Alvanley to the railing. He climbed over, just as Brummel called out, “Don’t do it, Marworth. Think of your cravat!”
With a spare moment, he’d have punched the man for his idiocy, but he was already leaping towards the river and splashing down, shocked by the sudden assault of its cold, murky depths. Clawing towards the surface, he broke through, water streaming into his eyes, a heavy lock of hair obscuring his vision. Scraping it back, he frantically scanned the river. Thank God. There she was by the wall, holding the bedraggled dog up with both hands, as a man leaned down to grab Petunia, excitement and applause rippling through the crowd. Behind him, he could hear the prince. “Jolly good show, Miss Fitzsimmons! Three cheers of hussah!”
In a rare moment of comradery, ferrymen, indigent children, and members of the haute ton chanted happily in unison, not seeming to notice that Jane had fallen back into the river. Now this, they’d planned, but what if her exhaustion was real? Her head was lolling, as if the effort of keeping it above the water was too much. The tide pushing against the wall was rolling back into her, moving her inexorably towards the currents. And then she was dipping beneath the surface, rising above it with barely enough time for breath, and he was swimming towards her as fast as his limbs would allow, heart pounding.
Twenty feet away now. Her body had turned over and was bobbing helplessly, her red cape spread wide and floating on the water, trails of auburn hair catching the dim light. His heart sped with horror. Faster! Ten feet now. The crowd had gone silent again, at last recognizing the terrible danger she was in. His arms and legs were burning, just as they had on that darkest of days, the current fighting him with every stroke. Five feet. Stretching out, he just caught the edges of her cloak, determined to pull her limp body against him. But there was only the fabric of it and a patch of river grass gone brown, slowly falling into the depths.
For a moment, panic claimed him, throbbing and twisting. But then he remembered this day was not that one. She’d done just as they’d planned, and his relief was stunning. Had he been on land, his knees would have buckled.
Taking several deep breaths to calm himself, he turned, his face a mask of grief as he lifted up the sodden cloak for all to see. “I am too late. The river has gotten her,” he cried out. “Miss Fitzsimmons is gone.”
Chapter 6
Nature seems to say to us men, pointing to her yet uncorrupted daughters, “Behold these smiling innocents … they are timid and want to be defended. They are frail … ”—
Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women
She took in great gasps of air as she pulled herself onto the shore, utterly spent, branches catching in her hair and clawing at her dress. Summers with her grandparents on Scotland’s coast had taught her about frigid waters and strong currents, but the Thames had been something else entirely. The muck of it had filled her mouth. And she’d seen things floating she hadn’t wanted to recognize. It had all been rather frightening, even if she pulsed with exhilaration now.
She’d done it, which seemed impossible. She didn’t yet know if anyone believed the ruse, but the sounds in the near distance weren’t generally heard at Vauxhall. An almost deathly silence was broken only by occasional sobbing. She felt a bit guilty about that, truth be told. But the dog? Why, she’d actually saved it. The poor thing had been terrified, and she’d seen it safely back to shore. She’d done something good. She’d made a tangible difference and was irrationally happy for it.
Irrational, because she’d just killed herself off from every experience and friendship she’d ever known.
But she needed to stop thinking and start moving. Breaking free of the debris, she edged along the west side of the Garden’s wall. A black carriage, free of markings, was stopped at the foot of Coombe’s
With a spare moment, he’d have punched the man for his idiocy, but he was already leaping towards the river and splashing down, shocked by the sudden assault of its cold, murky depths. Clawing towards the surface, he broke through, water streaming into his eyes, a heavy lock of hair obscuring his vision. Scraping it back, he frantically scanned the river. Thank God. There she was by the wall, holding the bedraggled dog up with both hands, as a man leaned down to grab Petunia, excitement and applause rippling through the crowd. Behind him, he could hear the prince. “Jolly good show, Miss Fitzsimmons! Three cheers of hussah!”
In a rare moment of comradery, ferrymen, indigent children, and members of the haute ton chanted happily in unison, not seeming to notice that Jane had fallen back into the river. Now this, they’d planned, but what if her exhaustion was real? Her head was lolling, as if the effort of keeping it above the water was too much. The tide pushing against the wall was rolling back into her, moving her inexorably towards the currents. And then she was dipping beneath the surface, rising above it with barely enough time for breath, and he was swimming towards her as fast as his limbs would allow, heart pounding.
Twenty feet away now. Her body had turned over and was bobbing helplessly, her red cape spread wide and floating on the water, trails of auburn hair catching the dim light. His heart sped with horror. Faster! Ten feet now. The crowd had gone silent again, at last recognizing the terrible danger she was in. His arms and legs were burning, just as they had on that darkest of days, the current fighting him with every stroke. Five feet. Stretching out, he just caught the edges of her cloak, determined to pull her limp body against him. But there was only the fabric of it and a patch of river grass gone brown, slowly falling into the depths.
For a moment, panic claimed him, throbbing and twisting. But then he remembered this day was not that one. She’d done just as they’d planned, and his relief was stunning. Had he been on land, his knees would have buckled.
Taking several deep breaths to calm himself, he turned, his face a mask of grief as he lifted up the sodden cloak for all to see. “I am too late. The river has gotten her,” he cried out. “Miss Fitzsimmons is gone.”
Chapter 6
Nature seems to say to us men, pointing to her yet uncorrupted daughters, “Behold these smiling innocents … they are timid and want to be defended. They are frail … ”—
Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women
She took in great gasps of air as she pulled herself onto the shore, utterly spent, branches catching in her hair and clawing at her dress. Summers with her grandparents on Scotland’s coast had taught her about frigid waters and strong currents, but the Thames had been something else entirely. The muck of it had filled her mouth. And she’d seen things floating she hadn’t wanted to recognize. It had all been rather frightening, even if she pulsed with exhilaration now.
She’d done it, which seemed impossible. She didn’t yet know if anyone believed the ruse, but the sounds in the near distance weren’t generally heard at Vauxhall. An almost deathly silence was broken only by occasional sobbing. She felt a bit guilty about that, truth be told. But the dog? Why, she’d actually saved it. The poor thing had been terrified, and she’d seen it safely back to shore. She’d done something good. She’d made a tangible difference and was irrationally happy for it.
Irrational, because she’d just killed herself off from every experience and friendship she’d ever known.
But she needed to stop thinking and start moving. Breaking free of the debris, she edged along the west side of the Garden’s wall. A black carriage, free of markings, was stopped at the foot of Coombe’s
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