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.”
Buthow? Andwhere? 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. Shedidcome 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.
