into saddle, "Gather some men and follow me."
Henry took off at a wild gallop, without waiting for the lad's reply. At the end of the drive he turned left onto the Bath Road, tracing the path which Miss Mifford had earlier taken. The wind was blowing a gale and rain lashed against his face, but Henry did not slow.
Mrs Fairweather had that morning refused the offer of a lift in one of his carriages to Stroud, though Henry had not thought anything amiss, in fact, he had thought her just not to show support for her husband. He knew now that her absence had not been a protest, but rather an opportunity to pack. The stagecoach for Bristol stopped at the turnpike every day, bar Sunday, at approximately three o'clock. If Mrs Fairweather were to make it to the bustling port city, she might disappear forever, never to face justice.
But before she went, Henry thought fearfully, she might have a chance to add another body to her list of victims.
Regret filled Henry as he recalled his wish the night before to carry Miss Mifford off into the sunset. If anything were to happen to her, Henry knew that this would be the second time in his life that he had regretted not taking action, but this time he would not be able to forgive himself.
The journey seemed endless, but in the distance, Henry soon spotted a gig abandoned at the end of the road. As he pushed closer, he was then able to discern through the haze of rain, two figures standing on the Hangman's Bridge. It was them!
Henry pressed himself low against his saddle, as he urged his Arab onward; the beast was slick with rain and sweat, and Henry was not much better, but there was life in them yet.
A woman's scream rang out, audible despite the thunder and rain. Henry was now able to tell the two figures apart, though it gave him little comfort.
Mrs Fairweather, her auburn hair loose and blowing wildly in the wind, was dragging Miss Mifford toward the bridge's low stone wall.
"Stop," Henry was close enough to hear Miss Mifford plea, "Don't."
Mrs Fairweather did not listen, she pushed Miss Mifford against the wall, and would have pushed her over had Henry not let loose a roar of anger.
"Don't you dare."
His cry was booming, startling Mrs Fairweather enough so that Miss Mifford was able to wrench herself free from her grasp. The seamstress eyed Henry like a frightened deer might eye a huntsman and before she acted, Henry knew what she would do.
"Mary, don't look," Henry called, as Mrs Fairweather clambered onto the wall of the bridge and threw herself into the raging waters beneath.
Henry pulled his steed to a halt and dismounted, breathlessly running to the wall to see if he could spot Mrs Fairweather in the water. He began to shrug off his coat and would have kneeled down to take off his boots, had a small hand not reached out to take his arm.
"Don't." Mary gazed up at him with eyes wide, pleading, and brimming with tears, "Please don't, you cannot save her."
She was right; the current had swept Mrs Fairweather away so quickly that she was no longer in view. If Henry were to plunge in after her, it would not be a rescue mission but suicide instead.
"Are you hurt?" Henry whispered, cupping her face with one of his hands.
"Just shaken," Miss Mifford replied bravely, "And soaked to the bone. How did you know where to find me?"
"I followed my heart," Henry whispered back, then--as a wave of English reservedness came over him--he hastily corrected his painfully romantic reply, lest he add nausea to Miss Mifford's current predicament. "Well, actually I followed Dr Bates' directions, if truth be told; he saw which way you went when you ran from the manor."
"Oh." Miss Mifford's shy smile faded a little, as Henry lapsed back into pragmatism.
"Nevertheless," Henry continued, willing himself--just for a second--to be a little more French in his approach to love, "That does not take away from the fact that it was my heart which led me to you, Mary. At the mere thought that anything might happen to you, it had already broken."
"Oh," Mary gave a happy sigh and placed her gloved hand against Henry's chest, "I am happy it is still whole."
"Not quite," Henry drew back to look at her, "There is one thing which can assure that it continues to remain intact."
"And what's that?"
"Your hand," Henry took