The two flights of stairs met in the lower passageway and she was relieved to see the men emerging as her party arrived. The air was becoming thick, the heat stifling, and most of them were coughing, their eyes streaming, but none complained or cried; they stood waiting for her to tell them what to do next.
It might be a matter of minutes before the stairs behind them became too hot and smoke filled for safety. She had to risk a confrontation with the rifleman and their paymaster or else they would all die trapped inside the house.
Holding her hand over her nose she plunged forward and out into the servants’ hall. It was fresher here but not by much. ‘Hurry, we’ll exit through the boot-room door. Robert, go ahead and unbolt the door. Annie, you take Harry and Beth first. Girls follow and then the men. Be as quiet as you can.’
Asking them not to cough was like asking the sun not to shine but they did their best. She waited until the last person was out and away down the corridor before she followed. As she moved she heard a horrible groan, like a giant in pain, then the ceiling a few yards behind her, collapsed, spewing flames and searing heat in her direction.
She fled down the corridor remembering with horror, that as soon as the back door was opened the inferno would follow them. When she had been a small child in Spain she had witnessed this phenomenon. A family, trapped in their house, opened a window only to be consumed by flames which suddenly engulfed the room. The fire appeared to wish to escape, like the occupants, through the opening. The poor family had all perished in the conflagration. It was an image she had kept buried deep until now.
‘Don’t open the door,’ she screamed down the corridor.
The butler, at the rear of the group, heard her and shouted. ‘Robert, don’t open the door. Do you hear me, lad?’
Robert did. He removed his hands from the bolts if they were red-hot already. Charlotte raced up to Meltham. ‘We need to create a barrier between the fire and ourselves before we open the door or we shall all be burnt to a cinder.’
The butler didn’t question but pointed to the walls of the boot-room. ‘Quickly, lads, pull this lot down, the shelves will make a fire break.’
All six men ripped at the wooden racks and boxes, throwing everything into a heap a few feet behind the terrified group waiting to get out into the safety of the night. The barrier would give them the extra few seconds’ protection they needed to get out.
In the confined space the heat was becoming unbearable and the smoke filled air as dangerous as the fire. With streaming eyes the butler stepped back.
‘We can do no more, miss, it will have to do, we have to get out or we shall choke to death.’
Charlotte eyed the flimsy wall - it almost reached the ceiling – but would it be enough? She prayed that it would. ‘Robert, when I shout open the door and everyone run for your life- we have given ourselves a half minute’s grace, no longer.’
There was a chorus of coughing from which a few assents could be distinguished. The children were at the front with Annie and Betty; she had to be sure they got out safely. She intended to leave last but the butler and Mary had other ideas. Before she could protest they bundled her forward. And the press of coughing people passed her along, flattening themselves willingly to the wall as she passed.
‘Open the door, Robert,’ Meltham yelled and Charlotte was ejected behind her brother and sister.
‘Run, keep running, to the shelter of the barn,’ she called as she pounded along her bare feet slipping in and out of her borrowed clogs. Mary’s arm came round her, holding her upright when she was in danger of falling.
They stumbled into the empty barn, still warm from the party. Beth, being the only one to have a tinderbox was in great demand lighting the lanterns and torch ends that remained on the walls. Charlotte’s chest burned, her throat felt raw as if she was suffering from a severe head cold, otherwise her physical state was unimpaired.
‘Is everyone here? Mrs Blake, check your girls; Meltham do the same for the men.’
The headcount established all were present and none the worse for their experience.
The two footmen at the rear had been forced to remove their cloaks and were busily stamping out the embers.
One of them cheerfully told her. ‘It’s a good thing you said to put these on, Miss Carstairs, or one of us might have suffered a lot worse than a few holes.’
‘I’m relieved that everyone is safe. We can…’ her voice faded as she remembered that not everyone had got out alive. Jack was gone - killed by the monsters that had set fire to her home. How was she to live without him? First her father, then mother and now him- it was too much. She couldn’t endure the pain.
Strangely her hands stopped shaking and her mind cleared. She knew what she had to do. She turned to Annie. ‘You will take care of Beth and Harry for me?’
‘Of course I will, miss, that’s my job.’
‘Thank you, Annie. I knew I could rely on you.’
She walked trancelike from the barn, seeing nothing, hearing his voice calling to her. She went steadily back towards the blaze. She would join Jack; Thurston Hall could be their funeral pyre.
The stable hands were occupied fighting to calm the horses and lead them away from the smoking stables to the safety of the meadows behind the barn. It seemed no-one saw the tall, slim figure, dressed in clogs and night apparel walk ever closer to the conflagration.
She could feel the heat of the massive flames and welcomed the warmth. The fiercer the blaze the sooner it would be over. She could endure any agony but the one of losing Jack. To be with him she would walk through fire.
Flying embers settled on her hair and she flinched, hearing it fizzle. Her wrapper, floating round her ankles started to burn at the hem. Her ankles were blistering, her face burning, still she walked on.
*
‘For God’s sake, Miss Carstairs, what are you doing?’ She struggled, her madness magnifying her strength. Dr Andrews knew he couldn’t hold her, if she slipped from his grasp she would throw herself into the fire and die. He wouldn’t let that happen. He raised his fist and punched her on the temple.
She collapsed like a stringless puppet and he threw her over his shoulder and raced away. Robert and Mary had seen Charlotte leave but had been too far away to stop her. Now they were here and beating out the flames on her garments with their bare hands.
‘Is she dead? Please God, not her as well,’ Mary whispered as she held Charlotte’s limp hand.
The doctor placed his finger against her neck, under her chin. ‘No, she’s breathing steadily. But I fear she has suffered considerable burns. I must get her back to Upton Manor and attend to her immediately.’
She remained semiconscious throughout the carriage journey. Dr Andrews carried her inside. He had roused his entire staff before galloping across to Thurston, alerted, as were many in the vicinity, by the tell-tale orange glow in the sky. He had also had the foresight to order his carriage to follow, and now it held Annie, Betty, the children and Charlotte. He rode alongside, his face grim.
He could scarcely credit that he had seen Miss Carstairs about to cast herself into the flames for the sake of her dead love. He was glad he had saved her, but feared for her sanity. She had suffered too much loss over the past two years. He wondered if she was strong enough to recover from this latest and most devastating of blows.
*
The smell of the fire acted like a burning feather waved under a swooning debutante and Jack twitched. He lay immobile, fully alert, listening before he moved. Too often he had seen a man recover his senses and sit up, glad to be alive, only to be skewered by a passing enemy soldier. Keeping still was the answer until you knew it was safe to move. His caution saved his life.
The sound of booted feet approaching at the double made him freeze and he prayed the smoke wouldn’t make him cough revealing he was conscious. The boots passed and he opened his eye and seeing the butt of a rifle realized these were the men he sought. How had the bastards got into the hou
se, been able to ambush him? He remembered strolling unconcerned down the stairs, candlestick aloft, intending to ring the bell for the butler on his descent, when a crushing blow to the head had sent him plunging into blackness.
He saw the men enter the study, God knows why, so knew it was safe to rise. He sprung upright and raced to the hall to be forced back by the heat as the wooden stairs and gallery burned fiercely. There was no way of getting to Charlotte and the children - the whole of their corridor was ablaze.
He collapsed in an agony of grief. He wanted to throw himself into the blaze, to join his beloved there. Then a killing rage such as he had never experienced, even in the bloodbath of Waterloo, consumed him and he turned and ran back down the corridor. He stooped to collect his sword and belt, buckling it on as he ran. He had done this so often he could do it without conscious thought.
The passage ahead was a solid wall of fire and the men hadn’t come out of the study. He had them trapped - if he could kill them both he would not care what happened to him. He stopped, but it did matter, he could not give in until the paymaster was dead as well. Revenge would keep him alive a little longer.
He pushed open the study door, his sword in his hand, ready to kill at the slightest movement. God damn it to hell! The room was empty, the ceiling smouldering from the heat of the flames above, but definitely empty. Where were they? The two men hadn’t come out, he would have met them, and the other way was blocked by fire. Think - damn it - think! He urged his brain into action and the answer came. There had to be a secret passage and it led from this room. The red glow from the fire shone brightly through the leaded panes making it easy to see. He had no need for a candlestick.
Where could it be? He scanned the room and his eyes were drawn to the fireplace where there were two raised wooden roses, one on either side. He had always thought them out of place on the austerity of the panels. It had to be one of those. He grabbed the first, it burned his hand but didn’t shift whichever way he pressed or turned. He abandoned this and attacked the second.
Yes! Yes, it was turning, he twisted a further half inch and a section of wall slid open in front of him. A blast of welcome fresh air greeted him to be instantly followed by the horrific sight of the walls on either side glowing red. He threw himself through the space and slammed the panel behind him. He heard the explosion as the windows blew in.
He stretched out his fingers until they touched either side of the narrow corridor and began to jog. He was confident he could find his way out; all he had to do was follow his nose. The heat lessened and he became aware of a cold, dank smell and the walls beneath his fingers crumbled. He was out of the house and in a tunnel. He stared ahead and was sure he could see a glimmer of moonlight which meant he was nearing the end of the passage.
He slowed his pace; he wanted to surprise the murderers not the other way round. He paused at the end, sniffing the air like a wolf. They were close, but not dangerously so. He had emerged some distance from the burning building but the air was full of smoke and made visibility difficult. He noticed the exit was concealed inside a spinney of hornbeam near to the tradesmen’s track that led round to the stables.
Silently he withdrew his sabre and moved stealthily towards his quarry. He could hear voices just ahead and the chink of a bit as a horse threw its head up worried by the smoke. Using the trees as cover and keeping windward of the horses, for they might not hear his approach but they would certainly smell him, he drew nearer.
He stopped. What were they doing, why hadn’t they galloped off to safety? Then white hot rage obliterated his calm as he heard their conversation.
‘Old houses burn a treat, don’t they Billy? I like to watch a good fire.’
The one called Billy answered, chuckling loudly. ‘And a grand pile of roast meat to be had inside, my friend, if your taste runs that way.’
He forgot caution and burst from the bushes like an avenging angel. Billy’s head left his shoulders in mid-sentence to land in gory silence at the feet of his stupefied companion. The second man saw death staring at him and then saw no more as he was decapitated with a second sweep of Jack’s sabre.
Casually he wiped his dripping blade on the body of the first man and calmly restored it to its scabbard. One horse had bolted as the headless body had fallen beneath its hooves but the other, more securely tethered, skittered - wild eyed - hating the smell of fresh blood.
He stroked its sweating neck. ‘Gently, old fellow, nothing to worry about. Come along now, we must follow your stable mate, for I’m certain he’ll lead me to the man I seek.’
He vaulted into the saddle and rode away from Thurston Hall believing he left his heart incinerated in the building along with his beloved. He sat straight in the saddle; he would not allow his pain to destroy his willpower until his task was complete. He knew what he felt now was far worse than the sabre cut that had ruined his face. How could he ever have thought he loved Sophia? He had felt anger, humiliation and betrayal at her rejection and had mistaken this for a broken heart. He had not felt the agony he was now suffering. Why had he not told Lottie he loved her whilst he had had the chance? Now she was gone, never knowing how he felt. His life, like his home, had been reduced to a heap of ash.
The loose horse increased its stride to a canter. He held back, not wishing to be seen. In the light of the full moon he could distinguish the outline of the carriage, surely he had seen it somewhere before? Then he heard men talking quietly - it would appear he had more than one man to kill. No matter – one or ten - they would all die tonight.
He urged his horse close enough to be able to recognize the voices. He leant forward in order to hear more clearly. God in his heaven! It was Blower and Thomas in the carriage. Then he saw their coachman, blunderbuss at the ready, sitting on the box and realized this was not the right time to attack.
Finally he knew who was behind all the attempts. These two seemingly benign old gentlemen had killed his lovely girl and the children but still he couldn’t understand why they had been prepared to murder so many innocents for a paltry thousand or two. He shrugged. People were killed for sixpence in the backstreets of London.
He decided not to storm the coach, the odds were not in his favour, but he would follow them and break in and dispatch them in their home. The arrival of the riderless horse caused panic in the carriage. Immediately the coachman dropped his gun and whipped up the horses. The carriage rattled away down the narrow lane and he kept pace in the darkness behind.
He followed them until dawn; they bypassed Ipswich and didn’t stop until they reached the entrance to a prosperous estate. The name emblazoned on the high brick wall was Goodly Hall. He watched the gateman fling open the wrought iron gates and wave the carriage through. His shoulders drooped, inexplicably his desire to pursue them, his white hot rage evaporated and all he had left was a crushing weight on his chest and a black hole where his happiness used to be.
He would ride into Ipswich and inform the magistrates, they could take it from there. The two men would face trial, be convicted, stripped of their assets and strung up. He no longer cared how they died, as long as they did. He wanted no more to do with killing. Too many good people had died that night. He unbuckled his sword belt and tossed it into the hedge. He would never use it again.
His death wish had gone along with his desire to kill for he had accepted he had responsibilities. His people had suffered enough. His staff, if any had survived, needed him to provide for them. His borrowed horse was exhausted by the time he reached Ipswich; it couldn’t carry him no further. He left it at the Crown and hired a jobbing hack from the ostler there, this was a sturdy mare, well up to his weight, and could take him back to Thurston when he was ready.
He had no appetite but forced himself to consume a plate of ham and eggs and drink a mug of porter before he set out to find the magistrate. It was midmorning before he was satisfied things were arranged correctly, certain the murdering pair would be arrested that day.
In m
isery he headed back to Thurston. He saw nothing on his journey; his vision was blurred by tears.
Chapter Twenty-two
Charlotte could hear muted whispers and knew someone had come in to check her progress. She wanted none of them. She wanted to be left alone to grieve. She didn’t want broth of fresh lemonade, she wanted nothing.
‘Lottie, it’s me, Beth. I’ve come to read to you. You don’t have to answer, or take any notice, but you always read to me when I’m poorly and it makes me feel much better, so I’m hoping it will do the same for you.’
She hadn’t the energy to tell Beth to go away, to leave her in peace. At least if she was listening it might stop her thinking for a while. She was unsure how long she’d been at Upton Manor, perhaps one night, no longer.
Her sister started reading from ‘The Mysteries of Udolfo’ and did it surprisingly well. She listened, trying to blot out her misery, knowing she had to make an effort, the children needed her more than ever. The pain from the burns she had sustained was not enough to deaden the agony of her loss. That was far worse, it was all consuming.
She let the words drift over her head, losing interest in the story. With Jack gone she had to provide a house for them, but where? She recalled Mr Blower had said there was a house in Ipswich and an annuity from her grandfather; would that be sufficient to keep them from poverty?
But the lawyers were thieves, liars; it was possible there was no money or even a house in Ipswich, and what then? Would it be the Poor House for them all?
She heard Beth sigh and close the book but she had no words of comfort. The children hadn’t been told of his death, they thought she was shocked from the fire and the loss of all her possessions. She bit her knuckles to stop a groan escaping. How was she going to cope on her own? She must pull herself together, explain to the children what had happened, but not now, she was too tired, she needed to sleep.
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