by Betina Krahn
The sight of the barns, stables, and house still intact was a relief as they approached on the lane that ran through the heart of the estate. But as they neared, screams and crashes coming from the house made them spur the horses and draw weapons. They abandoned their mounts to rush the front doors and found the entry hall in chaos.
The hall table was overturned and the vases that always held the season’s flowers lay in shards on the marble floor. The sound of thumping and cries of pain came from the parlor and they rushed in to find Elizabeth and two dairy maids with fireplace tools whacking away at two men protesting and trying to scuttle out of reach on the floor. Elizabeth’s hair was hanging, her dress was torn and her face was flushed with fury.
“Don’t you dare move!” she snarled at the men, holding a poker poised for another strike.
“What the hell, Lizzie?” Red rushed to her and she glowered at him.
“How dare they come into this house and threaten my family and our people?” she declared, simmering. One of the gang held out his hand, toward Red, begging him to intervene.
“She’s crazy! Don’t let her kill us!”
Red smiled with wicked glee. “Give ’im another one, Lizzie. Don’t think he’s learned his lesson yet.”
Elizabeth gave him a whack on the leg that set him howling.
“Where’s Daisy?” Ash asked.
“Upstairs with the boys, I think.” She was practically panting. “These animals are all over the house—mangy dogs!”
Ash took off and Red drew his guns and followed, drawn by the combined yells of angry women and hard-pressed men. In the dining room, chairs were overturned, the chandelier was hanging askew, and dishes were shattered all over the floor. One portly matron was sitting on her attacker, rearranging his face with powerful punches while he tried in vain to seize her hands or roll her off his chest. Another invader was writhing on the floor and covering his head from blows from a cudgel he had once carried. Battle cries, the banging of metal pots, and the crash of crockery wafted up from the kitchen, indicating Cook was stoutly defending her domain. Everywhere they looked, Betancourt’s women were defending themselves, their children, and the great house from the heathen invaders.
In the library, books had been ripped from the shelves and the furniture had been overturned during a search for valuables. Several children hid behind curtains and in corners while a robust matron kept a heavy foot on an invader’s neck while flailing him with a rug beater, daring him to move.
The only place they found invaders still upright and dangerous was the study. Led by a big muscular brute, a group of three was ransacking the desk, cabinets, and shelves, looking for valuables. Papers and folios were strewn everywhere—paintings had been wrenched off the walls and tossed aside.
Arthur peered quietly around the door for a moment, zeroing in on the ringleader. Then he charged the man and Reynard and Grycel went after the other two. Arthur grappled and wrestled and finally managed a throat punch that sent the brute to his knees, where a knee to the face snapped his head back and finished it.
“Where is he?” he demanded, shaking the thug by the shirt.
“Who?” The man was only half conscious, but half should do.
“George Graham—your employer.”
“In . . . hell . . . I hope . . .” With that, his mind slid out of Arthur’s reach.
They dragged the threesome into the center hall and Red volunteered to keep watch—with a gun in each hand.
Everywhere they went the women were subduing their attackers with a vengeance unique to mothers protecting their homes. Fireplace pokers, bed warmers, rug beaters, ladles, bread paddles, not to mention a host of kitchen knives . . . who knew there were so many potential weapons in a great house? The men stood watching in awe and no small bit of discomfort. After all, they were supposed to be the rescuers. They had come prepared to fight for their wives and families and found their rescue . . . not needed.
Ashton came to the top of the stairs and called for help. When Arthur and Reynard bounded up the stairs they found four men sprawled in the upstairs hallway, two of whom were bleeding from head wounds. Daisy was hefting an iron poker and dancing around like a mad woman. “Give me another one! Let ’em just try touching my babies!” She wanted a few more attackers to bash. Ash looked bewildered.
“This wasn’t all her,” he said, eyeing Daisy and then the battered men on the floor. “Mazie and Deidre had a hand in it, too.”
“Wouldn’ let nothin’ happen to Yer Grace’s rooms,” Mazie said to Arthur with a big smile, patting the handle of a smashed bed warmer.
“Where’s Sarah?” Arthur rushed to her room to look and came back with a scowl. “Have you seen her?”
That made Daisy calm a bit. “No.” She frowned, thinking. “I saw her take a shawl and step out for a bit of air. It was kind of crowded in the house and a bit crazy . . . even before these fools charged in.”
“I’ll look for her,” Arthur said, knowing Sarah’s penchant for being in the middle of the action and thinking she was probably somewhere standing over a vanquished foe like an Amazon warrior. “She’s here somewhere.”
They dragged the invaders down the steps and began to search the rest of the guest rooms. Over the next quarter hour, they collected the gang members from all over the house and brought them to the entry hall. Cook provided roasting twine to bind their hands. When they were trussed up like Christmas geese, and counted, there were ten of them . . . none of whom answered to the name George Graham.
Arthur and Reynard questioned the men and learned that “his lordship” had indeed been present, but he didn’t join their raid on the house. He insisted on burning some barns instead.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sarah awoke slowly with a crashing pain in the left side of her head. She couldn’t make sense of her location at first, or of the fact that she couldn’t move. It was dark and something was wrapped around her. She blinked to clear her vision and realized she was in a bed—a very large and comfortable bed. She turned her head and recognized the smell of the linen—Arthur. She was in Arthur’s bed? How did she get here?
“Miss Sarah?” It was housemaid Dolly’s voice. “Are you all right?”
She clutched her throbbing head and tried to think. George. The stable. Steig. It was a jumble in her head, but something drove her to fight her way out of her cocoon. There was chaos outside in the hall . . . voices and thumping and shrieks of rage.
“Careful, miss. Ye had a bad knock to the head.” Dolly was sitting in the stuffed chair by the bed and rose to wet a cloth and dab her face.
“What’s going on?” she managed to say, wishing she had some headache powders.
“Those blasted outlaws—they charged in lookin’ fer spoils—that’s what they said. Started pushing Miz Elizabeth an’ others around. She picked up a poker and let one have it. Then all hell—heck broke loose.”
“Mama? Hit somebody with a poker?” The knock on the head must have scrambled their brains. She couldn’t imagine . . .
She slid off the bed and Dolly was quick to support her. There were men’s voices outside and more thumping, like something being dragged down the stairs. Dolly helped her to the bathing room, where she splashed water on her face and examined her head wound in the mirror. There had been some bleeding, but at least none of the blood was on her clothes. The longer she was upright, the more secure she felt on her feet.
“So, who is fighting out there?”
Dolly shrugged. “I been in here with you ever since Steig brought you in. He said he needed you somewhere safe and couldn’t think of a safer place for the duchess than the duke’s bed.”
She might have chuckled if her head hadn’t hurt so much.
There were more voices outside the duke’s door. Was that Daisy? Then a faraway bell rang and it took her a minute to realize it was the alarm they had established for “fire.”
George had kerosene—he was burning things!
Her first t
hought was the stables—the horses—Fancy!
She stepped into her boots and pulled them on, against Dolly’s advice. Moments later, she was out on the balcony overlooking the hall. There were a dozen or so men trussed up like turkeys on the hall floor. Several women, including her mother and Daisy, stood over them with weapons poised. Daisy looked up at her as she came down the stairs.
“Where have you been? Arthur was looking for you.” She paused at the look on Sarah’s face and came toward her.
“What’s burning?” Sarah asked. “I heard the bell.”
“Someone spotted a fire at one of the barns and the men took off.”
Sarah kept walking and was soon on the steps, staring in growing horror at tendrils of smoke curling out of the stables.
“The horses!” She took off running. With every step she battled back the pounding that she feared was a sign of something worse than a mere headache. She refused to think about herself as she pulled open the stable door and was hit with a blast of hot, smoky air and the cries of panicking horses. Galvanized, she ran down the alley and stopped dead at the sight of George Graham entering Fancy’s stall with something in his hand. Her Fancy screamed with fear or possibly rage.
“Get out of there!” she cried, rushing forward, coughing in the smoke. Farther down the alley she spotted flames.
“Bastard!” George was unsteady on his feet, but lurched toward Fancy, swinging his riding crop wildly. “You’ll pay for what you did to me.”
“George, stop!” she cried, watching Fancy begin to jump and rear. His eyes were wide and panicked; she had to get him out of there. She looked around for something to defend Fancy and herself with. Down the way she spotted George’s gun on the floor, wedged against a stall, and rushed for it.
When she turned back George was lashing Fancy with his crop and she cocked the gun, praying it was still loaded and functional. Would she really shoot George?
“I said stop!” Every breath tested her resolve. “I’ll shoot!”
George turned on her and he looked pale and gaunt—his clothes were bloody down his right side and she realized he was wielding the crop with his left hand.
“You!” he snarled, though with less force than she would have expected. He had lost a lot of blood, was limping, and his right arm was dangling uselessly. “I’m gonna kill your horse—kill it and leave it to burn!” His eyes were black, bottomless pits. “Maybeee . . . I’ll kill you first!”
He came at her with his crop raised and she fired the gun, aiming for his shoulder. He staggered backward—right into Fancy’s path. The horse reared and struck with his hooves.
George gave a cry of panic and pain as Fancy came down with his hooves again and he was knocked to the floor. Even in the chaos, Sarah heard bones crunch as Fancy reared and pounded him again. With a final gurgle, George lay still.
Sarah hung onto the open stall door and coughed. Her head was reeling, she wanted nothing more than to escape and breathe fresh air. But she had come to rescue Fancy and the others and couldn’t quit now. She stumbled forward and grabbed Fancy’s halter, pulling him out of the stall and giving his rump a slap that sent him running for the open door.
She turned back, drawn by the cries of horses and foals panicked by the smoke. Ripping a piece from her petticoat, she tied it over her nose and mouth, and pulled herself along the stalls, opening one door after another, leading the horses down the alley toward fresh air and safety.
Smoke now filled much of the stable and flames were roaring in the cross alley and tack room. Shielding her face with her arm, she bent low and ran past the searing flames to the other wing. There were more horses to release . . . more flames and smoke. Her lungs felt raw and she was growing dizzy as she staggered to the door at the end of that alley and pounded and kicked it until it opened. When she turned she spotted Nero and Nellie lying near the door. She knelt and shook Nero, yelling to him until he roused. She pointed to the door and he rose shakily and staggered toward the fresh air. She spent a moment trying to rouse Nellie, but had to go back for the horses.
She led the frantic horses through the smoke, guided by the floor alone. She was flagging by the time she got to the last stall . . . where she found Eddie and Harley slumped against the wall.
Choked with panic as much as smoke, she called to Eddie and Harley, but they were too groggy to understand. She fell to her knees, shaking them, trying to get them to wake up. It was useless. Then she crawled and dragged herself outside the stall, hoping to summon help. Nero and Nellie were both gone and she couldn’t send them for help. Already on her knees, she collapsed, feeling darkness overtaking her again. If only she could have one more good breath . . . one more glimpse of Arthur’s face . . .
* * *
Arthur carried her out of the burning stables and laid her on the ground outside. Frantically, he listened for her heartbeat and tried to rouse her. She was alive, but unconscious and her breathing was tortured. Her face was red but didn’t look burned. She looked like she’d been through hell itself.
He carried her into the house and up the stairs—straight into his own chambers. He was barely aware of the women crowding into the room, of Daisy and Elizabeth, Dolly and Mazie and even Cook offering to help. He soon had basins of cool water, toweling, and Sarah’s own medicine chest at his disposal.
No one objected when he rolled her onto her side and worked the fastenings of her dress; in fact, Daisy quickly realized what he intended and began to help.
“She needs to breathe,” Arthur said, ripping her corset laces.
He tried to rouse her to give her water, but she didn’t respond. He sat on the edge of the bed beside her, feeling as if life was draining out of him.
“Come on, Sarah, breathe. Fight for breath,” he said, praying she somehow heard him. “You’ve got too much to live for to quit on us now. We need you.” His voice dropped to an emotional whisper. “I need you.”
For the first time in years, he was truly frightened. He focused on bathing her face and exposed skin and stepped back to let Daisy and Elizabeth remove her clothes and replace them with a light nightgown. He looked over her medicines, but there was nothing in them to treat damage to the lungs. He asked for weak tea and lemon water to give her whenever she roused and bathed her face to cool her, desperate to do something more.
* * *
The constables brought barred wagons to haul away the prisoners and the house was gradually righted. Betancourt’s families were reunited and returned to their homes. One barn had suffered significant damage before they could put out the flames, and the stables were a total loss. It seemed George was most intent on doing damage that carried an emotional toll for Sarah and Arthur . . . which meant destroying the stables with their most promising horses still inside. George, they discovered, had met his end with little blood in his body, a hole in his shoulder, and broken bones inflicted by the very horse he had tried to burn.
They sent a telegram to Sir William Drexel, detailing Sarah’s plight and George’s demise, asking for Sir William to notify his next of kin.
The house grew strangely quiet as Arthur, Elizabeth, and Daisy kept a vigil by Sarah’s bed. No one felt like talking. Red, Ash, and Reynard tiptoed into the room to see Sarah, and Red’s eyes filled with tears as he stroked her hair. Grycel and Steig stayed by the door, watching, their faces downcast and big shoulders slumped under the weight of worry.
After Steig brought Sarah to the duke’s bed and set Dolly to watch over her, he had gone out to the barns to find George and stop him from setting fires. He managed to stop all but one fire by grabbing an axe and chopping away boards in the path of the flames. Grycel and Reynard joined him and took over to evacuate animals when word came that Sarah had been trapped in the burning stables. Nero had staggered out and located Arthur, who followed the dog back to the little-used far door of the stable. There he discovered Sarah, Eddie, and Harley. Steig arrived in time to carry Old Harley and Eddie to safety and then battled through the smoke a
nd flames to find Nellie’s puppies. They had crawled into an overturned tack chest that had protected them long enough for them to be discovered. He worked over the little dogs to bring them around, and all but two of them survived . . . including Steig’s own puppy.
* * *
Arthur sat by Sarah the entire next day and night, stroking her hand, moistening her lips, offering her water and weak tea whenever she stirred. He talked to her, telling her stories he had learned in his travels and promising her he would take her to some of his favorite places . . . when she recovered. By the second morning, the wheezing in her chest seemed to lessen and she rested better, but they still had a long way to go.
* * *
The following morning, the pony trap from the rail station came jostling up the drive and Sir William and the driver rushed inside, struggling to carry a good-sized crate. They insisted on taking it straight up to Sarah, and when they began to unpack the thing, there were glass bottles and dials and tubes that Sir William told them would produce oxygen.
Sir William had clients in the medical field who used oxygen therapy for their patients with lung deficiencies. When he received their telegram he contacted one of the doctors straightaway and arranged to bring some of their oxygen equipment to her.
But he had trouble understanding the instructions. Arthur took the paper, read the diagram, and before long had the apparatus assembled and working. He tried it on himself first and was surprised by the fresh spurt of energy it gave him. He held the tubing to Sarah’s nose and cajoled and entreated her to breathe deeply.
As they watched, her color seemed to improve and she seemed to draw deeper, hungrier breaths. After the treatment, Arthur threw his arms around Sir William and for the first time in two days felt a spark of hope.
But it was another full day and several additional oxygen treatments later that she finally showed signs of rousing. Arthur was still by her bedside that evening when her eyes began to flutter.