gazed bleakly at each other. They had both been harboring the same fear ever since seeing Bewcastle and Hallmere diving in. “Lizzie!” he called into the woods. “Lizzie!” she called. There was no answer. And how could they know which way she had gone? How could they go after her without themselves getting lost? But there was, of course, no question of standing still—and no thought of going back to recruit more help, especially from Kit or Sydnam, who would know the woods. They pressed onward, stopping frequently to call Lizzie’s name. And finally there was a rustling among the trees ahead and then a joyful woofing— and there came Horace, all wiggling rear end and wagging tail and lolling tongue. “Horace!” Claudia went down onto her knees to hug him, and he licked her face. “Where is she? Why have you left her? Take us to her this minute.” At first it seemed that he wanted to do nothing more than jump up against her skirt and play, but she wagged a stern finger at him and then took the ribbon from Joseph’s hand and waved it under the dog’s nose. “Find her, Horace. Take us to her,” she commanded. And he turned with a bark as if this were the best game of the afternoon, and went racing off through the trees. Joseph took Claudia by the hand again, and they went hurrying after him. There was a little building—a gamekeeper’s hut—not far ahead. It looked to be in good repair. The door was ajar. Horace rushed inside. Joseph stepped up to the door, almost afraid to hope. Claudia clung to his hand and pressed against his side as he pushed the door wider and peered inside. It was dark, but there was just enough light to see that the place was decently furnished and that on a narrow bed against one wall his daughter was curled up asleep, Horace panting and grinning at her feet. Joseph turned his head, grasped Claudia about the waist, drew her tightly against him, and wept into the hollow between her neck and shoulder. She clung to him. And for the merest moment as he drew free, they gazed deeply into each other’s eyes and his wet mouth touched hers. And then he was inside the hut and kneeling on the floor beside the bed and touching his trembling hand to Lizzie’s head, moving the hair gently from her face. If she had been sleeping, she was sleeping no longer. Her eyes were tightly shut. She was sucking on her fist. Her shoulders were hunched and tense. “Sweetheart,” he murmured. “Papa?” She lowered her fist and inhaled. “Papa?” “Yes,” he said. “We have found you, Miss Martin and I. You are quite safe again.” “Papa?” She wailed then, a high keening sound, and launched herself at him until she had a death grip about his neck. He picked her up and turned to sit with her cradled on his lap. He reached up without thought and drew Claudia down to sit beside them. She stroked Lizzie’s legs. “You are safe,” she said. “Miss Thompson took Molly and some others for a walk,” Lizzie said in a fast, breathless voice. “They asked me to go but I said no, but then I wished I had said yes because you had gone to the house, Papa, and Miss Martin had gone for a walk. I thought Horace and I could catch up. I thought you would be proud of me. I thought Miss Martin would be proud of me. But Horace could not find them. And then there was a bridge and then I fell down and did not know which way to go and then there were the trees and Horace ran away and I tried to be brave and I thought about witches but I knew there were none, and then Horace came back and we came here but I did not know who lived here or if they would be kind or cruel and when you came I thought it was them and perhaps they would eat me alive though I know that is silly and—” “Sweetheart.” He kissed her cheek and rocked her back and forth while she sucked on her fist again—something she had not done to his knowledge since she was four or five. “There are only Miss Martin and I here with you.” “But how very, very brave you were, Lizzie,” Claudia said, “to venture off on your own and then not to panic when you got lost. We will certainly have to train Horace more before you try any such thing again, but I am enormously proud of you anyway.” “I am always proud of you,” Joseph said. “But especially today. My little girl is growing up and becoming independent.” She had stopped sucking her fist. She snuggled against him and yawned hugely. She had had so much fresh air and exercise today that it was no wonder she was exhausted—even apart from the terrible fright she had had. He continued to rock her as he used to do when she was a baby and small child. He tipped back his head and closed his eyes. He could feel tears pooling in them again—and then one spilling over to trickle down his cheek. He felt a feather-light touch to the same cheek and opened his eyes to see Claudia brushing the backs of her fingers across it to dry the tear. They gazed at each other, and it seemed to him that he could see past her eyes into her mind, into her deepest self, into her soul. And he rested there. “I love you,” he said, intending to speak aloud though no sound passed his lips. She read his lips anyway. She drew back an inch or two, her chin lifted a fraction, and her own lips pressed together into an almost-stern line. But her eyes did not change. Her eyes could not change. They were the window through the armor she tried to don. Her eyes answered him though the rest of her denied what they said. I love you too. “We had better get Lizzie back to the picnic,” he said, “and set everyone’s minds at rest. Everyone will still be searching for her.” “For me?” Lizzie said. “They are searching for me?” “Everyone has fallen in love with you, sweetheart,” he said, kissing her cheek again and getting to his feet with her