“You see that bruise?” asked Alf, plucking the straw from between his stained teeth.
“That there Cahill’s got a good right.”
“And the master’s got his hellbender look.”
“Couldn’t of. He rid Miss Farthing.”
“Ar,” said Alf. “At a canter.”
They looked at each other.
The object of their concern soon slowed Miss Farthing to a pace that would have caused Alf’s honest eyes to become very round indeed. Grappling with his problems, Devenish was halfway to Cirencester before he realized he was very cold. Shivering, he turned Miss Farthing for home.
His mood did not improve when he saw the gentleman who approached mounted on a splendid grey stallion. Devenish groaned, and reined up, sneezing.
“Good afternoon Dev-enish” said Lord Fontaine amiably. “Jove, but that’s a nasty bruise.”
“Matches your own,” replied Devenish less amiably.
Fontaine smiled upon him.
His temper worsening, as it always did when he was thrown into close proximity with this elegant individual, Devenish blew his nose and demanded, “Well? You’ve something to say, I presume?”
“Eh? By thunder, but you’re right! I was a—er, clod, Dev. You were absolutely right to mill me down.”
“Good … God!” gasped Devenish, staring at him.
The mettlesome grey danced, and whirled around. Reining him in, the Viscount’s face was grave when he resumed. “I was well over the oar, old fellow. I’d already taken Bella to a rather jolly dinner party, y’see. The dear girl was fairly furious with me, and insisted I seek you out and”—he looked down, his grip on the reins very tight—“and make you my most humble apologies.”
Devenish had been almost looking forward to a savage quarrel, probably climaxed by a challenge, and he was so astonished as to be momentarily rendered speechless. He knew a great deal more about the Viscount than he had told Leith, knowledge that encompassed cruelty, wildness, and an often uncontrollable temper, besides several duels, one of which had left Fontaine’s opponent, a young man on the brink of a brilliant diplomatic career, bedridden for life. That the Viscount was a rake was public knowledge. That he was a ruthless libertine was not, but Devenish knew. And Fontaine now knew he knew.
His lordship leaned forward in the saddle and held out one gloved hand. “Will you forgive?” he asked, his fine eyes pleading.
“Er—” said Devenish, and was enormously relieved when the grey took violent exception to a clump of branches tossed by the wind, and spun skittishly.
“Must get home,” shouted Devenish. “In a hurry.”
Fontaine glanced up, and frowned. “Jove! Surely it’s not coming from—”
Jerking his head around, Devenish was suddenly bereft of breath. To the southwest a great black column of smoke boiled upward before it was whipped ragged by the gusts. He thought a numbed, ‘Josie!’ and was away at a headlong gallop.
His expression very different now, his lordship followed.
It had been many years since Miss Farthing had felt spurs, but as they tore up the last hill, she was shocked by the sharp bite of steel. She had tried hard, but if her god needed more, she would run until she died, and she laid back her ears, gathered her powerful muscles, and fairly flew.
Chapter 15
There could be no doubt now. That black and terrible smoke column came from Devencourt. The smell of it drifted to them on the wind, and as they came over the hill, the full and ominous sight of it struck Devenish like a physical blow. Smoke poured from every window of the old wing, the top floor windows showing, horrifyingly, the pulsing red tongues of flame. Devenish shrank, flinching, in the saddle. To see the old house, the home of his ancestors, in such agony, wrought upon him in a way he would not have dreamed possible. He knew in that first rending instant that he had long sensed this was coming and that he had refused to acknowledge that awareness, even to himself.
Only for a very brief instant did that knowledge fill his mind, then it was gone, for above all else lurked the deeper dread; the fear so paralyzing that his brain reeled with terror of it.
A bucket brigade had already been set up, men and women toiling frantically, passing buckets in and out of the breakfast parlour windows and a smoke-blackened Cornish wrenching with incredible energy at the pump on the west end of the house beyond the large dining room. Two ladders were placed to the first floor level of the newer wings, the buckets being handed up to the men inside.
Even as they thundered across the lawns, ignoring the loop of the drivepath, Devenish saw Mrs. Robinson stagger, coughing, from the wide open front doors, carrying Josie’s jewel box. A grimy footman ran to aid her. Above the crackle and roar of the flames rose a confused uproar of shouts and cries, while men and maids ran in and out of the doors, or climbed from the lower windows, bearing some treasured painting or object.
A new shout went up as Devenish flung himself from the saddle and went in an awkward limping run towards the house.
Hutchinson, his usually immaculate coat torn, his neckcloth awry, his face dirty, reeled to him. “Sir,” he croaked, “I—don’t know where it started! We’d no—no warning!”
Devenish gripped his arm steadyingly. “Is everybody out?”
The man swayed, his face the colour of putty beneath the grime of smoke. “I—doubt it! No … no warning…”
Fontaine ran up. Devenish shouted, “Take him!” The Viscount pulled the valet’s arm across his shoulders as a muffled roar came from within the house, and the lurid glare of flame began to lick at several second floor windows.
Two heavily laden footmen stumbled from the doors. It seemed to Devenish that he glimpsed a staggering figure behind them, and he sprinted madly for the steps.
“No, sir!” gasped a man he vaguely recognized as Finlayson. “Stay out! Hopeless!”
His eyes smarting as smoke billowed around them, Devenish shouted, “Where is Miss Storm? Did she come home?”
“I don’t know, sir. Klaus is here, and I think I saw the phaeton, but—” He jerked around as someone shouted. “Oh, my God!” he groaned.
“What did he say?” Devenish demanded frantically.
“He must be mistaken, sir. He said Miss Storm is upstairs, but—”
Devenish had already plunged inside.
At once, he could feel the heat. Smoke choked him and stung his eyes. Two floors above raged an inferno, and somewhere in that inferno—Josie! Spluttering, he threw an arm across his eyes. Someone stumbled into him and sagged downwards. He gripped the frail figure. “Wolfe! Dammit, man—get out!”
The old man mumbled something and peered blearily at him. He was clutching something, and Devenish saw it to be the portrait of his father that hung in the Great Hall. He relieved the butler of the heavy painting, tightened his grip on Wolfe’s arm, and hauled him outside, then paused, gulping in the cold, damp air.
A gust of wind sent sparks and flame whipping. A groom ran up to take Wolfe. Devenish thrust the portrait at a black-faced maid and shouted, “The stables! Let the horses out, just in case!”
Two men reeled from the house carrying a limp female form. Devenish ran over, frantic. The eyepatch identified Maisie Fletcher. He roared, “Where was she?”
“Crawling to … the stairs.”
“Kept trying to tell us summat ’bout … Miss Josie.”
Behind them, a man who had evidently ridden in to help gave an hysterical shout and pointed stabbingly upward. “Up there! Look! Look! A lady!”
Devenish was inside again. He had seen the flames at those windows, and he thought in frenzied anguish, ‘God keep you, little one! I’m coming!’
The smoke now was like a solid wall. All about him was heat and sound—the hideous grinding roar that told of the voracious appetite of the flames. Dimly, he remembered someone—Tris, he thought—telling him that in a fire the air closest to the floor stays fresh longest. He was coughing rackingly, and he dropped to his knees and crawled upward
s. Someone collided with him. He croaked, “Who’s there?” A pink snout shoved at his face. A terrified squeal rang out above the hubbub. He gripped Lady Godiva’s head and wrenched her around. “That way…!” he said. “Go!” He dealt her a hard slap on her round rump, and she scuttled down the stairs. He heard someone choking, and legs tottered through the chaos. Someone was tearing at him. He blinked up. Alf, he thought, the groom. “Ain’t no use … sir! Can’t—can’t get up there. C’mon, ’fore it’s too—”
“Go! Let me be!”
Another great thunder of sound. The stairs shook. “Sir!” screamed Alf. “Go—damn you!” croaked Devenish. Alf went.
Somehow, he was at the landing. But Josie’s room was on the second floor. He must—somehow he must get up another flight! Oh, Lord, but it was hot … and the noise! ‘The fires of hell,’ he thought, in an odd, detached way. Josie had done nothing to warrant the fires of hell. He must find her. If she was to die, he would die with her …
Head down, choking, fighting for breath, he dragged himself upwards. The heat hit his face searingly, but he was on his feet, handkerchief clasped over his mouth. ‘Sorry, Tris. Too slow your way, old lad.’
“Dev!”
A familiar voice behind him. Clutching the rail, he peered back. A rumpled dark head hove into view. Two long grey eyes, rimmed with red, blinked up at him.
“Mitch! Damned ass—get out!”
“Don’t be … fool” wheezed Mitchell Redmond, swaying drunkenly. “Too blasted … hot…”
Devenish tried to tell him he shouldn’t have come. That he must find Josie. But he couldn’t speak, there wasn’t enough breath. His lungs were smothering. He turned and fought his way upwards.
A deafening crash, and the landing exploded into a pulsing red glare. A fierce blast of heat sent Devenish staggering. He heard a muffled cry. Burning wood began to rain down and dimly he realized he could no longer see Mitchell. Why the devil had the damned idiot come? Why could he not have stayed safely outside? He thought despairingly, ‘Josie! Josie!’ and tears were flooding some of the soot from his eyes, but he groped his way down, his hands seeking through the smoke. A crumpled form. A weak voice that urged him to “trot … along…” Hating Redmond, aching with grief and loss, and the wretched knowledge that this way would have been so much simpler, he wheezed between oaths, “Come on … Mitch! Damned … sluggard!”
Together, they fought and strove and at last fell downwards. Tumbling helplessly and agonizingly, Devenish thought that he had tried. And it really didn’t matter anymore. From a great distance, he could hear a woman screaming. He prayed, fadingly, that it was not Josie …
* * *
Clinging to Josie as John Drummond sent the phaeton racing up the hill, Faith saw the girl’s face pale and frozen with dread, the eyes wide and dark, fixed unblinkingly on that ghastly, writhing column of smoke.
They plunged over the brow of the hill and Faith’s blood seemed to congeal in her veins. It was just as she’d envisioned it on her first glimpse of the old house; black smoke and flame pouring from every window, many people toiling madly to prevent more tragedy, and others lying on the grass, victims of smoke and burns and exhaustion.
As they drew nearer, Josie said not a word, her eyes straining to pierce the drifting acrid smoke, seeking, seeking, for the beloved fair head, the limping gait, the slim energetic figure that must be—must be here, save that she could not see him.
Drummond shouted something and pulled up the scared team. Jumping down, he lifted the two girls out, yelled “Stay clear!” and ran across the chaotic lawn to vanish amid the smoke and confusion.
Faith realized then that only the central wing was burning. All efforts to save it had been abandoned, and the men who fought so desperately were striving now to preserve the rest of the house. Everywhere she looked were people passing buckets slopping with water. She was surprised to see her brother and his bailiff and several of their servants climbing one of the ladders. She turned to Josie, but the girl was running after Drummond. Faith picked up her skirts and followed.
Josie searched through the crowd, her eyes beginning already to burn from the smoke and heat, her ears deafened by the shouts, the screams of frightened horses, the terrible crackling roar of the flames. A grimy Pandora Grenfell knelt beside a prostrate man. Sick with fear Josie ran to them. For an instant she did not recognize the blackened face, the singed dark hair, the torn and scorched clothing, save that she knew it was not Dev. Then, long grey eyes were blinking up at her, and a cracked voice said, “Never look so scared, Elf. We might save it—yet.”
“Mitch! Oh, Mitch, are you much hurt? Is—is Dev—”
And then, over the uproar, a shout rose. A tattered scarecrow came reeling through the front doors as though borne on a billow of smoke, waving his arms madly.
Josie’s heart was choking her. She thought in a dizzying flood of relief, ‘Dev…! Thank God!’
Everyone near the house turned and ran away, the men sliding down the ladders with frantic haste. Dismayed, Josie started up, only to be dragged down as Mitchell grabbed her skirts unceremoniously. She was deafened by an explosion, and screamed as Devenish was hurled forward and down. The old wing seemed to leap into the air, then with a mighty roar it crumpled in upon itself, sending up a great gout of fire and smoke and sparks.
Not even aware that she was running, Josie flew to throw herself on her knees beside Devenish. He was already sitting up and gazing at the blazing mound that was all that was left of the old wing. Sensing that she was near, he swung around. She saw a scorched, grimy, blistered face, all but devoid of eyebrows, the hair singed and blackened, the blue eyes bloodshot.
A great light dawned in those red-rimmed eyes, and a sudden glitter brightened them. He threw his arms wide, and she flung herself into them. “Oh … Dev,” she sobbed. “Oh—I am so sorry!”
Crushing her to him, he buried his face in her hair. His throat closed. All he could say was, “My … Elf…!”
* * *
The fact that a keg of black powder was in the barn, intended to be used in the construction of a better road, had saved the mansion. By blowing up the old wing, the fire was localized, and although there was great damage to the rooms directly adjoining on both the east and west sides, most of the newer wings was spared. Even so, the struggle to contain the fire went on far into the evening. The smoke had been seen for miles around, and carriages, curricles, gigs, wagons, carts, and groups of riders poured in from surrounding estates, farms, and cottages, to do whatever could be done to help. Fire was of all things the most dreaded in these times of open flame lighting and little if any organized fire protection, and not a man in the county could be free of the fear that at some time he, too, might be obliged to rely on the help of neighbours and friends to save his home and family.
While the men battled to keep steaming walls and roofs wet down, and shovelled dirt and sand and upended countless water buckets on the great glowing pile, the women tended burns and blisters and abrasions, provided ale and fruit and sandwiches, and did all they might to sustain the workers. Redmond, still not fully recovered from his head injury, collapsed from exhaustion and was borne off to a bed, willy-nilly, but Devenish kept fighting until dawn, at which time it began to drizzle. Soon, rain was coming down in torrents. The weary firefighters packed up and went home, carrying with them the heartfelt thanks of the man they had assisted so unstintingly.
As always, the aftermath was crushing. Josie slept until late afternoon and awoke to a pervading smell of smoke. Maisie Fletcher was carrying in a tray of hot chocolate and biscuits. Before Josie could voice her immediate question, the gaunt abigail’s features were illumined by a beaming grin.
“He’s up already, miss. Proper wrung out, but won’t own it.”
Sipping her chocolate, Josie sighed, “Thank God no one was badly hurt. But—I dread to leave this room, Maisie.”
Her dread was well founded. She stepped into a reeking hall, and although the suite s
he had moved into was on the northeast corner of the house, water had been bucketed along the halls, leaving the once gleaming floors thick with mud. Her eyes blurred. She thought, ‘Poor old house!’ but already the work of recovery had begun. Maids were scrubbing, rugs were being rolled up and carried away to be cleaned, smashed windows were being boarded up. A great sheet of tarpaulin billowed forlornly across the blackened end of the hall that had once turned into the old wing, but a footman told her that the side stairs were quite undamaged and that the master and Lord Redmond were in the bookroom. She hurried downstairs, her heart wrung by the chaos at the end of the inner court between the wings, and acknowledging to herself that the smoke and water seemed to have resulted in almost as much damage as the flames, and that the entire mansion would have to be redecorated, most of the draperies scrapped, furnishings reupholstered or recovered, and all the carpets and paintings cleaned.
Mitchell and Devenish were alone in the bookroom. They were talking in a rather subdued fashion when she went in, but at once both young men brightened and stood to greet her. She went to the peer first, and he kissed her hand and then her cheek with his customary courtly manners, and made light of her anxiety because his throat was bandaged, his dark hair had been roughly trimmed, and he looked, despite his cheerful grin, tired and drawn. “Whatever will Charity have to say to us?” she said worriedly.
“Not as much as we have to say to her,” said Devenish, giving her a quick hug and a kiss on the forehead.
Scanning his face, she tried to hide her consternation. It was not the ugly graze above one eye that dismayed her, nor his bandaged hands or the fact that Hutchinson had been obliged to shear off all his thick curls, leaving him looking oddly juvenile with the fair hair sticking up at uneven angles all over his head. His smile was dazzling and his manner charmingly optimistic, but his eyes looked sunken into dark wells, and most alarming of all held the bright emptiness that had been so marked seven years ago, when he thought he had lost everything that made life worth living.
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