In the morning, she would announce her plans to leave. Percy might not understand and she didn't feel the need that he should. It felt vindictive informing him of the real reason she was leaving and she wasn't interested in being vindictive. Right now, she wanted to put all this behind her.
As she sat there, she left the shutters open, almost as an act of rebellion. The darkness pressed outside, but she refused to relent to it. She was not going to be terrified of shadows and curses, and any other silly superstition. Granted, not everything going on at Rose Hill was innocent. Someone was deliberately trying to harm the family and would indiscriminately harm the innocent in that pursuit. Getting up, she closed the shutters. Her act of rebellion only stretched so far.
Now she could turn her mind toward leaving and her future. There was a certain excitement about heading off into the unknown. There were also risks. The world was a harsh place and she could travel in it badly. She hoped not. But her heart and kindness had been used and abused here. She would have to be smart, she determined. There were good people in the world and she would make them her company.
Her determination was in large part fueled by having little choice. She needed to learn to embrace this uncertainty. Hopefully, it would eventually lead to an improvement in her position.
Picking up her book on the bedside table, she started to read, refusing to let her thoughts wander to the people around her and the injuries they had inflicted. It was time to put all of them behind her.
For a while, she managed to get lost in the book and leave her troubles behind. It felt good to step into someone else's life for a moment, be carried away to far-flung places. This one was about a heroine who traveled to Egypt, an enthusiast in antiquities. It was as far away from her own life as she could imagine.
Eventually, she placed the book down and blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. It wasn't entirely dark. Moonlight rimmed the shutters in pale gentleness. Did Lord Cresswell hide from the dark like they did here? Doubtful. He seemed very comfortable in the dark—wherever he was.
Sleep tugged her away, gently absorbing her into dreams—dreams of tears and sorrow, of escaping but not wanting to. She was running for a ship and it sailed away.
A noise brutally shunted her out of sleep. The sound pierced through her mind and immediately she rose. Not again, she thought and listened. Scrapes and footsteps, and then a whoosh. Someone was out there again.
The heavy pounding of her heart hurt in her chest. This person killed people and they were outside. Why hadn't she secured herself a proper weapon? Had it never occurred to her that they could come back? Now here she was, alone and just about hysterical.
Through the shutters, she could see it brightening unnaturally outside and the noise only grew louder. Groans and creaks. Fire. The house was on fire. Alarm screamed inside her head and panic bit into her mind, and she froze, unable to think what to do. That man was burning them in their beds.
Shattering glass somewhere made her whole body waver. The violence of the sound almost feeling like a physical strike.
Having retreated into her corner again, Emmeline tried to get her mind to work. The house was burning. She had to get out. Acrid smoke started to seep into the room, stealing into her lungs and making her cough. The smoke killed as readily as fire, she knew. If she stayed here, she would die.
Urging her feet to move, she flew to the door and tried to turn the key, but the handle was hot. It shouldn't be hot. The lock slid open but she stopped herself from opening the door. There was fire on the other side. She would be engulfed into it if she opened the door. It trapped her here.
Banging on the door, she yelled as loudly as she could. The others needed to know. Then she felt heat on her feet. Flames were licking through the bottom of the door. Like an invading army relentlessly making its way inside, striving to reach her.
Wrapping her arms tightly to her, she backed away from the door. She wasn't safe here. The fire was coming. She was going to die. Turning, she looked to the window. Flames were licking along the shutters as well. Both of her exits were on fire. But one might give her a chance.
Running to the shutters, she flung them open. Flames played along the bottom of the window sill, but the shutters carried much of it away from her. Grabbing her bedsheets, she beat the flames back until she could scramble up. Part of the veranda was on fire, but not all of it. She would have to leap to the far edge, over the fire that burned like a twisting beast.
No choice, she told herself. Die or live. Leap or fail. Those were her choices. Simple. Screaming was heard in the house behind her and Emmeline turned her head back. The others knew, but there was nothing she could do to help them. Like her, they had to find their own escapes. Trying to help would only kill her as her way was blocked by fire. Freeing herself was her only option.
She leaped. The heat below her was unbearable, like a wave of pain as the flames reached for her. Her momentum flew her to the banister, which couldn't stop her motion and she toppled over it, lost in darkness, falling in shattered confusion until a hard landing shook her very consciousness. A firm vice sat around her chest and she couldn't breathe. Above her flames danced and screamed. The roar of the fire deafened her. Pain seared in her lungs that still refused to work.
In stages, the vice around her chest relented and she drew a deep, ragged breath, but her lungs still burned with ache. Scrambling to her feet, sharpness cut her along her arms and legs. Thorns. She'd landed on a rose bush, flattened the very center of it.
Stunned, she moved away. She was down on the ground, having fallen from the veranda. The fire roared above her, engulfing more of the house with every moment. People were coming through the canes. The slaves. They were arriving, the alarm had been raised. They beat at the fire, but there was too much.
Mr. Hart was there. He stood with his arms crossed and a smile on his face. There was pride in his face.
"You did this," she said before she thought.
He raised an eyebrow. "You were supposed to be at your lover's house, Miss Durrant. You should have heeded my suggestion."
"Why?"
She didn't get an answer. In her bare feet and singed nightgown, she walked to the front of the house. The entire structure was on fire. There was no way they could save it by beating at the flames and with paltry pails of water. Fire had a hold of the building and it wasn't giving up its prey.
Then he was there, Cresswell. One moment he was simply there, riding hard down the road until he reached her, leaping off his horse.
"Are you unharmed?" he demanded.
"Yes, but the others."
At that moment, Joseph came carrying Mrs. Thornton.
"Percy!" she screamed. "Percy."
"His leg is broken," Emmeline said. "It's stopping him from getting out."
Cresswell looked at her. In a way, she couldn't believe he was there—and he hadn't caused this fire. He hadn’t done any of the things he’d been accused of. Mr. Hart had. Hart grabbed onto Cresswell's arm as if holding him back, but Cresswell broke free of the man and darted up the stairs.
"It burns inside," Emmeline called and he looked back at her for a moment before kicking the door open and disappearing. Everything inside her strained against what she was seeing, him disappear into the burning building. At that moment, she knew she did care. She was in love with him and the thought of him burning in fire was devastating—even if his love for her wasn't true. Even if there was something very dark about him, she didn't care. Right now, she wanted him to live even if he was the cruelest man she had ever met.
"You did this," Mrs. Thornton accused, her eyes on Mr. Hart, who still looked unrepentant at the devastation he'd cause. "You're the one who's been trying to hurt Percy."
"Shut up you stupid whore," he spat. "Watch everything you stole being burned to the ground, exactly like you deserve."
"Stolen? What are you talking about? I never stole from a foreman. You have much too high regard for yourself, you repulsive
man."
"This place never belonged to you. My grandfather built this house you rest your sullen carcass in. You were only ever here because you stole it—stole from my family. There was only ever going to be retribution. Didn't you realize that?" Sheer malice laced every word.
The expression on Mrs. Thornton's face went from surprise to coolness. It seemed she did know that he was talking about. She turned her back on him and faced the house. She might know what he was referring to, but right now, she cared only about Percy.
Emmeline watched as well. The roar of the fire continued relentlessly, but the two men still did not emerge. All she wanted was for them to appear, but they didn't. Time stretched impossibly. She really had no notion of how much time actually passed. To her, it seemed an eternity.
Eventually, a figure appeared, wrapped in a cloak, half dragging Percy and his bandaged leg. She could breathe again. He was here; he was alive. Joseph ran forward to help Percy, who crumpled to the ground, coughing violently. Cresswell bent over from exertion, also trying to breathe for the smoke. Then he straightened and immediately sought her with his eyes.
Sheer relief was the only feeling she knew. He was alive and he was here. With labored steps, he walked toward her and she wrapped her arms around him, embracing him as if never wanting to let him go. "You came."
"I saw the flames."
"Where were you? I went to see you, but you weren't there."
"Bahamas. I told you. I needed to deal with the divorce. It will take some time, but it is started."
Hearing that, Emmeline smiled. He'd been serious with what he'd said. For a moment, she lost herself in his eyes. She had been utterly wrong to doubt him and she knew that now.
"You killed my boys," Mrs. Thornton said, her voice screeching. "You killed my Philip, but you will not kill us. You will hang for this."
"Nothing short of what you deserve," Hart said with a sneer. "You and your filthy family. Liars and cheats, all of you. Nothing short of what you deserve. Did you really think you would get away with it? Nothing is ever free, you stupid whore. You steal, it returns on you. Now you have nothing."
"We never stole anything."
"Is that what you tell yourself? A stacked wager, one my father never had a chance at winning. Oh, you got him at a weak moment, then twisted the dagger. This is the price you pay. See, there's always a price in the end."
"Your father lost fair and square."
"But see, your husband was known for his wagers, wasn't he? Everywhere he went. New Orleans, Bermuda. Those deceptive wagers appeared everywhere he went. Thought he'd struck gold, putting his trash family in my house. People like you don't belong here. This plantation is mine and it always will be. Just needed to do a bit of housecleaning. Let go of me," he demanded, struggling against the hands that grabbed hold of him. The slaves held him and he strained against them. "Now, or you will suffer. I will have you all whipped to within an inch of your lives." No one let go. The anger and hatred evident on their faces. Whatever wrong this man had suffered by the Thorntons, these men cared about the boy he had destroyed in the process.
"He's not worth taking your retribution on," Cresswell said, speaking to the men. "The magistrate will hang him. Let's not rob the crowd of the show. Don't add more necks to the noose." It didn't look like the men were going to comply. They wanted their retribution, wanted to make him pay for what he had done to the boy. Hart screamed in his insult and offense. "The others are coming. He is not worth the price you would have to pay. Not now, not when everything is so close to ending."
In fact, the neighbor, Kerwin, appeared on horseback, men following him. They were rushing here to help with the fire. The brightness of it would likely show across half the island. The appearance of these new men seemed to cool the viciousness in the faces of the slaves, it melted away to stoic determination.
Percy was now standing awkwardly with Joseph's help. "Don't think there is any use trying to save it," he said as Kerwin approached. "It's well engulfed. The culprit is here." He pointed at Hart, who was still restrained, seeming to have given up on freeing himself and instead received the accusation with pride.
"We'll take him to town," Kerwin said. "There's a rope wishing a close acquaintance with you, Mr. Hart."
"Rosenbloom, actually," he said. The name gave Kerwin pause.
"Whatever your name be," he said and took the man by the arm. "Make your way to Springvale," Kerwin told Percy. "Florrie will ensure you have everything you need."
Emmeline still embraced Cresswell and his arm rested on her shoulder. To say they had no acquaintance at this point would be laughable. Mrs. Thornton had obviously recovered enough to give her a disgusted look.
"Do you wish to go with them?" Cresswell asked quietly.
"No," she said and he smiled, pleased with her answer.
"Then let me take you home."
There was no point being cautious now. She was placing her trust in him and would deal with whatever consequences resulted.
Stepping away from her, he urged his horse over and mounted before giving her his arm like he had a few times before. He pulled her up behind him and it was the only place she wanted to be.
Mrs. Thornton and Percy were being helped onto a cart to be taken to the Springvale Plantation. The house still burned around them, part of the roof collapsing into itself, crashing with a seeming howl. There would be nothing left when the fire was done. Rose Hill house would be no more.
Urging the horse forward, the air felt cool away from the fire. Emmeline almost felt cold and she wrapped her arms around the man in front of her. Thoughts were still competing for space inside her head. Mr. Hart was the culprit. He was responsible for all the things that had happened—for the murder of the boy, for the attempts on Percy's life and for terrifying them whenever he could. Likely, he'd been doing so to Mrs. Thornton for years, since the time he’d arrived. Emmeline couldn't help but to feel sorry for the woman. His name wasn't Hart, though; it was something else, a child of the previous owner of the plantation.
"Do you think he killed Mr. Thornton and the two boys?" she asked.
Cresswell was quiet for a while. "Perhaps. Maybe not Rufus, the youngest. I believe he really did die of a fever, but Harold suffered an accident on the way home, which Hart could well have been responsible for, and Philip died suspiciously quickly. Hart could be responsible for that, too. Them both dying in such short order is suspicious. It is unlikely anything can be proven. Not that it needs to be. He will hang all the same for what he’s done now."
"An evil man," Emmeline said, shuddering with the thought.
"Yes," Cresswell agreed.
Chapter 32
Physically, she felt battered and bruised, the pressing urgency of the night fading away. It was still too recent in her mind to sleep and thoughts rushed around her head. Mr. Hart was the culprit, a man had a heart cold enough to kill. It was difficult to fathom. Years he had been planning and harming the Thornton family, all because of how they came to own the property. And she had never guessed, had seen no sign of his demented mind.
They rode in silence through the blackness of the jungle. The horse's ankle clicked once in a while. Emmeline felt emotionally drained. All this death and suffering, and for what? A piece of land. It seemed insane. It was insane.
Cresswell's house was dark when they arrived. Emmeline had no idea what time it was, but it looked some hours from dawn. With his hands at her waist, he helped her down from the horse. He sighed. "I was worried when I saw the fire. I’d just arrived back. The smoke could be seen from far away. I don't think I have ever ridden so fast."
"I didn't think you would be there," she admitted. "Percy would probably not have made it out of the house if you hadn't been."
"He was trying, but he was moving very slowly. There was a good chance he would have been overcome by the smoke."
"Will they hang Hart?"
"Yes. There is little doubt. The governor has the power to carry out such a senten
ce."
Looking down, she noticed that she was still wearing her nightgown. "More often than not, I tend to show up at your house bedraggled."
Cresswell smiled. "I don't mind. As long as you're here." Pulling her to him, he kissed her, his arms wrapping around her. Sweetness suffused her mind as she melted into the kiss. Earlier, she had assured herself she would never experience another, but it was her faith that hadn’t been true. He had sailed to the Bahamas to clear the path for them.
The kiss deepened. Nothing in her wanted to pull back or stop. This was too nice, too necessary. Whatever barrier she had left against him had fallen and she wanted to be nestled in his warmth.
Picking her up, he carried her inside. The hall was completely dark, but a light soon appeared as his manservant rose to see what was going on.
"I don't need assistance," Cresswell told him and with a nod the man left them, not batting an eyelid as the lord of the manor coming in carrying a woman. Cresswell carried her up the stairs and into a bedroom. His, she assumed.
Emmeline bit her lip, knowing this was a big step. She was accepting him fully, in every form that entailed.
Laying her down on the bed, he stepped away and walked over to the window. "And now you are here. I admit, I have thought of little else lately. It will still be some time before we can marry, but it occurs to me that you haven't actually said yes."
No, she hadn't. She had with kisses, but she hadn't actually said it. "Yes," she said. "I will marry you."
The moonlight from the window showed his smile, but there seemed to be a tinge of sadness to it that worried her. Emmeline rose from the bed and walked over to him, laying her hand on his chest. He placed his over hers.
"Why?" she asked. "Why do you want me? My past is filled with deception and tragedy, it seems. Quite a few people would go so far as to say I am highly inappropriate as a wife for you—probably for anyone."
"I am no prize myself. I have nothing."
"You keep saying that. I don't understand."
"All this," he said, showing the fields outside the window. "It was never really ours. Not me, not the Thorntons', certainly not Hart's. We came here; we forced our will on the land and on the people we brought here, hiding behind whatever we told ourselves to make it allowable. But there is nothing here, just the ghost of a past no one should be proud of."
The Curse at Rose Hill Page 18
