Before he could frame a cautious answer, Jim Meadows, who worked the first-floor loom nearest the stairs, joined them. ‘I was going to the well when it started. Went out of a building that had not a puff of smoke nor the scent of a spark anywhere, and when I looked over after pulling up a bucketful of water, the whole roof were ablaze.’
A weaver’s wife, engaged in offering water to the wounded, halted her task to say, ‘I was walking up to bring Fred his dinner. Out of nothing, the roof just went covered with flame, like Meadows said.’
Fire didn’t fall from the sky—nor did roofs on buildings suddenly burst into flame. Ned’s conviction that someone had deliberately set the mill fire strengthened, along with his determination to ferret out the truth and punish whoever was responsible.
By now, a small knot of people had gathered around them. ‘I was driving Da’s gig to the village,’ one of the farm boys piped up. ‘Passed a man on horseback, riding hard in the other direction, just before Bixby run out shouting about fire.’
The crowd stirred and rustled, the mutterings growing in volume as the news spread. Exclamations of surprise and outrage began to punctuate the rumble, while Miller exclaimed, anger in his tone, ‘Begins to sound like this weren’t no accident!’
Davie appeared beside Ned, his dark eyes anxious. ‘Why would a body try to hurt people like that?’
‘Maybe someone didn’t want the mill here to succeed,’ Fuller, the head weaver answered. ‘Someone who didn’t want us getting a chance to earn a living here instead of having to go off to some big factory in Manchester.’
‘Someone, perhaps, who didn’t want the folks of Blenhem Hill to believe in a better future—so he might more easily persuade them to abandon their principles and break the law,’ Ned added. Probably among the crowd here, which now included most of the villagers and nearby farmers, would be some of the disaffected men who’d been meeting at the Hart and Hare. Hopefully they would carry his words back to their fellows—and their leader.
‘That “someone” be a very bad man,’ Davie pronounced.
While nodding at Davie, Ned happened to look straight into the eyes of Jesse Russell, who held his gaze for a brief moment before turning away.
The soldier had left the school building right before the mysterious Mr Hampton. Yet despite his suspicions about Russell, Ned just couldn’t believe a man who had offered his life in defence of his country would stoop to putting the lives of innocent people in danger, regardless of his political aims.
Still, he thought, his heart made heavy by the realisation, though Jesse Russell had obviously been on hand to help fight the fire, Ned would have to investigate the soldier’s possible involvement in starting it as well.
Ned’s first instinct, though, was to get his hands on the ersatz ‘gentleman’ Mr Hampton and question him about his whereabouts before the fire—among other things, he added silently, recalling his certainty that the man had made unwanted advances towards Mrs Merrill.
But for the moment, he and the rest of Blenhem Hill had done all they could here.
‘Friends and neighbours,’ Ned said, raising his voice to reach to the outskirts of the crowd, ‘thank you for your efforts today. I’ll want to talk to many of you later as I try to determine the cause of the fire. Rest assured, if it was deliberately set, the perpetrators will be found, tried and punished. No one in this country will be allowed to destroy property and endanger lives without suffering the severest consequences of the law.’
Pausing, Ned scanned the crowd until his gaze locked with that of Jesse Russell. The soldier, his expression hard, returned a barely perceptible nod.
His hopes bolstered that perhaps the Sergeant wasn’t involved after all, Ned continued, ‘It will take a day or so for the ashes to cool before we can assess the damage, so those of you who work here, take an extra day’s rest. But keep your eyes and ears open. If any of you hear or see anything you think might be connected to this tragedy, please come and see me.’
Amid nods and murmurs of agreement, the crowd began to disperse. Wearily Ned helped the men load the water pumper back on its wagon and then set about arranging transport home for the wounded.
Chapter Thirteen
A n hour later, the courtyard was nearly deserted. In the last of the fading daylight, Ned paced around the perimeter of the smoking building, halting in the back.
A stand of trees guarding the rear of the structure would have made it easy for a man to approach unseen from that direction. With a little advance preparation the night before—sifting gunpowder into the thatch or dousing it with lamp oil—someone might have been able to set the roof alight by the simple means of climbing a tree and tossing a flaming brand onto it.If someone had set the fire, the heat of the blaze, intense enough to have scorched the limbs nearest the building, would have burned away any trace of gunpowder or oil the perpetrator might have spilled during his preparations. Despite Ned’s bold words to the crowd, without eyewitness testimony, it would be almost impossible to prove someone had committed arson.
Even so, he’d ask young Tanner if he remembered smelling the scent of lamp oil.
Sighing in frustration, Ned returned to the gig. After giving the smouldering ruin one final glance, he helped Mrs Merrill up beside Davie, took his own seat and directed the horse towards Biddy Cuthbert’s cottage.
They dropped the boy off, remaining a short while to give the anxious old lady an account of the day’s events, then resumed the drive back to Blenhem Hill.
With the boy safely home, for the first time since he’d raced the gig to the burning mill, Ned had nothing to do but contemplate those events. Perhaps Mrs Merrill was thinking about them as well, for she too remained silent, the only sound during their drive the rhythmic clop of the horse’s hoofs. Not even her beguiling presence beside him could distract Ned from dwelling on the catastrophic results of the fire’s devastation.
Deciding, after inspecting Nicky’s half-finished mill soon after his arrival, to complete the project, Ned had written to Hal asking about the latest safety devices available. Along with Manby’s fire extinguisher, Hal had recommended he purchase a firefighting machine for the building, or at least have the village fire wagon fitted with a coupling that would permit the attachment of leather-covered hoses. The hoses would allow firefighters to precisely direct pumped water into and around the building, rather than just spraying it from the machine towards the roof. But with his supply of ready coin running low, he’d not yet ordered either an additional machine or the hoses.
Had a firefighting pump been available to the weavers as soon as the blaze broke out, might they have been able to prevent young Tanner’s injuries, extinguish the flames—or at least prevent the building from becoming the total loss he feared it was?
He’d already spent just about all the ready cash he possessed to buy seed, farm tools and supplies, finish the stocking mill and provide wages for the workers. Where was he to obtain the capital to begin over again? What were the weavers and their families to do until the mill could be reopened?
Maybe he could apply to Nicky for a loan.
Ned smiled grimly. He’d been so confident when he offered to buy Blenhem that he could perform miracles here. Trust the good Lord to humble a man who got too sure of himself.
Well, miracles might be beyond him, but there was still much good he could do. Ned was damned if he’d let an evil man bent on destruction deter him from his twin goals of providing hope and employment for the people of Blenhem and restoring its land to prosperity.
Whatever the cost.
Darkness had fallen by the time they reached the manor. Handing off the gig’s reins to the groom who trotted up, Ned assisted Mrs Merrill to alight.The sensual pull between them that his sombre thoughts had suppressed immediately intensified, jolting him with a sizzle of sensation when he clasped her hand.
Drawing a sharp breath, he marvelled anew at the power of her effect on him. Though he was discouraged and bone-weary, he needed only
the briefest of touches to spark his simmering desire to a boil.
But after kneeling from afternoon into evening in the dirt, Mrs Merrill was nearly as filthy and probably just as exhausted as Ned. ‘You must be longing for a hot bath and some rest,’ he said as they walked up the steps into the manor. ‘Shall I tell Mrs Winston to hold dinner until you’ve changed and then bring you a tray in your chamber?’
‘I could certainly use the bath. But unless you prefer to be alone, I would rather dine with you.’
A surge of gladness filled his heart. After the shocks and disappointments of this day, he wanted her company too—more desperately than was good for him, he reflected, little ripples of anticipation already sparking along his nerves. Given how low he felt and how shaky his grip on his self-control was, he ought to send her to dine alone. But after a brief inner struggle, he simply couldn’t make himself forego the pleasure of her company. ‘Shall I tell Myles to have dinner ready in an hour?’
They met in the dining room to share a subdued meal, both seeming content simply to be in each other’s presence without need for much conversation. In addition to his general weariness, Ned’s throat was raw, making speech uncomfortable, while his face, back and hands smouldered from burns probably sustained during his foray into the building to bring out the Tanners, though fortunately none of the reddened places had blistered.When the meal concluded, by mutual unspoken agreement, Ned walked Mrs Merrill to the study. For a time they both sat quietly, sipping wine as they watched the low flame dancing on the hearth. What a strange and marvellous world, Ned thought, where a substance which cooked his food and warmed his house could, in a few brief moments, turn into a raging beast capable of devouring men, homes and livelihoods.
Like desire, he mused, which could intensify and deepen affection—or, unrestrained by will and moral principle, could wound, exploit and destroy.
‘It must be difficult,’ Mrs Merrill spoke at last, pulling him out of his reverie. ‘Seeing all your hard work and a sizeable investment literally go up in smoke.’
‘Difficult indeed,’ he acknowledged.
‘Do you worry you will be held responsible for the loss of the mill?’
Ned smiled ruefully. ‘I am responsible.’
‘But no one could have done more to fight the fire than you! Manning your post at the pump far longer than anyone else, inspiring all who observed you to further effort, to say nothing of the daring intervention that allowed the Tanners to escape with their lives! Nor could you have done anything to prevent it.’
Despite her work among the injured, she must have been watching him closely, Ned thought with surprise—and a glow of satisfaction. Though he was not nearly as sanguine about his conduct as she was.
Briefly he explained the benefit of having installed a pumping machine at the mill and the usefulness of hoses. ‘Trying to stretch my limited funds, I delayed ordering both. If a firefighting pump had been available, perhaps the weavers might have been able to extinguish, or at least minimise, the blaze and prevent the injuries.’
‘Perhaps,’ she acknowledged. ‘But would even a hose device have helped if, as some are saying, the fire was deliberately set?’
‘There’s no way to know,’ he acknowledged. ‘Rather than agonise over decisions that cannot be undone, I must now ponder how best to proceed.’
‘I’m sure you will work out something. Will you consult with your employer?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Do you fear Lord Englemere will discharge you because of it? That would be wholly unjust!’
Ned smothered the first glimmer of amusement he’d felt in hours. ‘I think I can assure you that he will not.’
She breathed a small sigh, as if relieved. ‘Your connection is close, then?’
As he had once before, Ned hesitated, teetering on the edge of revealing the true nature of his relationship to Nicky—which would also mean revealing his identity. But convinced as he was that the mill fire had been set and recognising that the two men most likely to have been responsible—the stranger Mr Hampton and the soldier Jesse Russell—both of whom seemed to have singled out Mrs Merrill for attention, Ned refrained from telling her the truth.
They had sought her out before and might again. Better that she not be privy to information that, if inadvertently—or forcibly—revealed, might put her in additional danger.
In the meantime, he’d make sure Davie accompanied her whenever she set foot out of Blenhem Hill manor.
Choosing his words with care, Ned replied at last, ‘I’ve worked with Lord Englemere for many years and always found him to be fair and just.’
To Ned’s relief, she nodded, apparently satisfied with that explanation. ‘Do you intend to rebuild the mill? From what I overheard today as I tended the injured, the people here are most anxious for the enterprise to continue.’
‘I would certainly like to rebuild it, though I fear I would have to obtain additional funds. I’ll not know for sure until we are able to make a detailed inspection of the building. But one way or another, I will make sure the workmen do not suffer.’
‘I know you will. And so do they. You are quite a figure of inspiration to them, Mr Greaves! Not just your conduct at the fire, though I heard many admiring voices raised there. They already respected you for the hard work you’ve done and the genuine concern you’ve expressed for the well-being of everyone at Blenhem, be they farmers, weavers, cottagers—or indigent old ladies.’
Embarrassed as he was by her praise, Ned also felt a guilty delight, so greedily did his thirsty soul drink in the admiration and respect in her voice.
‘We are a community here,’ he said. ‘We must all work together if change and improvement are to come.’
‘Indeed,’ she said, giving him the soft smile that turned his heart to mush. ‘Now, speaking of improvement, it appears that your face has sustained a mild burn. Your hands, too, I’ll wager. Let me fetch the medicine box and apply some salve to them.’
She rose quickly and walked out. He felt the loss of her presence like the chill on one’s skin when the sun retreats behind a cloud, his heart’s leap of gladness when she returned like sudden warmth and brightness when clouds dissipate and the sun reigns again in a clear blue sky.
‘You learned about healing in India?’ he asked as she set down the mahogany case.
‘Yes,’ she replied as she pulled out several jars and vials. ‘With so many dangerous maladies and fevers peculiar to that country, it was important for each household to have someone skilled at treating illness and injuries. Papa employed an ayah—a native nurse—to help with my younger sisters, and she taught me. Along with a variety of ailments among the staff, I tended Papa through a serious bout of fever and my sisters through various childhood complaints. Now, if you would angle your head down, please?’
Stifling a sigh, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to revel in her touch, intoxicating despite the soreness of his burned skin. Gently she smoothed on a substance with the texture of soft butter and a strong fragrance of lavender, working her fingers over his cheeks and forehead to his ears, his chin, his neck.
‘Is that…better?’ she asked, her voice strangely rough.
Intending to tell her gratefully how cool and soothing the lotion was, he opened his eyes—to find her face just inches from his own, her green eyes so close he could see the amber highlights sparkling at their centre. His sharp inhalation of breath brought with it a heady noseful of her special scent.
Fatigue and the discomfort of his burns were instantly swamped by a tidal surge of desire.
After the anxiety, anguish and anger of the day, more than ever before he craved the comfort and limitless pleasure he knew he would find in her arms, her bed.
He could almost taste the berry-sweetness of her lips and mouth, feel the velvet weight of her breasts in his hands, the tight embrace and smooth satin glide of his aching member as he drove himself deep within her willing warmth.
He burned to use his lips and tongue and body to turn her s
ighs of pleasure into moans of delight, to make her breathing accelerate from a pant to a sob until she fisted her hands in his hair and her whole body convulsed as he lifted her over the edge and sent her soaring, her cries of ecstasy echoing in his ears as he followed her into the abyss.
Staring into her widened eyes, he realised she wanted that, too. Smiling in unmistakable invitation, she leaned closer until her breasts brushed his shirt, igniting a bolt of sensation that hardened him in an instant.
He would make it so good for her, for them both. Succumbing to the desire that had intensified day by day between them since that first night when he had caught and carried her in his arms, they could in physical union reinforce the strong connection they already shared, an intimacy more intense than any he’d ever experienced.
Who knew better than his lovely Joanna how hard he’d worked to make Blenhem Hill a success, how much he cared about the land and its people? She’d already captured him heart and soul—why should he not also offer his body to the woman who was a part of Blenhem and cared as deeply about it as he did?
One inch. Ned need incline his head only one tiny inch to claim the lips she offered and set them both on a path to heaven.
But taking her now wouldn’t be right. She was offering herself not to Sir Edward, but to Ned Greaves, the man she believed to be simply an estate agent. He could not take advantage of her trusting faith to irrevocably bind her to him until she knew exactly who it was that she drew into her body and clasped to her heart.
Moving away from those slightly pursed lips and the soft weight of those breasts against his chest—while every nerve in his body screamed for him to seize the delights she offered—was the hardest thing he’d ever done.
He was soaked with sweat and trembling with effort when he finally managed it. ‘I m-must be more t-tired than I thought,’ he stuttered as he backed away from her, knowing if he did not take himself out of her presence immediately his resolve would crumble and he would leave the room with her in his arms, to spend the night in his bed. ‘Until tomorrow.’
From Waif to Gentleman's Wife Page 15