by Betina Krahn
She looked up at him with luminous eyes.
“You are.”
He kissed her softly, then turned her slowly to show her the view that never failed to both inspire and ground him. “Look at it. Betancourt.”
Lights in nearby cottages twinkled like stars, and the landscape had become a deep, velvety palette of dark blues and grays.
“It’s beautiful. So, is this where you are when we can’t find you?” she said, leaning her head against his shoulder.
“A habit from my youth.” He rested his cheek on the top of her head. “When things became too much for me, I walked the tops of the brick walls or escaped to the roof. It always seemed to put things in perspective.”
As they turned slowly to take in the panorama, they both spotted a bloom of light in the distance.
“What is that?” she asked, knowing from the way he lifted his head that he was studying it, too. “It isn’t west, it’s north . . . along the river.”
“That’s where the mill sits. Near Thomas Wrenn’s farm.”
The light grew and took on an orange and yellow hue that sent a dark sooty spiral skyward above it. Arthur released her and moved closer to the edge of the roof, staring at that light with growing comprehension.
“Arthur?” She sensed it, too. “Is that fire?”
“The mill,” he declared through clamped jaws. “It’s burning.”
He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the stairs. He went first, to help her down, and together they hurried through the servants’ quarters to the rear stairs. They were running by the time they reached the stairs in the entry hall.
“Ned!” he called, then, “Red!”
“What’s goin’ on?” Red appeared in the parlor doorway, followed closely by Sir William and Elizabeth.
“The mill is on fire. Get your guns and meet me at the stable.” Then Arthur turned to Ned. “Where’s Steig?”
“Not home yet, Yer Grace,” Ned declared.
“Damn it. Fine. Send someone out to the cottages to gather the men . . . tell them the mill is on fire and we’ll need buckets and shovels. Hurry!”
Ned nodded and moved faster than anyone had seen in years.
As Red raced up to his room, Sarah passed him on the stairs.
“Oh, no you don’t—those are my guns!” Red bellowed.
“I’m not going for your blasted guns!” she shouted as she rushed down the hall. “If there’s fire, someone could be hurt. Tell Arthur to wait for me!”
Arthur wasn’t pleased to hear Sarah intended to come, but he had Eddie saddle her horse while he and some of the other men hitched a wagon and lit some lamps. She appeared in the stable yard a short while later, wearing a riding skirt, shirt, and boots. Mazie and Deidre were right behind her with her medicine chest, a crate of pots and bottles, and a carpet bag bulging with bandages and boiled linen.
“Wellington could have used you at Waterloo,” he said as he stacked her supplies in the wagon at the men’s feet, and gave her a terse smile.
She climbed aboard Fancy and noticed that Arthur and a couple of the dairymen carried long guns from Betancourt’s hunting gear. They looked like they were going to war, themselves.
It occurred to her that Arthur thought the fire might not be an accident. A stone mill built on a river . . . the water wheel . . . the great stones turning inside . . . how could it catch fire? And the Millers’ house lay nearby. She thought of sturdy Johnny Miller, whose ancestors had taken their name from their occupation. Would he have tried to put out the fire himself? He and his wife, Helen, had several children . . .
The four mile trek seemed to take forever. They collected a few additional men as nearby farmers caught sight of the blaze and joined them on horseback and in carts. The heat from the heavy timbers burning inside the mill and the wooden roof was intense as they approached. The nearby roof of the Millers’ home had just caught fire from blowing sparks and Arthur and the men set up a bucket line from the millpond to the house, hoping to save it. It was clear to everyone that the mill was too far gone.
Shouting—a woman’s voice—drew Sarah around the house to a weedy area beyond the kitchen garden. The miller’s wife, Helen, was calling for help for her husband and son. Sarah dismounted in a rush, pulled Fancy out of the way, and tied him to the wagon. The woman knelt between the inert forms of her husband and eldest son. She was crying and her other children were wailing that their pa and brother were dying.
Sarah fell to her knees beside Johnny, rolled him onto his back, and felt his neck for a heartbeat. He and his son both had a pulse, though they struggled to breathe and their faces were ominously red beneath a layer of soot. At first glance, it looked like they had burns, cuts, and possibly broken bones.
“They’re not dead. Quiet down so I can listen!” She brought out her stethoscope to listen to their hearts and lungs.
“Water—I need clean water,” she declared, shoving a bucket at the sobbing woman. “You have to help me help them. Go!” Helen gasped a breath as the sense of it got through to her. She pushed to her feet and ran for the well.
Sarah spent some time listening to their chests and washing away the soot to check for burns. Most of their cuts weren’t bad enough to stitch, but Johnny’s left forearm was broken. She sent the children to look for some straight sticks that would make splints, and had Helen help with the setting and binding of his arm. As they worked, she noticed that the woman had some bruises herself and asked what happened to her.
“I seen what they done to my Johnny—he fought ’em—those men. I ran to help, but they pushed me around an’ one picked me up over his shoulder and carried me to the edge of the woods. He dumped me on the ground and I kicked an’ screamed—I thought he meant to take me there an’ then. But he told me to keep my mouth shut, and he’d send my kids out. He left me there. When my kids come running, they were scared and shakin’. I gathered ’em to me, an’ I kept callin’ out for Johnny. Martin dragged his pa out here, then collapsed. I didn’t know what to do for ’em.”
When Sarah and Helen began to work on Martin, he roused and, between coughing fits, told Sarah what had taken place. She felt as much as saw Arthur’s presence when he came to squat beside them and asked if anyone was hurt badly.
“Cuts and bruises, broken ribs and broken arm—no serious burns. It could have been a lot worse,” she reported.
“We saved the house,” he said to Helen Miller. “Things will smell like smoke for a while, but at least you’ll have a roof over your heads.”
The woman started to cry again and Sarah put her arms around her.
* * *
Martin’s story was exactly what Arthur and Sarah had feared. A group of men on horseback rode in just after dark. They went straight to the mill like they knew what they were about and started to toss kerosene over every bit of wood they could reach. Johnny rushed out to stop them and they beat him until he didn’t get up again. Martin tried to help, but he got hit, too, and the men shoved Helen around, making crude jokes until one of them—a big man—picked her up and carried her off toward the woods. Martin tried to go after them but got knocked to the ground and kicked in the ribs. The men left as quickly as they came. Martin reached his father and pulled him out of the way of the heat and flames. He heard his mother calling and managed to drag his father to her before he, too, collapsed.
The story sent a wave of uneasiness through the men who had saved the Millers’ house and now gathered around to see how the family fared.
Arthur took the men aside and spoke to their concerns for their own farms and families. This was not only destructive, it was intentional. Taken together with the wanton destruction at the Crotons’ a week before, it was alarming. Someone was bent on wreaking destruction on Betancourt, and all present now realized that no farm, no property, or tenant was safe.
Arthur promised them a new mill, a better mill. They would rebuild. But until then, they had to stand watch, keep their stock corralled or in barns, and send a rider to
Betancourt House with word of any suspicious strangers seen in the area.
It was past dawn when Arthur, Sarah, and the bulk of the rescue party returned to Betancourt House, having left the mill a pile of wheezing cinders and the Millers in the care of their closest neighbors. All of the rescue workers were sooty and exhausted from the heat.
Elizabeth and the house staff rushed out to meet them, asking questions and offering water, coffee, and cider. They all smelled like smoke and plans were made to have the men disrobe and wash outside, so their clothes could be cleaned before they returned to their homes. Sarah, however, was taken upstairs to bathe and was so grateful to be clean and shown to bed that she barely heard her mother’s chastisements.
“Ladies don’t go galivanting all over in the dead of night when thieves and outlaws are rampaging through the countryside,” Elizabeth said irritably as she drew the drapes closed and tucked Sarah in. “I don’t care if you are the only medical help in a hundred miles, you simply must know enough to stay home and let the men handle these things.”
“I tended burns and broken ribs, and I set a broken arm,” Sara muttered as she surrendered to exhaustion.
* * *
Elizabeth stayed by Sarah’s bed as she sank into oblivion, and gently brushed her damp hair back from her face. Her daughter was such a remarkable young woman, so learned, so compassionate, so determined to take on the world and reshape it into a better place.
“Why are you so reckless with your life, Sarah Bumgarten?” Elizabeth said with tears in her eyes. “Don’t you know I would die myself if something happened to you?”
When Sarah was sound asleep, Elizabeth crept out of the room and closed the door carefully behind her. Her throat was tight and tears blurred her vision. She staggered and leaned against a console table in the hallway with her face in her hands. In the grip of powerful emotion, she didn’t hear him approach.
“Mrs. Bumgarten? Are you quite all right?” Sir William stood with his arms dangling before him, as if he were about to reach out to her. “Is there anything I can do?”
Elizabeth looked up through a sheen of tears and the sight of him, so manly and strong, offering comfort, broke through her defenses. She nodded and he came to put an arm around her shoulders and led her to the stairs. She soon found herself on the window seat in the library with Sir William offering her a glass of water and apologizing that it wasn’t something stronger.
He sat beside her, offered her his handkerchief, and held her hand until her tears ended and she straightened. When she looked up at him, his eyes were warm and filled with concern.
“Thank you, Sir William. I don’t know what’s come over me. I’m unstrung by all this danger, by all these changes. My Sarah is all I have left and I fear she is headed down a path to heartbreak.”
“Do you mean her fondness for His Grace?” When she nodded he squeezed her hand. “I don’t think you have much to worry about on that account. The duke is a good man and honorable to a fault.”
“But my daughter is sometimes willful and too tenderhearted for her own good. She cannot always see the faults in people until it is too late.”
“It is my experience, dear Elizabeth, that we must sometimes let the young ones make mistakes that they will learn from.”
“As you did, William? With the duke?”
He sighed. “You have me there. But in my defense, I consulted with others on the matter, and I did have his best interests at heart.”
“I know you did,” she said with a sigh, laying her hand over his. “I don’t mean to be difficult. I just don’t know what to do. Sarah and Daisy, Arthur and Ashton . . . these hideous outlaws . . . everything seems so . . . tangled.”
William surprised her by reaching up to touch her cheek.
“Things will untangle in their own good time, Elizabeth. Have a little faith.”
Chapter Eighteen
It was the next afternoon when a horse and rider came charging up the drive to Betancourt’s front doors. A stable boy took the man’s horse and Ned admitted the handsomely dressed fellow to the house and started up the stairs to see if the duke or duchess were receiving callers. Before he reached the top, the man passed him, headed straight for the duke’s chambers. Ned’s wheezing protest fell at his back as he threw open the doors and strode into the room.
“Good God, still abed? Some duke you are! Get up, Supposedly Arthur, and let me have a look. At. You.” Reynard Boulton, Viscount Tannehill, stopped dead as the man bolted from the bed and faced him in a defensive crouch. He looked like a wild creature . . . long hair, wildly tousled . . . tanned and muscular body, mostly naked . . . on his shoulder a tattoo. Reynard’s jaw dropped.
“What the hell—Reynard?” The man’s voice was deep and had a hint of a rasp to it. But when he straightened and brushed back his mass of dark hair, Reynard struggled to make out the features of a face he had known since his days at school.
* * *
Arthur stared back at his old school friend and produced a slow smile.
“Reynard Boulton. You old Fox, you!” Arthur bounded across the room and seized the stunned viscount in a bearish hug. Then he released Reynard and laughed at the disbelief on his face.
“It is you, isn’t it.” Reynard grasped Arthur’s shoulders and gave them a shake, as if testing that he was real. “Lord, you’re a different man. I’d have passed you on the street without a hint of recognition.”
“I hear that a lot these days. But it’s me. Want proof?”
“Will you be too insulted if I say yes?”
Arthur paused and thought a moment, his hands propped on his waist. He saw Reynard looking him over in amazement and realized it had to be something only Reynard would recall. Something very personal.
“You didn’t piss in George Rector’s bed that night at school. It was George himself. He cried and you took pity on him and said it was you.”
“How did—how could you—” Reynard’s whole frame reacted.
“I was in the corner of the dormitory, trying to get some sleep. Never slept in my bed, it made me too tempting a target. I saw the whole thing.” He smiled. “That was when I started to like you.”
“But, but you never said . . .”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” Arthur said, with genuine warmth. “It always has been.”
Reynard, renowned keeper of society’s secrets, was torn between being deeply moved and laughing at the irony of it. Laughter won out and Arthur joined him.
“It’s so good to see you, Fox. It’s like seeing a brother.”
Moments later, Arthur donned his shirt and boots and led Reynard down the stairs to the breakfast room, where he ordered coffee and whatever Cook could put together on short notice. They were just tucking into the food when Red appeared in the doorway, looking like he’d run for the first time in years.
“I heard . . . I figured . . . it was you,” he panted out, then as Reynard rose, hurried to give him a hearty handshake. “How’s Frankie? And Little Oliver?”
“Both fine. Healthy enough to kick me out of the house and tell me to come and check out this ‘phony Arthur’ I’ve been worrying about.”
Red looked at Arthur. “So he’s come to toss ye out, eh?” He grinned at Reynard. “Ye’ll have to go through me and his lawyer . . . and Sarah . . . if that’s yer plan.”
“Well, if you want this slug-a-bed for a duke, who am I to object?”
“For your information,” Arthur declared between bites of eggs and toast, “I had reason to be sleeping so late. I was up all night battling a fire.”
“A fire?” Reynard looked to Red, who nodded with uncharacteristic gravity.
“Sit down, son.” Red waved him into his chair. “We got trouble.”
* * *
Sarah found Arthur and Red in the breakfast room, telling Reynard Boulton—Frankie’s beloved viscount—about their recent problems. Reynard was on his feet in a heartbeat, holding her hands and giving her a kiss on each cheek.
“You look wonderful, Sarah.” He held her arms out to look her over. “I was concerned when I learned you came to Betancourt to rusticate after . . . but you’ve blossomed in the country air.”
“You should see what she’s done with the stables and the house,” Arthur said with no little pride. “Daisy and Ashton may have started it, but Sarah has put substance into the place and has polished it like a gem.”
“I noticed that things looked different from my last visit. Granted, that was quite a while ago. Daisy’s and Ashton’s wedding, I believe.” Reynard noticed Arthur’s gaze lingering on Sarah and saw that she couldn’t help blushing under his warm regard.
Reynard looked quizzically at Red, who was watching, too, and raised an eloquent eyebrow.
“It’s remarkable,” Sarah said, pouring herself a cup of coffee at the sideboard, “what a pile of money and some determination can do. I just hope it isn’t all for naught. I assume they’ve told you about our difficulties.”
“They have,” Reynard said as she settled at the table with them. “And it’s clear to me that this is an organized campaign. I can’t imagine why anyone would terrorize the countryside like this, unless it was to gain something. But it doesn’t appear they’ve taken anything of value.” He paused for a moment. “We’re going to need help. I have a friend in London who knows his way around dangerous situations. I’ll send a telegram.”
* * *
Later that evening, Arthur learned that Steig had returned and was taking a late supper in the servants’ hall. He excused himself from company to see him and find out what he had learned.
“There you are.” He sat down across the long table from the bruiser, who didn’t bother to rise in his presence, as virtually everyone else on the estate did. “Where have you been?”
“Ridin’ circuit, like you said.” Steig looked up briefly, then turned his attention back to his heaping plate. “Why?”
“There was a fire at the mill. It burned to the ground last night.” Arthur watched Steig’s surprise with a careful eye. “You didn’t know?”