Chapter 238: Chapter Two Hundred And Thirty Eight
The carriage ride to the old monastery was quiet and smooth. Eric sat inside, reviewing a final report from Prescott, while outside, the green, rolling hills of the countryside slid past the window. As they rounded a long, sweeping bend in the road, the grey stone tower of the monastery came into view.
From his high seat on the driver’s box, Mr. Rye saw it first. He saw the small, solitary figure of Delia standing by the side of the road, and his professional, impassive face almost broke into a smile. But then he saw the other vehicle. A shabby, covered wagon, much further down the road, moving far too fast, its path erratic and uncontrolled. And it was heading directly for Delia.
Delia, however, saw only one carriage. She saw the familiar, elegant coach with the Carson crest, and her face lit up with a brilliant, happy smile. She raised her hand and waved, a cheerful, enthusiastic gesture of welcome.
Mr. Rye’s blood ran cold. He leaned down and spoke urgently through the small opening to the main cabin. "Your Grace," he said, his voice tight with an alarm he rarely showed. "Her Grace is in trouble."
Eric looked up from his papers, his brow furrowed. He leaned forward and looked out the window. He saw his wife, beautiful and vibrant, waving happily at them. And then he saw what Mr. Rye saw: the runaway wagon, hurtling toward her like a cannonball. The distance was closing with terrifying speed.
All the air left Eric’s lungs. The blood drained from his face, replaced by a mask of pure, primal terror. "Mr. Rye!" he shouted, his voice laced with a panic he had not felt in a long time. "Ride faster! You must ride faster! Maneuver the carriage to be in front of her! Protect her!"
Mr. Rye, his face grim, his hands steady on the reins, stated the terrible fact. "Our carriage will suffer the blow, Your Grace. At this speed, we might not make it."
"So be it!" Eric roared, his own life a worthless price to pay for hers.
A small, grim smile of deep respect touched Mr. Rye’s lips. "Of course, Your Grace." He snapped the reins hard. The four powerful horses, sensing the urgency, surged forward, their hooves thundering on the hard-packed dirt road, the heavy carriage lurching with the sudden acceleration.
Eric scrambled to the carriage window, waving frantically, trying to signal to Delia. He waved for her to move, to leave that spot, to run. But from her distance, she couldn’t see the panic on his face. She mistook his wild, desperate gestures for a happy greeting and, smiling, waved back again.
"Delia!" he shouted, his voice a raw, desperate cry that was swallowed by the wind. "Get back! DELIA!"
But she couldn’t hear him over the growing thunder of two sets of galloping hooves.
On the driver’s box of the runaway wagon, a desperate struggle was taking place.
Fredrick was pulling back on the reins with all his might, trying to slow the panicked horse. "He’ll run her down, Augusta! This is madness!" he yelled. But Augusta, her face a mask of insane fury, was fighting him, whipping the horse with the ends of the reins, urging it on faster.
As the two vehicles converged, Delia could finally hear the shouting. The carriage door was open, and Eric was leaning out, his hand gripping the frame, his face a mask of terror. "GET OUT OF THE WAY, DELIA!"
That was when she finally turned. Her happy smile vanished, replaced by a look of uncomprehending horror. She saw the wagon, now terrifyingly close, the horse’s eyes wide and white with fear, its breath coming in great, panicked clouds.
Everything after that happened like a dream, a slow, terrible nightmare unfolding in a matter of seconds.
Eric’s carriage, under the masterful control of Mr. Rye, didn’t just block the road. It performed an incredible, dangerous maneuver. The horses veered sharply, and the entire, heavy coach seemed to drift sideways, presenting its long, reinforced side as a solid wall of wood and steel directly in the wagon’s path.
The runaway horse, spooked by the massive object suddenly sliding in front of it, tried to halt, its hooves skidding on the road. It was too late. The wagon collided with the carriage. The impact was a sickening crunch of splintering wood and the shriek of stressed metal. The force of the collision was minimal on the heavy, well-built carriage, but it was harsh on the lighter, shabbier wagon. The wagon’s front axle snapped, and the driver’s box tilted violently, knocking both Fredrick and Augusta unconscious for some moments as they were thrown against each other.
Delia watched it all happen, frozen in place. She saw the collision. And in that instant, she was no longer on a sunny country road. She was back in her previous life, in a different carriage, on a different rainy night. She felt the jolt, heard the same sound of wood breaking, felt the same searing pain, the same sudden, crushing darkness that had ended her life once before.
She shuddered, a violent, full-body tremor. A small, terrified sound escaped her lips, and her legs gave way. She fell to the ground, not from injury, but from the overwhelming weight of a remembered death.
Mr. Rye, having brought his own trembling horses to a stop, helped a frantic Eric down from the carriage. Eric scrambled out, staggering as he ran towards Delia.
"Delia!" he cried, his voice breaking. He fell before her, his knees hitting the hard ground as he frantically checked her for injuries, his hands hovering over her, almost afraid to touch her. "Are you hurt? Are you okay? Tell me, are you alright?" he asked, the words a rushed, panicked jumble.
Delia was still breathing, her body still trembling from the shock of the memory. "No," she said, her voice a thin whisper. "I’m not hurt." Her breathing began to calm as she looked at him, at his terrified face, his disheveled hair. She started checking him, her hands running over his arms, his chest. "Eric, are you okay? You were in the carriage! Are you hurt?"
He shook his head, his focus entirely on her. "Are you sure you’re fine?" he asked again, his voice desperate for reassurance.
Delia nodded, managing a small, shaky smile. "Yes. You protected me. The carriage... you saved me. Thank you." To prove she was fine, she removed her gloves and raised her sleeves. "See? I’m fine. Not a single scratch or bruise."
He pulled her into a hug then, an embrace so tight, so desperate, it surpassed any they had ever shared. He hugged her as if she were made of smoke, as if she might slip away from his hands and vanish forever. His own body was trembling with the violent aftershocks of his fear.
"Thank goodness," he said, his voice a choked, ragged sound against her hair. "I... I was so scared. I... I thought I might lose you again, just like the last time." The words tumbled out, unfiltered, born of pure, heart-stopping terror and overwhelming relief. "I was so, so scared. Thank goodness you’re safe."
Delia broke the hug, pulling back just enough to see his face. His words had been strange, nonsensical. "Eric," she said, her voice soft as she touched his trembling face, trying to ground him.
He looked at her, his eyes still wide with the memory of what had almost happened. "Yes," he replied.
She asked, her brow furrowed in confusion, "What do you mean? What did you mean, ’lose me again’?"