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Never had a fortnight felt so infernally long as the one leading up to Miriam’s wedding day in Harton. Despite Norman’s attempts at cowing her, she was near to bursting with happiness. Aside from the interminably long wait, the only negative about her sudden and brief engagement was that Jacob was not with her, which meant that she could tell no one about the reason for her happiness. She could not reveal her true breadth of joy at all, for fear of sparking curiosity and rumors. And in a village as small and tight-knit as Audbury, curiosity fed rumors like dry straw feeding a fire—and it spread as quickly. Her greatest comfort was at home with her father, where she could talk about their future; naturally her father would live with them at Stonecroft Cottage. He would also travel with her to Harton and stand in as her witness to the ceremony, though truth be told, he might well be sitting as her witness.
However, as departure day approached, worries began to mount, though one by one, Jacob eased them from miles away. First he sent word that he would hire a stage for them—a blessed relief, as she’d feared they would have to ride in one of the mail coaches. Not only would that have meant tight and uncomfortable traveling conditions, but it would have posed a particular challenge for her father for a different reason entirely. Mail coaches often demanded that passengers disembark and walk up hills to save the strength of the horses and keep the stage on the proper schedule. But while her father was not prone to complaining, he was, quite simply, unable to walk.
When Jacob’s letter arrived with details about their private stage, for no one but her and her father, she held the letter to her heart and found happy tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. Jacob truly did know her and her heart—so perfectly that he spent money he surely could not spare to ensure that she and her father would be comfortable and safe on their travels.
Oh, how she loved him in return. She was not yet his wife, but she vowed in that moment to always keep his wellbeing, safety, and comfort as her highest priority, as he clearly did hers.
* * *
On the twenty-second day of December, the stagecoach arrived, rumbling to a stop before the humble Brown family cottage. The driver and footman helped Miriam and her father into the carriage and then carried their two small trunks to the back, where they were strapped in tightly.
Miriam had never seen so elegant a carriage—had never seen anything made at such obvious expense and of such beauty. The padded interior, though not new, felt nothing short of luxurious and extravagant; Miriam found herself running a hand along the leather surface of her bench. Her finger traced the curves of the woodworking, then stopped on the glass of the window, wondering at how much such panes must have cost. Her breath made the glass fog, so she used the side of her hand to wipe it clear again, then chuckled at her own behavior.
“I must look like a child in my wonderment. It’s only a stagecoach, but . . .” She shrugged and laughed again. “It’s a stagecoach. For me and for you, hired by my dear Jacob, to bring us to him, and—” Her voice cut off; she did not quite dare to speak about her pending nuptials, for fear of tempting fate.
“’Twill be a wonderful . . . Christmas, I daresay,” her father said, smiling back with an understanding twinkle in his eye, as if he knew her thoughts.
They said no more about the purpose of their journey, a silent agreement to rejoice silently until they reached Harton and appeared at the parish chapel at nine o’clock on the morning of Christmas Eve.
Miriam looked about and noted two lap rugs. She unfolded one, which she arranged on her father’s lap to keep him warm. “I understand that travel by stage is much faster than even a few years ago, thanks to better roads,” she said, tucking the rug about his legs to keep as much cold air as possible from reaching him and making his rheumatism act up more than it already would.
“Indeed,” her father said, “though I pray we won’t encounter any slippery patches of snow or ice.”
“As do I.” She smiled and sat back on her bench opposite him, where she began arranging her own lap rug.
The driver walked from the back of the stagecoach, heading toward his seat up front, stopping at their door. He opened it, noted that they’d already used the lap rugs, and said, “The weather has been mild so far this winter, so no need to fret; we shouldn’t come upon any bad roads.”
Miriam and her father exchanged startled looks. The driver had clearly heard their conversation. She was particularly glad that she’d stayed silent about the impending nuptials, and if her father’s wide eyes under his raised bushy eyebrows were any indication, he was surprised to discover that anything they said could be easily heard without the carriage.
“Thank you,” Miriam said, sure to smile at the driver. “That is most assuredly a comfort.”
He tilted his head and touched his hat. “Happy to help, m’lady. Barring a storm, we should arrive in Harton shortly after nightfall.”
“Thank you,” she said again, still feeling too wary to enjoy being called m’lady for the first time in her life.
He climbed to his seat, the footman took his at the back—to act as a lookout, Miriam supposed—and then the coach lurched forward, and they were off. The crunch of the wheels on the stones of the road, combined with the clip-clop of the four horses’ hooves, created such a volume of sound that Miriam felt quite certain that neither the driver nor the footman could eavesdrop any longer. Goodness, she and her father had to practically yell to understand each other.
The constant rocking and swaying, which were novelties at first, began to wear at Miriam. Within a few hours, she felt positively green and certain that she knew what seasickness must be like. Across the way, her father slept, head backward, jaw hanging open as he snored. He felt well enough to sleep; that was something to be grateful for. It was also enough to allow her to rest, and she found herself yawning, having difficulty keeping her eyes open. Who knew that merely sitting in a stagecoach for hours could be so exhausting? She leaned her head against a pane of glass and closed her eyes, trying to rest as the cool glass eased her nausea, eager for sleep to claim her if but for a few minutes.
She would get through this journey; yes, she felt so nauseated from the motion of the stagecoach that when they stopped to change horses and got some tea, she couldn’t eat. Just as well; she mightn’t have been able to keep a meal inside her. But the resulting hunger certainly didn’t help her feelings of sickness or the headache that had formed behind her eyes and now throbbed.
At least this is but one day’s trip, she reminded herself, still keeping her eyes closed. We’ll be there soon, and I’ll sleep in a warm bed tonight. And Jacob will be there waiting for me.
Anything was tolerable if she knew that it would end, and that when it did, Jacob would be there waiting for her.
She must have slipped into a much deeper sleep than she’d anticipated, for the next thing she knew, Miriam was jolted awake as the coach slammed forward and to a stop with such force that it might have run straight into a wall of stone. Her father inhaled sharply and drooped in his seat. She reached forward and helped him up to the bench beside her, where he clung to her, breathing shakily.
What had happened? The carriage tilted dangerously side to side as she tried to gain her bearings but began to lose sense of which direction was up. She heard shouts from the driver, and horses neighing with what sounded like fear, and the carriage jerked and then tilted to one side. Miriam embraced her father; her heart raced with fear.
Outside, the world was nearly dark, with only a few deep-purple shadows visible, and those unclear shapes—trees, buildings, people—were all a blur. What little she could make out through the window changed by the second as the coach continued to jerk and sway but make no forward progress.
Miriam looked around, searching for her father’s cane with which to signal the driver for help. There it was on the floor of the coach, at her feet. She couldn’t reach it without releasing the hold on her father, which she would not consider. She held on even more tightly with one arm and then raised her other fist, using it to knock as hard as she could on the roof.
“Help! What’s happening?” she called.
It did no good; the horses neighed out of control, the driver unable to control them. The only thing he said was a string of orders directed toward the horses, interspersed with words that under other circumstances would have made Miriam blush. As she sat fearing for her life, she listened carefully for any information that would give insight to what she should do and what was happening, caring nothing for such curses.
The wheels creaked as they turned for the first time since their abrupt stop, pulling the coach forward with a lurch. A good sign, she hoped; perhaps they were past a patch of mud or something else that had caused them to stop and struggle.
Another jolt. The sound of the coach’s wheels on wood instead of gravel or earth—were they crossing a bridge? The stagecoach slammed to a stop once again and tilted once more, this time more and more, until Miriam and her father were thrown against the side. She whispered a grateful prayer that it wasn’t on the side with the door, which might have come loose and opened under such a force.
The noises grew louder, and the sound of splintering wood joined the others, along with screeching metal. Something snapped—a spoke of a wheel, part of the bridge? Something else broke. The driver bellowed.
Suddenly, the sensation of falling came over them. Miriam held her father in her arms and prayed. The last thing she knew was an enormous splash into black, icy water, before she succumbed to the darkness.