and prayed the girl could hear. “He’ll catch you in a minute.”
She slipped and nearly fell; Anne, on her heels, caught her and steadied her, then they both dashed on.
The bobbing rag doll the girl had become was swept around the bend, out of their sight. Gasping, Minerva ran faster; she and Anne rounded the bend in time to see Royce, sunk chest-deep even though he stood on a spit in the streambed, lean far to his right, then launch himself across, into the swiftly running current; it caught him in the same moment he caught the girl, hoisting her up onto his chest, then onto his right shoulder where her head was at least partly clear of the increasingly turbulent water.
Minerva slowed, her fingers rising to her lips as she took in what lay beyond the pair. The river started narrowing, funneling toward the gorge, the water tumbling and churning as it battered its way on.
There was only one spot, another spit, where the pair, whisked along, could be caught, one chance before the building pressure of the water swept them into the gorge and almost certain death. On the spit, Royce’s Varisey and Debraigh cousins were linking arms, forming a human chain, anchored by Henry and Arthur, the lightest, together on the bank. Each held on to one of Gregory’s arms. Gregory had his other arm linked with Rohan’s, who in turn was waiting for Gordon to link his arm with his, leaving Phillip at the end.
Minerva halted, put her hands about her mouth.
Phillip looked, then shoved Gordon toward Rohan, grabbed one of Gordon’s arms, and waded into the stream.
The current swung away, around the spit, carrying Royce and his burden along the other side of the riverbed. Rohan yelled and the men all stretched…Phillip yelled to Gordon to hang on to his coat. As soon as he had, Phillip lunged out, stretching as far as he could, reaching out.
Just as it seemed the pair would be lost, Royce’s arm lashed out of the water-and connected with Phillip’s. They both gripped.
“Hold hard!” Phillip yelled.
The dragging weight-not just of Royce and the girl, but now Phillip as well, all drenched and sodden-tested the other men. Muscles bunched, locked. Henry’s and Arthur’s feet shifted; they both leaned back, faces grim and set as they hauled their kinsmen in.
Then it was over. Royce and Phillip, swung downstream and in toward the bank, got their feet under them.
Royce stood, breathing hard, then, shaking his head like a dog, he hoisted the girl free of the water, and holding her to his chest, walked, slowly and carefully, across the rocky riverbed. Phillip staggered up, then followed alongside. He reached over and lifted the girl’s hair from her face, tapped her cheek-and she coughed. Weakly at first, but when Royce reached the bank and laid her on her side, she retched, coughed hard, then started to cry.
Minerva fell to her knees beside her. “It’s all right. Your mother and father are coming-they’ll be here soon.” She glanced at Royce; his chest was rising and falling like a bellows, and water ran off him in streams, but he was unharmed, unhurt. Alive.
She looked up at the other ladies, gathering in an anxious, exclaiming knot on the bank above. Anne had come to stand beside her. Minerva pointed at the shawls some of the others carried. “Shawls-the woolen ones.”
“Yes, of course.” Anne climbed the bank partway and reached up, beckoning.
Two ladies surrendered their shawls readily, but Aurelia sniffed. “Not mine.”
Royce had bent over, hands braced on his knees. He didn’t bother looking up. “Aurelia.”
His voice cut like a whip; Aurelia all but flinched. She paled. Her face set in sour lines, but she shrugged off her shawl and tossed it at Anne-who caught it, turned, and hurried back to Minerva.
She’d stripped off the girl’s hat and sodden pinafore, and had been chafing her small icy hands. She stopped to take one of the shawls-Aurelia’s large warm one. Shaking it out, with Anne’s help she wrapped the girl tightly, then wound the other shawls about her hands and feet.
Then the girls’ parents and the rest of the farmer’s party arrived; they’d had to backtrack to cross the river by a wooden bridge higher up.
“She’s all right,” Minerva called as soon as she saw the parents’ distraught faces.
Both rushed down the riverbank, eyes only for their child.
“Mary!” The mother dropped to her knees opposite Minerva. She placed a gentle hand on the girl’s cheek. “Sweetheart?”
The girl’s lashes fluttered; she tried to move her hands. “Ma?”
“Oh, thank God.” The mother swept the girl up against her bosom. She looked at Minerva, then up at Royce. “Thank you-
Her husband laid a shaking hand on his daughter’s dark head. “Nor I. I thought she were-” He cut himself off, blinked rapidly. Shook his head and looked at Royce. Gruffly said, “Can’t thank you enough, Your Grace.”
One of his cousins had fetched Royce’s coat; he’d been using it to mop his face. “If you want to thank me, take her home and get her warm-after hauling her out, I don’t want her to take a chill.”
“Yes-yes, we will.” The mother struggled to her feet, lifting the girl. Her husband quickly took the child.
“And you may be sure,” the mother said, tugging her damp clothes straight, “that none of that lot will ever play too close to the riverbanks again.” Her severe look directed their gazes to the gaggle of children, watching round- eyed from up along the bank, their parents and the other adults at their backs.
“You might like to remind them,” Royce said, “that if they do, there’s unlikely to be a group of us here, in the right spot at the right time, to pull them out.”
“Aye. We’ll tell them, you may be sure.” The father ducked his head as low as he could. “With your permission, Your Grace, we’ll get her home.”
Royce waved him up the slope.
The mother sighed and shook her head. She exchanged a glance with Minerva. “You tell them and tell them, but they never listen, do they?” With that, she followed her husband up the bank.
Royce watched them go, watched as the other farmers and their wives gathered around, offering comfort and support as they closed around the couple and their nearly lost daughter.
Beside him, Minerva slowly got to her feet. He waited while she thanked Anne for her help, then asked, “Who were they?”
“The Honeymans. They hold the farm up around Green Side.” She paused, then added, “They would have seen you at church, but I don’t think you’ve met them before.”
He hadn’t. He nodded. “Let’s get back.” He was chilled to the bone, and there was no earthly way to get his coat-expertly fitted by Shultz-on over his wet clothes.
Anne had joined the others, but now she came back. She touched Minerva’s arm. “Susannah and some of the other ladies have started back with Phillip-his teeth are chattering. I thought I’d run ahead and warn the household.” Although in her thirties, Anne was slim, fit, and swift on her feet.
“Thank you.” Minerva lightly grasped Anne’s fingers. “If you could tell Retford we need hot baths for His Grace, and for Phillip, and hot water for the others, too.”
“I’ll do that.” Anne glanced at Royce, inclined her head, then turned and climbed swiftly up the slope.
With Minerva beside him, Royce followed more slowly.
Minerva humphed. Looking ahead to where certain of the ladies were still milling inconsequentially, some, with hands clutched to their breasts, exclaiming as if the incident had overset their delicate nerves, she muttered, “At least some people keep their heads in a crisis.”
She meant Anne. Royce looked at her, felt his lips curve. “Indeed.”
Arthur and Henry, together with the other male guests not in some degree soaked, had gone back to fetch the discarded rods and tackle.
As Royce and Minerva crested the slope, the remaining ladies, apparently deciding that the excitement was now entirely over, regrouped and started back to the castle.
With Minerva walking alongside, Royce found himself nearing the rear of the group, and wished they’d walk faster. He needed to keep moving, or he’d start shivering as badly as Phillip. His skin was already icy, and the chill
