by Susan Wiggs
Finally Dylan said the words that made it all real. “My God. The whole city is doomed.”
And he was right. There was not a single safe place except those areas the fire had already taken, feeding upon them until there was nothing left to burn. Looking out across the helpless grid of streets and buildings was like watching a great ship sink. Tragic, inevitable, painful to witness. People were dying down there, she thought with a clutch of horror. Without really thinking about it she wrapped her arms around Dylan and set her cheek against his chest.
“Tell me that’s the brewery, not the waterworks,” Mayor Mason said, pointing toward the lake.
The tall, slender spire, with its rococo trim, rose up from a sea of flame. Dylan shook his head. “It’s the waterworks. Once that goes, we’ll have no more hoses.”
Mayor Mason ran a shaking hand along the stone wall of the tower. Now that the danger was at its worst, he seemed to gather himself up. “This courthouse is considered fireproof.” He smiled sadly, shaking his head. “But the cornices, and God knows what else, are made of wood. This building will go, along with everything else.”
“Yes,” Dylan said. He looked down at a wagon laden with crates of records pulling away from the curb. The hose cart’s stream, which had been spattering the periphery of the building, lost its pressure. The crew simply boarded the cart and left. Four more of the ornamental trees on the lawn went up simultaneously. Branches tore off like severed limbs and the wind blew the flaming brands at the building.
“Time to go, sir.” Dylan pried his rigid hands from the ledge. “Those wagons should be carrying evacuees, not paper files.”
The statement jolted the mayor into action. “Exactly so,” he agreed, needing nothing more than the word from Dylan to reclaim his nerve. He rushed down the stairs. “There’s not a moment to lose.”
Within a short while, he was ordering wires to be sent out to neighboring cities, appealing for more engines. He dispatched men to organize the evacuation of everyone in the courthouse. He granted permission for explosives to be used to destroy buildings in the path of the fire. Dylan returned to the tower to pull more alarms. Kathleen didn’t think twice, but hitched up her skirts and followed him up the stairs.
“Oh, no,” he said. “You’re staying below.”
“Says you.” She pushed past him and clambered up the stairs.
The watchmen had been forced to leave their posts. Dylan had time to pull only one more alarm when a burning glob of pitch blew in from the roof through an open window. Kathleen screamed and jumped back. The flames instantly lit a pile of shavings left by a workman who had been repairing the clock. The fire mushroomed with breathtaking speed.
“Let’s go!” Dylan grabbed her hand and they raced for safety. Smoke and flame blocked the iron stairway. “Damn it,” he yelled. “If it was me alone, I’d get out of this mess, but—”
“Just show me how it’s done,” she said, remembering his precarious descent from the steeple of St. Brendan’s.
He made her sling one leg over the banister and she slid down, howling in pain as the hot metal burned her hands. She landed on the floor, just managing to scramble away before Dylan came down behind her. Flames licked through cracks in the ceiling. Plaster rained down thick and hard. They fled by way of the west wing, slamming fire doors shut behind them.
In the basement, a near riot was taking place. The remaining prisoners, finding the outer door to the jail still locked, were ramming it with a heavy plank. In the telegraph room, an Associated Press reporter pounded out his transmission, but stopped midsentence and fled.
For the next hour, the mayor occupied himself with the evacuation, aided by Dylan, a clerk named Kirby Lane and Father Michael. There were only two wagons. Women, children and the elderly went first, cramming into the carts until the men had to push from behind to help the straining horses. Someone tried to make the elderly Judge Roth climb aboard, but the old man resisted, insisting between hacking coughs that he could walk.
In the midst of the argument, a great crashing sound came from within the courthouse, followed by a bellow of pain. Father Michael rushed outside. “It’s Mr. Lane,” he told them. “I think the poor devil’s buried.”
“Well, get him out, and he can have my place in the cart,” Kathleen said.
Father Michael caught Dylan’s eye. “I can’t,” the priest said. “We’ve got to dig him free of the rubble.”
Dylan pushed Kathleen toward the second cart. “Up you go, my love, and hold on tight.”
She grasped the tailgate of the cart. “You’re not coming?”
“There’s no room.”
Her chest froze when she thought of leaving him, leaving Bull and Father Michael, possibly losing them all. Their peril tonight had bonded them together, and she couldn’t abide the thought of leaving them. She jumped back out. “Then I’m not going, either.”
He swept her up in his arms, and the sensation left her breathless with excitement. But he bundled her up onto the cart again. Then he took her face between his hands and kissed her, briefly and hard.
In that moment Kathleen knew: she loved him. Against reason, pride, sanity, she loved this man. She had never told him anything but lies. This was the one truth she could admit.
“I love you,” she said.
He blinked, startled. “And I adore you, sweet Kate.” Then he kissed her one last time and pulled back. “Just in case,” he said with a wink. “We’ll be along on foot, after we dig out Mr. Lane.”
A whip cracked and the wagon pulled away. Only Dylan and the mayor, Father Michael and Bull, Kirby Lane and the judge remained. Dylan came to the door and lifted his hand in farewell. Seeing him framed by the marble pillars, blown and buffeted in the fiery wind, finally brought home the terrible truth to Kathleen. These men were going to die. With no more horses, no wagon could convey them. With one man wounded and another buried in rubble, carrying them would be difficult if not impossible.
Dylan turned and disappeared inside the doomed building.
Kathleen did not consciously make a decision, but she remembered the feel of Dylan’s mouth on hers and his arms holding her fast. She felt love shower her like a plethora of unearned blessings. And she knew she didn’t want to live a single moment without him.
She bolted out of the cart.
If anyone noticed, they raised no objection. Likely everyone’s attention was fixed ahead at the lakeshore, not behind, where everything was dying. She raced back to the courthouse.
She didn’t make a sound, but as she approached, Dylan came to the doorway as if alerted to her presence by some mystical awareness. A flash of elation crossed his face, but just as quickly it darkened to disapproval. He strode across the scorched lawn toward her.
“When you declared you loved me I thought I had never heard anything so foolish,” he ranted. “But congratulations. You have surpassed your own foolishness.”
Before she could defend herself, he hauled her into his arms and kissed her with passion and anger and something she couldn’t identify. Something so wondrous and luminous that she wanted to cherish it forever.
“Get inside, and hurry,” roared Bull from the doorway. “Bring that fool woman with you.”
Dylan took her hand and they raced inside the courthouse. The judge regarded them with fond exasperation. “You are a most devoted pair,” he remarked. “How long have you been married?”
Kathleen’s cheeks reddened. “We aren’t married, Your Honor.”
He winked at her. “You kiss,” he stated, “as if you are.”
“You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“At such a time, it is a comfort to see a great love being born.”
At such a time… The words disappeared, eaten up by the same hungry force that sucked the very air from their lungs. But the judge’s meaning was stamped indelibly in Kathleen’s mind. They fell to unearthing Kirby Lane, who lay beneath a broken marble pillar. His face was gray with shock, his expression only mild
ly puzzled. Had he been screaming in agony, she would have hoped he might survive, but he had a placid, almost beatific look on his face as he patiently watched the removal of the broken stone. Father Michael hid Lane’s face from view, but not before Kathleen caught a glimpse of blood seeping from his nostrils.
Kirby Lane remained strangely calm, as if detached from his ruined leg and from the pain. His face was pale, his lips blue as he looked out at the burning street. “The wagon isn’t coming back, is it?”
“I don’t think so, son,” the priest admitted.
“Leave us,” said the judge. “There’s no sense in all of us burning to death.”
“We’re not leaving,” Dylan snapped. “Let’s not waste time arguing about it.”
From a marble-floored waiting room off the foyer, Bull dragged in several wet carpets. They used them to line the walls for what little protection they would offer.
“So we wait,” said the judge.
No one said anything. They all knew the wagon would not return. Outside, the fire raged with an animal roar. Dylan drew Kathleen aside, bent low and said, “There’s nothing more we can do for Mr. Lane.”
Her stomach churned. She had never watched anyone die before. “Are you sure?”
“He doesn’t even feel the pain anymore. We’ve tried to clear the debris away, but he’s done for. His injuries are too grave.”
A soft moan escaped her and she pressed herself against Dylan. “We are going to die here,” she said, speaking everyone’s thoughts aloud.
“You had your chance, fool,” Bull said.
“Who are you calling a fool, boyo?” She could hear the brogue creeping into her voice but no one seemed to notice. They were all too defeated and too frightened to care. Yet when Kathleen looked at Kirby Lane, compassion pushed past her terror. Squaring her shoulders, she went and sat down beside him, taking his hand in hers. Her own hands were blistered and burned in places, but the injuries seemed minor now. His cold fingers twitched a little at her touch, and when he gazed up at her, he tried to smile.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked quietly, aware that the others had gathered around.
“No, I’m…I’ll be all right.” He spoke so softly that she had to lean forward to hear. “There’s not much…I’ve left undone. How about you, Miss Kate?”
“Ah, so much,” she said with stark honesty.
“Then…do it.” He coughed weakly. “What are you waiting for?”
Kathleen trembled, overwhelmed by the situation. The wounded man fell still, and she pulled her hand away, certain he had died. Fear rolled through her and she backed away.
Father Michael bent and turned his ear to the slack mouth. “He’s fallen unconscious,” he whispered. “But he’s breathing still. ‘Tis a blessing that he can sleep.”
They all sat listening to the howl of the firestorm. The long, unbearable moments drew out. Judge Roth went to the window but turned away, shaking his head.
“We need a miracle,” Mayor Mason said at length.
All eyes turned to the priest. Father Michael held up both hands in his own defense. “I’m a priest, not a magician. I can’t conjure a rescue out of thin air.” He raised his hands, palms up. “I can baptize you if you like. Perform last rites—” Seeing the expressions on their faces, he quickly added, “I can hear confession.” He ticked off the options on his fingers. “Impose penance, offer absolution, perform the sacrament of marriage—”
Kathleen got up and paced the room, then simply stood watching out the window. Beyond Courthouse Square, the inferno resembled the inside of a steam engine boiler. She shut her eyes, thinking of Gran and her family, wondering if they would ever learn what had become of their daughter. Their daughter, who had grown far too proud, too fond of fine things and fancy ways. If not for that foolish pride, she wouldn’t be here in the first place.
Dylan Kennedy’s arm went around her shoulders. It felt so wonderful she almost believed she could die happy because she had known a man like him. But it wasn’t enough. His tender touch reminded her, with the sharpness of a knife stab, of all she would never have—the pinkish beauty of the sky at dawn, the sound of a bird singing in springtime, a baby girl named after Gran….
“Please, sweet Kate,” he said, “don’t despair.”
“These are our last hours on earth,” she whispered.
“Then try not to spend them in misery.”
She swallowed hard in order to find her voice. “And how do you suggest I spend them?”
His hand slipped to her waist. “I can think of a few better ways.”
That made her sink deeper into despair, and she pulled away, joining the others who stood vigil by the wounded man. “Father,” she said to the priest, “I should make a final confession, but I don’t deserve absolution. I am a hopeless sinner to the end.”
“What in heaven’s name do you mean, child?”
“Look at me.” She spread her arms.
They all looked. Glaring, she clasped together her tattered bodice. She didn’t mean that. “Here I am, in the last hours of my life. I should be feeling an enormous religious ecstasy in preparation to meeting Him who made us all. But am I? No. I’m having the most silly, selfish regrets that ever crossed my mind. I am so disappointed in myself.”
“Oh, Katie.” Dylan stroked her hair. “We’re all having regrets. If ever there was a time to feel selfish, then now is that time.” He smiled, so kind, so compassionate. She looked into his face and saw all she had ever wanted. And all she could never have.
“What is it you regret?” the judge asked gently. “Surely you are too young to have made any serious mistakes.”
“My mistake,” she said, her throat aching, “is that I dared to have dreams that don’t belong in the heart of a person like me. And my greatest regret is that not a single one of those dreams will have a chance to come true. I shall die an old maid, never knowing a bride’s joy or—”
“I think we can rule out the ‘old’ part,” said a faint, ironic voice.
They crouched down to regard Kirby Lane in surprise. “You woke up,” Kathleen said. Surely that must mean he was getting better. Yet a single glance at his gray face and blue lips told her otherwise. A trickle of blood seeped from his ear. He was weaker than ever. The simple sentence he had uttered seemed to take all his strength.
“These…long faces…aren’t helping,” he said haltingly. “Surely you can think of some better way…to pass the time.”
Dylan held Kathleen at arm’s length and gazed at her in a way that made her skin prickle with awareness. His eyes were like mirrors, silvery on the surface, reflecting the brightness of the fire. “Mr. Lane is right.”
Father Michael pressed his hands together and nodded his head. Kirby’s lips thinned in a valiant effort to smile.
Kathleen didn’t understand. Should they pray? Sing hymns? Beg for mercy?
Before she could grasp his intent, Dylan sank down on one knee. “Marry me, Kate,” he said with deep, abiding sincerity. “Make your last act on earth a gesture of affirmation. Bring me one final drop of joy that I may die a man fulfilled.”
She nearly swooned with shock. Nearly melted with yearning. She was so enchanted by him that she forgot to breathe. She knew what he was doing, of course. He was trying to distract her from thoughts of their hopeless situation. Like a priest with a condemned prisoner, he was trying to fill her with hope rather than grief. At their darkest hour, he wanted to give her something new and bright to cling to.
“Do it,” Kirby said, the words uttered urgently between chattering teeth. He lifted a cold, pale hand, holding it out to her. “We’ll all be a part of something fine and good—” his voice trailed to a pain-filled whisper “—in our final hour.”
The mayor touched his heart. “It would give us something to do besides brood upon our fate.”
“But—” Everything was happening so fast. Her mind whirled with confusion. How could she possibly do this? How could she even
consider it?
“Sweetheart, in a few hours none of this will matter,” Dylan said softly.
“But what if we survive?”
“Then we live happily ever after. Unless you object to finding yourself wed to a man who adores you.”
And she would have to tell him she was no heiress from Baltimore but a housemaid from the West Side. “There is something I must explain—”
The crash of a falling timber drowned out her words. They all huddled together, heads down, as plaster rained from the ceiling. Dylan shielded Kirby with his body. When the collapse was over, he wadded up his frock coat and propped it under the injured man’s head.
Gran would have called the sudden destruction a sign from God. But the message wasn’t clear to Kathleen. Was it time for the truth, or time to do something wild and foolish before the rest of the building caved in?
“I’m not who you think I am,” she said, but the screech of the wind drowned her out. It was uncanny. Each time she tried to speak up, the noise of the storm roared louder. No one was listening, anyway. They all rushed through preparations, seizing upon the project with pitiful eagerness.
Kathleen held on to Kirby’s hand, looked out at the burning night and stopped trying to protest. As her last act on earth, marrying Dylan Kennedy surpassed all her imaginings. If they lived through the ordeal, the marriage would be invalid, surely, conducted without a license under such unorthodox circumstances. When this was all over, she could simply vanish into obscurity. He would never know she was only a princess for a night, disappearing like Cinderella, but unlike Cinderella, never coming back.
Yet the proceedings felt tenderly, touchingly real as Kirby Lane, insistent that he was well enough to discharge his duties as court clerk, applied his tremulous signature to an ornate certificate. The mayor stamped it with an official seal, then handed it to the judge to sign and notarize. Dylan scrawled his name, and then the document was passed to Kathleen. Her hand shook. She forced herself to scratch out her whole name, Kathleen Bridget O’Leary, but no one else looked at what she had written.