Christa nodded. “Go eat and get the horses ready. I’ll pack some food and medical supplies and be ready to leave within the hour.”
Willson left the room and Christa turned to her mistress. “Try to keep calm, Miss Annabelle. We’ll make sure he is all right. Don’t worry yourself into a relapse or Lord Kingsley will have my head for leaving you.”
Annabelle squeezed Christa’s hand. “I know I can trust you to do what is possible.” She added bitterly, “That stupid Sybil wouldn’t cross the street to save anyone’s life but her own.”
Christa shrugged. “She is a lily of the field, not a toiler in the vineyard. I must get ready now.”
In her own room, she had just started assembling her gear when she saw a vivid mental image of Alex, his face cold and gray as death. The vision was horribly real, and the wave of fear that swept over her caused her knees to buckle and her head to whirl. Christa folded onto the bed, her hands pressed into her face as the supernatural calm she had felt was drowned in terror. She struggled to control her desperate breathing.Panic will not help him. Only action will.
After several moments of desperate prayer, Christa was able to stand and return to what needed to be done. She forced herself to think of one task at a time, swiftly changing to her boy’s clothes, then topping the outfit with the heavy fisherman’s jersey Alex had given her for sailing.
The oily scent of the wool took her sharply back to last summer’s happiness and threatened to destroy her fragile control, so she pinched her arm hard, the pain clearing her head. Then she packed a few basic clothes and a selection of herbal remedies and medicines such as laudanum and basilicum powder. After a moment’s thought she also included her sewing kit and a small case of metal instruments.
Downstairs, Christa appropriated a heavy boy’s riding coat that had lived in the servants’ hall since Jonathan outgrew it years before, and a knit scarf and cap. After consulting Willson, she packed tea and other supplies the Stornaway house lacked. They were on the road shortly after noon.
Christa had made more than her share of desperate flights, but none worse than this one. The rigors of the journey at least had the slim virtue of keeping her fears for Alex at bay. The weather was cold and threatening when they left, and within two hours a full-scale blizzard was blowing, tiny snowflakes cutting into exposed flesh like shards of ice. She was chilled to the bone and could only marvel at Willson’s ability to find the route in snow that was blowing so heavily the very hedgerows were obscured. Occasionally he would stop and dismount, proceeding afoot until he found some landmark.
In spite of such stops and one wrong turn that carried them some distance out of their way, they were making excellent time. The tough, shaggy horses Willson had chosen would win no beauty prizes, but they forced their way through the wind and drifts as easily as if they were in a meadow in May. The riders went single file, with Willson leading a third horse that carried supplies.
By four o’clock it was full dark. Christa called above the wind, “How are we doing?”
Willson looked worried. “We’re making good time, but we’ll have to slow down now that it’s night. We’ve maybe three hours to go. I hope we catch the lowest point of the tide. I’m afraid that in this storm, the causeway won’t be entirely above water even then.”
“Can we go faster?”
He looked at her determined face, then nodded. “Aye, lass. If you’re up to it.”
There was no conversation after that. When the drifting was heavy, Christa would get off and lead her horse, hoping the exercise would ward off frostbite. She plodded along in the trail Willson was breaking, content to trust his sense of direction on this flat, windy plain. Warmth was no more than a distant memory, and her mind was as numbed as her body when Willson called a halt.
“There’s the causeway.” His voice was grim. They had descended to the shore, and in front of them she could discern a light-colored stone roadway thrusting out into the dark waters. At the limit of her vision, it disappeared into blackness. “The center is covered. I’m not sure how deep it is, but the water is rough now. There’s a danger it might carry away the horses.” He glanced doubtfully at Christa. It seemed the groom was willing to chance the causeway but considered it too hazardous for a mere slip of a girl.
“The tide is coming in, isn’t it?” At his assent, Christa said fiercely, “It will only get worse.What are we waiting for?”
Willson spared her one admiring glance before putting his horse to the causeway. He knew there were places where the stone footing was crumbling, and he preferred to take that risk himself. His horses went calmly enough until they reached the swirling waters, then they balked. It took all his forty-odd years of experience with equines to force them forward. Christa’s gelding tossed its head and flattened its ears but was persuaded to follow its fellows into the chopping waves.
The water came to the horses’ fetlocks, then their knees, then up to their bellies. The waves crashed against them, splashing the riders and threatening to sweep their mounts off the stones. Christa prayed to every god she could think of, ancient and modern, for if they were swept from the causeway, neither horses nor riders would last more than moments in the seas raging around them. As the pounding water reached her horse’s shoulders, it gave a terrified whinny and floundered, pawing for balance. She thought despairingly that it was all over. It was too late to turn back, and they were dead, and with them perhaps Alex’s only hope.
Then with a scrambling splash that saturated any parts of her not already soaked, Christa’s mount regained its footing. With a surge of relief that nearly paralyzed her with its intensity, she saw that the water was not as deep, that they had passed the lowest point and were heading up the other side. In another minute they were clear of the waves and had only to worry about the icy patches on the stones.
When they reached the island, Christa urged her horse up next to Willson’s and gasped, “Monsieur Bob, if I never do that again, it will be too soon!”
He laughed, his voice as relieved as her own. “You’re a game one, lass, that you are!”
Three minutes later they were snug in the small stable, away from a wind that reached gale force here on the exposed island. Leaving Willson to feed, groom, and blanket the horses, a shivering Christa grabbed her supplies and ran into the farmhouse. It was built of flint like so many Suffolk buildings, and its sturdy walls held firm against the howling wind.
The back door led her into the farmhouse kitchen. It was simply furnished, with flagstone floors and a plain wooden table and chairs. She shook violently with the chill of her saturated clothes and was desperately grateful for the warmth of the fire. She passed quickly through the kitchen, drawn by the flickering light of a candle in a room opening to her right. It was the bedchamber where they had taken Lord Kingsley, and another fire burned in the hearth. Fiske jumped from his chair at her entrance, his head bandaged and his face haggard from his ordeal in the water and long vigil. “Christa! Thank God you’ve come. Bob. . . ?”
She nodded. “He is taking care of the horses. Miss Annabelle was ill and couldn’t travel. How is Lord Kingsley?”
He gestured at the bed. “He’s been very feverish. The physician came and bound up his side and left a powder for the fever, but he couldn’t stay long or he’d miss the tide. He said there was a lying-in he had to attend, and he could do more good there than here.”
Christa walked slowly across the room, stripping off her wet coat and scarf, then stared down at the unconscious figure sprawled across the double bed. Alex’s breathing was harsh, his shoulders bare above the wide bandage that crossed his chest. His golden hair was dark with sweat and his fair skin flushed with fever. She was shocked by the number and variety of scars twisting along his left arm and upper body—his injuries the previous spring had been grave indeed.
She swallowed hard, then laid a hand on his forehead, keeping her voice clear and impersonal. “The fever is high. Has he been awake at all?”
“Yes, but . . .” The valet halted.
“Raving?” Christa supplied. At Fiske’s nod, she asked, “Has he had any awareness of where he is, or what happened?”
