She looked younger than Cassandra, nineteen or twenty if she had to guess, and was staring at her with wide, startled eyes.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The young woman looked at Cassandra’s dishevelled clothing, her pale face, and the terror written plainly across her features.
Then she glanced toward the road.
Another bout of raised male voices sounded in the distance.
The young woman’s expression darkened as she no doubt drew her own conclusion from the situation.
Without asking a single question, she reached for Cassandra’s hand.
Cassandra pulled away, coiling from the touch.
She had trusted people before.
Her family, the coachman, every one of them had betrayed her.
But when another shout echoed from the road not too far from where they were hiding, the young woman grabbed hold of Cassandra’s hand and pointed toward on of the distant houses, urging her to follow along.
Cassandra swallowed.
Having no other choice, she allowed herself to be led away.
The young woman moved quickly, guiding her through a narrow passage between the backs of the cottages. They slipped through a small wooden gate, crossed a cramped yard and ducked behind a weathered shed.
Cassandra stumbled twice. Each time, the young woman caught her before she fell.
At last, they reached the woman’s cottage tucked behind the others.
The young woman hurried to the rear door, opened it and pulled Cassandra inside, closing it immediately.
Then she pressed her ear against the door, listening. Nothing. Only the sound of Cassandra’s ragged breathing filling the small kitchen.
The young woman turned toward her. For the first time, they looked at one another properly.
Neither knew the other’s name. She didn’t even know what Cassandra had just escaped.
Cassandra barely had time to register where she was.
The house was little more than a shelter, its walls worn and its floorboards uneven beneath her feet. The place was poor, painfully so, but Cassandra’s mind was too consumed by the day’s events to make much sense of her surroundings.
Her heart was still pounding. Suddenly, the force that had kept her moving vanished as the adrenaline from the pursuit drained from her body all at once.
Her knees buckled.
The young woman reached for her, but Cassandra was already falling. The room tilted violently, and she caught only a fleeting glimpse of the woman’s startled expression before darkness swallowed her.
***
It was past midnight by the time the men returned to the chapel.
They had found nothing.
No trace of Cassandra remained beyond the woodland, and every attempt to pick up her trail had ended in failure.
Lawrence Whitmore stood inside the small chapel beside the priest who had been paid handsomely to perform the ceremony. The priest had been waiting for hours, his nervous hands clasped before him, his eyes repeatedly drifting toward the chapel doors.
Whitmore had barely moved during that time.
He had simply stood there, watching the doors just as closely. But whereas the priest was vibrating with nervous energy, Whitmore’s intensity was a deadly force.
Now, when the men finally entered empty-handed, something in his expression changed.
His jaw tightened, and his eyes became colder.
"Where is she?" he questioned before they had even come to a halt.
One of the men swallowed. "We lost her, sir. We searched as far as—"
"I did not ask where you searched." Whitmore’s voice was a growl, the closest he had ever come to losing his temper in front of them. "Where is she?"
The man lowered his eyes, no longer able to meet Whitmore’s hard gaze.
"We couldn’t find her."
A tense stillness followed. No one moved so much as a muscle, afraid that the slightest movement might anger him further.
Whitmore looked toward the priest, then back at the men.
"Release Josephine and her niece from where they are being detained. Bring them to me." He ordered, and immediately, they sprang into action.
Neither woman took long to appear.
Josephine entered first, with Clara following close behind her.
The moment Clara saw Whitmore’s face, the colour drained from hers. Her fear soared to new heights when he regarded them both for several long seconds before speaking.
"Again, tell me what happened."
Clara swallowed nervously. "She slipped away while we were preparing her. We—"
"You expect me to believe that?" His tone was cutting and Clara’s voice faltered.
"I was only gone for a moment, sir. She was terribly sick and I had to get her more water"
The look Whitmore level on her was harsh enough to peel paint off a wall.
"You were entrusted with a barely lucid woman who couldn’t even stand on her own. Yet somehow she managed to escape you, cross the grounds, reach the woodland and evade a group of armed men." He took one slow step toward her.
"Is that all you have to say?"
Clara’s lips trembled. "Yes, sir."
Whitmore flashed a humourless smile. "Then you are a poor liar." His attention shifted toward the coachman who stood as stiff as a status.
"You were supposed to be with her, weren’t you?"
The coachman stepped forward reluctantly, aware that there was no way to escape Whitmore’s harsh scrutiny.
"Yes, sir."
"Tell me what you saw."
The coachman glanced uneasily toward Josephine and Clara. "I saw Mrs. Clara with her shortly before she disappeared."
Clara bit the inside of her cheek, hard enough to draw blood while her heart hammered so violently that she thought it might burst through her chest. She wasn’t sure whether the coachman had actually seen her as he claimed or whether he was simply making assumptions to save his own skin by shifting the blame onto her.
Either way, she was now in terrible danger.
Whitmore’s eyes returned to Josephine.
"And you? Did you help her?"
Josephine’s silence was answer enough.
Whitmore exhaled slowly through his nose, his eyes glinting like sharp blades.
"You were paid to prepare her for a wedding. Instead, you helped her escape."
Josephine felt herself shaking from head to toe, but she knew what she had to do, no matter how daunting it seemed now. She had always known this was a possibility when she decided to help Cassandra.
She had known there would be consequences if Whitmore discovered the truth.
She had simply hoped she would never have to face them.
"It was my doing," she admitted, her voice trembling.
Clara looked at her aunt in horror.
"Aunt please—"
"She had nothing to do with it," Josephine continued, placing herself between Whitmore and her niece. "I forced her to help me. She did not know what I intended to do. Whatever punishment you mean to give, give it to me."
Whitmore stared at her as though she had become nothing more than an inconvenience.
"Move aside."
His words alone sent a bolt of terror through her, but she refused to back down from the path she had chosen.
He reached inside his coat and drew his pistol.
Clara went rigid with terror, her entire life flashing before her eyes as she stared at the weapon in Whitmore’s hand. He no doubt intended to use it on one of them.
Both women fell to their knees at once, their cheeks wet with tears.
Josephine’s voice shook even more, but she didn’t stop trying to save Clara, even as she faced down the possibility of being killed herself.
"Please, Mr. Whitmore. I beg you. Whatever I have done, punish me for it."
Clara had children. She had a family that depended upon her. Josephine was much older and had already lived a full life, while Clara had barely begun hers.
Clara was visibly trembling now.
"Aunt Josephine, please." She begged helplessly, not sure if she could bear the thought of her aunt sacrificing herself to save her life.
Whitmore looked at her, then at Josephine. A dark, unforgiving expression settled over his face. Their begging had done nothing to calm his wrath.
"You have no idea what the two of you cost me tonight," he said roughly.
"Please."
Whitmore raised the pistol until its barrel pointed directly at Clara’s forehead, but his eyes remained on Josephine the entire time.
"If I begin showing mercy to everyone who betrays me, what will my enemies think of me?"
Josephine’s face crumpled as she tried desperately to hold back her sobs.
"Please, s—"
Her words were interrupted by the crack of a gunshot.
Clara’s body fell lifelessly to the ground, blood seeping from the wound where Whitmore had shot her.
Josephine let out a guttural wail of despair, her body wracked with heavy sobs as she crawled towards Clara’s corpse. She gathered her niece into her arms, shaking violently as she stared at the blood staining Clara’s clothes.
The sound echoed through the walls, raw and heartbreaking.
Whitmore’s face twisted with irritation.
He lowered the pistol slightly and stared at the sobbing woman before him as though her grief were merely another nuisance imposed upon him.
"Enough."
But Josephine continued to wail, unable to bear the pain of a loss this great. Her fingers clutched desperately at Clara’s lifeless body.
Whitmore’s jaw clenched in annoyance.
Then he raised the pistol again. The second shot he fired silenced her permanently.
The priest stood frozen beside the altar, his face as white as a sheet of paper. He had witnessed the entire scene without daring to intervene, too terrified to move, speak, or even look directly at the bodies lying before him.
Whitmore calmly lowered the weapon once more, staring dispassionately at the two dead bodies before him.
This was far from how he had expected the night to end.
His wedding had been ruined. Worse, his prize had slipped from his fingers.