Too Hot to Handel

by Sheri Cobb South

  Jervis shook his head. “It’s bad, sir. There’ll be nothing left by morning but ashes, mark my words.”

  Mr. Colquhoun brushed past the coachman into the hall, and thence out the door and onto the front stoop. Far away to the northeast, the sky glowed with an eerie orange light, and clouds of dark smoke rose up to obscure the gibbous moon.

  “Nothing but ashes,” murmured the magistrate, horrified. “And most of the Bow Street force trapped inside.”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘trapped,’ sir,” the coachman hastened to reassure him. “If the number of folks running about in the streets is anything to judge by, I’d say most of them got out safe enough.”

  Those sitting in the pit, perhaps, or near enough to the stairs to make their escape before the inevitable panic made an orderly evacuation impossible. But for those in the boxes, particularly those boxes located at some distance from the stairs—

  “What of the Prince of Wales and his party?” he demanded.

  Jervis shrugged an apology. “I wouldn’t know, sir. I suppose they might have held everyone else back until the royals had been got out,” he added hopefully.

  Mr. Colquhoun nodded distractedly. “Yes, of course.”

  But John Pickett was in the box opposite, about as far removed from the royal party as it was possible to be and still occupy the same building. Even if those in the pit and the gallery had been held back in order to allow the royals to escape safely, the lad would have been trapped on the other side of the theatre. In fact, Mr. Colquhoun reflected, he gladly would have sacrificed the entire useless, expensive lot of Hanovers to guarantee the safety of one former pickpocket.

  “I’m going to Bow Street,” he announced.

  “The roads are choked with traffic, sir,” Jervis protested. “Nothing can get through, not even a saddle horse.”

  “I’ll go on foot,” said Mr. Colquhoun, and set out without even going back inside for his greatcoat.

  It was his own fault. If anything had happened to the boy, he would have no one but himself to blame. There had been Runners stationed all around the theatre, and several members of the foot patrol besides; surely they could have kept an eye on the Princess Olga without having one positioned in the box directly opposite. But no, he had taken an almost fatherly pride in seeing the young man tricked out as a gentleman, in setting him down in the midst of the aristocracy, perhaps even in giving him one last chance to win the well-born lady he loved.

  And in doing so, he’d sent Bow Street’s best and brightest to his death.

  Their descent was clumsier than Pickett had anticipated, due in large part to the awkward burden on his back; his sweaty palms did not help matters, either. They had maneuvered safely past their own box, and were now almost level with the one below it. Or at least Pickett thought they were; he dared not look down to ascertain their position. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the brass sconce that anchored his makeshift rope, as if he could keep it fixed firmly in the wall by sheer force of will. And then, just as the second-tier balustrade appeared in his peripheral vision, the sconce began, not to tear out of the wall as he had feared, but to bend under their combined weight. Weakened by the heat, it bowed lower and lower, until at last the candles kissed the velvet folds. The superheated fabric caught at once, the flames racing down the rope toward his white-knuckled hands.

  “Hold fast, my lady!” Pickett cautioned his fair burden, and loosened his grip so that the rope slid easily through his fingers. Their descent accelerated rapidly, even as the friction shaved a layer of skin from the palms of his hands. They had not quite reached the last tier of boxes when the fabric burned completely through, and they fell the last few feet. Pickett managed not to land on top of Lady Fieldhurst, but the effort of cushioning her fall caused him to land awkwardly. Pain lanced through his left ankle.

  With their abrupt landing, Julia’s preternatural detachment was shattered, and the need for immediate action reasserted itself. She scrambled off Pickett and pulled down the skirts that had bunched around her waist. “Are you all right, Mr. Pickett?” she shouted over the crackle and roar of the flames.

  He nodded, too short of breath to speak. He inhaled deeply, and fell into a paroxysm of coughing. “Are you?” he choked out.

  “Yes.” The smoke was much thicker here, nearer the source of the fire. She fumbled in her bodice for Pickett’s handkerchief, and pressed it against her nose and mouth.

  “We’ve got to get out of here.” Pickett clambered to his feet and took a few limping steps.

  Lady Fieldhurst looked at him sharply. “You’re not all right! You are injured, Mr. Pickett.”

  “I landed a bit heavily, that’s all,” he panted. “I’ll be fine. Let’s go, my lady.”

  He threw his arm around her, holding her tightly to his side as they raced up the aisle, Pickett favoring his left foot. As she ran, her net overskirt fanned out and brushed the end of a burning bench. Seeing the fabric ignite, Pickett grabbed a handful and pulled, ripping it free at the high waistline before it could set her whole dress aflame. She made no objection to this rough-and-ready treatment, but snatched up her skirts and held them close to her body to prevent another such occurrence. After several more seconds that seemed like hours, they reached the foyer, where the fire had not yet taken hold.

  “My—my cloak is in there,” she gasped, gesturing toward the cloakroom where the evening had begun with such promise.

  There were as yet no flames in this part of the theatre, but black smoke poured from the cracks around the cloakroom door.

  “Leave it!” Pickett commanded.

  “It’s cold outside,” she protested.

  “It won’t be now,” he predicted grimly. Tightening his arm around her, he half-pulled, half-carried her out of the theatre and into the night.

  The sight that met their eyes looked like a scene out of Danté’s Inferno. Flames leaped high into the sky, and tiny glowing cinders danced in the air like nocturnal insects. Occasionally a burning timber broke free of the main structure and crashed to the ground, sending up its own plume of smoke and flame. The fire brigade had arrived and pumped water as vigorously as they could, and a line of men passed buckets from hand to hand, but their efforts were futile in the face of the conflagration. From a safe distance across the street, people screamed and sobbed as they searched for loved ones, their forms reduced to dark silhouettes moving against the flickering light. One woman fainted from either heat or terror, while another had to be held back to prevent her from rushing back into the theatre in search of something—or someone—she’d left behind.

  Pickett did not hesitate, but dragged Lady Fieldhurst into the mêlée, intent on putting as much distance as possible between the pair of them and the doomed theatre. They had not yet reached the opposite side of the street when the roof collapsed with a crash, and the resulting blast of heat knocked him off his feet. He fell heavily forward, dragging her down with him.

  His weight knocked the breath from her body. “Good heavens, Mr. Pickett,” she panted as she edged out from underneath him. “You should warn me—”

  She broke off abruptly. Without her beneath him to cushion his fall, he collapsed facedown and lay motionless on the ground.

  “Mr. Pickett?” She shook him by the shoulder. Receiving no response, she withdrew her hand, and found it wet with blood. “Mr. Pickett! Mr. Pickett! John!”

  And while the world burned around them, she knelt in the middle of the wet street, cradling his bleeding head in her arms and crying, “Help! Please, someone, help!”

  CHAPTER 5

  IN WHICH LADY FIELDHURST EXPERIENCES A REVELATION

  Mr. Colquhoun made the trek from his residence to Bow Street with a speed that might have been envied by many a younger man. He was in no mood to bask in this athletic achievement, however, as he strode into the Bow Street Public Office and glanced wildly about. Dixon was there, as was Marshall, both men mopping the sweat and soot from their brows as they pitched in to lend a hand wi
th the petty burglaries and thefts that inevitably ensued as London’s criminal element saw the opportunity to profit from a crisis.

  “Mr. Dixon! Good man,” said the magistrate, clapping him on the shoulder. “Mr. Marshall, glad to see you made it out safely. Any word from Mr. Pickett?”

  Marshall shook his head. “I haven’t seen anything of him, sir.”

  Dixon concurred. “He hasn’t checked in yet.”

  One by one, the Bow Street men returned, most of them coughing smoke and a few nursing minor injuries. Their accounts of the evening varied slightly from man to man, but of one thing they were all agreed: In the confusion of the evacuation, no one had seen anything of Mr. Pickett.

  “And Mr. Foote?” prompted Mr. Colquhoun, scanning the room. “He was supposed to be in charge here. Where the devil is he?”

  “I expect he went to lend a hand when the fire broke out,” Dixon speculated.

  The magistrate nodded distractedly. “I suppose that’s all right.” He could not like the idea of the Bow Street office being left virtually empty, but he was experienced enough to know that even the best-laid schemes tended to go out the window in the face of a greater calamity.

  Suddenly a crash shook the building, reverberating in the air for seconds after the initial impact.

  “Good God, what was that?” demanded Mr. Colquhoun.

  “The roof just collapsed,” reported Mr. Griffin, entering the Bow Street office in a rush of smoky air. “The theatre’s gone.”

  Gone. The theatre was gone, and with it his last hope that John Pickett might somehow be alive. Mr. Colquhoun groped for a chair and sat down heavily, feeling suddenly older than his sixty-four years.

  “He might still turn up, sir,” said Dixon, seeing the magistrate’s ashen countenance. “Stranger things have happened.”

  Mr. Colquhoun nodded, but could not quite bring himself to believe it.

  “Help!” screamed Lady Fieldhurst in between paroxysms of coughing. “Someone, please, help!”

  “Beg pardon, ma’am, but may I be of assistance?”

  Looking up, Julia saw a masculine silhouette standing in stark relief against the flames. “This man has been injured,” she explained. “He needs a surgeon, but I can’t move him alone.”

  “Where should he be taken?”

  She was about to give her own Curzon Street address when a bit of long-forgotten conversation recalled his own much nearer residence to her memory. “He has lodgings in Drury Lane. I don’t know the number, but he hires rooms above a chandler’s shop. Can you fetch a sedan chair?”

  The man glanced around, revealing the sharp outline of a beaky nose as he surveyed the chaos all around them. “Horse traffic still can’t get through, so any sedan chair is likely to be besieged with people seeking transportation. If you will forgive the impertinence, it seems to me that an attractive female would stand a far better chance of getting a chair than a man.”

  Privately Lady Fieldhurst doubted that her present appearance would offer much of a temptation, but she did see the man’s point. She was, however, extremely reluctant to leave Mr. Pickett alone.

  “I’ll stay with him until you return,” the stranger offered, anticipating her objections.

  She gently lowered Pickett’s head to the ground. “Thank you. I’ll return as soon as I can,” she said, although whether this promise was made to the stranger or to Pickett himself, she was not quite certain.

  She scrambled to her feet and darted through the crowd until she spied a sedan chair. Unfortunately, it had already been claimed by a portly gentleman who was even now climbing inside. She ran up behind him and grabbed his arm.

  “Forgive me, Lord Lindlay,” she said, breathless from exertion and smoke inhalation, “but there is an injured man whose need of this chair is greater than yours.”

  Lord Lindlay turned and beheld the late Lord Fieldhurst’s slightly scandalous widow looking thoroughly disheveled in a torn and muddy gown, her hair coming down and the dyed ostrich plumes that had once adorned her coiffure now leaning drunkenly over her left ear.

  “What’s that?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard in the confusion. “Have you any idea how difficult it was for me to procure this chair?”

  “I don’t doubt it—”

  “Well, then!” declared the affronted nobleman, and turned back to heave himself into the sedan chair.

  “I am truly sorry to impose on you in such a way, my lord,” insisted Lady Fieldhurst, retaining her grip on his arm, “but a man’s life may be at stake!”

  “What’s that you say?” he asked, clearly wavering. “An injured gentleman, is it?”

  “Yes,” she lied without hesitation. “Would you please, please oblige me by surrendering your place to him, sir?”

  “Well, I never—” he blustered. “Still, I suppose one must do what one can. I daresay I would want someone to do the same for me in similar circumstances. Very well, my lady, my chair is yours.”

  He executed a courtly bow that should have appeared ridiculous under the circumstances, but that inspired her to plant a quick kiss on his cheek.

  “Thank you, Lord Lindlay! You are very kind.”

  “Not at all, not at all,” he demurred, then turned to the chair bearers, who had watched this exchange with unconcealed interest. “You heard the lady. Get along with you, now.”

  The two men had to run to keep pace with her—no easy matter, with the boxy wooden chair balanced between them on its poles—but soon she arrived back at the place where she’d left Pickett lying in the street. Her guardian angel still stood over the motionless form, just as he’d promised, but by this time he had been joined by a knot of curious onlookers.

  “There he is,” she instructed the chair bearers, gesturing toward the place where Pickett lay. “If you will allow me to enter the chair first, you may lift him and hand him in to me. And you, sir, I never had a chance to get your name, or to express my gratitude to you for—”

  But when she turned to thank him, her benefactor was gone. She had no time to wonder at his disappearance, for fear someone else might commandeer the sedan chair from her in the same way she’d seized it from the hapless Lord Lindlay. She climbed inside and held out her arms to receive Pickett’s inert form.

  “Gently now—be careful of his head.”

  As Pickett was quite tall and the sedan chair not overly roomy, the bearers were obliged to set him down on the floor of the chair, with his head resting on Lady Fieldhurst’s lap and his legs folded up so that the door might close. Once this operation was accomplished, they looked to Julia for further instructions.

  “Drury Lane,” she said, peering up at them through the window of the conveyance. “I don’t know the number, but there is a chandler’s shop with a hired flat above.”

  One of the bearers merely gave her a blank look, but the other nodded. “I think I know the shop. Come on, then,” he told his fellow, and they lifted the chair by its poles and set off down the street.

  Lady Fieldhurst tried her best to cradle Pickett’s head, but it was a lurching, bumpy trek nonetheless. At length they reached the chandler’s shop, which blazed with lights in spite of the lateness of the hour. Nor was it alone in its uncharacteristic illumination; every shopkeeper in Drury Lane was awake and alert, each one guarding his property lest it fall prey to fire, or looters, or both.

  The chair bearers stopped before this edifice and lowered their burden to the ground, then opened the door and stepped back for their passengers to exit.

  “Can you help me get him up the steps?” Lady Fieldhurst asked. Seeing unpromising expressions on both faces, she stamped her foot. “Surely you cannot expect me to drag him upstairs on my own! You will be well recompensed for your efforts, I can assure you.”

  But even as the words left her mouth, she remembered the reticule lying beside her chair in the box. There would be nothing left of it now but ashes. Fortunately, help arrived in the form of a stout woman rushing from the shop, twisting her ha
nds in her apron.

  “Good heavens! Johnny, is that you? I’ve been beside myself with worry—bless my soul!” she exclaimed at the sight of Pickett unconscious in the arms of a disheveled woman whose demeanor nevertheless suggested a lady of genteel birth.

  “As you can see, Mr. Pickett has suffered an injury.”

  The two chairmen removed Pickett, albeit grudgingly, and Lady Fieldhurst, her arms feeling strangely empty, disembarked stiffly in his wake.

  “When I saw the smoke and heard the theatre was burning, I feared the worst,” confessed the woman. “I knew he would be there tonight.”

  “And you are Mrs.—?” prompted Lady Fieldhurst.

  “Mrs. Catchpole, Johnny’s landlady.”

  “Mrs. Catchpole, I would be much obliged to you if you could pay these good men for their services. I will be happy to repay you at any rate of interest you care to name.”

  “That’s kind of you, ma’am, but there’s no need for no interest. Why, Johnny’s almost like family,” she added, having long entertained hopes of a match between her handsome young tenant and her unmarried niece.

  “Thank you.” Having settled the matter of payment, Lady Fieldhurst turned back to the chair bearers. “Now, if you will carry him, please, Mrs. Catchpole will show you the way.”

  The landlady, quick to take her cue, lost no time in taking up a candle and lighting the way up the stairs and into Pickett’s rooms, where Lady Fieldhurst directed them to lay him on the bed.

  “I shall need you to fetch a surgeon without delay.”

  The bearers, having by this time realized that they were dealing with a Personage, tugged at their forelocks and set out at once. Now that the immediate crisis was past, Lady Fieldhurst shivered; it was very odd, but she had not noticed before how cold the room was.

  “I’ll just light the fire, ma’am, shall I?” offered Mrs. Catchpole, already moving toward the fireplace.

  “Yes, please.”

  While the landlady set about building the fire, Lady Fieldhurst turned to examine Mr. Pickett by the light of the single candle. His face was as black as a chimney sweep’s—she suspected her own was not much cleaner—but save for the blood still seeping from the back of his head, there appeared to be no other signs of injury. Gently, so as not to jar him, she untied the cravat from about his neck and wrapped it around his wounded head, sacrificing two of her hairpins to anchor it in place. Spying a bowl and pitcher on a washstand, she located a cloth and poured water from the pitcher into the bowl. It had no doubt been warm that morning, but by now it was almost frigid. She could not feel this to be entirely a bad thing; perhaps the shock of the cold water would recall him to consciousness. She plunged the cloth into the cold water, wrung out the excess, then returned to the bedside and began to bathe his face. Alas, he showed no signs of waking up.