by Amy Atwell
The harness door slammed. She whirled around only to hear the bolt shoot home.
“Hey!” she shouted. “Let me out! You’ve locked me in here!” Her breath hitched in panic as she threw her shoulder against the door, but only crackling answered her. Why would anyone close the door? She could die in here. Terrified by the prospect, she continued to shout until her lungs burned with smoke that grew thicker by the second.
Such a fire killed the duke and duchess.
Deep within her memory, images sparked to life. Johnny saw the upper west wing of Ambersley Hall, the many bedroom doors, until she opened the door to the duke’s bedchamber. Through the heavy smoke, she saw the duke and duchess in their bed. She tried to rouse them, but to no avail. Only, she wasn’t herself, she was their little girl.
Dizziness and nausea washed over her. She staggered and only managed to stay on her feet because of the mewling kittens in her hands. They needed her to save them.
She searched for the hole the mother cat had passed through. Setting the kittens aside, she tested the boards and, discovering some give in the top one, she kicked at it until it broke. With effort, she dragged herself through the hole, and reached back through for the two kittens. She ran from the stable to gulp fresh air into her aching lungs. Setting the kittens near a fence post, she trusted the cat would find them.
Johnny looked back to find one side of the stable engulfed in flames. Heedless of the wind-whipped sparks that burned her face, she stood riveted and shook uncontrollably. The billowing black smoke finally gagged her, and Johnny doubled over coughing. She longed to flee, but a stronger force kept her hunched over, her hands on her knees, trying to breathe… waiting…
A horse’s terrified shriek pierced the air. Johnny immediately recognized Sabu’s voice. The few seconds seemed like an eternity, but suddenly the bay stallion appeared in the doorway, his eyes white with fear. He parted the crowd with a rearing leap then dashed toward the east garden in a headlong gallop. A few people followed after him, but most continued to work. Johnny saw Cushing and Rory with water buckets, and she knew only one other person would have braved the flames to free the stallion.
As if entering a dream, Johnny straightened and walked toward the stable to duck through the smoke-filled portal. The interior had become a fiery apparition, and Johnny hesitated, wide-eyed at the resurrection of her childhood nightmares. She’d always awakened in a terrified sweat, but could never remember the images. Yet she knew with certainty she had done this before. Despite the heat, a shiver coursed up her back. It urged her to escape this inferno, but she refused to leave without the duke.
With a cough, Johnny realized she had precious little time. She dropped to her hands and knees—the dirt floor was cooler and less smoky—and crawled towards Sabu’s stall. If that’s why the duke had come into the barn, that’s where she’d find him. The passageway stretched endlessly while she snatched shallow breaths that burned her lungs. Sweat trickled down her back, and her eyes watered painfully while she strained to focus through the smoke. Johnny shimmied along on her elbows and knees ignoring the intense heat surrounding her and the butterflies tying themselves in knots within.
She barely recognized Sabu’s stall because part of the charred ceiling had collapsed, dumping hay and boards in a glowing mountain. Crackling sparks wafted toward her, but if any landed, Johnny didn’t notice.
The duke lay in a heap near the far wall, which only frightened her more. She crossed the stall and turned his body over. Hair lay matted across his face, and as she smoothed it from his eyes, she discovered it was damp and sticky. Looking closer, Johnny discovered the duke’s blood smeared across her fingers.
Eager to get him to safety, she grasped his jacket by the shoulders and dragged his inert body into the passageway. A loud crack warned her as more of the ceiling broke apart, dropping burning wood and fiery missiles. Johnny threw herself and her charge away from the worst danger, but the downpour barred her retreat with a pile of charred debris.
Wiping sweat from her eyes, she spied a pitchfork. Hope renewed her as she cleared an escape route. Oblivious to everything but the need to save the duke, she grabbed burning boards and flung them aside. When she’d cleared enough, she grasped him firmly under the arms. Despite her aching lungs and straining back, Johnny pulled him through the burning mass, down the passageway and outside where she collapsed.
Cushing appeared before she could call for help. He lifted his master with care and shouted a brusque order for someone to fetch the barber while he carried the unconscious man away from the fire. Johnny dragged herself to her feet to follow but a spasm of violent coughing doubled her over. When she again could draw breath, Cushing kneeled beside the duke’s prone form. The big man sadly shook his head.
“No!” The cry wrenched from her heart as she stumbled to them.
Cushing’s eyes were moist. “He’s not breathing, boy. I don’t know any way to make him breathe.”
Johnny flung herself down beside the duke. He couldn’t die! Hadn’t his heart beat beneath her hands while she dragged him from the barn? But she saw no rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and could feel no breath when she laid her cheek to his face. Panicked at the thought of losing him, she pushed on his chest.
“No, you cannot die! Breathe, damn it, breathe!” she sobbed as she pushed again and again.
Others had gathered. From behind her, strong arms tried to lift her away.
“Hold,” commanded Cushing. “Leave the boy be.”
With a faint rattling sound, the duke’s chest rose and fell, then trembled violently as he began to cough and take in air on his own.
Johnny collapsed in a heap, tears spilling down her face.
“He lives,” someone said.
Other murmurings were drowned out by Cushing’s imperious tones. “Stand back and let His Grace breathe!” He dabbed at his master’s brow with a wet cloth, wiping away soot and blood while the duke battled to control his lungs.
When the racking coughs subsided, the duke took hold of the bigger man’s arm. “Cushing, you saved my life,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
Cushing slowly shook his head and would not meet his eyes. “No, Master, not I. The boy pulled you from the barn.” Cushing nodded toward her.
The duke turned his soot-stained face. “Johnny?” He looked again to Cushing and back at her. She sensed his confusion. “How? Why?”
She wiped away her tears and conjured up a brave smile. “Mr. Harry once said he couldn’t always be here to look out for you. He told me to watch your back.”
The duke’s furrowed brow relaxed. “You did well, lad. I’m grateful.” He offered his right hand.
Johnny stared in astonishment. The duke was offering to shake hands with her—like an equal. She tentatively reached out, in case he should change his mind. When his hand clasped hers, she yelped with pain.
“What’s wrong? Good God, look at your arm. When did you burn it?”
Johnny discovered her hand and forearm were red and covered with white blisters. “I don’t know,” she answered stupidly for she hadn’t noticed it before.
Cushing sloshed a bucket of water across to her with orders that she soak her arm until the barber came. With grim concern, the big man inspected the cut across his master’s scalp.
Ignored for the moment, Johnny shut her eyes and tried to block out the memories that pounded in her head. They brought pain that surpassed her burns and plunged to the depths of her soul. Her intense need to save the duke had held the terror at bay, but now images careened about her mind until she could no longer deny the truth.
She’d unburied Amber Johanna Vaughan.
~
The following day dawned gray and wet and progressed with a steady rain pattering a symphony on the leaves. Johnny didn’t mind the rain. It suited her mood and her plans. It was a blissful reprieve to sit alone in the east meadow and contemplate the large monument erected to the memory of—her.
In Loving Memory o
f Amber Johanna Vaughan, 1797— .
She was glad the duke had decided against inscribing a final date on the plaque. Mr. Minton had been the one to point out that they had no conclusive proof when—or even if—Miss Amber had died. The duke had shrugged and said he cared not whether the chit lived, so long as he could have access to her fortune and finish repairing Ambersley Hall.
Johnny sat on the wet ground, her hands around her knees and wrapped in a large wool cape for some semblance of dryness. Bandages covered her right arm from fingers to elbow, yet the skin burned as if flames still licked her wrist. She tried to put the discomfort from her mind as she wrestled with yesterday’s memories.
Who locked me in the harness room? Was it Curtis? I know he’s hated me for years, but why would he do that to me? And what of the duke’s injury? Was the fire merely an accident?
Johnny pursed her lips as she considered who would gain from the duke’s death. Curtis was his heir. Was it possible Curtis had set the fire and then tried to kill his brother and do away with her while he had the chance? She hated to consider it—had no proof to take the story to anyone. But she couldn’t forget Curtis’s face in the rose garden when he told her to keep away from Olivia.
With a tired sigh, she stared at the monument. What am I to do? In the duke’s eyes, masquerading as a boy was bad enough, but now she knew she was the girl everyone had sought for years. The duke had always told her he admired honesty more than any other virtue, and she’d lied to him. Should I tell him? She shivered at the thought of confronting him, of having everyone look at her differently, of leaving her beloved home. And what of the money? She still remembered how patiently the duke had waited for Miss Amber’s fortune. Would he be forced to give it to her? I don’t want it! I’ve done naught to deserve it. The duke brought life back to Ambersley. He’s repaired the Hall and the gardens and the farms; he’s made the tenants happy. I just want him to be happy.
Uncertainty crowded her, making her lay her face to her knees. What about Tom and Martha? Surely they knew. She’d never pressed Martha or Tom about her parentage, content not to dwell too deeply on a question that always made her heart race and her head ache. She recalled the Bow Street Runner who’d swept her up in the chestnut grove when she was a child. Martha had been frightened. Tom and Martha had hidden her true identity for ten years—the Vaughans would blame them. They might lock away the people she thought of as her parents.
But no one knows I know. I could keep the secret until there’s some way to tell the duke without him hating me. She lifted her chin heavenward. In his fury, no doubt he would send her away forever. She wouldn’t be able to wade in the stream or help Tom in the garden. She’d be forced to do all the things Olivia talked about—wear fancy dresses, learn to dance, to stitch, to talk French and laugh at compliments. It was all too depressing.
No, she wouldn’t tell. She was content as she was. She wouldn’t risk Tom and Martha’s freedom and her happiness. For the past three years everyone had accepted Miss Amber was dead, and it was best that way. She didn’t want the money or any fancy title. After all, the duke had both title and money, and neither made him truly happy.
The object of her thoughts leaned over her, accidentally draining the water that had gathered atop his hat onto her head. “What’s on your conscience that you came to seek the counsel of Miss Amber?”
Acutely aware of her newfound secret, Johnny shaded her eyes with one hand to guard against the pelting raindrops as she looked up at the duke. Finally, she shrugged and lowered her eyes to the ground. “I don’t know, exactly. Being in that fire yesterday made me think of her.” She wondered if she’d be damned for all the half-truths she’d be telling from now until the end of time.
He hunkered beside her, his dark cape falling elegantly into the mire. “I understand. When I hit my head, all I could think was how damned unlucky we Vaughans are when it comes to fires. Luckily, you don’t seem to suffer the Vaughan family curse.”
With pounding heart, Johnny asked, “What do you mean?”
“I mean, thank you for pulling me out. I didn’t think it possible for a boy of your size to rescue me, but you did.” The duke slung an arm around her shoulders. “I’m proud of you, Johnny.”
She turned to find his face very close, with its lean jaw, the clean-shaven chin with the tiny cleft in it, the waves of dark hair, and those penetrating blue eyes. Dear God, how had she never noticed how handsome he was? Even the bandage on his temple accentuated the maleness of him. She tore her gaze away. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she mumbled, oblivious to the rain.
The duke rose and went to the monument. Johnny watched him caress the face of the marble lamb. Then he withdrew a nosegay of bright blooms from the folds of his cape and laid them at the lion’s feet. “I always come here myself when I need guidance. Today I came here seeking answers about you, and here you are.” He beckoned her over.
With trepidation, Johnny perched with the duke on the edge of the monument. Before them stretched the broad meadow, soggy beneath a laden sky.
“Johnny, no one’s ever risked his neck for me before. Oh, once or twice in India, but the Army’s different. The next man helps you because he’s hoping to God you’ll do the same for him. In the heat of battle most men don’t think, they react. What you did yesterday was heroic, and I want to reward you for it.”
Johnny’s face warmed beneath his praise. “Your Grace, it’s not necessary”
“I know it’s not necessary. I’ve thought long and hard, and I want to make you my ward. You would live with me, get an education, and become a gentleman. What say you?”
Johnny pretended to give the proposal grave consideration, though her insides clenched with panic. She couldn’t tell the duke, no, I don’t like the idea, thank you for the honor just the same. He’d ask her to explain, and how could she without telling him the truth?
“You do me a great honor, but it’s too much. I’m a boy of questionable parentage raised by a gardener. It’s not my destiny to be a gentleman.”
“Sometimes we must challenge our destiny.” The duke looked away. “I did.”
“Becoming a duke was within the realm of your imagination. I could no more imagine myself a gentleman than you could imagine yourself King of England.”
“I see. Would you not be happy to be a gentleman?”
“I’m happy simply to be me. I hope you will be satisfied with what I am and not with what you would try to make me.” With that, Johnny pushed away from the monument and walked slowly into the misty rain.
Derek watched him go. It wasn’t proper for a servant to leave the presence of a duke without permission, but the boy had never stood on ceremony with Derek, and he preferred it that way. For a long time he stood in the rain and pondered the enigma that was Johnny.
Chapter 9
Ambersley, September 1811
Four days later, Martha died, and Johnny realized her own troubles were insignificant.
She came home to the cottage to find Tom kneeling beside Martha’s prone form. His shoulders shook, though he made no sound. Johnny froze in the doorway, afraid to intrude upon his grief, yet unable to leave. She felt sick inside that she’d been so preoccupied with her own thoughts since the stable fire, as if she should have foreseen this possibility.
Tom sensed her presence and glanced over his shoulder. “Come here, Johnny. No need to fear. Martha’s just passed on is all.”
Is all. With the fresh memory of discovering her parents during the Hall fire, death held a finality that was deafening. But she braved it, for Tom’s sake, and went to him. She wrapped his head in her arms, and he held her around her waist and wept unashamedly while her tears fell unheeded. Guilt stung, for as much as she wanted to comfort Tom, she longed to run to the duke and share this horrible news, convinced he’d find a way to erase the bitterness from this moment. If Death had come to Ambersley, had she somehow outwitted Him by rescuing the duke only to have Him collect Martha’s soul instead? Her reserve bro
ke in a sob.
Tom reached up to frame her face as she cried out grief and fear and loss. “There now, Johnny. Don’t make yourself sick, child. You know Martha would never want that. In fact, she wouldn’t put up with this nonsense of us grieving like this while she’s lying on the floor.”
At his gruff tone, Johnny smiled tremulously. Indeed, she could hear Martha ordering them to remember their duties. “I’ll ask Mrs. North to gather the women to prepare her for burial.”
Tom nodded. “I’ll find Rory and Cushing to help me dig a grave. We can have the burial tomorrow. Help me lay her out on the table. Watch your arm.”
She gripped Martha’s stiff ankles, and they hefted her atop the long trestle table until it creaked beneath her weight. Tom and Johnny looked at each other across Martha’s lifeless body.
“She was so proud to be your wife. You made her so happy,” Johnny told the stocky man.
