As he got closer, David could see members of the London Fire Establishment and several privately owned fire engines attempting to fight the blaze from the warehouses with their water hoses. Even two blocks away, David could feel the heat of the flames, which reached higher than thirty feet in the air. He breathed in the black smoke, covering his ears as explosions erupted from the burning warehouses. The air smelled of burned tallow and oil.
David continued to press his way through the crowd, bumping and inching forward until he reached the top of Tooley Street. He grabbed his handkerchief out of his coat pocket and covered his mouth and nose. The air was thick with smoke, and he was beginning to find it difficult to breathe. And although he knew that street well, it was hard to see. He felt a hand on his shoulder.
“You, sir, get back to safety!” a burly constable yelled in David’s ear. He shoved David back where he came from, his grimy hand covered in black soot. “I’m to keep this street clear for the fire brigade.”
“I am Randall of Randall and Leavitt, and that is my countinghouse,” David said, pointing down the street. “I have important documents there that cannot be replaced. I will only take what is essential. I won’t be long.”
“You can ask Fire Engineer Tozer; he’s in charge of this street,” the constable said. “I’m not to let anyone pass, sir.”
The constable marched him back to the end of Tooley Street. David covered his mouth and nose with his handkerchief again, the smoke like a thick, dark fog. The constable pointed to a man near the closest fire engine.
“That’s Fire Engineer Tozer. You can ask him.”
David jogged the thirty feet between him and the fire engine. Half of the fire brigade were still pointing hoses at the impossible flames. The other half were receiving drams of spirits from an older man with white hair, who David assumed was Tozer. He strode up to him.
“Fire Engineer Tozer, I need you to instruct the constable over there to allow me down Tooley Street,” David said. “It is imperative that I visit my countinghouse.”
“I’m not Tozer,” the man said. As he came closer, David could smell brandy.
“Then please point me to him,” David said impatiently.
“I am Superintendent James Braidwood,” he said, “and trust me, I would not be doing my job if I let any soul go down that street until this flame is contained. If we don’t contain it, Tooley Street will be ashes and so will you. Now you go about your business and I will go about mine.”
Before David could protest, Superintendent Braidwood carried his jug of brandy to a group of men from the fire brigade standing by the wall of a warehouse behind Tooley Street. David could see the superintendent giving instructions. I could have been back by now, David thought. He walked two steps toward Braidwood when another explosion pierced his eardrums. The acrid smell of saltpeter filled the already smoke-filled air. David fell down to the pavement from the force of the blast.
* * *
Lucinda rubbed her eyes and cried out as her injured hand touched her face. She could see—barely. The room was full of black smoke and flames were on the stairs. It was hotter than a furnace. Her father’s body was draped awkwardly over her legs. They had to get out. Time was running out for both of them.
Lucinda attempted to stand, but fell back to her knees, coughing and sputtering. She put her arms underneath her father’s shoulders and scooted backward toward the door, no longer able to see through all the smoke.
Her back bumped the wall. Lucinda managed to stand and felt her way to the door. She did not have the strength to lift herself or her father through the window. She found the doorknob and cried out when she touched it with her injured hand, the metal so hot it burned her hand through her tattered gloves. She grabbed a fistful of her skirt and finally managed to turn the knob, falling through the door as it opened.
Lucinda took a few deep breaths of the cleaner outside air before crawling back on her hands and feet for her father. His body was illuminated by orange flames, and she could feel the fire’s heat as she used the last mite of her strength to drag her father to the door.
She sat on the street to catch her breath, but she could still feel the heat. Lucinda looked down and saw her skirt was on fire. She grabbed the unaffected part of her skirt and tried to smother the flames, but they continued to climb from her ankles all the way to her knees. The fire burned her hands. It was her blasted crinoline! The steel framework was making it impossible for her to extinguish the flames by covering them.
She had to get to her feet. Struggling to stand, she pulled desperately at the ties of her skirt—now fully ablaze. Wrenching herself free of the crinoline cage and skirt, she pulled off her smoldering blouse and collapsed on the street next to her father.
* * *
David got back to his feet just as the wall of the warehouse crumbled before his eyes. Bricks rained down on Braidwood and the five other men from the fire brigade. David stepped back in shock. The firemen were completely buried, and the monstrous fire had leapt on to the buildings of Tooley Street. The orange light was so bright, it could have been midday.
“This way!” a round man with a large mustache yelled. The fire engines moved past David on both sides and stopped just short of where the men were buried in the rubble. The round man passed David and gave him a shove. “I’m Fire Engineer Tozer, and I am now in charge. And you can get out of the way!”
“Are you going to save them?” David asked.
“No,” he said, and he looked down. “There isn’t time. The fire’s spreading too fast. Now, sir, get out of the way!”
David stepped back. The man he had talked to just five minutes before was dead or dying underneath a pile of bricks. Even the most important business papers in the world were not worth his life. He turned to go.
“Help!”
At first, David thought the voice belonged to one of the men in the rubble. But it was too high-pitched for that. It was a woman’s voice.
David recognized that voice.
His heart froze inside his chest.
Lucinda.
She must have gone to the office to speak to her father because he had refused to help her. Refused for his own selfish reasons and personal insecurities.
Panic at the thought of losing her flashed through his veins. There were so many things he wanted to unsay.
David pushed past the constable, running down the street into the flames and smoke.
“Lucinda!”
* * *
Lucinda tried to get up, but she did not have the strength. She tried to roll over, but the pain in her arms and hands was too excruciating. Her entire body revolted against her will. She closed her eyes. She did not want to die here and now on this street, leaving so much of her life unfinished.
“Help,” she rasped, and then coughed and coughed.
“Help!” she cried again as loudly as she could.
She thought she heard someone respond in the distance.
Lucinda closed her eyes. She could do no more.
Moments later, she felt someone wrap a cloth around her. And strong arms lifted her up underneath her shoulders and legs.
“My father,” she muttered, without opening her eyes.
“The firefighters have him,” a man’s voice said. It sounded remarkably familiar. “Just hold on, Lucinda. Just hold on.”
She tried to nod, but everything went black again.
* * *
David froze in horror when he finally reached the countinghouse.
Lucinda, lying in the street. Covered in soot and wearing nothing but her corset and smallclothes. Surrounded by flames.
He tore off his jacket and wrapped it around her before scooping her up in his arms. He felt blood as her hand brushed his. His only coherent thought was to get her away from the fire, to get her to safety.
In that moment, he knew that he loved her. More than his business. More than his father’s expectations. More than his very life.
But she was so hot
in his arms. It was like she was on fire.
She murmured something, asking about her father.
“The firefighters have him,” he assured her, struggling to keep his voice calm.
She seemed to relax a little at that.
“Just hold on, Lucinda. Just hold on,” he asked her.
Begged her.
Directed by the constable, two men from the fire brigade carried Mr. Leavitt away from the fire. Away from the ashes of their countinghouse. They placed him on the ground near where the constables were holding back the crowds who had come to watch the spectacle. Then the firefighters returned to their posts, trying to contain the fire as acre upon acre of London burned.
David knew he had to get Lucinda and her father to a doctor. But there were people everywhere. Carriages and omnibuses were caught in the middle of the street, unable to move. He couldn’t carry them both, and he couldn’t leave one behind. Not the woman he loved, nor the man who was like a father to him. It was an impossible choice.
David held Lucinda tighter to his chest, breathing heavily. Onlookers pressed in closer to them, and he heard a few whistles and several exclamations.
He saw a burly man dressed in the clothes of a tanner standing in the front row of the crowd. David stumbled toward him. “Please, help me. I can pay.”
The tanner nodded, and two of the constables let him through their blockade. At David’s direction, the tanner lifted Leavitt as if he weighed no more than a paperweight.
David resolutely walked toward the crowd, and the people shifted to let him and the tanner through. David could feel thousands of eyes on them. On Lucinda’s beautiful form—burned, bruised … and inadequately concealed by his dinner jacket. But he couldn’t think. He had to keep his feet moving.
The press of the crowd lessened. Eventually, the air no longer burned his lungs with each ragged breath. His burden became easier. He could see again.
As he came within a block of the Leavitts’ house, David focused on each footfall. Left and then right. Left and then right. With the last of his strength, he climbed the front steps and kicked the door.
The door opened quickly; clearly Lucinda’s absence had not gone unmissed.
David recognized the butler and Mrs. Patton, followed by an older woman who was dressed like a housekeeper with a white apron and lace cap.
“Good gracious!” Mrs. Patton shrieked, covering her mouth with a handkerchief. For a moment, David thought she was going to faint.
“Get a hold of yourself, Mrs. Patton, this is no time for hysterics,” the housekeeper said in a loud voice. “Mr. Forbes, come here at once.”
A footman ran toward them, pulling on his livery jacket, and bowed to the housekeeper.
“You and Mr. Ruffles will carry Miss Leavitt inside and to her room. Then go and fetch Doctor Clayson.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the footman said.
“I’ll take her shoulders,” the butler said in a choked voice, “and, Forbes, you take her feet. Carefully now.”
David didn’t want to let Lucinda go.
“Rest, sir,” Mr. Ruffles said gently. “She’s safe now. We’ll take good care of her.”
The two men carefully lifted Lucinda from his stiff, tired arms and carried her into the house and up the stairs.
The housekeeper’s loud voice rang in his ears. “Mrs. Patton, make yourself useful. Go and tell the cook to start preparing bandages and Nancy to bring fresh water upstairs.”
Mrs. Patton blinked and lowered her handkerchief from her mouth, and turned to walk farther into the house.
The housekeeper pointed to the tanner and said in a quieter tone, “Please, sir, would you be so good as to bring Mr. Leavitt this way?” The tanner followed the housekeeper inside.
David’s legs would no longer hold him. He sank heavily onto the front steps.
Several minutes later, the tanner left the house, closing the front door behind him. David dug at his pocket for some coins.
“No, no,” the man said. “I didna do it for the money. God bless ye and them two.”
David watched the tanner walk away down the street until he could no longer see him.
Then he buried his face in his hands and sobbed.
Seventeen
NEVER-ENDING DARK.
And a voice calling from a great distance.
Just hold on, Lucinda. Just hold on.
It was David’s voice, she was sure now. But she was so very tired, and in so much pain. She longed to give herself over to the safety and quiet of the darkness. But his voice kept calling her back. Begging her to stay with him. She wanted to, for David. She cared for him after all, even if she was still furious with him. But she was so very, very hot. She was burning up from the inside and turning to ash.
* * *
Lucinda opened her eyes cautiously. The sunlight of the room burned them, and she blinked several times. The pain lessened each time she opened her eyes, until she saw the figure of a man sitting in the chair beside her bed. Through the blur, she saw he wore a black suit, but she couldn’t see his face.
It must be David, she thought, and her heart beat faster.
She tried to speak, but her mouth was so dry. She tried again and managed to say only one word. “Water.”
The man stood. “Yes, Lucy, I will see that you get water.”
Lucinda’s thoughts were clouded, but that voice did not belong to David. It was someone else’s. Someone she knew. Lucinda tried to sit up, but her whole body constricted with pain. Her arms hurt. Her legs were bruised and stiff from falling down the stairs. Her head felt tender as it fell back onto the pillow. The pain overwhelmed her, and she lost consciousness.
She roused again when a glass was pressed against her sore, chapped lips. A gentle hand was behind her head.
“Just a few more sips, Lucinda,” the voice said.
It was a lady’s voice—Mrs. Patton’s.
Lucinda blinked, willing her eyes to focus on the face above hers. She could see the sharp profile of Mrs. Patton’s chin, but not the finer details. The older woman took the glass of water away and in its place put a small bottle to Lucinda’s sore lips.
“A little more, Lucinda,” Mrs. Patton said. “And you will be off to sleep again.”
Lucinda gulped and nearly choked on the liquid in her mouth but managed to swallow the draught. It tasted bitter. She opened her mouth to ask what the liquid was, but before she could speak, her eyes became too heavy to hold open. Her mouth went slack. The pain that had overwhelmed her moments before slipped away into a blurry haze of nothingness.
* * *
When Lucinda opened her eyes, her room was dark. She blinked several times. Was she blind? She opened her eyes wider and noticed the shadows in the room. It was only nighttime. She exhaled in relief. Then Lucinda heard a light snore. She turned her head to look at the chair and found a figure sitting in it. She could not make out the details of the person, but Lucinda knew that snore.
“Water. Please,” Lucinda asked Mrs. Patton.
She heard Mrs. Patton yawn and then the clicking of the gas lamp as she turned it on. The light made Lucinda’s eyes hurt, so she closed them, but repeated her request. “Water. Please.”
She heard Mrs. Patton stand and felt the woman’s gentle hand behind her head.
“Open your mouth, Lucinda,” she said in a singsong voice, as if she were talking to a small child.
Lucinda obeyed and felt the welcome relief of liquid flowing into her dry mouth and throat. Mrs. Patton removed the glass from Lucinda’s lips.
“More,” Lucinda breathed.
“Of course, dear girl,” Mrs. Patton said, “but only a little at a time. Too much and you will be sick again.”
Lucinda did not remember being sick, only falling down an endless hole of nightmares. Over and over again, like riding a wooden horse on the horrible carousel at the fair. Spinning around in circles but never going anywhere, forced to repeat the pain and the grief of her darkest moments forever … be
ing beaten with the strap at finishing school … her mother’s death.
Mrs. Patton picked up the little bottle from the table and placed it at Lucinda’s lips. But Lucinda bit her lip and shook her head. “No.”
“It’s laudanum, Lucinda,” Mrs. Patton explained in the same patronizing voice. “The doctor prescribed it for your pain.”
Lucinda shook her head even harder, starting to give herself a headache. “Water.”
Mrs. Patton placed the vial back on the bedside table and lifted the glass once more. Lucinda drank greedily. When at last she was satiated, she pulled her head back. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Patton placed the glass back on the bedside table.
“I want my mother.”
“I am sorry, dear girl,” Mrs. Patton said, “but your mother is dead.”
Lucinda shook her head again. “I know. She’s been dead for ten years. I want my mother’s portrait in my room.”
Mrs. Patton frowned in confusion. “There is no portrait of your mother hanging in this house.”
“I know,” Lucinda said through clenched teeth. “But there used to be one over the fireplace in the sitting room of our previous house. My father had it taken down. I don’t know where it is. Most likely the attic. But I want it. And I want it now. Ask the housekeeper.”
“I promise to look into your request first thing in the morning,” Mrs. Patton said. “Now, just take a few drops of laudanum and you will sleep like a baby.”
Lucinda growled. “No laudanum. I’d rather the pain than the nightmares. And I don’t care that it is the middle of the night. I want my mother’s portrait now.”
Mrs. Patton nodded and carried her gas lamp out of the room. Lucinda lay in darkness for several minutes. Possibly an hour. The pain increased in her burning hands and arms with each moment, but Lucinda did not change her mind. She did not want any more laudanum. She closed her eyes. Maybe Mrs. Patton would not come back until the morning.
The Last Word Page 14
