Nearing town, Frederick saw flames above the distant trees and gauged that the fire was far beyond the store. Relief swept through him. But the blaze rose so high that, even though the wind blew at his back, he smelled the stench of burning wood. He slowed his mount to a brisk trot as he tried to locate the tragedy somewhere beyond the trees. His companions followed suit.
“Oliver, check the church and vicarage.” He pointed his riding crop toward a side street. “If all is well, come into town.”
Without answering, Corwin rode away.
As they came around a giant oak tree, Dr. Wellsey reined his horse alongside Frederick. “The only buildings large enough to kindle such a fire are the store, the church and the inn.”
“True.” Frederick stared toward the darkened settlement, which seemed lit from behind by an eerie red glow. Muted shouts and cries met his ears. “You’ll have many patients this night, doctor.”
“Not what I would wish for, sir.”
“There. Look.”
A little more than a half mile away, red and orange flames blazed over the inn, and people darted about in a frenzy to save it. A great sudden roar filled the air as the building collapsed, sending people running in all directions. Their cries of fear rose in a crescendo above the bedlam. The flames diminished briefly. But fueled by the broken wood, they soon roared upward into the sky.
His eyes on the conflagration, Frederick cast a glance at the store as they rode by. A movement caught his attention, a dark form and a flicker of fire in the shrubbery next to the building. Fear for Miss Folger shot through him, and he pulled back on Essex’s reins.
“Wait,” he called to the doctor. “Here.” He nudged Essex nearer just as a large bush burst into flames. The horse reared up and shrieked. Frederick nearly lost his seating. “Whoa, boy.” He pulled to the side and jumped from the saddle, letting the reins fall free. “You there,” he called to the fleeing man. “Stop.”
The man ran into the forest behind the store, and Frederick charged after him.
“Sir,” cried Wellsey. “It’s starting to burn the building.”
Frederick stopped short and spun about, racing back to the fire. He pulled off his coat and beat at the flames, but the linen fabric snagged on a branch and caught fire. He yanked it free and threw it in the sand where it could do no harm, then cast about for something to stop the blaze. A memory of something he had seen earlier in the day shot through his mind.
“Burlap. In the back room.” Thankful the door was not locked, he dashed inside and grabbed several burlap bags. “Mr. Folger. Miss Folger,” he called up the back stairs. When no one responded, he ran up the staircase to find an empty apartment, then hurried down the stairs and out the door. “The stream. Over there.” Twenty feet from the store, a lazy spring ambled from beneath a limestone outcropping and wended its way toward the creek.
He and Wellsey plunged the bags into the water and ran to slap the drenched material against the burning wall. The battle raged for countless minutes. The flames seemed to die, but another spark ignited, and the dry bushes farther down the wall lit up the night.
Frederick and Wellsey alternated in their trips to the stream to rewet the burlap. Soon Frederick’s arms and lungs ached. Wellsey seemed not to fare much better as he frequently stopped to gasp for breath. Just when Frederick thought he might fall to the ground in exhaustion, two men appeared beside him.
“Here, sir.” A soldier grasped the damp bag and tugged it from Frederick’s hands. “Let me take that.”
His companion relieved Wellsey.
Frederick bent over, hands on his knees, and gulped in smoke-streaked air. After a violent bout of coughing, he rejoined the two new men.
Oliver appeared on the scene and set to work beside them. “The vicarage is unharmed. The vicar and his wife are safe at home.”
Still struggling to breathe, Frederick shook his head. “Go back. I saw someone starting this fire, and I’ve no doubt they set the one at the inn. Watch over the Johnsons.”
“Yes, sir.” Oliver left without another word. No complaint about his assignment. No disputing Frederick’s authority. Perhaps that was one fire quenched.
With the soldiers’ help, they beat back the flames. One man found a hoe and chopped away all the vegetation near the building, removing it to the sandy area where Frederick lately had tossed his burned coat.
“Mr. Moberly.”
A soft, shaky voice came from behind him. Frederick turned to see Miss Folger silhouetted against the glow of the still blazing inn. He hurried to her, longing to pull her into his arms, but stopped short at the sight of a sooty, ragged moppet in her arms.
“Are you well, dear lady?” He gently turned her to the light and found his reward: her fair face was blackened but unburned.
“I am well, sir.” Her glistening tears caught the fire’s red reflection and washed down her cheeks in black rivulets. “But poor Sadie is badly burned.” She glanced beyond him. “You have saved our home.” Sniffing, she wobbled where she stood but did not appear faint. “We shall be forever grateful.” She gave her head a little shake. “We must see to Sadie. She’s beside the road.” She tilted her head. “Back there. Inez went for Papa.”
He held her shoulders, then cupped her chin with one hand. “Carry the boy to the kitchen house. I’ll bring Sadie.” At her nod, he added, “Don’t go into the store until I’ve made certain no live embers remain.”
Again she nodded, but her eyes did not seem to focus.
“Wellsey, come see to Miss Folger.”
As the good doctor led her away, Frederick sent up a prayer that she had not breathed in enough smoke to make her ill. At the thought of such a possibility, a nettling pain lodged in his chest. He must not lose her. Must not.
The urgency of his emotions startled him. His regard for her had deepened far beyond all previous contemplations, and he could do nothing to guarantee she would recover.
Chapter Thirteen
After assuring Dr. Wellsey that she had suffered no injury, Rachel requested that he assist Frederick in bringing Sadie to the kitchen house. There, at the doctor’s direction, Rachel and Inez inspected beneath Sadie’s skirts and found blisters on her feet, ankles and lower legs. He gave Rachel a small tin of salve, the same vile-smelling medicine he had put on her injured hand, and instructed her to apply it liberally to the wounds.
“We can treat the external injuries,” he said, “but I fear she inhaled a great amount of smoke. Only time will tell whether she will recover.” He closed his bag and walked toward the door. “I’ll come back once I’ve seen what’s needed at the inn.”
After he left, Inez sniffed the salve and wrinkled her nose. “Why ruin aloe with bear grease?” She snorted as she began to spread the medicine on Sadie’s wounds. “The aloe works good alone. Many people in the islands use it since my ante-pasados, ancestors, bring it there.”
While Inez administered the healing balm, Rachel leaned over and wiped Sadie’s face with a damp cloth.
Sadie moaned, and her eyelids fluttered. “Robby. Save my Robby.”
“Shh. Don’t fret, Sadie.” Rachel blinked back tears. “Robby is safe.” She glanced across the kitchen house. Inez had made the baby a bed in an old crate, and there he slept soundly. Rachel released a weary, broken sigh.
Inez eyed her. “Señorita, you must rest. Go to your new house and sleep there. I will see to the señora and su niño.”
“No, I should stay here. You’re exhausted, too.” Rachel slumped on a wooden bench. “Besides, Mr. Moberly wants to check the store to be certain the fire won’t begin again.” Fear gnawed at her. Why would someone want to burn down the inn and Papa’s store?
“Miss Folger.” Mr. Moberly stood in the doorway. “May I come in?”
“Please do.” At the sight of his soot-covered hair and face and his singed shirt, a flurry of anguish and appreciation gripped her. He had risked his life to save the store.
“Oh, how will I, we, ever thank you?�
� The tears that had threatened for the past two hours now seized control. Choking sobs burst forth, and she covered her face in her hands.
His strong arms pulled her up into a comforting embrace. “Shh, there now. Everyone is safe.” His gentle voice strummed a soothing chord in her soul, but she wept harder, gulping in air between sobs. After several moments, he gripped her upper arms and moved back a half step to look into her eyes. “Your father has returned from the fire.”
She gasped. “Is he all right?”
“Believe me, Miss Folger, he is well.” Mr. Moberly’s even gaze conveyed the truth of his words. “He will come here after inspecting the store.” He settled her back on the bench and sat beside her, draping an arm around her shoulders. “And you? Are you recovering?”
“Yes I believe so.” Her words seemed to ease the tension in his face.
She leaned into his broad chest, discounting the impropriety and relishing the reassurance of his embrace.
“My overseer has brought workers from the plantation. They will sort through the debris at the inn and carry it away after the fire has been completely extinguished.”
She nodded, but a nettling displeasure stung her conscience. When he said “workers,” of course he meant slaves.
A cooling wind gusted in through the doorway, bringing a sprinkle of moisture.
Mr. Moberly bent down to capture Rachel’s gaze. “Listen. Can you hear the rain? Would that it had come four hours ago.”
His comment brought fresh tears to her eyes. “Yes. It might have saved Sadie’s parents, if not the inn, too.”
“Rachel. There ye are, my girl.” Papa entered the kitchen house brushing raindrops from his filthy shirtsleeves.
“Papa.” She stood and hurried to him. “Are you hurt? Burned? I saw your courage.” She leaned into him, hoping for a hug. “You’ll forgive me for disobeying, won’t you? I had to help.”
“I’m unharmed.” Papa embraced her briefly, placing a quick kiss on her forehead. “And I do forgive ye. Mr. Moberly here told us how ye saved the girl and her babe. That’s Nantucket courage, no mistake.” The tenderness in his eyes belied his casual tone.
“Inez and I will take care of them.” Rachel glanced at her servant, who nodded her agreement. “I knew you would wish it.”
“Aye.” Papa’s scratchy voice revealed the fire’s effects. “I’d be ashamed if ye didn’t take on the task.” He looked at Mr. Moberly. “I’ve checked all over the house and store. A few boards are needed to replace the scorched ones, but we’re in no danger. Ye saved my property, and I thank ye for it.”
“If you need lumber,” Mr. Moberly said, “I can provide it from my sawmill.”
Papa appeared flustered. “Indeed. That’s more than generous. Thank ye, sir.”
Rachel noticed the heightened color in Mr. Moberly’s soot-streaked face, and her heart delighted to see such feeling in a man of his position.
“I must go now.” Mr. Moberly brushed a hand through his hair, sending soot cascading down his shirtsleeves. “Major Brigham will want details about the man who started the fire. He’s ordered the entire garrison to patrol the settlement until the man is caught.” He took Rachel’s hand and kissed it with more feeling than a mere courtesy. “Good night, Miss Folger, Mr. Folger.”
He walked out into the growing rainstorm, and Rachel followed, stopping at the doorway to watch him mount his horse. As he rode out of sight, she ached to ride away with him, far away from the disaster.
Stinging rain pelted Frederick’s head and back, but he ignored the discomfort, for the events of this night had secured more than one matter in his life. That Miss Folger’s fondness and respect for him were growing, he felt more than hopeful. That he could manage Corwin and his dishonesty, he felt likewise sanguine. But the fire had tested him to a greater degree than any previous event in his life, and he had emerged triumphant. At the outset, he had known what to order, what to do. By God’s mercy, he had seen the fire at the store and sent the culprit running. And never once had he surrendered to his fear.
How he longed to report the whole of it to Father, like a child seeking praise for well-formed letters or clever computations—anything to discredit Oliver’s evil reports. But Father would dismiss it all if Frederick boasted. Best to make an objective list of events, leaving out his concerns for Miss Folger, of course, and point Father to the community’s collective efforts. Perhaps Brigham would lend a note of praise, and Frederick would dispatch the same in return. He had yet to ascertain how to win the fellow over. Perhaps this event would seal that matter, as well.
When he reached the garrison, the guards recognized him and gave him entrance. One man led his horse away for grooming and oats. At the commander’s house, a servant greeted him and offered a change of clothes.
“No, thank you, my good man. I won’t be here long, and it’s not cold.”
The man brought towels to sop up moisture from his dripping shirt. Some of the soot had washed off in the rain, so he would not do too much damage to the commander’s house.
“Mr. Moberly.” Lady Augusta joined him in the small, elegant drawing room. She wore a modest dressing gown. And without her dreadful makeup, she seemed younger, prettier and decidedly more pleasant.
“Forgive me, madam, for my frightful appearance. Major Brigham asked me to come, but I shan’t stay for long.” He offered a lighthearted chuckle. “I promise I shall not sit down.”
Her soft laughter sounded free of intrigue. “Thank you, sir, for then I should be required to have my chair recovered at your expense.”
“As tired as I am, I should sit and pay the consequences. This night has brought its challenges.”
At her second laugh, he relaxed further, but the memory of their last private meeting still cautioned him.
“You must know, madam, that your husband performed brilliantly tonight. In the thick of the fire, he executed his duty with unflinching courage.” Frederick had not seen Brigham’s performance, but others had praised the officer’s valor.
A blush touched her cheeks. “Yes, I am certain of it.” She glanced at the closed door behind her, then turned back to him with pleading eyes. “Will you temper your praise when you report the incident? Please?”
Frederick drew in a breath. “No, madam. That I cannot do.”
“But our bargain—”
He glanced at Major Brigham’s portrait above the fireplace. Dressed in uniform, he appeared the perfect British officer. “A fine picture. Gainsborough, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Mr. Moberly.”
He turned back and stared hard at her. “Madam.” He leaned toward her and spoke softly lest Brigham enter the room and hear him. “Are you unaware that a man like your husband would rather die than face dishonor?”
Tears sprang to her eyes, and her jaw jutted forward. “Yes,” she hissed. “And if forced to make such a choice, I would rather he be dishonored than die.”
“Surely you do not mean that.”
Her defiant expression answered him.
“Moberly.” Brigham entered with a hand extended, but his stern look shot back and forth between Frederick and Lady Augusta.
“Brigham.” Frederick shook his hand heartily, determined to ignore the suspicious stare. “What are your plans? I should like to accompany you as you pursue the culprit.”
Brigham shook his head. “A man would be mad to order troops out in this weather. You’ve experienced an East Florida hurricane. This storm shows every sign of becoming one. If it diminishes tomorrow, we can decide about pursuit then.”
“By then all tracks will have washed away, as they no doubt already have.” Frederick grunted. “But you’re right, of course.”
“Will you have some tea, Mr. Moberly?” Lady Augusta asked.
He shook his head. “Thank you, madam, but no. I should like to be at home before the storm worsens.”
Essex met the challenge of carrying Frederick through the blinding rain on the road back to the plantation. Al
ong the way, Frederick bent into the headwind, wishing for his hat, which had blown off on the ride into town.
Just as the rain battered his head, Lady Augusta’s request beat against his conscience. He had written the requested letter and came close to sending it with the latest mail delivery going to Father, but something had held him back. The letter sat in his desk, and now he would destroy it. Brigham was a brave man, the kind of soldier needed to help quash the rebellion up north. He would be shamed to know of his wife’s machinations, seemingly on his account. And he would blame Frederick for his part in it.
What did a woman know of men’s matters? Of a man’s need to succeed in the world? Clearly, Frederick would have to choose between keeping his promise to Lady Augusta and honoring her courageous husband.
Chapter Fourteen
After a two-day storm, Frederick surveyed the damage to the plantation and gave orders for cleanup and repairs. Although the storm had prevented travel and all but the most necessary outdoor work, it was nothing like the previous year’s hurricane. This time the overflowing creeks did not reach severe flood levels and had already receded to their natural banks. Branches littered the ground, but no trees had been blown down. And the slave quarters had escaped serious loss due to Frederick’s recent orders to reinforce the structures to make them as sturdy as his other outbuildings.
Frederick had more reasons to be encouraged. During the fire, Oliver had obeyed orders without complaint. He had also displayed exceptional valor in rescuing plantation animals in the storm. Perhaps his letters to Father had been written out of frustration over his future. While Frederick faced the challenges of a younger son, Oliver’s illegitimacy presented a far more formidable barrier to advancement. No doubt he had been tortured all his life by not knowing his paternity, and Father’s generosity must have seemed like the actions of a guilt-ridden parent. Oliver’s courage called for extending another chance to work out their conflicts.
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