by Valerie King
“You have no particular obligation to me, Madeline. Ours was a private discretionary courtship. We had no commitments to one another, then or now.”
Her heart sank. What was it he was saying, or meant to say? She could not be certain. “If you think I did this because of a sense of obligation, I fear you are greatly mistaken. As for what you owe me, I am perfectly cognizant that you owe me nothing, if that is what you fear.”
“No, my concerns do not lay in that direction. But I would know, Madeline, I desire to know why you have done this thing.”
She understood what he wanted to hear her say and yet her heart quailed at the thought of revealing her affections lest he despise her, even laugh at her by being so presumptuous in speaking them when he had already made it clear, Monday last, that there could never be a betrothal between them. She drew in a deep breath, her heart once more hammering wildly against her ribs. She had never been in love before, nor had she ever told a man that she loved him. The words did not come easily. Could she even speak them? She did not know.
However, she stiffened her spine and gathered her courage. She sensed rather than knew for a certainty that this was the hour to speak, to not hold back, to let her sentiments be known in their entirety. To do less would be to continue to dishonor the man still holding her hands in a tight clasp.
“When I left you that day I discovered that somewhere betwixt having met you for the first time at Pelworthy last February and that wretched conversation five days ago, I had come to desire, indeed to long for your company more than anything else on earth. I realized that I loved you, that I had tumbled quite violently in love with you. When you refused to meet with me, I knew I had to do something to both prove the worthlessness of my former opinions and to tell you that my heart now belonged to you.”
~ ~ ~
Sir Roger stared into her lovely green eyes, still glittering with tears, and could not credit the transformation of the lady before him. Gone was the arrogance he had witnessed on Monday that had seemed to seal his heart from her forever. She was a creature changed, and yet he did not entirely trust her. After all, was it possible for someone to alter their beliefs so quickly, so simply?
He watched her smile, if ruefully. “You owe me nothing,” she stated firmly.
He was grateful she had said as much. He needed time now to think over what she had said, to place in some sort of rational perspective the exceptional gesture she had made in wearing a gown of tartan to a purely English harvest ball. Yet at the same time he could not quite bring himself to release her hands, not when she was looking so very beautiful and vulnerable, not where tears danced on her lashes, not when she had humbled herself so completely before him.
“Oh, the deuce take it,” he said. He gathered her up quickly in his arms “I should not—Madeline, what is it?” Her suddenly wide-eyed, almost panicked, gaze was fixed beyond him.
“There,” she said, dipping her chin to the north. “I believe—oh, dear God—it must be Pelworthy.”
He whipped around and saw what it was that had brought such an expression of horror to her face. “My God, I believe you are right. My home is in flames. I must go.”
Word spread in lightning flashes that Pelworthy was ablaze. Madeline flew beside Sir Roger as he hurried to the entrance hall and, after issuing the orders to have his curricle brought round, suddenly said, “Never mind. I shall see to it myself.”
“Sir?” the butler said, greatly shocked.
“I know where the stables are.”
“May I come with you?” Madeline said.
“If it pleases you, yes, but you must come now.”
Madeline begged Lady Cottingford’s butler to summon her father and explain that Pelworthy was on fire and that she had accompanied Sir Roger to his home.
“Very good, miss.”
With that, Madeline ran beside Sir Roger, the tartan demi-train dragging the gravel as it moved over the walkway until she caught up the dancing loop and swept the overdress across her arm.
The head groom of Lord Cottingford’s stables was one of the finest in the count. He was known for precision and care, and after tonight undoubtedly would be known for his speed as well. Within five minutes, Sir Roger’s horses were harnessed to his curricle and the fine team was trotting quickly down the avenue. Once in the lane, he used his whip and the team began to plunge ahead at breakneck speed.
Madeline braced her feet, slung one arm about Sir Roger’s waist and held on for dear life. Pelworthy was a distance of seven miles from Ovinghurst, and she was certain she would be well-bruised after so quick a jaunt over occasionally uneven terrain and uncertain roads.
***
Chapter Fourteen
Madeline still had her arm pinned about Sir Roger’s waist as he drew the curricle up to an abrupt stop some hundred yards from the barbican. Much of the outer, southern portion of the castle was ablaze, which represented to a large extent the scaffolding placed securely against several portions of the stone wall. The largest flames, however, shot out from the barbican itself, much of which was made of wood, including the ancient drawbridge.
She stared up at the leaping flames, unable to credit the ferocity of the blaze. “Whatever can be done?” she cried.
Sir Roger handed her the reins and leaped down. Several of his servants ran to and fro, some carrying water brought up from the creek, the others attempting to determine if everyone had been able to make their escape once the fire took hold of the edifice. He called out to one of his manservants. “You there. Is everyone safe?”
“Yes, Sir Roger. We have just made certain of it. We are now searching for more buckets.”
“Carry on,” he murmured.
Madeline watched his shoulders slump. The foundation and the exterior walls might be made of stone, but there was a great deal of wood that could easily burn in the interior walls, upper floors, and roofs, which would keep a castle engulfed in flames for a long time. She watched as Churchill approached from behind and nuzzled Sir Roger’s hand. He immediately bent down and ruffled the dog’s fur and rubbed his ears. What he said to the beast could not be heard, but there was obvious relief in Sir Roger’s expression that his dog was safe.
He stopped another servant and the pair of them, with Churchill following behind, approached the carriage. Sir Roger gestured for Madeline to descend and the servant led the horses and the curricle away.
“What can be done?” Madeline asked, her throat constricted with tears. She could imagine what Sir Roger was feeling in this moment, but to see Pelworthy shooting flames was more than she could bear with even the smallest equanimity.
“Not a great deal, I’m ’fraid,” he responded, his voice nearly lost in the roar and the crackling of the fire. “We would need an entire army to extinguish these flames.”
Madeline turned away from the barbican, her heart still sitting harshly in her throat. After she permitted several tears to slip down her cheeks, her attention was caught by the sight of lights bouncing in the distance both from the lane at the bottom of the hill to the east as well as the lane to the west. The lights converged as they began a progress up the rather steep, final ascent to the castle.
She turned around, her eyes filling with tears anew. “Sir Roger,” she called to him, his gaze still fixed on the mountain of flames before him.
He glanced at her, hopelessness visible in his blue eyes. “Yes?”
“I believe your army has just arrived.”
“What?” he said, a quick frown splitting his brow.
“Do but look,” she gestured to the southern lane.
“There must be hundreds coming. How is this possible?”
“In part, I am certain, because Pelworthy is a great part of our local history and in part because I am convinced the new owner of the castle is a greatly respected man, particularly with the tradesmen and villagers throughout the vale.”
“Whether you have the right of it or not, especially as concerns your last opinion, I am so gr
ateful I hardly know what to say.”
“Well, then, I would suggest you begin formulating a plan of attack as to precisely where a battle might be staged to stop the fire.”
He chuckled and cupped her face. “Thank you,” he said.
“For what?” she said. “I have done nothing.”
“For being beside me in this moment.”
She smiled in return, then glancing about queried, “I have not seen Lord Anthony. Do not tell me he was within?”
At that, Sir Roger shook his head. “No. He was spending the evening with Squire Crawley. I believe his intention was to beg for Miss Cressida’s hand in marriage tonight, if I did not much mistake the matter.”
Since the villagers, tradesmen, and farmers would soon be upon them, Sir Roger began to organize his own servants, giving them orders as to where the line of buckets and water carried from Halland Creek would best be laid over the flames, in some cases thirty feet ahead of the flames to drench roof and floors in hopes of preventing further spread of the fire.
Once the brigade of water laden buckets began, so did a night of exhaustive labor. It was several hours before signs of victory began to be seen. By then, the barbican was a hollow, smoking, wet shell and gave a stench to the area which Madeline believed probably extended for several miles in every direction. Two score of women had brought food for the laborers, which Madeline helped to dispense with great regularity along with a large quantity of coffee. There was a rhythm to the work, to the efforts to save as much of the castle as possible, that settled into each grim, determined face.
When it was clear that the flames were growing smaller and lower with each passing minute, a rousing cheer went up. Sir Roger, his face soot-covered, went about thanking many of those nearest the castle, but the older and wiser of the men spurred on the effort saying that many a fire, when not properly extinguished, would burst to life again. On and on, therefore, the drudgery continued until all the flames were gone. Only then was there some relief as the several lines which had led to the creek resolved to only two. Even then, those men who had had experience with fires began checking the perimeters over and over for any sign of hidden flames.
When at last dawn’s light came and not a single tendril of smoke curled from even the smallest burnt ember, the laborers and the many women who had kept them fed through the night began a long walk home. Fifty, however, remained behind, where they were given sustenance and places to sleep in case an undetected beam or floor joist once more erupted into flame.
Madeline, exhausted, approached Sir Roger to bid him good-bye, when a servant, red-faced and perspiring heavily, approached them.
“What is it? Has another fire been discovered?” Sir Roger asked.
“Nay. I come from Lord Anthony. He begs you to accompany me, along with Miss Piper if possible,” here, he bowed to her, then continued, “There is something he desires both of you to see at once—that is, now that the fire is controlled.”
“Of course,” Sir Roger said. “I shall come directly, but I believe Miss Piper needs to see her bed.”
At that, the servant became distressed. “Begging your pardon, but Lord Anthony was most specific and repeated the order, that is, the request, at least a dozen times that Miss Piper must attend you. Begging your pardon, miss.”
“I shall come as well, of course. I am certain if his lordship has requested my company, then he must have good reason.”
“Aye, miss, that I believe he does.”
With that, Sir Roger gave orders to his head groom to keep his eye fixed to the continuing inspections of the charred portions of the castle. When he proffered his arm, Madeline took it gratefully. She smiled up into his sooty face. “I would not know you at a distance, sir,” she said cheerfully.
“Nor I you.”
“Indeed? And is my face as black as yours?”
“Very nearly, I am sure.”
With such light banter, the journey, surprisingly brief, was accomplished. Madeline was still smiling as the last bend in a small, hidden ravine was achieved. Her general lightheartedness died on her lips, for there, in bondage, were John Calvert, Captain Bladen, and Harris Rocking- ham. Poised over them, a hunting rifle in hand, was Lord Anthony and two more servants, also keeping watch. Madeline recognized one of them, having given him several large portions of coffee, bread, and ham, which she had thought he meant to take to the laborers. She had wondered at the time, quite vaguely, that his clothes were still so clean, but now his purpose was made clear to her. He bad been feeding his master’s friend and probably the gentlemen still bound at their ankles and hands.
“What is the meaning of this, Anthony?” Sir Roger asked.
“I returned early from Wistfield, for Miss Cressida was not at all feeling well. The castle had just been torched, and I saw three men running in this direction. Your servants were not far behind, one of them carrying this gaming rifle, and naturally I joined pursuit. I was shocked to find these gentlemen at the end of the chase.”
Madeline stared at her beaus, trying to comprehend what it was they had done. She did not understand. “You must be mistaken,” she said to Lord Anthony.
“For your sake, Miss Piper, I wish I were.”
“But do you know for certain? Have they admitted as much?” She glanced at Harris, who met her gaze, but who quickly looked away, wearing an expression of the most profound guilt. She understood in that instant that the accusation was true. “Oh, dear God,” she murmured, lifting a hand to cover her mouth, for she was greatly shocked.
Captain Bladen said, “I do not see why you pretend your surprise, Miss Piper. We would never have done so without your blessing.”
“What?” she said, astounded. “I never. . . I would never . . . how can you say such a thing?”
Mr. Calvert interjected. “In Chilchester, on Tuesday, you agreed quite readily that a fire should be lit under Sir Roger.”
What she might have said was interrupted completely by Harris who said, “What the deuce? Are you wearing tartan, Miss Piper?”
All three men then took in the sight of her soot-covered gown and each expression grew quite dumbfounded, indeed shocked.
“Yes, I am,” she responded. At the same time, she sensed that something else was amiss. Glancing at Sir Roger, she saw a speculative, even suspicious expression on his face as he watched her as well.
“More to the point, Miss Piper,” he said, his voice cold, “did you perhaps wear the tartan to keep me distracted? Was this your purpose?”
Madeline was so stunned that her mouth fell agape. For a long moment, she could not answer him. That he would think her capable of such a horrific act of destruction against him not to mention against Pelworthy, was so disturbing that no words came to her tongue.
“There, you see.” Harris said out. “She knew precisely what we meant to do and clearly used the tartan to help us.”
“No, Harris,” she said at last. “You are mistaken, utterly and completely.”
She could see that Sir Roger was not convinced and a deep chagrin came over her, not so much that he disbelieved her, but because of all the ways she had made her former feelings of superiority made known to him, so much so that he could not in this moment trust her. Tears started to her eyes. “I know you will not believe me, but I had no hand in this, no notion of what these men intended to do.”
“Why do they say you sanctioned their actions, then? What did you say to them in Chilchester that would have given them cause, even justification?”
“I cannot recall precisely, because when I was speaking with them, Papa was hurrying me to take my leave, and then I saw you. You were just entering The Bear and I smiled at you, but you gave me the coldest nod. I admit I was but half listening to them and, yes, I do recall something about ‘lighting a fire under Sir Roger,’ but I wasn’t paying the least heed.”
Mr. Calvert snorted his disgust. “We all heard you say, ‘Yes, a fire should be lit under Sir Roger.’ ”
“But I was n
ot referring in any manner to the torching of Pelworthy,” she said. “I was speaking of his heart. I have been in love with him for ages, and yet he had found me wanting, but not unrightly so.” She turned to Sir Roger, tears still brimming in her eyes. “You must believe me. I was thinking of your heart, not your home. I would never, never in a thousand years sanction such an act as we have witnessed tonight. Never.”
“I wish I could believe you,” he said.
Madeline was exhausted from the night’s labors and could not stem her tears. She could not believe this was happening, neither that some of her dearest friends had committed so heinous an act against Sir Roger, nor that somehow she had become culpable in his eyes.
She was sunk again and knew it. She had believed herself out of the woods, but here, at this moment, she was in the darkest part of them all over again. Even her gown of tartan could be turned against her. A stronger question arose: even if he believed her in this situation, would he ever be able to truly trust her? Perhaps not. If not, then what basis was there for an enduring love?
She did not know what to do, yet to protest further seemed a hopeless avenue, so she remained silent. The gentlemen fidgeted on the ground, each appearing haggard.
“What would you have me do, Miss Piper?” Sir Roger asked.
She turned to look at him, hope dawning, if slowly. “What do you mean?”
“Whether or not you are innocent remains to be seen, but for the present, what shall I do with your beaus? I suspect the destruction of an ancient castle might be considered by an English court to be a hanging offense.”
Madeline started. The consequences of their horrid crime had not yet occurred to her. Now that Sir Roger had offered the first course of action as a possible one, she shuddered. “I had not thought of that.”
“Perhaps you should have,” Harris said, “when you told us to light a fire under Sir Roger.” He was shaking and near tears.
Captain Bladen interjected. “She did not tell us to do anything.”