by Laura London
Now I was left with a whole new set of questions. If I screamed, the intruder would try to shut me up. I had no desire to be another casualty of my guardian’s occupation. Screaming could also, perhaps, frighten him away before he had a chance to play his cards; the whole household would be roused for nothing and the intruder would get clean away.
I moved parallel to him across the lawn, staying behind him and stopping when he stopped. After a short time we had worked our way close to the mansion. I watched, my eyes trying to pierce the darkness, as he took a vessel of some kind from underneath his cloak and began sprinkling the hollyhocks with it. Why was he sprinkling the hollyhocks? Why in the name of Zeus would an intruder flit stealthily across a garden in the dead of night only to water some flowers? I crept closer to observe this strange procedure.
My observation was assisted when the stranger struck a light. His face was covered. As the light burned, I realized that he wasn’t watering the flowers; he was spreading the unknown liquid onto a large heap of brush which had been piled against the wall of the mansion, and hidden from view by the hollyhock bushes. His intentions suddenly became all too clear when he dropped the light on the brush pile and disappeared, leaving behind what quickly turned out to be a raging hot fire. In just a fraction of a moment, the fire was tall in the night sky and licking across the roofing. The intruder was an arsonist, and Barfrestly Mansion would be a fireball if I didn’t do something immediately.
I felt the uncomfortable pounding of my heart beneath lungs that couldn’t quite fill themselves with enough air. Mercury gave wings to my heels and I flew, with panicked urgency. There was only one course of action for me, one man who spelled help and comfort in an emergency. I raced to him now. Thank God, Cook had forgotten to lock the kitchen door. I wrenched it open, my blood racing faster than my feet. How long would it take for the flames to reach the main bedrooms and those of the sleeping servants? The fire had started in the other wing; I couldn’t even smell the smoke from here. I took the main stairway two steps at a time and pulled Lord Dearborne’s door open with a jerk that ripped the skin from my knuckles. Then, even in my nervousness, I stopped and padded quietly into the room. The marquis lay asleep in his bed. The one lit candle beside him gutted, spreading a warmish glow through the gently tangled mane that now curled casually against the white pillowcases. No matter how blasé you are, the sight of that undeniable male beauty could stop you dead in your tracks. If I hadn’t been standing in an old building that was well on its way to burning to the ground, I am sure that I would have remained staring at him all night. I sternly called myself to order, thanked whoever might be listening in heaven that the marquis was covered at least to the waist with a sheet, and advanced to shake him gingerly by the shoulders. He woke to pull himself upright with such suddenness that I would have lost my balance and fallen if Lord Dearborne hadn’t steadied me by gripping my forearms.
“What are you doing here?” he snapped with amazing crispness for one who had so recently been asleep. Then he stopped and cursed under his breath and patted me gently on the shoulder. “It’s all right. I didn’t mean to startle you like that. I’m a light sleeper. Something is wrong, isn’t it? Well, you can’t tell me with your hand over your mouth.” He carefully disengaged the clenched fist that I had unconsciously raised to my lips. “What happened?”
“The house is on fire,” I said, not mincing words. “Really! I saw him setting it, at least at first I thought he was only watering the flowers but then I thought, How strange, why would a ghost want to water the garden. But when he threw a light at the wall, I understood.”
“Well, sweetheart, if you understand that makes one of us,” replied Lord Dearborne, who had tossed back the sheet and pulled on a pair of buckskin breeches before I had the time to cover my eyes, blush, or utter a maidenly shriek. He put his hands very firmly on my shoulders, and looked straight at me. “Elizabeth, calmly now, just yes or no. Has someone set this house on fire?” I nodded. “Am I the first person you’ve told?” I nodded again. “What part of the house is burning?” I told him.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for his boots. “The fire won’t reach this part of the house for another half hour at least. How did you happen to observe the arsonist?”
It’s just like the arrogant marquis to waste time pulling on his boots and engaging in a lot of recriminations with a house burning down around our ears. “Because I was out in the garden trysting with my lover. Would you like me to summon your valet so he can assist you in the arrangement of your cravat?” Have some of your own sarcasm back, Milord.
Lord Dearborne paused, thoughtfully. “Ah, good girl! I was wondering whether to demean myself by shouting through the hallway for him or if I should simply make do without.”
Sarcasm is wasted on Lord Dearborne. “Please, N-N-Nicholas, this is no time for stupid jokes,” I returned weakly.
Lord Dearborne was gazing at me like one charmed. “You’ve never called me that before.”
“What?” I squeaked.
“N-N-Nicholas. My name sounds rather exotic falling from such lips.”
And this after treating me like a leper for days. “Of all the moody, difficult… the house is on fire! Don’t you understand? Burning, flames, heat, smoke! Oh my God, I shall end up in Bedlam, if I don’t get burned alive first,” I said, a little desperately.
Lord Dearborne finished pulling on his boot and, grabbing me firmly by the elbow, strode purposely through the door and down the corridor. I was amazed by the confidence that allowed the marquis to move so quickly through the dark hallways. When we reached the hallway before Christopher’s bedroom, I saw that it was bathed in light from a small ceiling chandelier. There was a man seated on a straight-backed chair next to Christopher’s door. The man rose quickly as we approached. Lord Dearborne, now thankfully economical with his words, explained the situation, ordering the man to take Christopher and me out through the kitchen doorway and to keep us out of the way.
The man, whom I recognized as one of Lord Dearborne’s “workmen,” roused a yawning Christopher and dragged him out of bed, nightshirt and all, while the marquis hastened off through the corridor in the direction of the servants’ bedrooms. This time, descending the main staircase with Christopher and the bodyguard, I could smell the acrid smoke twisting ominously through the building.
Once we reached the outside, I heard the urgent shouting of Joe Hawkins, the grooms, and other estate workers who shared the gatehouse. Apparently Thomas, the groom, had seen the flames and rang the stable bell as an alarm. I told my story, which was becoming rapidly more incoherent, to the excited audience. Pandemonium reigned supreme—I’ve never seen so many grown men behave so much like hens when there was a badger in the barnyard. The marquis appeared and, after surveying the severity of the fire, ordered the men to remove goods from the house. “Personal effects of the servants first!” he was shouting. A pile of household goods grew rapidly in a space a distance from the mansion as the men handed out, in relays, small cedar chests, clothing, and china settings. Huge billowing clouds of yellow smoke were now pouring out of the upstairs windows where the marquis and Christopher had been soundly sleeping just a half hour previously. The fire broke through a large hole in the roof, sending a shower of cinders up into the sky, reflecting brilliantly in the faces of the semicircle of onlookers.
Christopher was hopping about in his nightdress, assisting the men in their labors. “You’ll be in trouble if a good gust of wind comes up, my dear boy,” shouted the marquis to him cheerily. “You will be causing embarrassment to the ladies present.” How could he be cheerful when his house was burning down? I received something of an answer to my question when Joe Hawkins and Christopher hauled out of the house a third soot-blackened man who retched and gasped for air as they dragged him away.
“That’s good, boys,” he shouted. “Better to leave it alone now. I’ve other houses. It’s not worth anyone getting hurt. Let it burn. Keep watch on the outb
uildings; we may as well save them.”
The heat of the fire was reaching out to us where we stood. Beads of perspiration were breaking out on Mrs. Goodbody’s face. She mopped her brow and said:
“We’d best be watching from the cottage, girls. This is no place for us.” The twins were sitting cross-legged on the ground, mesmerized by the sight. I caught their attention, and we herded them away from the fire back toward the cottage. I was depressed about the library; I had spent many a peaceful hour in its musty embrace, and now it was a holocaust. And the admiral’s nautical instruments and his old maps. What a tragic loss. We had all spent many years in the benevolent shadow of the admiral and his ugly old house; I felt as though I were watching the funeral pyre of an old friend. A lump rose to my throat as I looked over my shoulder and seemed to see the sad, forlorn face of the old sea dog peering out through the flames that rose laughing toward the heavens.
Good-bye, good-bye, I said to myself as we watched from the stoop of the cottage.
A curricle was being whipped up the drive. It was Wadbury, Lord Lesley’s butler, come to help. He stripped off his waistcoat and joined the men who were carrying buckets of water to pour on the roofs of the outbuildings.
“I am here on behalf of Lady Peterby,” he was shouting. “We saw the flames from Petersperch and she wished to offer our assistance. Is everyone safe?”
“Perfectly safe, thank you. Come here a moment, there is something you can do for me,” said the marquis. He motioned Wadbury closer and they stood talking, but we were too far away to hear what was being said. Presently the pair made their way toward us, and the marquis spoke in the commanding, peremptory tone that he used when preoccupied.
“I am sending you ladies to Petersperch to stay the night. This is no place for you here. And I imagine the Terrible Two will need their rest,” he added in a warmer tone. They squealed in delight as he continued, “I shall have the carriage sent round to pick you up.”
“Lord Peterby is there and will see that you are comfortable,” added stout Wadbury. And with that, they turned and went back to their labors.
So the performance was over for us, I thought as I helped Mrs. Goodbody pack a bag. The carriage came round and we were helped into it by a tired but still bluff Joe Hawkins.
We were having breakfast with Lady Peterby the next morning when we were interrupted by an exhausted, dirty Christopher. He bore a smoky old crate filled with… the admiral’s old maps and nautical instruments! My eyes filled with tears of gratitude as Christopher said, his voice hollow and weary, “We thought you might like to keep these.”
“And the mansion, in what state is it?” I whispered through my joyful tears.
“Burned to the ground, of course. Leveled. A total loss.”
Chapter Fourteen
It was late that evening before Lord Dearborne arrived at Petersperch, disheveled and dirty. He had stayed to make sure the last ember was out. Privately, I observed that even after a sleepless night and strenuous day, he looked energetic enough to take a couple of dragons in hand-to-hand combat. Lady Peterby didn’t think so, however. She immediately sent him up to a guest room to rest, promising him a tray with dinner and a footman with bathing water. Roger and Lady Peterby’s butler, who had arrived looking dead on their feet with Lord Dearborne, were shepherded off by Mrs. Goodbody to receive much the same treatment.
Lady Peterby had promptly and with endearing graciousness invited us all to stay, at least while Lord Dearborne dealt with the problems attendant to moving the uprooted household to another one of his many estates. He will probably send me to the remotest possible corner of England, I reflected gloomily. I wondered if he owned any property in Ireland. If so, there was probably a place marked out there for Elizabeth Cordell. The temporary thaw, if thaw it had been, in Lord Dearborne’s manner toward me in those few moments in the burning mansion had not lasted out the day. His frosty hauteur had returned on his arrival at Petersperch and he didn’t even acknowledge my presence in the room as he thanked Lady Peterby for her kindness to us and accepted her offer to house us for the time being.
Belowstairs, as speculation ran rife as to which of his more comfortable houses Lord Dearborne would repair to, I wondered why Lord Dearborne had already spent so much time in Kent. Barfrestly Manor must be the least imposing of his properties. True, at first there had been business connected with his inheritance of Barfrestly that he might have wished to handle personally, but that could have been concluded within a few hours. The rest could have been just as well conducted by one of the marquis’s capable lawyers. Certainly Lord Dearborne had shown no interest whatsoever in Barfrestly Estate for the first nine months that he had owned it. What had kept him here among gnarled apple trees, weedy gardens, and leaky old buildings? Not affection for a manor house that he had allowed to burn down without a qualm.
For the present, Petersperch was a more appropriate setting for my elegant guardian than Barfrestly could ever be. The well-kept lawns, trimmed hedges, and clear garden ponds filled with darting gold and silver carp had more in common with Lord Dearborne’s life-style than the tumbledown acres he had accidentally inherited from Admiral Barfreston. Conversely, Lord Peterby seemed a natural resident for the ramshackle estate that had been my home. I can’t imagine anyone who would look more picturesque pacing through the shabby grounds in brooding solitude. The touch of Lady Peterby was very evident in Petersperch. I was granted the opportunity for a long, friendly coze with Lady Peterby that first afternoon at Petersperch and fell firmly, painlessly under the spell of her delicate charm. Whatever trace of Lady Peterby that exists in her turbulent, dissolute son had never been revealed to me. Still, she calls him “my Lesley” and talks of him in an indulgent manner, as though his libertine propensities were mere boyish mischief. Mothers seem to have a special blindness to the faults of their own offspring. Bravo for that, I suppose.
Life at Petersperch settled into a breezy, pleasant pace. My sisters and I resumed our lessons with Mudbury’s scholarly vicar; this took up most of the mornings. On fine days we walked into town, always under some “adult” escort as decreed by our autocratic guardian. Our afternoons were spent in animated conversation with Lady Peterby, gathering flowers from the extensive formal gardens and visiting with any of the neighboring gentry who might happen to come calling. The squire’s family came; Jeffrey to renew his casual friendship with Christopher, Mrs. Macready and Cecilia to marvel over the phenomenon of Elizabeth Cordell, lately charity resident of Barfrestly Estate, as visitor and honored guest of Lady Peterby. I could have told them, though I didn’t, that they were wasting their awe; old Elizabeth was still as much a charity resident as ever. In fact, and completely by accident, I was made more aware than ever of just how much of a charity resident I was.
On the afternoon of our third day at Petersperch, one of Lord Dearborne’s men of business came down from London to go over whatever it is that is necessary to go over when your house burns down. I had seen this lawyer before. He had visited the marquis several times at Barfrestly before our trip to “Loin-done” (my sisters’ new name for the nation’s capital). At any rate, he was a small, fussy man with a beaky nose and tiny glaring eyes that seemed to look right through you and price your underclothes. I studiously avoided his company until that afternoon when I walked blithely into the yellow salon to have tea, secure in the conviction that Lady Peterby and my sisters would be awaiting me there. Unfortunately, they hadn’t yet arrived and there sat Lord Dearborne’s lawyer, looking for all the world like a crabby, underfed canary that someone had left under the cage cover too long. I would have beat a hasty retreat from the room if I could have without being grossly uncivil. As it was, I sidled nervously over to the waiting tea tray and asked if I could pour him some tea. He pulled down his murky spectacles to peer disapprovingly at me over the rims.
“Ahem. Miss Cordell, isn’t it? One of the dependents of the Marquis of Lorne?”
Why not His Majesty, the Marquis of Lorne?
But I returned politely, “Yes, sir. Admiral Barfreston provided for us in his will.”
“Nonsense. You were definitely not mentioned in the will.”
“I realize that. What I meant was that Admiral Barfreston made a verbal request to one of his lawyers that my sisters and I should be supported out of his estate. Which I understand is legally binding on Lord Dearborne, as his heir.” I felt an angry flush glaze my cheeks.
The disapproving pout on the lawyer’s face intensified. “Not at all. You have a most confused understanding of your position vis-à-vis the Marquis of Lorne. Not only is he under no obligation whatsoever to support your family, he is doing so strictly against my own recommendation. The idea of wasting money on a set of orphans to whom he is in no way related is ludicrous. There are many perfectly good orphan asylums and workhouses in this country and there is no need to carry charity to this ridiculous personal extreme.”
The color that had washed over my cheeks a moment ago faded into a chilly numbness. “Do you mean Admiral Barfreston made no bequest to my sisters and me?”
“Nothing. Admiral Barfreston made few communications with his solicitors in the years before his death. He had grown quite vague about his duties as a man of property. The estate business was in a shameful muddle when the Marquis of Lorne inherited. The condition of the land was so poor that it could not even be sold without a good deal of work,” he spoke disparagingly. He returned his hard scrutiny to me. “You are a singularly fortunate young lady. You should be grateful that His Lordship is such a generous young man. There are few of my clients who would have so kindly taken on an unnecessary responsibility such as yourself.”
