Jack removed his own jacket, maintaining eye contact with Henry. He’d never fought anyone in anger before, and he didn’t know the rules of boxing or wrestling. But he knew how to wield an iron bar, how to heft a piece of heavy machinery into place. You worked out where its centre of gravity was, and then if you got yourself in the right place, you could use the object’s own weight to get it into position. He could maybe work out how to throw Henry off-balance, even if the man was lighter and shorter than himself, and had the advantage of experience.
He put his fists up in the same way Henry had done and waited.
Henry’s first blow went wide because Jack threw himself towards the floor and caught him around the waist, pinning him to the ground. But Jack was up again in a moment because Henry’s knee had jabbed him in the stomach, knocking all the air out of him. Then they were both on their feet, circling each other.
“It doesn’t have to be like this, you know,” Jack said.
Henry glared at him and spat out the word, “Coward!” before lunging again. Jack sank to his knees, forcing Henry to crash into him, so he staggered and nearly fell. Then Jack was on his feet again, and managed to get in a powerful blow on the side of Henry’s head. He reeled and staggered into a little three-tiered drinks table, which rocked alarmingly.
Henry’s green eyes, so like Bella’s, burned with rage. He was breathing hard, and Jack saw something dark, something cruel in his face. Never before had he been the recipient of such naked hatred.
“It’s not too late to settle this some other way.” Jack tried to keep his voice level.
Henry simply leered at him. His fist caught Jack under the ribs, so he half-fell backwards, but Jack managed to avoid the next blow, aimed at his jaw. He grappled Henry around the waist again and threw him down. Henry heaved his way free, clawing at Jack’s face, and drawing blood.
As Jack put out a hand to protect himself, Henry swung in again, cuffing him on both sides of the head until his ears rang, and he was dizzy. Something snapped in Jack’s head then. With a great roar of fury, he used his full weight to shove his opponent back across the room, where he stumbled over a chair, toppling it—and himself—against a side table. There was a tinkling crash as an ornate paraffin lamp struck the floor.
A lick of flame shot out in a line across the carpet.
Chapter 71
Sarah Hart battered on the door of the butcher’s shop. Expecting her father to open it, she squirmed with embarrassment when she saw instead it was Peter, her father’s old apprentice and long-time assistant.
“Peter. What are you doing here at this time of night? Where’s Father?”
His face, which she’d once considered handsome, flushed, and she knew what he was thinking—and it infuriated her.
“He’s having a sleep above. I didn’t want to leave him—he’s a bit… up in the air, d’you know?”
“Why? What’s going on? I can tell by your face there’s something afoot. You never could hide anything from me.”
He pushed his hand through his tawny hair, making it stick up around his brow. A habit that had always annoyed her.
“Don’t stand out here in the shop, Sarah. I know you could never abide the stink of the meat. Parlour’s fresh, and I’ve kept the fire in.”
He opened the door for her, letting her precede him into the parlour where she sank into a chair, holding her hands out to the glowing embers.
“It’s about Isabella.”
“Oh, oh, I see. But you came to see Mr Hart about her… not me?”
Sarah didn’t look up. There’d be hurt in Peter’s eyes. There often was, and she’d no time for that now. “She’s been seeing this fellow from the factory town where she was living—”
“Yes, yes, I know about that. Jack Henstridge.” He was nodding, his warm hazel eyes smiling. “He’s staying here, with Josiah Finchdean.”
They were here? She’d just walked into the enemy camp, then. “Finchdean? What, you mean the butler the Sutcliffes used to keep?”
“Yes. He’s been replaced now, but then you’d know all about that. I hope being up at the Hall now has made you happy?”
“Not particularly. And especially not now. If that interfering Mr Henstridge hadn’t come along—”
“Now, now, Sarah.” Peter’s voice was soft. “He’s a good man—I can tell that. Happen you just haven’t got to know him all that well.”
She wasn’t used to Peter telling her what to think or do. But it had been a long time… and people could change, couldn’t they?
“Then perhaps I should put that straight right now. I’ve a choice word or two to share with him. He’s riled Henry so much, the boy’s ungovernable. Is he here now?”
“No, they’ve gone up to see Bella.”
“No!” That would tip the scales and no mistake. She wanted to cry. Peter put out his hand and touched her lightly on the arm. It was funny, him trying to comfort her now, after all this time. He’d not been much use before—or maybe that was because she’d never let him.
She grimaced at him. “Well, that should bring matters to a head. Henry’s just locked Bella in her room because she’s been seeing Henstridge on the quiet. The servants tell me she’s been crying out that she’s hurt, but they daren’t go near for fear of Henry. He’s got a terrible temper on him, Peter. He keeps it in check most of the time, but when he blows up, there’s no managing him. And I’m so ashamed about it all! There’s a house full of people, and they’re all strange, unsavoury characters—I’m sure they’ve brought out the worst in him, I really am. And now this. I should have stayed a lady’s maid—I should have. If I’d known it would all end up like this—”
Peter’s grip had tightened and his eyes, as he looked at her, were moist. “There now, Sarah.” He stroked her sleeve. “You should have let me look after you—you know I would have. I still will, if ever you’re in trouble.”
She shook him off, frustrated by his gentle words. “What kind of life could you ever have given me, Peter Foster? What dizzying heights have you attained in the last twenty years or so, eh? Still working in a butcher’s shop, in the same town. Never made your fortune, never moved away, or set up on your own. Never married.”
“There’s a reason for that.”
“I’ll say there is. You’ve no guts, Peter Foster—you never had. You’ve always been too soft. If you’d been a different kind of a man—” Disappointment and regret clogged her throat, and tears threatened.
Peter sat back in his chair, his jaw tight. He stared at her, and his face changed. Suddenly he hit his fist against the table so hard, the empty vase in the middle bounced up and toppled over.
When she gaped at him in surprise, he laughed. “There, you see—I can throw my weight around as good as any other man.”
“Have you taken leave of your senses?”
For answer, he came over to her and hauled her out of her chair. Then he shook her, and she was too startled to protest. He said, “Get your shawl. We’re going up to the Hall, to sort all this lot out. And we’re not coming back till it’s done.”
“What about Father?”
“Let him sleep. He’s already tried to do his best for you, but it didn’t work out, did it? Now that I’ve got my chance again, I’m taking it. And you’ll be there to see. How did you get here?”
“I walked. It was the only way to get out without Henry knowing. I came a round-about way, in case he thought to follow me.”
“Are you fit to walk back?”
She nodded. This wasn’t what she’d hoped for, but maybe Peter would be more use than she expected. He was certainly younger and fitter than her father.
“Right. Now just wait a minute.” Peter slipped into the darkened shop, and when he came back, he was carrying something that glinted.
Her knees shook. “No, not the cleaver, Peter. Surely you won’t be needing that?”
He looked down at it, and then at her. “If Bella’s locked in, it could help break the door panels.”
“But if things turn ugly, you could be had up for murder. I couldn’t bear that.”
He smiled. “You’re right. I need a weapon I can use to defend meself, but won’t do no real harm. For when I’m persuading Henry to give me the key. Wait up.”
He disappeared again and came back with a stout knobbed stick. “This’ll do. I’m not going to skin me knuckles on your son if I can help it.”
Sarah was pulled along by the hand into the yard, past the pile of bones and bits waiting to be taken off for melting down or grinding, and she wrinkled her nose at the smell, but she had to follow Peter because he was too strong for her. She was breathing fast and staring up at him, and just as he was securing the yard gate behind them, she dug her heels in, pulling him to a halt. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I didn’t take me chance when I had it. Now, if I’m right, I’ve been given another, and I’m not going to let it pass me by. I’m doing it for you, Sarah. You should know by now.”
He was taking a risk. She knew Henry had at least one gun in the house. “You may be strong, Peter, but you’re not used to fighting.”
He brought his head close to hers. “You don’t know what I’ve been used to in the years since you saw me last. You may think you’re the only one that’s had a time of it, what with the workhouse and then going into service and everything. But don’t forget the folk you left behind you. Do you think it’s been easy for any of us?”
She stared at him in silence for a moment, then reached up and kissed him hard on the mouth.
When she pulled away again, he was beaming. “That’s more like it, lass. Now, let’s get on up there and see if I can’t free that daughter of yours, and earn a few more kisses.”
They went the direct route. The bitter chill of the night prompted them to keep up a good pace. Peter kept the stick in one fist and Sarah’s hand in the other, and he was grinning from ear to ear as he strode up the hill, and she found she was smiling too—almost laughing. The moon was bright enough for them to manage without a lantern, and if ever she tripped on an uneven cobble, Peter hauled her up and helped her on again. Soon they left the last house of town behind them and were marching towards the ring of trees that hid Linden Hall from sight.
Sarah saw Peter raise his head, straining for a glimpse of the tall chimneys above the dark woods. His condensing breath fanned out in front of him in a cloud, but then it didn’t disperse—it hung in the air, only it looked as if it were further away, over the roofs of Linden Hall.
He came to a stop, and she slowed to a halt beside him and screwed her eyes up to see into the distance. His hand suddenly gripped hers with a force that was painful.
“There’s something wrong at the house. That’s smoke. We have to hurry!”
Sarah felt sick, her hands clammy, her lungs suffocating. “Bella! Henry! All those poor people! Oh, God, oh, God, what shall we do?” Her legs no longer held her up, but Peter saw, and caught her.
“You sit down a moment. It’ll be quicker if I run up there on my own. You stay here. Don’t you come anywhere near that fire, you hear me? Don’t you take any chances. I’ll fetch your children out, if they aren’t out already.”
“No, Peter, don’t leave me.”
He gave her a shake. “For once in your life, do as you’re told. And whatever happens, remember I love you, Miss Sarah Hart. I always have.” Then he pulled her to his chest, kissed her roughly, and vanished up the slope.
Chapter 72
Jack looked on in alarm as Henry, still groggy from the knock on the head, yelled, “Grandfather’s Wilton!” Before Jack could move, he’d lurched for the drapes, pulling them and their pole on top of him. As an effort to smother the fire it was a failure, as the drapes went up too.
Jack, recovering his breath, waded in to help. “Get up, you fool. You’re only making it worse.” But Henry was flailing at him, thinking he was fighting again, so Jack left him and threw open the door into the passageway.
“Fire! We need help! Someone get some water. Finchdean!” Small curls of smoke drifted out of the library behind him, bringing with them an unpleasant smell. He lurched into a run down the corridor and nearly crashed into the table where the dinner gong was. He beat at it until the sound rang throughout the house, shouting, “Fire! Fire! Get up!”
Hoping he’d done enough, he raced back to the library and thrust in, even though the fug of smoke made him cough. Henry was on his feet again, but staggering like a drunkard, still dizzy from the knock on the head. He was trying to extinguish the carpet using the still-burning curtains, but the flames just grew higher, and his eyes were running and red. “I can’t stop it. I can’t stop it!”
“We’ve got to get everyone out of the house. Leave that before you burn yourself. Come out now.”
Jack had to wrench at Henry’s wrist to make him drop the curtain, then plunged with him out of the room. Pausing in the doorway, he took a last look and saw the fire had caught on a bookcase, the flames glowing a deeper red. A sick fear roiled in his stomach and sweat beaded on his brow as he yanked Henry out and pulled the door tight shut behind them.
There was noise in the rest of the house now, and more lights, as sleepy people poked their heads over the bannisters and muttered complaints. The servants bustled into action right away, despite being still in their nightclothes.
As the men dashed out into the yard, Finchdean appeared from the kitchen, blinking and pale, and Jack commanded him to go outside and save his lungs. The maids had fetched pails of water, but hung around outside the library door, not sure if they should open it.
Jack turned to Henry, who was clinging to the newel post. “Go on, man—sort your staff out. Give some orders. Is there an engine nearby?”
The first of the men had come back now, their backs covered with soaked sacking, clutching axes and poles. One of them rammed the library door open so the water could be thrown in, but had to jump back as a gout of flame spewed out.
Jack tried to look into the library to see how bad it was. New noises were emerging from the room now, soft popping, crackling sounds as the pages of the books curled into red tongues of flame, and the noise of tinkling glass as the lampshades splintered in the heat.
He drew back and yelled at Henry. “This is serious. We need more than just a few buckets of water.”
Henry coughed, then seemed to come to himself. He called a young lad across. “There’s an engine at the brewery in town. Saddle Bessie and ride as fast as you can. Make sure the other horses are safe—tell Thomas to see to them.”
Jack caught Henry by the sleeve. “Better let Bella out now.”
Henry gave him a blank look which turned to one of alarm. He spun away, but one of the female guests was there, tugging at his arm, firing questions and clearly in a panic. He glared at her, then looked behind her up the stairs, and real fear came into his eyes.
Thank God. He’d realised Bella was locked in and must be released.
But the look of fear was not for Bella. Henry cried, “Where’s Neville?” then sprang away, reeled momentarily at the foot of the stairs, then struggled up them, weaving from one side to the other like a drunk.
Jack swore loudly. The master of the house had abandoned everyone, including his own sister. He caught the eye of a dark gentleman, who was comforting the panicky female, and said, “You, sir! Get as many people as possible out onto the lawn until this is under control. Especially the women, including servants.” When the man nodded and starting marshalling everyone out, Jack hurried up the stairs in pursuit of Henry.
The doors of most of the bedrooms had been left open. He ranged along the corridor, peering in, and each step he took, the more anxiety gripped him, because he could hear the fire roaring down below now, and he could feel the smoke in his lungs. Throwing his arm in front of his face, he tried to breathe around it, and edged forwards, bending low to avoid the smoke.
He found Henry first, leaning over a bed and shaking someone in it—a man who groaned each time He
nry shook him. Henry was yelling, “Get up, Neville, you idiot! The library’s ablaze. You’ve got to get downstairs.”
Jack thrust his way into the room, pushed Henry to one side and reached in to haul the man, Neville, out of the bed. He set him on his feet, then shoved him into Henry’s arms. “If he can’t manage it on his own two feet, you’ll have to drag him. Now, where’s Bella’s room?”
Henry’s eyes glittered with hatred as he glared at Jack. “All this is your fault,” he hissed.
Jack’s temper erupted. He grabbed Henry by the lapels, ignoring the limp, complaining man in his arms. “If Bella comes to any harm, the blame lies with you. If the fire doesn’t take you down, I will.”
Henry gave a short laugh. “You’d better take something heavy to break the door down. The key’s in the pocket of my jacket, which I took off in the library. It’s beyond the reach of both of us now.”
Oh, how easy it would be to land one hard blow on that man’s jaw and leave him, and his drunken friend here as the house burned down around them! Henry Sutcliffe was sick, twisted, that’s what he was, more concerned for the precious Neville than his own sister. Jack left the room.
In the corridor, he paused. When he found her, would he still be able to get Bella out down the stairs? He raced to look, and couldn’t believe the amount of black smoke that was pouring up the staircase, like it was being sucked up a chimney. For a moment, he couldn’t see a thing, and then he saw something on the wall below that shouldn’t be there, a line of orange flame crawling along the wallpaper at ceiling height. And then there was another, curling and caressing around the newel post at the foot of the stairs. There wasn’t a moment to lose.
As he turned, Henry and his friend were right behind him. Neville was coming round now, coughing and spluttering as his eyes rolled in his head, trying to make out what kind of nightmare he was having.
“It might be better to use the servants’ staircase,” Jack advised. “There’s a lot of smoke coming up this way.”
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