by Sandra Byrd
More noise—searching each trunk, I imagined—and then it went quiet.
“Sweet dreams, Miss Young!” he called, and then he laughed, and then he coughed.
Silence.
Sweat poured from me. The back of my throat ached from the smoke.
I counted to fifty and heard nothing. One hundred. Two hundred.
What should I do? Using my legs, I cracked open the door of the trunk. If he was in the room with me, it would not matter.
I pushed the trunk open, then walked to the sewing table, where I was able to find a scissors and maneuver to cut my way out of the binds.
The room suddenly filled with more smoke that had a bitter, acrid taste to it as it coated my mouth. I recognized the smell.
Lamp oil from the kitchens. The house was old and poorly sealed. The smoke had been pouring into the underground passage and was now seeping into the room. I did not know if I should break the window or if that would let in more smoke. I had no choice. I would open the door and run for it. I could leave by way of the passage, directly outside, and run to the west.
I tried to twist the knob and push the door open, but it would not push. The door was blocked from the outside! Something had been slid between the two handles to brace them shut. I pushed against it once more, and it budged but an inch—I did not have the strength to push through and break it.
The smoke was thick enough now that my eyes watered.
Jones had left me there. He’d set the fire to the west and then liberally poured lamp oil once I was stuck in the costume room. Nothing and no one would be left to clear Papa’s name.
I felt weak. I had not eaten or had anything to drink in two days. I dragged one of the costume trunks to the door. Maybe I could tip it toward the door, and the heaviness of the trunk would crash against the door, forcing it open.
I tilted the trunk toward the door and pushed with all my might. It crashed with a mighty bang, and then merely leaned against the door. It did not open the door at all.
I sat on the floor.
What could I do? There was nothing left to do. The window was not big enough for me to fit through.
I took some pins and spelled out “Jones” as best I could. Perhaps they would survive the fire.
Papa, I’m sorry. Thomas, I wish . . .
I fell into a daze; my breathing came heavy and hard. I had to think through each breath now. My arms grew warm, but it wasn’t the fire that would kill me, I knew. It was the smoke.
I curled into a ball on the floor. My mind felt hazy, and although my breathing was labored, I felt covered in a kind of filmy peace. I was glad of this—that I would die knowing that Papa had been true. It was a good way to die, except Thomas would never know about my letter and my love.
I closed my eyes, coughing, and then I thought I heard voices. Angels? Come, Lord Jesus.
No, I struggled to focus. Voices. Men’s voices. I opened my eyes and then, yes, I did hear men’s voices, closer and then farther away. Closer, then farther.
Perhaps someone was here. Would they know how to find me?
I struggled to stand up, and I inhaled deeply through a piece of a costume I held to my mouth.
I withdrew one of the drawers from the sewing cabinet and then I threw it with all my might at the window. The window shattered, and I fell backward with the effort.
I closed my eyes once more, and as I did, the case against the door jostled. Both doors were abruptly pulled open and the costume case, propped against one, spun on its edge, like a tipsy ballerina, from the force. I opened my eyes.
“Thomas!”
He ran in and pushed me out of its path; as the costume trunk lost its spinning balance it crashed heavily, noisily, directly upon him, where I’d stood only a moment before. He was pinned. He looked at me and then closed his eyes.
“Noooo!” I knew it was my voice, but it didn’t seem to come from me. “Thomas!”
The blacksmith who had been with me on the train rushed in and pushed the case off of Thomas. He went to pick him up. Thomas’s eyes opened. “Take her out of here,” he said, pointing at me.
“No!” I protested.
“Take. Her!” Thomas insisted, and the blacksmith obeyed. He picked me up and ran me to the front of the house, where a stable boy held some horses that were clearly frightened by the fire, their eyes swiveling back and forth.
The blacksmith barked some orders to another stable boy who helped me onto the cart.
“There is a bad police officer, Sergeant Jones. He set the fire, and he’s likely now racing to the train station,” I coughed out. The blacksmith sent one lad on horseback to fetch the local constable and two others to ride ahead of the fire in the fields and look for Jones. Then he ran back for Thomas. A dozen or so men were in the fields pouring buckets of water—drawn, no doubt, from Winton—on the fire.
The driver was about to leave. “No!” I shouted. “I’ll be fine. We’ll wait for Thomas.”
He nodded, but glanced at one of the other stable boys at my use of Lord Lockwood’s Christian name.
In a moment, Thomas and the blacksmith came, Thomas walking but leaning against him. I tumbled out of the cart, still weak myself, and put my arm around his other side.
We got into the cart and with a supreme effort he held himself mostly up, wincing as the driver took off.
“Hello, Miss Young,” he said. “You are most brave, and look lovely.”
Tears began to stream down my face.
“It was not my intention to make you cry,” he said. He reached out his forefinger, as we had when we had pretended to spar, and I reached mine out, too. He curled his around mine, gently, and then closed his eyes.
I did not trust myself to words. I leaned over and kissed him lightly on the left cheek, and then the right. He seemed to be lost in pain. I simply held him up while his eyes closed. The drive took much longer than I’d thought it would, but we had to go slowly, so as not to jostle him, and around the fires, so the horses didn’t bolt.
Fifteen minutes later we arrived at Darington. This time, the blacksmith carried Thomas into the house.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“Miss Young?” a voice called and a knock rapped the door at the same time. I struggled to sit up in the bed. I glanced out the window. It appeared to be dusk, but I could not be certain because of the smoke.
The four-poster bed was very comfortable, the linens soft, and I had to fight not to fall back into them.
And then I remembered. “Thomas!”
“Miss Young?” The voice was a little louder now.
“Yes?” I sat up and patted my hair down a little. I was in a dressing gown but had no memory of putting it on.
“It’s Mrs. Lockwood,” came the voice. “Lisbeth. May I come in?”
“Yes, yes, please do.”
Lisbeth opened the door. I tried to read the expression on her face, to see if it would indicate anything about Thomas’s condition.
She looked guarded. “How are you feeling?” she asked.
“A little tired, but otherwise well,” I said. “Please, come in and sit down.”
She sat in an armchair near the bed. The room was tastefully, elegantly decorated in claret-colored velvets, deep, well-polished woods, and had a small coal fire blazing to ward off the early-autumn chill.
I could wait no longer. “Thomas? I mean, Lord Lockwood? He is well? Tell me that he is.”
She smiled at my use of his name, but then grew sober. “We are not sure. The doctor has been here to see him. His arm will be set. The rest we are unsure of. There were abdominal injuries. They may heal, or they may become infected and then heal, or not, in which case . . .” She looked somber. “Only time will tell.”
I started crying and pulled the sheet up. Then I was shamed, weeping in front of a woman I barely knew. I dried my eyes. “I’m sorry. But it’s all my fault. If I hadn’t pushed the trunk against the door, it would not have fallen on him.”
She came and sat on t
he bed with me. “Nonsense, Miss Young.”
“Gillian,” I said. “Please.”
“You were trying to escape. Thomas was trying to help you. There is no blame.”
I nodded. I did not believe her. “How did he know I was there?”
“Do you feel strong enough to talk?”
I nodded. “Yes.” Oh! “My father’s notebook!”
“The police officer has been caught at the train station, and a good and trusted local constable has it, and had it copied immediately, which he gave to Jamie. It will be brought to London,” she said. “Fear not. It is in safekeeping.”
I started to cry again, overwhelmed with it all. She handed me a handkerchief. “Thank you for your kindness. It means so much. How did all of this come about?”
She settled in. “Thomas just completed the purchase of Winton Park, as you no doubt already knew,” she said.
I nodded.
“Then he traveled here from London. He was eager to give the keys . . . Well, that doesn’t matter just yet. But he was eager to come home. He arrived, we had a lovely dinner together, and then, this morning, he went out to see the horses as they were being reshod after his travels to the Lockwoods’ other holdings around the country.”
I looked longingly at the jug of water on the bedside table. “Would you like some?” she asked.
I nodded. I was so thirsty. She poured the water into a crystal glass. It soothed my smoke-ragged throat as I swallowed. “I’m sorry, please continue.”
“Once in the stables, he saw the fire between Darington and Winton Park. He knew the local fields were being fired, of course, with the harvest in. Our arable land abuts that which he purchased from your trust, but he had not ordered either field fired, though other local fields were being fired. He immediately knew something was wrong.”
She stopped speaking, looked hesitant, as if concerned it was all too much for me to take in right then. “Please continue,” I said.
“He mentioned it to the men in the stable, and the blacksmith commented offhand that he hoped the young maid who had been sent to pack up Miss Young’s things had escaped before the fire was there.”
She continued. “Thomas, of course, knew that he had sent no such maid, but he didn’t know if you had, of course.”
“Yes,” I said. “I had told no one that I was going.”
“He had set someone to watch you in London, to keep an eye on you whilst he was gone even though he thought you were no longer interested in . . .” She shrugged. “He wanted you cared for, no matter what.”
Thomas. Thomas. My heart warmed. “What came of that man he’d set to watch me?”
“The police detained him the day they seized your townhouse, so he was not able to telegraph Thomas until Jones was captured at the train station. When word of that returned to the Metropolitan Police, they let him go, and he telegraphed today. Thomas did not know you were undergoing difficulties.”
The man at the bakery cart and, no doubt, with several other disguises, had been his plant. Perhaps the rat catcher.
“In any case, Thomas asked what the name of this maid was, and the blacksmith said he did not know, but that he’d met her on the train on Monday night. She did not tell him her name, but she was a lovely lass with the prettiest silver blue eyes.”
I smiled.
“Yes,” Lisbeth said. “Then Thomas knew it was you. Then the smoke suddenly increased and was clearly gaining on the house and he hurried everyone out. The situation had clearly grown more dangerous for some reason.”
“Jones poured lamp oil once he had me restrained,” I said.
She nodded. “They gathered all the able-bodied men on the estate, and buckets, and set off. An accelerant of some sort had clearly been poured from the field toward the kitchens and laundry area, and the linen closet where you were found.”
I sat up more firmly. “So it would look like burning the field stubble had set Winton on fire, but actually, it had been arson.”
“Thomas rushed into the house looking for you. Several men looked in the carriage house, and one went toward the kitchens, which were on fire, but heard nothing. They regrouped, and when you did something to break the window the noise was heard, and Thomas rushed to the storage room and then . . .” She looked at her hands. “You’ll recall the rest.”
“And Winton . . . ?” I almost didn’t want to know.
She smiled. “It’s fine. The men put out the fire before it got to the house. And your mother’s things are safe as well. A little tidying up, a little rebuilding. It can be done when the house is modernized.”
I laid back in the bed. Papa would be cleared; Mamma would be happy. If only . . . “Can I speak with Thomas?”
“Perhaps in a day or two,” she said. “He’s been given some medication to make him sleep. The doctor has said, in the case of internal damage, absolute rest and no movement or excitement is the best.”
I nodded.
“That may be the best course of action for you, too,” she said.
“Thank you.” Once I could be reassured that Thomas was recovering well, we would return to London, perhaps together. My girls! Cinderella! Would I have time to finish the costumes?
What if Thomas did not recover?
No. Surely that would not come to pass. It must not.
“Gillian?” Lisbeth said.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“I was saying that Lady Lockwood wanted to have dinner sent up to you. Do you feel up to eating something?”
“I’ll try.”
Lisbeth squeezed my hand. “Rest now. And pray.”
“I shall pray with all fervency,” I said.
Within an hour, a knock came at the door. It was growing dark by then, and I presumed it was a maid come to set the lamps and bring dinner.
“Please come in,” I said.
A maid appeared, along with Lady Lockwood.
I struggled to sit upright. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry to have to greet you like this,” I said.
“Don’t get up, dear,” she commanded, but gently. And I lay back again.
The tray was brought to me, with food and tea, and set on the bed. Yes, that Grey’s tea, which Ruth had served to my father, likely when he’d sold the arable acreage to Thomas.
The maid turned around and curtseyed to her, and then to me.
“You!” I said with surprise. It was not Ruth!
The maid jumped. “I’m sorry, miss, do I know you?”
Lady Lockwood looked concerned, too, perhaps for my mental well-being.
The maid was the young girl whom I’d seen enter the carriage with Thomas, in London, outside of the Lyceum Theatre.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I thought perhaps I’d seen you in the theater district. I’m often there.”
She smiled. “Perhaps. I was no longer able to act, and someone brought it to the attention of Lord Lockwood, who suggested I train as a maid under Lady Lockwood. It has been most purposeful.” She glanced at Lady Lockwood.
Purposeful, I thought, and hid a smile. Then my heart broke again with the assumptions I had made and the fears I had tended, about Thomas and what I thought had been selfish intentions.
Would I ever be able to tell the man himself what he meant to me?
Lady Lockwood stood near me but did not sit down. She was not friendly, as Lisbeth had been, but I did not sense any rancor from her, either.
“I can have your . . . dress . . . cleaned if you like,” she said. “Or I’m sure we have something that can be quickly altered for you. Whichever you prefer, Miss Young, but you’ll need to be suitably attired before you can be up and about.”
I smiled. “I have no further need of my lady-in-disguise outfit,” I said. “I can revert to being simply Miss Young. Suitably attired.”
She smiled, lightly, her slightly doughy older-woman face breaking into soft wrinkles, even while her hair and outfit remained perfectly starched. “You have always been a lady, Miss Young, in or out of disgui
se.”
My heart filled—unexpectedly—with affection. I did not let my welled tears fall, as I thought it would make her uncomfortable. I blinked them back. “Thank you, Lady Lockwood,” I said. “I should like to speak with Lord Lockwood tomorrow, if possible.”
“I will let you know if that is possible,” she said. “Do try to eat something before you sleep. It will help you recover from your escapade.”
• • •
I slept like the dead through Thursday. On Friday morning, the young maid brought me tea and breakfast, and I asked her if I might speak with Mrs. Lockwood. Soon, Lisbeth appeared in my room.
“Thomas?” I asked.
“The same,” she answered. “No better, no worse.”
“May I . . . May I visit him?”
“Yes,” she said. “This afternoon. But first Mr. Colmore Dunn, Thomas’s friend and barrister, has been here since yesterday. He is keen to meet with you whenever you are available.”
“Oh, yes,” I said. Now that I knew Papa was innocent I was most eager to hear what he had learnt about the certificates. And then I could see Thomas!
Lisbeth’s lady’s maid came to help me dress in something borrowed, and afterward, she showed me to the library. Lisbeth tarried in the far corner, quietly chaperoning us.
“Mr. Colmore Dunn.” I held out my hand. “It is good of you to see me.” I sat down in a chair near the leaden cross-paned window where we could speak more privately. “You’ve heard . . . ,” I began.
“About Lockwood, yes,” he said. “I have not been able to see him. Have you?”
I shook my head.
“I believe he thought that your association had come to a conclusion?”
“He was mistaken, through no fault of his own,” I said softly.
He nodded. “It did not take long, once I looked at the certificates, to investigate. The majority of the certificates were fine, legal, investments of long standing, intelligently chosen and would have increased in value if sold. The receipt signed by me, as you know, was for the sale of some land anticipating trustee duties, and I located the solicitor who had been instructed to pay off the house of Cheyne. I suspect your father had some concern that they may come after him, and wanted to prove the house had been paid for by directly traceable funds.”
