Pain and panic gripped him. Fiery chunks rained down. He dove for the door, the child held against his chest, and as soon as he was clear, he rolled to the ground to smother the fire burning his sleeve. He clutched the tiny body tightly and scrambled to a clearing.
Gasping for air, he staggered, then dropped to his knees and let her roll from his arms. Horror registered as he realized the child was unconscious. He spun her to her back. The firelight behind him cast eerie shapes on her still face.
Emma Simmons.
He could not tell if she was breathing. Coughs racked his own body, and he glanced over his shoulder. Above the flames and smoke, he could make out part of the outline of Rosemere’s chimneys. With all the strength he could muster, he pushed through the pain of his burned arm, lifted the child close to him, and ran as fast as he could around the collapsing building in the direction of the house.
From behind the burning building, Patience saw a man running—no, stumbling—toward her.
She squinted to see better through the veil of smoke.
In his arms, a flash of white.
A long braid dangled over the man’s arm.
Emma!
Patience ran toward the man, ignoring the gravel pressing the soles of her feet and the sharp sleet that was stinging her face. “Emma!” she shrieked. “Emma!”
The fire’s light made them seem more like a vapor than flesh and blood. She doubted her own senses. But as she drew closer, her hope was confirmed.
Soot and sweat covered Mr. Sterling’s face. His breath came in shallow gasps. “She . . . she . . .”
Patience did not wait for any explanation. “Here, give her to me.”
Patience snatched Emma from him and hugged the child’s alarmingly limp body to her own. She ran awkwardly toward the back entrance and burst into the kitchen.
“Merciful heavens!” Mary’s chin trembled as she looked up from a kettle, oblivious to the water dripping from the rag in her hand. “Is she, she . . .” Her words trailed off, and Patience laid Emma on the table, the nearest flat surface she could find.
Patience held her hand up for silence, leaned close to the child, searching for any sign of life. Bittersweet relief gushed as she detected the subtlest motion: Emma’s chest rose and then fell.
“Quick, we must get her warm. Warm water, a compress. Hurry!” Patience quickly examined the child, looking for burns. She refused to look at the child’s face, for the unnerving serenity she found there racked her to the core. She chose, instead, to focus on the slight rise and fall of her chest.
Patience dipped the cloth into the warm water and, finally looking at the little face, wiped black soot away from the girl’s cheeks. Her eyebrows. Her nose.
Guilt bubbled ferocious and hot within Patience, causing her hand to tremble and her eyes to blur with tears. The child had no doubt been trying to rescue the goat. She should have demanded the child return to the safety of Rosemere instead of allowing her to remain outside with the older girls. Why had she been so careless? She was supposed to protect the children.
She. And she alone.
Mary’s voice was always steady. “We must get her to cleaner air. She can’t breathe.”
Patience sniffed. “The smoke should not be as severe in the east wing.”
Suddenly the child took a deep breath, and for a moment, everyone froze. Then a fit of hoarse coughs racked her tiny body. A groan followed. Her eyes remained closed.
Patience grabbed the child’s hand. “Emma! Emma!”
Emma’s breath came in a wavering gasp.
Patience stared and bit her trembling lip. She didn’t even allow herself to entertain the thought that the child might die. She could not die. She could not.
Mary nudged her aside and waved a vial under Emma’s nose.
No response.
Patience struggled to get her hands beneath the child’s body. “Help me carry her, Mary.”
A man said, “Allow me.”
Patience jerked her head up and noticed William Sterling had followed them into the kitchen from the courtyard. She did not reply but merely stepped aside so he could pick up Emma. “Mary, heat a bed warmer and bring it upstairs. And more blankets. Quickly.”
With an eye on her charge, Patience grabbed a candlestick and lifted it high to light the way. Neither spoke as she led the way up the back staircase, pausing only to look out the narrow window at the burning remains of the stable.
The air seemed cooler here. Cleaner. She tried to breathe deeply to calm herself, but her own lungs burned. The stairway curved up, and when she looked up, a strange, dizzy sensation seized her. She grabbed the rough wood railing and closed her eyes, waiting for the spinning to stop.
“Miss Creighton?”
She ignored the voice.
“Miss Creighton, are you all right?”
This has to be a nightmare, she thought. When she opened her eyes, she was certain to see the brocade canopy covering her bed.
But when the whirling subsided and she opened her eyes, she saw William Sterling, limp Emma hugged to his chest with one arm, his other reaching out to steady her.
She pushed his arm away. “Yes. I am fine.”
They continued in silence. Up the stairs to the top floor. Down the hall. Like she had done so many times before. On the floor below, girls were filtering back to their rooms, their reverent silence broken only by a haggard cough or a rough whisper. Each footfall of Mr. Sterling’s boots that echoed from the close walls and low ceiling seemed overtly out of place, yet offered a little comfort.
Patience led the way to an empty chamber. She pushed aside a stack of dusty books on the bureau and placed the candle in their place. Its weak light reached to every corner. The modest room was cold, and with trembling hands she turned down the bedcovers.
“Lay her here,” Patience said, stepping back to give Mr. Sterling room to lower the child onto the bed.
“Owww.” Emma groaned and her eyes fluttered. “Delilah?”
Patience was grateful for the question as she tucked the blankets around the girl and smoothed Emma’s hair from her face with the most tender touch she could manage. “Delilah’s fine,” Patience said, not knowing where the goat was or if she had even survived the fire. “Dearest, she is fine. Hush, please. You’ve been through quite the ordeal.”
The child remained quiet. And unnaturally still.
Cassandra bustled in with tea and another blanket. Patience took the cup of tea and lifted the child’s head to help her drink the warm liquid, but when the tea met the child’s chapped lips, she sputtered. A fresh coughing fit ensued.
Feeling helpless, Patience stepped aside when Mary pushed past her with the bed warmer and extra blankets.
As she watched Mary work, every bad thing that had transpired since her father’s death rushed at her and pressed down with an unrelenting fervor. She wanted to blame someone. Anyone. Her father’s death. Her mother’s inability to cope. Her brother’s abandonment. And, as much as she loved her students, the responsibilities of being in charge of such an establishment. Grief, fear, and exhaustion all trampled on her determination to keep optimistic. Their weight seemed unbearable.
She trembled. She wanted help. She needed help. Cassandra and Mary were doing their best, but she needed more. And her thoughts turned to what her father would have done.
He would have prayed. All things work together for good to them that love God. Wait upon the Lord.
She could hear his voice, even as she looked at the child, who looked as if she were only sleeping.
Patience wanted to pray. But why would the words not form? Ever since her father’s death, she found it difficult to pray.
How could God let this happen? How could He keep allowing such things not only in her life but that of her mother? Where was His comfort? His guidance? His support?
Yes, she should pray. But she pressed her lips into a hard line. God seemed to have vanished.
9
William stepped b
ack as far as he could against the stark plaster wall in the narrow room. His presence was not needed, yet he could not make himself leave. He stared, unblinking, unbelieving, at the still child before him. It was a nightmare come to life. Her hair looked wild against the pillow, her lips appearing almost blue against her colorless skin.
The women fussed over the child, but it was Miss Creighton’s voice he heard above the others’. “Mary, we need another bed warmer. Fetch it, will you? Quickly.”
Mary abandoned her task of preparing the fire in the iron grate and hurried from the room. Spying his opportunity to be useful, William took her place and stoked the little flame she’d brought about, bringing it to a greater glow.
Every movement raked the charred fabric of his sleeve against the burn on his arm. He ignored the throbbing sting as he set about his task. The scent of scorched linen and skin was enough to gag him, and so he stoked the fire harder. He stole a quick glance at Miss Creighton. Her side was to him, her hand on the child’s forehead.
He licked his dry lips. His injury was nothing compared to that of the little girl. “How is she?”
At first he wondered if Miss Creighton had heard him. But then she straightened, pressing her hands to the small of her back, her eyes never leaving the child. “It is hard to tell, but I think her color is improving. Her breathing seems a bit easier.”
The words seemed shallow and meaningless when compared to the magnitude of the situation. He brushed his hair from his forehead with his good arm. “She needs the surgeon. I will ride into town.”
“Miss Baden said George has already gone for him.” Miss Creighton looked up at him as if just now realizing that he was in the room, and then her gaze landed on the blackened sleeve. She gasped. “You’ve been burned!”
William didn’t look down at the wound. He did not need to see it. The pain was excruciating. For even in the bitter coolness of the closed-off room, fiery perspiration beaded on his forehead.
Miss Creighton rushed toward him and placed her hand on his arm, but looked back at Miss Baden. “Mr. Sterling was burned. I will tend to it. Be sure to notify me if there is any change.”
He shook his head. “No, I do not need—”
But Miss Creighton picked up the candle and turned, ignoring his protest. “Follow me. We have salve and bandages.”
With the child cared for and calm, and with the burn refusing to be ignored, William consented and followed her. A cough echoed from somewhere. The limp, damp fabric of Miss Creighton’s muddied dressing gown trailed her, and the single black braid bounced against her back with each hurried step. He almost had to run a bit to keep pace with her.
He followed her back down the narrow, drafty staircase to the kitchen. The fire in the hearth was burning brightly, almost cheerfully, as if to mock the stable’s demon fire.
Miss Creighton hesitated and then reached out her hand. “Here, let me help you.”
It took him a moment to realize that she intended to help him with his coat. It was going to be a feat to remove it without inflicting even more pain, but the sleeve practically disintegrated, and her gentle touch was swift. Within moments the coat was off his body and on the chair next to him.
“Come sit by the light,” she instructed, her tone raspy and matter-of-fact. She pulled the candle near and leaned close. “Rest your arm here.”
He consented and positioned his arm so that the top of his forearm was facing her. “Really, Miss Creighton, there is no need—” But she paid him no heed. With long, slender fingers she rolled the linen fabric of his shirtsleeve, and he winced as she pulled the scorched fabric away from the wound. “My apologies,” she muttered, folding the fabric above his elbow and tucking it in place.
He should protest. The child needed tending. And yet, the young woman’s feathery light touch intoxicated him. Soothed him. His breathing slowed. His shoulders relaxed. He eased his back against the chair.
She pulled the candle even closer, and the heat from the nearness of the flame seemed to hurl fresh fire on the wounded skin. She dipped a piece of linen in water and looked up at him. “This might be unpleasant.”
Miss Creighton worked lightly, quickly, cleaning his arm, her manner as calm and cool as if she did this type of work daily. He fixed his gaze on the wall ahead of him, trying to think of anything else besides the discomfort . . . or the nearness of his nurse.
She carried the scent of smoke and snow, of mud and river water. She was so close he could feel the warmth of her breath on his arm. He stole a quick glance at her, for she was but inches away as she bent over his arm, but her eyes were focused solely on her task.
She looked up only to reach for a jar of white ointment. She removed the cloth covering and dipped a fresh linen inside. “This is Mary’s liniment that she keeps on hand for burns. Linseed oil and lime water. ’Twill probably sting.”
William jerked his head up and breathed sharply through his nose as the ointment met the wound, careful not to mutter a word unfit for feminine company. The word hurt was an understatement, for surely a branding iron must be pressed against his skin.
Miss Creighton winced at his evident pain. “I fear this is not your week, Mr. Sterling.”
William wiped perspiration from his brow with his free arm and shifted. He managed a grunt through gritted teeth. “Oh?”
Satisfied that the ointment was properly applied, she pulled a strip of linen from the basket. “This is twice you have been in my kitchen during the dark of night with an injury.” She looked up, and for the first time since he’d arrived, she looked him directly in the eye.
William drew as deep a breath as his parched throat would allow. “Yes, I thought of that. Most people would be in a hurry to be rid of such a burden.”
But as quickly as she glanced up at him, her gaze returned to her work. “I would hardly call you a burden, Mr. Sterling. Anyone would do the same, for were you at fault for either? I’d say after your rescue of Emma tonight, you are quite a hero.”
He would have laughed had his lungs not been damaged from breathing the smoke. A hero? Him?
She smoothed the strip, her tone as calm and steady as if they were discussing business affairs. “I’ll wrap this around your arm. It will help keep it clean. I am afraid I am not skilled at this. I cannot recall ever having a burn like this here at Rosemere, not in recent years, anyway. But I suppose there are enough people at Eastmore who know more of what they are doing to properly tend it.”
William stared at the top of her head as she bent over his arm, her hair damp and curling from the wild wind and sleet. Apparently she did not know of his recent change in circumstances, for he doubted anyone besides Martha might actually know what to do for such a burn. And why should Miss Creighton be aware of his situation? Her world began and ended with the school. Why should she pay heed to him?
She lifted his arm and held it in her free hand to begin to wrap the bandage around it. Warmth radiated from her, and her movements felt strong and sure. Her braid fell forward, grazing his folded sleeve and taking his mind where it probably had no business going.
“Can you tell me what happened with Emma?”
William tried to focus on her words, but between his pain and her nearness, his concentration, even on something as simple as a string of phrases, was blurry. He cleared his throat and focused his gaze over her shoulder at the wall. “Your boy came to alert us to the fire, and I took the path over Wainslow Peak. I heard her scream coming from the stable, so I went in and there she was.”
“Wait.” Miss Creighton held up a hand to stop him. “Emma was inside the stable?”
“Yes.” William felt like his words would get the child in trouble. “She was after the goat, I believe.”
Miss Creighton shook her head. “If I weren’t so grateful that she is alive, I would be furious. That child is fearless. I told her to stay away from the fire.”
William chose his words carefully. Yes, it was careless for her to be in the stable, but would he
not do the same himself to rescue his horses? To rescue Slaten? Angus? Any one of the mares? “No, Miss Creighton. Brave.”
“Brave?” She huffed a laugh low under her breath and returned her attention to dressing his arm. “Please do not let Emma hear you say such things. I already struggle to keep her focused on her tasks. I do not need her rescuing all of the wayward animals of Darbury.”
He watched as her fingers made quick work of smoothing the linen strips. He didn’t realize he was staring at her face until her eyes flicked upward, her face close to his own. She nearly jumped back when their eyes met at such close proximity and dropped his arm against the table. Crimson flushed her pale cheeks, almost matching the rims of her eyes, reddened, no doubt, by the smoke’s effect. “I . . . I, uh, I mean, I did not mean to be so close.”
Her innocence fascinated him, distracting him from the pain. She wiped her hands on her robe and brushed long locks of loose hair from her face. “That should be good for a couple of hours, Mr. Sterling.”
She fastened the lid back on the ointment and rolled the linen strips with trembling fingers.
He was clearly having an effect on her.
Or was it presumptuous to think so?
But what he could not account for was how this quiet woman had such an effect on him.
He was used to flirtatious women, women who were interested in his funds. And at one point he had enjoyed their attentions. But Miss Creighton was of another sort . . . there was nothing flirtatious about her manner. In fact, her concern seemed genuine. She tended to him as one would to a friend, not as someone hoping to benefit.
Why was she being so kind? Did she feel obligated? Or was it merely in her character to do so?
For despite her benevolence toward him, William was uneasy, and he jerked as Rafertee’s men barreled through his mind. They had attacked him on the moors, not far from this spot. Would they also attack his property, his tenants, to prove their point? He doubted Miss Creighton would be so kind if she knew that he could ultimately be the one to blame for the fire.
The Headmistress of Rosemere (Whispers on the Moors) Page 8
