by Maureen Lang
She gave up tugging on the latch and walked around to the back. She herself had pounded those nails to straighten the slats, but the wood in several places had been decaying. Even if she couldn’t loosen the nails, she could likely crash through one of the boards.
But the wood was more solid than it appeared. All she did was bruise her elbow and catch the lace sleeve of her borrowed gown, tearing it.
To her own shame, she wanted to sit down and cry. Perhaps she wouldn’t be seen if she stayed right where she was, behind the carriage house. Perhaps the police would arrive and quell the violence. But what was afire? She could still smell the smoke, but she couldn’t see flames anywhere.
Why, oh why, had she allowed Mr. Foster to whisk her away without telling Henry? If he were here, she wouldn’t be so afraid.
The scent of smoke on the breeze wrapped itself around Henry’s leaden heart, tugging it further into the pit of his stomach. What if Pierson House was burning? What if Dessa was in the midst of all the trouble?
“Let me off here,” Henry shouted, pounding on the roof of the carriage with his fist. He’d left behind his walking stick. Traffic was so thick his carriage crawled far more slowly than the pace of his heart. With a hand on the door latch, he spoke to Tobias. “Tell Fallo to take you to the nearest precinct. If the police aren’t already on their way, demand that they come—and bring help.”
“Right,” Tobias said, but just as Henry was about to jump free of the slowing carriage, he grabbed Henry’s wrist. “Careful as you go, Henry.”
He nodded, but only once. Then he ran toward the ruckus.
“That you? Miss Caldwell, that you?”
Dessa wiped away her tears at the sound of Nadette’s voice from the other side of the wooden slat. “Yes! Are you in there? Are you with the girls?”
“Come around to the door, Miss Caldwell.” Though her voice was not loud, it mirrored Dessa’s urgency.
“I tried. It’s stuck solid.”
“That’s ’cause we got it barred on the inside. Mr. Dunne fixed it up fine. You come round and I’ll let you in.”
Dessa trampled grass and weeds around the carriage house to get back to the front door in time for Nadette to open it barely wide enough to let her slip inside.
“Oh, Nadette!” Dessa hugged her close after the girl had barred the door again. “Where are Liling and Mei Mei?”
Nadette pulled herself away, waving for Dessa to follow. Dessa looked around. The carriage house was empty, looking as it always did—dilapidated and deserted. The only difference was that the blanket at the foot of the cot was missing.
In the center of the square structure, Nadette stopped. She reached down to the dirt-ridden floor and pulled on something. To Dessa’s surprise a hatch appeared, opening to a cellar below.
“Watch that first rung on the ladder, miss,” Nadette warned. “It’s broke.”
Dessa peered below, where the meager light of a single candle illuminated not much more than its immediate surroundings. Then a rounded shadow appeared at the foot of the ladder.
Mr. Dunne held out an arm, as if to assist her in her descent.
“Hurry on down, Miss Caldwell!” Nadette whispered. “Who knows what them men out there are gonna do next. At least some of them still want Liling and Mei Mei.”
Dessa grabbed Nadette’s arms, hope bursting through her gloom. “They’ll never find them here!”
She made her way through the narrow opening, down a ladder that felt anything but secure.
At the bottom Mr. Dunne was fairly shoved aside as Jane rushed for Dessa with a cry and hug. Over the girl’s shoulder Dessa saw Liling and Mei Mei clinging to one another in the far outreach of the candle’s dim glow.
None of Henry’s shouts were heeded. Men grappled with each other as if in a bizarre dance, choreographed for a blood-lusting audience. Henry kept to the edge, not eager to get involved on either side—unless he found Dessa and she needed his protection.
But she was nowhere to be seen, not even among the line of women with linked arms who stood in front of Pierson House. The only face he recognized was Remee’s. Much as he wanted to know where Dessa was, he was glad neither she nor Jane was out here with all these anger-crazed men.
The brawlers were precariously close to the women, so making his way through without receiving—or swinging—a punch was nearly impossible. Even those women in the line were involved in their own way, kicking away wrestling pairs with the heels of their shoes if any came too close. Over the fighters went, too caught up with the men they fought to pay heed to the women toppling them.
“Remee!”
It took three calls and a half-dozen more steps through the throng before Henry caught her attention. She said something, but he couldn’t make out what.
“Where’s Dessa?”
She shook her head, but whether she didn’t know or hadn’t heard, Henry couldn’t tell. He squeezed closer.
“Dessa! I can’t find her. Where is she?”
“Not here!”
“What about Foster? Turk Foster?”
Without loosening her hold on either girl at her side, Remee pointed with her chin toward the mass of men. Henry turned in time to receive a blow to his nose that sent him reeling backward. He fell against Remee and the woman next to her, who pushed him back without breaking their line. They were like the rope around a boxing ring, and he was in the melee whether he wanted to be or not.
Henry rammed through, ducking another punch, thrusting away a man with a precarious foothold as the fighter leaned back to swing in the other direction. The street was still wet from an afternoon rain; men in every direction were covered in a mix of dirt, mud, sweat, and blood.
From what Henry could see, Foster was also trying to stop the fight. Henry made his way closer while doing the same thing: grabbing lapels, shouting for the brawlers to quit, thrusting some outside the circle of rage. Henry thought he heard Foster warning about the police or the fire coming closer. Smoke continued to mingle with the nearly overwhelming scents around them, but Henry could see it was fruitless to try stopping the fight without a brigade of whistling cops behind them.
“It’s no use!” Henry shouted in Foster’s direction, but the man didn’t see him. He yelled again, with no better result. Stumbling over a fallen man, Henry nearly collided with Foster—who grabbed him by the lapels and might have thrown him aside if he hadn’t seen Henry’s face.
“You! What are you doing here?”
Henry gasped for air. “Dessa! Where is she?”
Foster cocked his head toward Pierson House. “In there!”
“Let’s get out of here, Foster,” he shouted. “There’s nothing to be done about the mob.”
Another man blasted into them both, propelled by a punch. Henry heaved him off, forcing his way through the enraged cluster of men. Why hadn’t he thought to check inside first? Surely the impenetrable line the women made out front would have broken for him.
When they were barely to the edge of the crowd, a flashing light gliding through the air caught Henry’s attention. He stopped, arrested in horrified fascination. The arc of a torch twirled past the line of women, sweeping harmlessly over their heads—only to crash straight through the Pierson House parlor window.
The curtains—ones he was sure Dessa had sewn—went up in a quick burst of flames.
“Dessa!”
Incensed with rage and terror, Henry shoved through the tangle of men, landing a fist on anyone standing in his way. “She’s in there!”
Those were the first words—or perhaps it was the stark dread on his face—that anyone paid heed to. Or perhaps it was the age-old fascination with fire. One by one, the fights around him stopped as men turned to watch the flames lick the inside walls of Pierson House.
The immovable line of women set on protecting it parted when Henry finished his scramble forward—but even as quick as he was to get there, he knew the front door was already impassable. He shot back down the porch, darting around the side an
d up the steps to the back door. Once inside the kitchen, he could already see flames outlined around the swinging door.
“Dessa! Dessa!”
Snatching a towel from the sink, he covered his face and plunged through the door.
Dessa sat on an upturned bushel basket with one arm around Jane, the other around both sisters, who pressed into her and each other. She’d seen the fright on their faces and knew only one way to attack such overwhelming emotion.
Even as the hymns she sang rose as prayers, Dessa’s heart sped through a labyrinth of her own emotion. Besides the fear, the guilt, the regret, new resolve took hold with a grip so tight she knew this night—the result of her actions—was something she would never, ever forget. Every decision she’d made in haste had led to one disaster or another.
True, she couldn’t imagine refusing to shelter the innocent girls she looked over now. But why had she taken this on all by herself? Because she hadn’t thought it through or shared her concerns with others. Perhaps the authorities wouldn’t have done anything. But the church? Surely Reverend Sempkins would have offered help, if she hadn’t so hastily agreed to carry this burden on her own. And Henry—he’d been willing to help. If only she’d gone to him sooner.
Never again would she act without thinking first.
She was just leading a third soft hymn as, at last, she took a moment to look around at their surroundings.
It was—or was meant to be—a cold cellar. Even now, it was somewhat chillier down here than above. Shelves lined the dirt walls, which were haphazardly covered with wood and painted with tar in hopes of keeping at bay whatever critters might wish to take up residence among the fruits, vegetables, and preserves that had likely been stored here.
Now most of the shelves were empty—but for several jugs of what she guessed must be whiskey.
Her gaze fell upon Mr. Dunne, who gave her an abashed smile. Then he raised the volume of his voice to join in the chorus of “I’m Redeemed.”
“I’m redeemed, praise the Lord!
I’m redeemed by the blood of the Lamb;
I am saved from all sin,
And I’m walking in the light.
I’m redeemed by the blood of the Lamb.”
“I’m gonna go up and take another peek outside,” Nadette said when they finished the song.
Dessa reached out a hand to caution her. “Are you sure you ought to, Nadette? That mob out there is dangerous!”
“I won’t go farther than to crack open the door up there. Just for a peek.”
Dessa was about to warn her again to wait, but Mr. Dunne spoke first.
“No, little miss, you leave it to me.” He stood, though the ceiling barely accommodated him; then he burped. Though he’d sat mainly still on the old bench opposite them, Dessa wondered if he’d been drinking again.
“Are you sure you’re up to it, Mr. Dunne?” she asked.
“That I am.” He made for the ladder, but Nadette stepped in between, arms folded obstinately over her narrow chest.
“Yer breath alone will torch the place if we let ya go up!”
“Stand aside, little miss,” said Mr. Dunne, attempting to circumvent the very small obstacle she’d made of herself with a light brush to her shoulder. “’Tis neither the time nor the place to discuss me grooming habits.”
But when the man teetered as he grabbed for the ladder, Dessa stood too.
“Perhaps you should let Nadette take that peek, Mr. Dunne. Your job is to protect the girls. If you go up and are spotted, you may fail in that duty.”
“Now, now, miss, I’ll be careful, that I will.”
He reached again for the ladder, but it seemed to be a moving target. His hand missed the rail and he nearly fell into it.
Nadette scooted in front of him, squeezing onto the rungs. “Not as careful as I’ll be. Stay put.”
He accepted the decision more easily than Dessa expected, reclaiming his seat.
The door at the top must have opened easily for Nadette, sending in a new wave of air—one mingled with more smoke.
Dessa moved to the base of the ladder as Nadette’s cry confirmed her worst fear.
“A fire! I can see it between the boards of the carriage house.”
Dessa tried to climb the ladder, but Mr. Dunne reached for her, his ruddy face alarmed. “Stay here, miss. There’s naught you can do up there, but plenty to be done down here. I may need yer help in protectin’ them.” He nodded toward the sisters, who were still inseparable and full of stark terror.
Nadette bent down, catching Dessa’s attention. “I’ll go and see if there’s anythin’ we can do. I’ll be right back.”
Dessa loosened her hand from its grip on the ladder’s edge. “All right,” she called after Nadette. “But if there’s any hope—any at all—then call us to come up and grab a bucket.”
But Nadette was already gone, the trapdoor slamming in her wake.
38
“IT’S NO USE, MAN! Come out!”
Henry refused to believe it. “Dessa! Dessa!”
Even now, the heat from the other side of the wall along the edge of the staircase scorched his palm when he reached for it to steady himself.
The smoke filled his nostrils, tore at the lining of his throat. Turk Foster still pulled at him, stopping him from going any farther up the stairs.
A crack sounded—close and fearsome. Something was caving in, though he couldn’t see what. The sound put more force behind Foster’s grip. He all but dragged Henry closer to him, and the two of them went flying down a half-dozen stairs to land with a thud on the hot wooden boards at the base.
The flames were closer than ever, but Henry didn’t care. He would have turned back up the stairs in search of Dessa, but Foster grabbed him again. Henry tried shaking him off—only to regain his freedom not by his own strength but through the dazzling finger of flame that reached out for the hem of Foster’s jacket. He cried out and Henry pushed him down to the floor, rolling him over to snuff the flames.
Then, seeing Foster go limp in a faint, Henry knew he had only one choice. Get Foster to safety.
Dragging him by what was left of his jacket, Henry slammed through the kitchen door, hauling Foster over his shoulder and out to the yard. There he collapsed onto the grass with the weight of the man, coughing and sputtering.
Henry rolled over, checking Foster’s damage. The man was conscious again, coughing and mindlessly slapping at his own still-smoking jacket.
“I’m afire!”
But he wasn’t. The flames were gone. Henry reached over to pull away the tattered jacket, seeing with alarm that there was nothing left of the material on the side the flame had first caressed.
“Lie still,” he ordered. It was too dark to see the damage well, but Henry guessed he ought to make sure whatever remained of the man’s shirt was no longer pressed to his skin.
By the growing light of the burning house before them, Henry could see the side of Foster’s shirt had been singed as well. His trousers were still intact. Though Henry knew the house had indoor plumbing, he was glad to spot an outdoor pump between the back of the house and the carriage house nearby.
He coughed again when a new cloud of smoke hit them. The flames now filled the kitchen.
“Come on, Foster,” Henry said, climbing to his feet first, then pulling at Foster from his uninjured side. “Come farther away from the smoke.”
The towel Henry had taken from the kitchen fell from his shoulder, and he scooped it up. Once he deposited Foster against the far side of the carriage house, Henry went to the pump and soaked the towel, wringing it out with the meager hope of cleaning the material. Then he soaked it again with the tepid water.
Returning to Foster’s side, he moved the man’s arm out of the way to gingerly press the towel to the spot that had been burned. Foster winced but didn’t protest.
The sound of wood cracking and falling called Henry from his duties. He let Foster hold the towel to himself, then stood to face
the burning building.
“It’s no use,” Foster said dully.
He was right. Even a moment of frantic alarm over the thought of Dessa inside couldn’t persuade Henry to try going in again. The entire house was engulfed.
“She wasn’t in there,” Foster said. “She must have found them and made it back to my carriage.”
Henry nodded, wanting to believe it. Desperate to believe it. But if she’d been hiding . . . if she was hiding those girls from the mob in front—maybe inside a wardrobe upstairs or in a locked water closet—she wouldn’t have known the place was afire until it was too late.
Why, why hadn’t he thought to go right in, the moment he’d arrived out front? Why had he wasted time getting to Foster, simply because he’d been last seen with Dessa? Had she gotten out in time? Had Foster’s carriage taken them away to safety?
He stared at the flames eating Pierson House, knowing there was nothing he could do. Except pray.
“The house is afire! And there’s two men fightin’ in the yard!”
Nadette’s frantic voice reached those below before she did, even as she nearly fell from the ladder in her attempt to rejoin them.
“You think the flames’ll reach us here?” Nadette’s voice was breathless with agitation. “Will they set the carriage house afire too?”
Jane whimpered from the corner. She hadn’t spoken except to join them in song. Dessa glanced at her, seeing the girl wipe silent tears from her face. Her lips were moving, but no sound came out.
As much as Dessa wanted to join Jane in her tears, she knew she must offer courage to those around her.
“We’ll be all right,” she promised, nearing Jane and putting a firm hand to her shoulder. She looked at Liling and Mei Mei, who appeared as afraid as ever, then at Nadette. “Did you say there were only two men in the yard? Are you sure just two?”
“That’s all I saw—but I didn’t stay long to make sure, once I saw there’s nothin’ to be done ’bout the house.”
Dessa glanced up at the trapdoor. It was made of wood, like the rest of the carriage house. If everything above them burned, would the smoke find its way down to them, obliterating the relatively clean air they had now, with no way out? She looked at the uneven wood that was nailed into the hard ground around them. Would that catch fire too?
