Wenna

by Virginia Taylor

No other woman would have had the strength of character to accept being shoved from her comfortable existence into his disorganized world, lodging above a shop with a husband who kept his business to himself. Wenna didn’t complain about the living conditions, she didn’t insist on servants, and she had waltzed into society as if she could waltz.

  His lips curved with reluctant amusement as he ran. During her first ball, she had fit in well with society, despite a slight show of stage fright. His father, had he still lived, would have been delighted with Wenna.

  My Very Dear Son, his father had written during his last days on earth. My third born, but by no means my least son. You have always been as dear to me as your mother, my greatest love, my only love, if truth be told. With two brothers ahead of you, you were not born to be the earl after me. I could only give you money and the means to seek a place for yourself, the chance to be your own man, which you have been with great style and dash. I couldn’t have been prouder of any son ...”

  Yes, his father, who loved him enough to let him go, would have enjoyed Wenna. John would be guardedly impressed, too. Wenna might be at outs with Dev at the moment, but when she had her heart’s desire, her own gracious house in Cornwall, she would see how much he had grown to love her—as he had told Nick—and she might see that Dev was the right husband for her.

  He rounded the corner and headed toward the east end markets, still smiling with hope. The night watchman lifted his long hooked pole from one gaslight to the next, a routine he managed with the flair of practice as he steadily doused the street lamps, ducking between the traders as they unloaded their wagons. Cart horses stood by with idly flicking tails and drooping heads, nickering, nuzzling into the water troughs, tossing manes, and adding to the general smell of manure, hay, sweet fruit, and rotting vegetables. A market gardener tossed an apple to Dev as he passed through. “That’ll keep up yer energy.”

  Dev grinned and shoved the apple into his pocket. Other produce growers smiled or waved. Dev had become a morning fixture. Once the camaraderie had amazed him; the acceptance he’d found from all in this colony. No longer. He had grown used to being accepted not for whom his parents were, but because he ran in the morning for no other reason than he liked running.

  Wenna would find that same acceptance in England, but because of his birth. As his wife, she would be flattered, deferred to, and invited everywhere. She would have the life his mother had, idle and easy. Wenna would want to stay. He had to accept that.

  His jaw clenched as his long, fast strides took him to the Rundle Street corner. He turned into the street, passing the hotels and shops that had not yet opened for the day. Another street lighter moved patiently from one lamp to the next—and the ground rocked with an explosion beneath Dev’s feet.

  He pulled up, shocked into a stumbling stand-still. Black smoke billowed from the business center. The road ahead, blown up high, began settling in heavy pattering clumps all around. From the middle of the disturbance, flickering flares of red shot into the air, dropped, and faded into an unearthly shade of menacing blue.

  “Blimey,” the night watchman said, moving close beside him. He shivered. “What ’appened?”

  Dev frowned. “Gas, more than likely. Stay back! This might not be the last of the explosions.”

  “We’ve got pipes under the whole street.” The watchman stood staring at his feet, his two hands gripped hard onto his pole, as if steadying himself for a trip through the air.

  Dev squinted at the billowing smoke. “The road has been ripped up. We need to make sure the fire doesn’t spread. Run for the fire wagon,” he yelled as he sped past his premises toward the explosion.

  Within half a block, he saw a line of flame cross the road and lick at the pastry shop. Mrs. Lock, the pie maker, lived above with her three young children. He sprinted faster, leaping over puttering flares and landing in front of the shop. The façade blistered and the flames began to snake up the veranda posts.

  He crashed through the front door of the building, calling for Mrs. Lock, but she didn’t answer. Thinking of the children, he raced up the stairs, the heavy smoke following him. He opened the first door. Three wide-eyed children dressed in nightwear huddled in a big bed, holding each other for dear life. “What’s that noise, Mister?” A girl of about six raised her panicked gray eyes to him.

  He drew a breath, willing himself to look authoritative. “That was an explosion in the street. Best not to stay here. Come along with me.”

  “Mum would want us to wait for her. She’s downstairs.”

  Dev looked around and saw a clothes chest. “Get dressed, and I’ll take you downstairs. Coats and shoes will do. Hurry. Put these on. We have to be quick.” A fire fueled by gas would travel fast, but he didn’t want to scare the children.

  “Might be cooking smoke,” the biggest said nervously. Her gaze flickered between Dev and her siblings. “Sometimes Mum burns the cakes.”

  “Well then, we’ll go down and see.” Dev had never dressed a child in his life and he tried to shove a resisting pair of little arms into a Cardigan sleeve. “If you can’t be very fast, you’ll need to leave without dressing. And you don’t want to stand in the street in your nightclothes.”

  The oldest very carefully disentangled herself from her other siblings and climbed out of bed. She slipped on a pair of shoes, donned her woolly cardigan, and passed another to the middle-sized child. “Put your shoes on, Sally.”

  “What’s your name?” Dev asked as he kept trying to garb the smallest. Smoke hovered around the window, searching for an entrance. “I’m Devon.”

  “Molly’s m’name. Let’s go downstairs and see Mum.”

  Dev grabbed up the smallest, a boy, and strode to the doorway. “Follow me.” Smoke curled into the room behind.

  With a frightened yelp, Molly swooped at him and clutched his leg. Sally held onto Molly. Encumbered, he stepped ahead dragging them and carrying the struggling and wailing small boy in his arms. “You go down first,” he said to the girls when he reached the stairs, and they hurried down, holding onto a newel at the bottom, their waiting faces stark and anxious. The heat of the fire radiated through the air.

  Loaded with the children, he reached the kitchen. The fire of the oven competed with the heat outside. Stew simmered and rounds of pastry waited on the side bench. A saucepan sat upturned on the floor, surrounded by a mess of cooked tomatoes. One leg of the central table had collapsed, trapping a crumpled heap of rags beneath. He took a long look but smoke and dust billowed in through the open back door, and he had no time to waste speculating. He settled the boy on his feet in the laneway outside, gathered the children into a bunch, and noticed a collection of onlookers approaching. “Could you take these children away from the fire,” he shouted.

  A woman wearing an apron stepped forward. “Where’s your mum, Molly?”

  “She must have gone down the street.”

  After a questioning glance at Dev, the woman took Molly’s hand and hurried the children away. Dev leapt back into the kitchen. The children would be guarded until order was restored, and he thought he knew where to find Mrs. Lock. Clearly, the pastry shop had taken the brunt of the first blast.

  A sudden dust-filled explosion blew out the windows. Dev threw himself to the floor to avoid the flying glass. A tongue of fire licked along the floorboards from the front of the shop, heading for the stairwell. He lifted to his elbows and crawled beneath the table. The rags—petticoats—resettled to show a black stocking-covered leg. First a moan, an uplifted head, and then, “The children,” said in a hoarse voice. “Upstairs.”

  “I found them. Don’t worry, Mrs. Lock. They’re safe. Let’s get you out of here too. Can you move?”

  She rolled to the side. “Slowly. Nothing hurts but my head.”

  Dev crawled backward, rose to his knees, and hauled her out. He stood, dragging her with him. She subsided in a hoop of skirts. Time was short. The flames would soon begin blistering along t
he wooden floorboards. He scooped her up and settled her over his shoulder. “We’re off. Hold onto me.” He made his way to the door as she grasped his belt at the back.

  Outside, he sucked in fresh air and then put her on her feet. “Can you stand?”

  She swayed for a moment, breathing deeply. “Thank you, thank you. The children. I gotta find them.”

  He put one arm around her waist, supporting her down the laneway. “They knew the woman who took them.” Glancing up, he saw her three children hurtling down the lane.

  “Mum, Mum.”

  Mrs. Lock gathered the three in her arms, patted each little head, and kissed each little face. He waited long enough to smile, hearing the sullen crash of the fire bell. Clearly, the wagon was nearby. The city fire station was only two blocks away. Banging the smoke out of his shirt, he pelted back up the lane to Rundle Street.

  The fire-wagon horses stood, tails flicking, eyes showing white. Firemen dressed in heavy canvas ran, pulling out the hose, unraveling the folded length, while volunteers stood helplessly waiting. Dev stood back, assessing the damage. The veranda of the pastry shop was now engulfed in flames, and had begun to drop blackened slat by slat. The other side lurked in smoke, awaiting the same fate.

  Dev watched, knowing the adjoining space had been untenanted for a few weeks but as he stared through the smoldering flare, he noticed a sign.

  “Wenna’s Place,” he said to the nearest bystander. “How long has that sign been there? I thought the shop was empty.”

  “The shoemaker moved out coupla weeks ago. People aren’t buying so many good shoes nowadays. That’s the new tenant.”

  “Wenna. My wife’s name is Wenna.” Dev suddenly lost his breath. “What does the shop sell?”

  The man turned to the woman beside him. “Some sort of lady stuff, isn’t it?”

  The woman nodded. “The owner does lady’s hair. She doesn’t usually open up until nine, so she won’t be in there yet.”

  Snow arriving, huffing. “Morning, Mr. Courtney. I’m wondering if anyone has seen Maisie.” He glanced around at the bystanders.

  Dev shook his head, confused. “Here?”

  “She works for your wife now.”

  “My wife.” Devon sprang forward. Wenna. His Wenna.

  Chapter 20

  Ducking under the thick canvas hose, Dev leapt out of the way of a red-faced fireman and raced toward the door of Wenna’s Place. Flames leapt from the adjoining shop, eating through the boards lining the veranda. This morning, his wife had dressed in service black. He needed to make sure she hadn’t arrived for work yet; the fire had started a wall away. In a bare five minutes, that side of the building had been engulfed. This side, already hot, would burn faster.

  He grabbed at the metal door handle and sucked air through his teeth. With no time to experience pain, he kicked in the smoldering wood. The frame crashed against the wall. Inside, smoke curled around the ceiling, an ominous premonition of the devastation to follow. A blast had torn apart a partition near the entrance, exposing splintered lengths of pine. He hurried around a broken chair lying his path, and then another. Shards of glass crunched beneath his feet. The smoke swirled above, sinking to a mere foot above his head.

  Breathing through his fingers, he scanned the area behind. One end of a long red gum shelf had crashed onto the floor. Before he could check behind the door that closed off the back of the shop, he heard, “Devon!”

  Almost directly behind him, he spotted Wenna, dust-covered and crouched under fractured plaster and lathe. He exhaled in relief, bounding to her, taking her precious face into his hands. He tried to lift her to her feet, but she resisted, clinging to the frame of the partition.

  “Maisie’s hurt,” she said in a dusty, husky voice. Her anxious gaze left him and concentrated on the figure he could barely see under the fractured mess of wood. “I can’t get her out by myself.”

  “Are you hurt?” He wanted to snatch her into his arms and never let her go.

  She shook her head, her one long plait swinging with the force of her denial. “It’s my fault. I asked her to come early.”

  “It’s not your fault, my love. It’s the gas supply. Move aside. I’ll deal with this.”

  Eyes glossy with panic, she stared up at him. “You can’t manage the weight alone.”

  “I can as soon as you let me get at the wall.” The ceiling above creaked ominously.

  Her face pale, she crawled back a few feet.

  With strength he hadn’t known he possessed, he heaved up the partition, crashing the section back into the middle of the room. The remaining wooden chairs vibrated to the four corners of the room. “Leave now, Wenna.” He dropped to his knees beside Maisie, who lay breathing but unconscious.

  Wenna stood, her hands cupping her lower face, her eyes wide and glossy, staring at the other woman. “Is she still alive?”

  “Yes. Go. We’ll be right behind you.”

  She stood her ground, her expression uncomprehending.

  He didn’t have time for explanations. Leaning forward, he slid his hands under Maisie’s inert body and rose to his feet. While Wenna watched, her face tight, he let Maisie’s feet drop to the floor. Then, he bent his knees and flopped her over his shoulder. “Done. Let’s go.”

  Wenna galvanized into action. She moved so fast that the hem of her gown swept up an ember as she disappeared around the front counter. Behind her, smoke rushed down from the ceiling, as if thrown in fistfuls by an angry god.

  “The door frame is on fire.” She reappeared, her fist over her mouth, and coughing. “We can’t get out that way.”

  “We’ll try the back.”

  “I don’t have a key for the door into the side street. If we go into the back room, we’ll be trapped. We have to leave by the front.”

  He prayed silently. “No choice, then. I’ll go through first with Maisie. Follow closely behind me. Hold onto my belt.” On the way to the door, he kicked at burning furniture, trying to make a safer path for Wenna.

  The counter had begun to burn too. The flames crackled insidiously. A crash outside rattled the building. People shouted. Fear and sweat prickled down his spine. His eyes stinging from the ash and dust, he gasped for fresh air. Maisie groaned. He waited, coiled by the entrance, watching for a break in the crackling flares. Wenna stood so close that her breath whispered onto his neck. She believed that he would push through. Her trust made him fireproof.

  He glanced through the empty window frame at the eerie pink smoke haze. “Now or never. Crouch as low as you can,” he said to her, his voice hoarse. He couldn’t crouch because of the weight on his shoulders. He had to get the women outside before the smoke choked them all. “Hold onto me and we’ll run together.”

  “Together,” she said in a shaky whisper. Her knuckles pressed into his skin of his back, so tight was her grip.

  His arm rigid against the back of Maisie’s knees, he took one last glance into Wenna’s eyes and leapt through the flames, feeling the drag of her on his belt behind him.

  A collective cheer arose from the watching crowd.

  He landed upright, leaning forward so that he could ease Maisie off his shoulder. Two men relieved him of her weight. Hands pounded the smoke from his lungs as loud voices sounded in his ears. He snatched up Wenna and hugged her, pressing his cheek against her hot face.

  She coughed, pushing at him, but he couldn’t let her go.

  “Damned woman,” he said, nuzzling into her smoky hair. “You scared the devil out of me.”

  “How did you know I was there?” She struggled against him.

  And still he couldn’t release her. He stared at every wonderful inch of her soot-smeared face, his heart a puddle in his chest. “I didn’t. Snow was worried about Maisie. Then I saw the shop was called Wenna’s Place. Two and two. Thank God I found you, my love.”

  Her expression seemed to flatten, and she nodded. “Wenna’s Place. My shop. All my money, gone
in an instant. And Maisie ... oh, God, Maisie.” Her mouth loose, she glanced toward the stretcher where Maisie had been placed.

  A trail of smoke wafted up from the hem of her gown. “You can see Maisie later. First ...” With a determined grip, he dragged her over to the wheeled fire pump, where two volunteers worked up a sweat, alternately pushing on a two-handled bar. Volunteer trained, like every able-bodied male in the street, he called out, “Lads, stop for a moment and spread a little water over here.”

  The first nudged the second, and both ceased their exertions. The three men holding hoses looked back from Wenna’s Place, where the main stream of water currently aimed, to see the problem. In an instant, the rapidly dwindling stream poured over Dev and Wenna instead, dowsing them. “Yo. That’s enough, that’s enough,” he said, his words spluttering from a head doused with water. Relief made him grin. Having his usually neat wife drenched made him laugh with relief.

  Wenna stared at him, leaning back, her eyes dark in her pale face. “It is more than enough.” Her voice cracked.

  “You were afire, Missus. Courtney here got you put out.”

  “And almost got himself put out, too.” Dev glanced down at his soaked clothes, old and thin, and clinging to him like a second skin. Modesty be damned. “But not quite. Now, my love.” He took her by her waist and pulled her closer. When she looked into his eyes, he cupped her wonderful face in his hands and gently kissed her. “My love,” he repeated. “I almost lost you. I had no idea you were in that shop. Imagine what might have happened if Snow had not told me about your business.”

  As if on cue, Snow appeared through the smoke and gloom. “Looks like Maisie will recover. She’s wakin’ up. Thank the Lord you found ’em.”

  Dev lifted his head. “Thank the Lord you told me what Wenna has been up to. I wouldn’t have gone in if I hadn’t suspected she might be there.”

  Snow dropped his gaze. “She didn’t want you to know about the shop. Thought a gent like you wouldn’t like his woman to work.”

  “Is that true?” He kept his wife in the circle of his arms.