Guarding the Countess

by Lily Reynard

  Hot air rushes up the staircase from the inferno below, and it's hard to breathe. He concentrates on descending the rickety wooden stairs for he can't risk dropping his precious burden.

  Once down, fire licks at his clothes and he smells his hair burning. Coughing and gasping, he stumbles for the door, holding Margaret close to his chest.

  Finally, he's outside in the cold winter air. He turns to look for Anna, but long moments pass and she does not emerge from the house.

  "Anna!" Kit hands Margaret to a neighbor, and runs back inside.

  The wooden stairs are burning now, and as Kit rushes forward, the thin wooden treads begin to collapse.

  "Anna!" he screams, his throat raw with smoke and loss, choking on the odors of burning plaster and smoldering wool.

  He runs back into the street, hoping against hope that Anna somehow got out, but she isn't there.

  When he tries to enter the house a second time, Johann the blacksmith catches him and holds him fast.

  "The roof is already gone," he says in German, as Kit screams and struggles futilely in Johann's grip. "I'm sorry, Kristof. I am so very sorry."

  Kit woke to the sound of Margaret sobbing from a nightmare of her own.

  His face was wet with tears, and his heart was pounding. If only he had noticed sooner that Anna was no longer following him! Perhaps he could have saved her...

  He sat up abruptly, sniffing the air, and smelled smoke, sharper and stronger than the usual cooking-fires and burning coal.

  Now he knew why his dreams, and those of his daughter, had been troubled.

  The strong wind that had started the previous day had not subsided, and the timber frame of the house creaked ominously in the gusts.

  As Kit opened the shutters in his bedroom and looked out, seeking the source of the smoke, he saw that the length of Penny Lane was littered with shingles blown off nearby roofs, mixed with shattered chimney-pots and the sad remnants of flyaway laundry—a prettily-embroidered chemise, a man's shirt, and a scattering of handkerchiefs.

  If the smoke came from a house-fire burning anywhere nearby, he thought uneasily, it would spread quickly in this wind.

  After their usual breakfast of small beer and bread, he sent Margaret off to her lessons at the neighborhood school, and began preparing for the day's students.

  The mystery of the smoke was soon solved.

  A neighbor reported that a fire had started yesterday some distance away, near London Bridge. It had already burned many of the riverfront workshops and storerooms, and now, pushed along by the high winds, it was spreading rapidly.

  Kit, alarmed by the news in this city of close-packed wooden houses, canceled his remaining lessons. Most of his students had not shown up today, anyway.

  As a precaution, he went to the nearest fountain to refill the wooden bucket that he kept by the door, only to find a group of anxious neighbor-women milling around a spout gone dry.

  "I heard they cut the water line to fight the fire in Pudding Lane," said Mrs. Philpot, the grocer's wife, as she turned to go, her empty jug dangling from her hand.

  "But what if the fire comes here?" asked another woman. "How will the engines obtain water?"

  Mrs. Philpot shrugged. "Don't you worry none, duck—the wind's blowing away from us. Fire won't come this way."

  There was a general sigh of relief, with some surreptitious glances at the limited strips of sky glimpsed between the overhanging houses on each side. Kit looked upward, and saw only blue, despite the lingering smell of burning.

  Nevertheless, he returned home and began bundling up his belongings. He hoped it would not become necessary to throw his possessions in a wheelbarrow and flee, but there was no harm in being prepared.

  When Margaret returned from her lessons, they would walk a little, and check the progress of the fire.

  But Margaret did not return after the time for her lessons had ended. Kit waited for an hour, growing increasingly more anxious. It was unlike his daughter to linger. Had she been hurt? Had someone fleeing the fire hit her with a wagon?

  With that thought, Kit decided to wait no longer. He would start his search at the nearby school. Sick with worry, he belted on his rapier and went forth into the smoky day.

  * * *

  To the west, at Cranbourne House, Antonia and Chelmsford were seated side-by-side at the virginals, practicing Beauty, Retire, a song currently very popular at Court.

  Chelmsford had come calling unexpectedly, reporting his swordplay lessons canceled because of the threat of spreading fire in the city.

  The news gave Antonia a pang of worry—is Kit in danger?—which she tried to suppress.

  He was a liar and in league with Thornsby. Did he ever truly love me?

  The pain hit her, the wound to her heart still raw and bleeding. Would it ever heal? She tried to keep herself occupied during the day, but at night, she was tormented by memories and thoughts of him.

  Chelmsford seemed to read her mind. Or perhaps her expression betrayed her.

  He hastened to assure her. "My lady, the winds are pushing the in the direction of the Tower, away from Cheapside, where Mr. Fitzgeorge lives."

  Chelmsford patted her hand, and she found his touch comforting. He might be awkward and unsure of himself, but at least he was an honest man, if painfully sincere.

  He wants to make me happy, Antonia tried to tell herself. But it did her no good. She still craved Kit's delicious kisses, and the fire that his touch kindled inside her.

  Antonia firmly put aside thoughts of Kit and summoned Reeves.

  When Reeves arrived, she told him to permit any servants with families living in the city to depart and aid in fighting the fire or packing up household goods.

  The normally-bustling house was all but deserted by mid-afternoon, and Antonia found herself glad of Chelmsford's company. Even if she never found the same passion with him that she had experienced with Kit, Chelmsford had become her friend.

  Maybe that will be a good foundation for a happy marriage. She only wished she could bring herself to believe it.

  Betty, one of the few remaining servants, scratched on the door of the Blue Parlor. "Sorry to interrupt you, milady, but little Margaret Fitzgeorge is here to see you, and she's quite distraught."

  Antonia's apprehension about Kit's safety returned full-force. "Please, show her in immediately."

  Chelmsford must have sensed her distress, for he reached over and took her hand. He, too, looked concerned.

  Then Margaret entered the parlor. She ran forward, and threw herself into Antonia's lap.

  "I dreamed your house was on fire!" she sobbed. "And you couldn't get out!"

  "Margaret," Antonia said, stroking the girl's blonde curls, "The fire isn't anywhere near here. We are all safe in this house."

  But Margaret still wept inconsolably. Her voice muffled, she spoke in incoherent gasps, of which Antonia understood only, "...just like Mama!"

  Finally, after a long while, she calmed herself, but stayed in Antonia's lap.

  "Margaret, Where's your father? How did you get here?" asked Antonia, holding the little girl close.

  Her clothes smelled of smoke, and Antonia felt a frisson of alarm despite Chelmsford's earlier assurances. Kit's lodgings were on the other side of the city from the bridge. What if the fire had spread to Cheapside, after all?

  "I thought you were going to be my step-mama, but then we went away." Margaret clenched Antonia's skirts in her fists. "And now Papa looks so sad whenever I ask about you."

  "So, your papa doesn't know you're here?" Chelmsford asked. He had flushed when Margaret mentioned her hopes for Antonia as her step-mother, but his tone was calm and friendly.

  Margaret wiped her nose on her sleeve, and seemed to notice for the first time that Chelmsford was holding Antonia's hand. Her mouth made an "O" of dismay.

  "You're one of Papa's students," she said, finally.

  "Yes. I am Lord Chelmsford." He gave a strained smile.

  Mar
garet tilted her head to the side. "Are you the man who's going to marry Lady Cranbourne? Because my papa—"

  "Must be frantic with worry by now!" interjected Antonia. "It was very dangerous for you to have come here alone, Margaret."

  "Please don't be angry, milady," Margaret said. "A nice man gave me an apple and a ride in his cart. Because it was too far to walk." She reached under her apron, and produced a half-eaten fruit. "I saved some for Sweetheart, see? Can I feed him?"

  Antonia smiled despite herself. "Of course you can, Margaret. Have you had your dinner yet?"

  The little girl was already halfway to Sweetheart's perch. "No, milady."

  "You must be very hungry, then. Stay and have dinner with us, and we will bring you home."

  "Can Sweetheart come?" asked Margaret.

  Antonia nodded, and rose from her seat. "He likes to ride in my coach."

  She extended her hand to the little girl. "But first, dinner. We're having a venison pasty and baked apples with cream."

  * * *

  Julian sat in his Whitehall apartments, simmering with rage.

  This morning over breakfast, filled with obscene good cheer, Chelmsford had announced that the last of the banns had been called for his wedding to Lady Cranbourne. They would be wed on Sunday next.

  How dare that over-proud, disfigured harpy spurn me? I'm twice the man that Chelmsford will ever be!

  And as for Chelmsford, that thief of what was rightfully mine...

  His angry brooding was interrupted by a timid scratch at his door.

  Julian looked around for his servant, and remembered that he had sent the man out on an errand.

  He scowled and called, "Enter!"

  His visitor proved to be the boy he had hired to watch Cranbourne House.

  "M'lord?" The boy peeked his head cautiously through the door, goggled at the furnishings, then slid the rest of the way into the room.

  Julian noticed that the boy was panting, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright with excitement.

  "Well?" he demanded. "You have some news for me?"

  "Yes, m'lord!" The boy belatedly remembered to bow, bobbing awkwardly in Julian direction. His shaggy, mouse-colored hair flopped over his eyes and he pushed it back with a grimy hand. "Your man said to come tell you if Lady Cranbourne left her house."

  Julian waited for further details. The boy just stood there like a gape-jawed fool, peering at his reflection in the gilt-framed mirror hanging on one wall of the sitting room.

  "And?" he demanded. "Details, boy! I need more information than that."

  "Oh!" Startled, the boy tore his reflection away from the mirror. "She drove away in her coach. I heard her telling the coachman to take her into the City by way of Ludgate Hill."

  "Did anyone accompany her? Any guards?"

  The boy wrinkled his brow in thought, then shook his head. "I saw three people with her, m'lord: her maid, the red-headed one; a little girl about my own sister's age, with yellow hair; and a young gentleman with a fine blue coat."

  The little blonde girl is surely Kit's brat! Though Julian could not imagine what Lady Cranbourne wanted with the little wench.

  And the young gentleman was likely Chelmsford, come to pay a call on his betrothed.

  Julian tried to contain his excitement. Lady Cranbourne, abroad without a guard. And with that arrogant puppy Chelmsford, too!

  He had been waiting for weeks for an opportunity like this to present itself.

  Julian dug in his pouch for the silver half-crown he'd promised the boy as his fee. It was a generous amount, enough to buy a week's worth of bread for the boy's family.

  He tossed the boy the coin. As the boy eagerly lunged forward to catch it, Julian produced another half-crown, and held it temptingly between his fingers. "Say nothing of this to anyone, and this is yours once I'm wed to Lady Cranbourne."

  The boy's eyes widened, and he nodded eagerly. "Not a word, m'lord."

  "Good," said Julian. "Now, off with you. I have important business to attend. "

  Julian waited until the sound of the boy's light, rapid footfalls had faded from the stairs, then grabbed his sword and his hat, and left his rooms.

  I was a fool to entrust my business to Kit. But now I have a chance to correct my error and set my plans back on course.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  With many citizens fleeing the fire on the eastern end of the city, and the sun burning like a dying ember in a mud-colored sky, watermen and boats were in short supply on this day.

  But with Kit's betrayal, Julian had made alternate arrangements for carrying out his plan.

  At his summons, two other men swiftly joined him as Julian left Whitehall Palace. Together, they sailed a small fishing vessel downstream to Paul's Wharf.

  One of the men, Tom Fletcher, had served Julian for years. The other man was his friend Sir George Purbeck, the white scar on his cheek gleaming in the orange sunlight.

  "I'll wager that Lady Cranbourne is headed to Fitzgeorge's lodgings to return his brat." Julian told his companions as they tied up at Paul's Wharf.

  Fletcher grinned. "Why, they must be the only fools trying to get into the city today!"

  "Indeed," said Julian, watching the scene on the streets beyond the wharf, where the narrow streets were jammed with carts and citizens fleeing the confines of the city for the open fields that lay around Westminster.

  "Fitzgeorge lives near St. Maudlin's, does he not?" asked Purbeck.

  Julian nodded.

  "In that case, milord, I believe we shall make better time on foot," offered Fletcher.

  "Very well," said Julian. "Let us hasten."

  * * *

  The Cranbourne coach's progress, already slow, became even slower as they passed through Ludgate and found themselves within the city's walls.

  Magnified by the close-packed rows of tall houses, a hot wind roared down the streets, scraps of half-burned paper fleeing like singed birds before it.

  Though it was only mid-afternoon, the sky had darkened to an ominous brown twilight, and the sun shone dull orange through copper haze.

  Inside the coach, Chelmsford was displaying an unexpected talent for entertaining children. Margaret watched him, wide-eyed, as he folded his large, lace-trimmed handkerchief into a floppy-necked bird.

  Sweetheart perched quietly on Margaret's knee, and she was stroking his feathers. Antonia peering out of the coach, dreading the sight of flames.

  The street ended at St. Paul's cathedral.

  As the coach lurched to a halt, Samuel Mills shouted down from the coachman's bench. "My lady, I cannot proceed! Shall I turn around?"

  Antonia peered out of the window and saw a steady stream of people flowing across the paved churchyard, climbing over and around the gravestones.

  The next part of their intended route, Warwick Lane, was impassable, blocked by wagons piled high with bedsteads, chairs, tables, carpets, and even a set of virginals.

  Some of the poorer folk were attempting to push past the stalled wagons with wheelbarrows piled high with clothing and dishes, which only worsened the snarled traffic.

  She saw one man bent nearly double under a huge bundle of possessions wrapped in sheets and tablecloths.

  "Do you mind walking the rest of the way?" she asked Chelmsford. "Mr. Fitzgeorge's lodgings are just on the other side of St. Paul's."

  Chelmsford frowned. "Do you think it's safe?"

  Antonia considered for a long moment. "At last account, the fire was burning in the direction of the Tower. I pray God it does not reach here, but in any case, we have some time yet."

  "Then I shall accompany you," said Chelmsford.

  Margaret took Sweetheart on her wrist, and climbed out, holding his leash in her other hand. Antonia followed, then Chelmsford emerged.

  She instructed Samuel to wait for them as long as it was safe, then led the way into St. Paul's churchyard.

  As they passed around the high walls of the cathedral, which were wreathed in scaffold
ing, Chelmsford asked in a low voice, "How do you know he'll still be at his lodgings?"

  Antonia looked at the little girl leading the way. Margaret clung to Mall's hand while proudly carrying Sweetheart on her forearm.

  "Kit—I mean, Mr. Fitzgeorge—wouldn't leave without his daughter. She means everything to him."

  "And so do you, Antonia," Chelmsford said, softly.

  Antonia threw him a startled look. A sudden chill made her shiver despite the hot wind ruffling her skirts.

  Were her feelings so transparent? She had tried so hard not to think about Kit since the revelations of that terrible day.

  A gust of acrid smoke smote at her, making her cough as her eyes watered.

  Chelmsford took her arm and tucked it into the crook of his elbow as they continued walking.

  "I would have to be blind not to see how you feel about each other," he continued. "And I know that you agreed to wed me only upon the king's insistence. But...do you—" he stopped, and swallowed hard. "Do you think that you might perhaps develop some affection for me, as well?"

  "Edward," Antonia squeezed his arm through the soft fabric of his jacket, "I've grown very fond of you, something I would scarcely have credited when first we met."

  He gave an embarrassed chuckle at the reminder. "I am astonished you do not hate me."

  "I suppose I have a forgiving nature," Antonia said, dryly.

  Turning serious once more, she continued, "Whatever Mr. Fitzgeorge may have been to me, I assure you that it is in the past. I will honor the vows I make to you, and try my best to be a good wife."

  He stopped walking, letting Margaret go ahead, and drew Antonia close.

  "And I want to be a good husband," he whispered, lowering his lips to hers.

  It was a lover's kiss, soft but demanding, and his arms were surprisingly strong around her.

  Antonia dutifully returned his embrace, and opened her mouth under the pressure of his, but she felt nothing except relief that she did not find him completely repulsive.

  He was young, rather handsome in a gangling way, and his breath was sweet.

  Surely, that is enough.

  No! cried her heart, remembering how the world had vanished when Kit's lips met hers.

  The comparison between what they had shared during their single afternoon and night together and Edward's well-meaning caresses…how would she be able to endure it on her wedding night, less than a week away now?