“Davy! Where are you?”
The boiler room and foundry were also empty, no smell of coal smoke, none of the engines running. I dashed back down the hall to the tunnel door, and flew down the stone steps. “Davy! Uncle Tully? Where are you?”
My voice echoed as I called, again and again, my limbs beginning to shake as I ran down the tunnel. I thought my legs would give way, or that I might be sick before I stopped, and then I saw a small figure just before the bend in the tunnel, stock-still and dripping in the gas glow.
“Davy!” I yelled, but I saw that he was ready to run if I came too near. I slowed. “Are you all right?” I said, trying to sound calm, though I was fighting my panting breath, and my stomach, and tears. “We couldn’t find you. Thank God you can swim!”
His large eyes were down, and he did not acknowledge me. I stopped while still several feet away and went down to my knees on the floor stone, so he would know I would not try to chase him, and so I could rest. “I want … to … tell you some things. Will you let me?”
I waited, the seconds ticking one by one in the hiss of the gaslights, until Davy took a few halting steps forward. He stopped, still well out of my reach. He was such a lonely little figure, standing there without his rabbit, bereft, and with a cut on his cheek.
“I want … to tell you,” I said slowly, “that I understand what you were trying to say in the cottage. You did … very well. You showed me everything I needed.”
He looked up then, and I could see him clearly in the glare, from his darkened, wet hair to his muddy pants and shirt. And his eyes were unshuttered, dark expressive pools. I saw remorse and fear and grief that made me ache, and there was hatred, too, not for me, but for the one who had made him hurt those he hadn’t wanted to.
“I know,” I whispered, “and I am sorry. And I’m not angry, not at you.” I held out my hands to him. “You are not to blame. Do you understand me? It’s not your fault.”
He took one step toward my hand and stopped. A distant rumble vibrated through the tunnel, and we both looked to the stone ceiling. I had thought it was thunder, but instead of fading the rumbling grew louder, nearer. I stood. I could feel the shaking in my feet.
“Run,” someone told me, the voice echoing.
My head swiveled, looking for who else might be in the tunnel. The rumbling grew louder. Had the voice been in my ears or only in my head?
“Run!” the voice commanded, high and flutelike, but full of fear.
I turned to Davy, staring into the two black eyes, and then the gaslights flickered, and went out. The wrench of splitting wood ricocheted down the tunnel, and a then a wind, and a thundering roar. I ran through the dark, hands out, reaching for Davy. My fingers had just brushed the collar of his shirt when I was struck violently from behind, and the world became a black chaos. I was tumbling, spinning, hitting floor, ceiling, or wall, I knew not which, and there was no air, no breath, no control. I hit something hard, and the turmoil changed direction. My lungs burned, water was in my nose, and I slammed against something solid, a heavy weight pressing me to it harder and harder, squeezing the life from my body.
When I knew I would die the solid thing gave way, and I was thrown with a rush into a murky pool. I rolled, slowed, found something beneath my feet, pushed upward, and broke the surface of the water, gagging and spitting, pulling in gulps of precious air. Daylight spilled down from the glass-and-iron cupola above me, a roar replacing the water in my ears.
I was in the ballroom, but I was thigh deep in a brown lake of muddy water and debris. The grand stairs were a waterfall, and when I looked back I saw the piece of wall that was the tunnel door floating off to my right, the doorway itself now a spigot. “Davy!” I tried to yell, coughing, but I was alone, the rushing water deafening as it continued to rise.
I turned around, my skirt clinging, trying to comprehend. The tiny crack in the canal wall must have opened, perhaps the whole wall had come down. And if Lane had not reached the water gate, if he hadn’t closed off the flow, then not just the canal but the entire river would be emptying into the valley that was the Lower Village, and the lower end of Stranwyne. I moved, pushing my way through the current to the other door, the one Mrs. Jefferies had opened, but I stopped before I’d gone far. The water was now halfway up the door, past my waist, and the door opened into the ballroom. I would not be able to pull it open against the weight of all that water. I spun about, looking for escape, saw none, and panicked anew. I could not swim.
I tried to catch hold of the broken door to the tunnel, thinking to climb on top of it like a raft, but it moved away from me in the swirling current. I flailed after it, but the dress tangled around my legs and I could not stay upright. A wooden box floated past and I got my hand onto it just as the water lifted me from my feet. I clung to the floating box, nothing solid beneath me, breathless with fear, and when I licked my lips, I tasted saltiness. At least some of the moisture there was not from Stranwyne’s canal or even the river, but was my own blood.
I kicked, trying to keep the box lid well above the surface so it would not fill, feeling cool currents come up from below my legs. The stairs were still a waterfall, though a much shorter one now; the water would soon be above the opening. I thought of Davy, hoping he had been swept down the main tunnel to the chapel, where he could escape, and about my uncle. I prayed he’d never been in the tunnel at all.
I was more than halfway up the ballroom walls, the beautiful chandeliers coming within touching distance, the mirrors now reflecting a nightmare. I was so tired, and my head hurt, not from any cuts, but from my ears; they were aching from the inside, the air trapped by the rising water becoming a painful pressure. I gritted my teeth, got my feet on the nearest chandelier, and pushed hard to position myself beneath the cupola. How odd, the detached part of me thought, that I would work so hard to live the few minutes longer that glass dome would give me. I was going to drown like my father, only I would do it staring upward through glass, watching pink roses sway in the sunshine. I pushed again, finally grabbing the corner where the ceiling met the dome and pulled myself and the box inside it. I had five, maybe six more feet.
And then the pain in my head and ears grew so intense that I screamed. I kicked at the glass with my bare feet, and then I thought of my box, but I could not hit it hard enough against the thick glass without losing my grip. New, warm blood ran down from my nose. I thought to just let go, to let the water in my lungs and stop the hurting, and then a new thought struck. I flung the lid off the box, reaching blindly inside, and found, still dry of all things, the rolling skates. I got one in my hand and hit the glass.
Nothing happened. The pain in my head was excruciating. I beat the glass harder, over and over again, agony giving me strength. A piece chipped out, long cracks racing outward, and when I hit the glass again, it broke. Air escaped, whooshing past my head, the pain in my ears eased, and water gushed from the hole into the garden. I let go of the box and grabbed hold of the iron window frame, broken shards sinking into the hand that did not hold the skate, and knocked out what remained of the glass. I pulled myself through, the rushing water now a help rather than a hindrance, and sank, gratefully, into tangled rosebushes and mud.
I crawled up to the next terrace, where the earth was firm, and lay there, panting. The lowest terrace was a running river, a new spigot now pouring from the open pane to join it. I felt the rain-softened grass on my cheek, and the dirt beneath it, taking note of each breath, feeling the sun as it dried the water on my skin. Then I got to my feet, stumbling as I climbed up each level of the garden until I came to the circular drive.
I opened the front door, my steps moving faster, leaving a wet trail, taking the same route I had my on first day at Stranwyne. I ran through the clocks, shouting Davy’s name, fumbling with the door to the chapel. When I got it open, I ran to the far wall and then dropped to my knees. Water was leaking all around the edges of the hidden door, wetting the stones and seeping in pools over the floor. B
ut the hidden door had opened into the tunnel, not out of it, and that tunnel was now full, the door held irrevocably shut by the weight of the water.
It was Mrs. Jefferies who found me there, I don’t know how much later, on the chapel floor in a muddy heap, the blood dried on my forehead and cheeks. When I told her what lay behind the hidden door and explained what I knew, she cried and I cried again with her, our shared pain echoing from the stone. And when we couldn’t cry anymore she put my head on her soft lap, sitting in the puddles that leaked from the tunnel, stroking my soiled hair with a pudgy hand. In ragged gasps, I told her about Ben Aldridge and opium and Davy, and firing the gun and breaking the glass, even what I thought she’d done to me, all in a haze of exhaustion and grief. Again and again I asked her, “And where is my uncle? Where is Lane?” She patted my back as her own breath shuddered and called me “duck” and said she didn’t know.
When I was nearly asleep, she lifted my head and helped me up from the floor of the chapel, walking me to Marianna’s room. I was calm by then, so tired that I was mostly beyond thought, and there, in Marianna’s bed, was Uncle Tully, in his black coat and with the pink coverlets pulled up to his beard, asleep. He did not wake, even when I stood next to the bed.
“Let him sleep,” said Mrs. Jefferies, her voice hoarse. “It’s good to be forgetting.” And then, very gently, she took the rolling skate from my hand. I had not known I was still clutching it.
It took two bouts in the tub to get the mud and smell of the river off me and my hair. Mrs. Jefferies soothed as she scrubbed, even while sometimes she cried herself, and I took comfort in the fact that I was not alone in my misery. She rubbed salve on my forehead and the cuts on my hands before pulling the nightgown over my head and putting me in Mary’s bed. I didn’t know where Mary was either, and the deep part of me that could still feel something, twisted with a new fear. I fell asleep with the late afternoon sun shining from the curtains, Mrs. Jefferies’s hand on my head, the sense of water and mud flowing over my body, though none were really there.
I sat up in Mary’s bed, early rather than late sun pouring through the window. All night I’d dreamed of noise, of the rushing of waterfalls, the ringing in my ears that came with an orange ball of fire, and the flutelike voice, begging me to run. I got up quietly, a bit unsteady, put on one of Mary’s dresses, braided my hair, and tied it up in a kerchief. I sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, weak and tired, looking into the small mirror Mary had hung. The cuts on my forehead and hand hurt, and my shoulder was stiff, colored with various shades of green and purple. I was bumped and bruised in smaller ways all over, inside as well as out, but more than anything else I was aware of a heaviness inside me, a burden of weight that I did not think would leave me soon. And it was no one’s fault but my own. I had fired the gun, exploded the boat that cracked the wall. If Davy was gone and Stranwyne ruined, there was no one but myself to blame. I tiptoed through to Marianna’s room.
The heavy drapes dampened the effects of the sun, but even in the dim the first thing I saw was broken china, thousands of pieces on the dressing table, all of the teacups Mary had brought for my use from the kitchen. I touched a gritty shard.
“They was sticky,” said Mrs. Jefferies from the hearth chair, “little bits of sticky all on the inside, so you wouldn’t hardly notice, ’less you was looking.”
Not just the sugar, then. Even my cups had been coated with the stuff. “So you smashed them,” I said.
Mrs. Jefferies folded her hands. “I saw him with the green-striped cup, that devil. That first day you took tea with Mr. Tully in the workshop. Let him put that cup right on the teacart, all nice and helpful, and didn’t think a thing of it. Your sugar has been poured out, too.” I left the broken cups and went to the bed to look at my sleeping uncle. Mrs. Jefferies said, “Lane was coming up last night, but I told him you was sleeping. We had a chat and I set him straight on a thing or two before I sent him off. And Mary Brown was on the floor for a time, but she took off early. Needed at home, I’m thinking.”
“Is all the Lower Village flooded, Mrs. Jefferies?”
“Yes, it is, Miss.”
“Then Mary doesn’t have a home to go to.”
She sighed. “I’m thinking not.”
The pink coverlet rose with my uncle’s intake of breath. The workshop was gone. I remembered my dream the night I bit my hand, the nightmare of destruction Ben’s opium had given me. And I had been the one to make that nightmare a reality. I adjusted the covers and then straightened my back. If this disaster was of my doing, then so must the remedy be. “Mrs. Jefferies, I think I need to go to the Upper Village.”
“As you say, duck.” She got up heavily and waddled over to stand beside me. “But we’ll be feeding you first, or the wind’ll take you.”
“My uncle is sleeping very soundly. Will he be all right if he wakes, do you think?”
“I’m thinking he’ll stay right here, Miss. I’m thinking he won’t want to leave this room.”
I turned to look at her, taking in her red and swollen eyes. “Were you able to sleep at all?” But she only put her arm around me, her mouth a sad line, and I leaned my head on her frizzing hair. “Thank you, Mrs. Jefferies,” I said.
We stood together on the path, on the last rise above the Lower Village, and gazed down on a small sea. The canal had been consumed, and though the occasional peak of a thatched roof was visible, and the church steeple, it was a world made of water. The workshop and the smokestacks were missing. Riverboats torn from their moorings sailed serenely where the streets should have been, one of them upside down, and I saw the black-and-white carcass of a cow. I thought of the figure of my father, and my grandmother, all washed away, and wondered why everything had to die by my hand.
“Let’s go, Mrs. Jefferies,” I said. It was time to start making amends.
The Upper Village was a madhouse, as I thought it might be, and I did not forget that the people now running back and forth on its streets had been ready to put me in one. I lifted my chin and nodded at any who stared. I could smell the flood from the High Street, the stench so like the inside of the ballroom where I had nearly drowned that it gave me a thrill of terror deep in my stomach. Mrs. Jefferies followed me to the church, a small but curious crowd gathering in our wake, and there I found the greatest noise and hubbub. I pushed my way inside toward a knot of shouting men, their arguing close to becoming a fight.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” I said, though to no effect. “Excuse me!”
“Hush it!” yelled Mrs. Jefferies.
The arguing men turned about, and a gradual silence fell.
“Thank you, Mrs. Jefferies,” I said, my voice now echoing in the sanctuary. I saw Lane in the crowd, his gaze piercing me from across the room, and Mr. Cooper, and next to him, Mr. Lockwood. Mr. Lockwood’s jacket was gone, his sleeves rolled up, and he had mud up to his thighs. I walked slowly through the crowd of staring men, stepped up on the dais, and sat myself down in the parson’s chair, surveying the group. “I see the head of our Upper Village committee, Mr. Cooper, is here, but who is head of the Lower Village?”
Mr. Cooper would not meet my eyes, but a man in a mud-spattered shirt who I had never seen before stepped forward. I managed to smile at them both, a gesture Mr. Cooper could not see.
“If I could also have the parson, and you, Mr. Moreau, up here for a few moments, I would be very grateful. If the rest of you gentlemen would be so kind as to wait for ten minutes, I hope to have some instructions for you then.”
The quiet dissolved into a buzz and hum as the group I’d asked for moved toward the dais. Mr. Lockwood came and stood with them, silent, feet apart, arms crossed. I tried not to look at him. Lane hung back a few paces, watching both me and Mr. Lockwood over the heads of the other men. He was coiled up again, I could see that. Probably because he had no idea what I might do next. Small wonder.
“Gentlemen,” I began, “I wish to find out what’s being done for the people displaced, an
d for those injured.” I turned to Mr. Cooper. “How many are injured?”
Mr. Cooper twitched. “I’m … sure I don’t …”
“Not many, Miss Tulman,” Lane broke in. “A few bumps and cuts, one broken arm, and there have been three deaths. Most of the villagers were …” He paused.
“In this chapel,” I finished for him, “discussing me. Yes, I quite understand, Mr. Moreau. That is fortunate, in hindsight, is it not?”
There was some shuffling of feet. I caught Mr. Lockwood frowning as the parson spoke up. “There were a few still in the Lower Village at the time of the flood, Miss, but they were able to climb on the thatch and were taken out by boat.”
“I see. Thank you.” I turned back to Mr. Cooper. “And who has died?”
Mr. Cooper stammered something unintelligible, and the parson rescued him. “A Mr. Bell, who was manning the gasworks.”
“Was he from Upper or Lower Village?”
“Upper, Miss.”
“Then his family is not displaced?”
“He had no wife or children, Miss.”
“And there is also Ben Aldridge,” came Lane’s low voice. “He was in one of the boats. And there is a child.”
“Yes,” I said quietly. “Thank you, Mr. Moreau.” I took a deep breath, and turned again to Mr. Cooper. “So, it seems that the infirmary is not particularly in use. How many beds are there in the infirmary?”
“Twenty,” he finally managed.
“Good. We will use all of them, and by tonight we should be able to take perhaps fifteen families at the big house. I will see to that. And let’s not forget that Mr. Aldridge’s cottage is empty. We can put at least two nice-sized families in there. Is Mrs. Brown about? Or her daughter?”
“They’re both down at the square, finding people beds,” Lane said.
“Good. Mrs. Brown will be in charge of placing families with others in the village that might have room. I shall tell her so myself. And, Parson, I shall want a list, the name and number of all the families that have lost their homes. Is that understood? Bring it up to the big house as soon as may be.”
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