A Midsummer Bride

by Amanda Forester

  Harriet glanced again at the roof before ducking into the tunnel. The fire spread fast on the old brittle wood. They did not have much time. Thornton outpaced her, but she kept running through the dark. She tripped once and landed hard on her knee. She cursed as only a sailor’s daughter could, got up, and continued to run.

  She burst into the keep, which was lit with an awful orange glow. Sparks and embers floated down from the wooden roof above. It was only a matter of time before the whole thing caved in. Grooms and stable hands joined them and began to run outside with the horses. The main doors were already ablaze; the only way out was the tunnel.

  “Get them out of here!” yelled Thornton as he worked to open the stables.

  The horses whinnied and shrieked, sensing danger. The freed horses ran around the stable keep, spooked and unsure where to go. They would need to be led to safety.

  Harriet found the mare she had ridden before. The horse bucked in her stall, making Harriet jump out of the way. She approached the horse again, forcing herself to be calm and gentle.

  “That’s all right, everything is going to be all right,” she crooned. She grabbed a bridle, slipped it over the horse’s head, and buckled it in place. More embers were falling from the burning ceiling above. She did not have the time for a saddle. She climbed the stall planks and onto the horse’s back, hiking up the skirts of her gown that was not in the least made for riding.

  Horses were running through the stables with stable hands trying to chase them out. She held on tight and kicked her mount into action. A group of five horses was running in circles, led by a bay horse with wild eyes. If she could turn this horse, the rest would follow. She swung around in the opposite direction to head them off. She galloped past the stalls, keeping one eye on the horses and the other watching for Thornton. Where was he? She spotted him for an instant pulling a horse from a stall, before she had to turn her attention back to the horses.

  She galloped toward the leader at an angle, blocking his path. The horse swung left and out of the tunnel, the other horses following it. Stable hands and grooms ran to the tunnel, leading multiple horses.

  “Come, miss!” Shouted a groom. “The roof will no’ hold much longer. Get out!” He ran past her leading several horses.

  The stable had grown unbearably hot and was filled with smoke. She coughed and searched for Thornton. Almost all of the horses were out now. A burning ember fell on her head and she brushed it off quickly, slapping her hair to make sure it did not ignite.

  She spied Thornton in one corner trying to lead a frightened mare out with a young colt. It was Lazarus, the baby who had just been born. She kicked her mount toward him, but the animal shied and shrieked, not wanting to go further into the burning room. She kicked the mount harder and got her moving again, galloping to Thornton.

  “Duncan!” she screamed.

  He turned, his face red with the heat. “Harriet! Get out o’ here now!”

  “You must come. The roof is about to fall!”

  “Take the mare!” he shouted, thrusting the reins in her hands. “She winna leave her baby.”

  The colt was lying on the ground, bleating terribly.

  “His leg was trampled in the confusion. Now go!” Thornton smacked her mount hard on the backside and her horse took off for the tunnel at a gallop. Harriet managed to look behind her to see Thornton lift the colt and put it on his shoulders before beginning for the tunnel.

  Harriet galloped out of the burning stable, holding tight to the mare and dragging her along with them. She emerged into the cool night, taking a large breath of air. The grooms were trying to collect as many horses as possible, but many had run into the hills. Around the castle, servants and guests alike were beating out fire from bushes and shrubs with large sacks. Lines had been formed with buckets of water from the old well to douse the burning outbuildings.

  The fire completely engulfed the roof of the keep, sending flames shooting into the night sky. Never had she seen anything so terrifying in her life. With a large crash, the roof fell in, sending a fiery wave out of the tunnel. Everyone stopped.

  Where was Thornton?

  Did he get out? She asked a stable lad but he could only stare at the destruction in mute horror. Flames leaped into the air, fueled by the hay and stables. Still there was no Thornton.

  Where was he? She watched the entrance to the tunnel, waiting, willing.

  “Lord, please let him get out,” she whispered. “Please don’t let him die.”

  She dismounted slowly, handing the reins to one of the stable hands. Thick black smoke was gushing out of the tunnel. She walked toward it then ran. He was in there, somewhere, and she was going to find him. She ran to the tunnel entrance, putting up her hands against the hot stinging smoke. Suddenly someone grabbed her arm and yanked her back.

  “Let me go!” She whirled around to face… “Duncan!” His face was so black with soot she could barely recognize him. But the colt was still on his shoulders. She could not speak words but embraced him, colt and all.

  He coughed and set the colt down. Little Lazarus stood on three legs and leaned against him, shaking. She knew how the colt felt; she was shaking too.

  “I am so sorry.” The flames around the castle had mostly been contained, but within the keep, there was nothing to do but let it burn itself out. All was lost.

  Thornton squinted at the billowing smoke and shook his head. He handed the colt to a groom with hoarse instructions to care for the leg. He walked to the front of the castle and she followed. What else could she do? She would follow him anywhere.

  The guests had gathered around the front. Many had helped to put out the flames, leaving them sweaty and disheveled, without coats or cravats. Sensing the worst was over, some had wandered back to the castle to witness the carnage.

  “Thornton!” greeted Marchford, who was standing in shirtsleeves, holding a sack for beating out flames. Penelope, water bucket in hand, stood at his side. “Good to see you, old chap. The fire has been contained, but we could not save the keep.”

  “Aye,” said Thornton in a low voice. “Thank ye, all o’ ye for yer help tonight. The fire may have spread even to Thornton Hall without yer help. I canna say how the bonfire got out of control, but because of yer assistance, I know how the fire ended.”

  “Forgive me, Lord Thornton,” said Miss Crawley, looking radiant in a spotless lavender gown. “But I know exactly who started this fire. It was not the bonfire at all. You can see it is still contained.”

  All eyes turned to the prepared bonfire. It indeed appeared contained. The worst of the damage was elsewhere, not around the bonfire.

  “How did it start?” asked someone in the crowd.

  “There she is!” accused Miss Crawley, pointing at Harriet. “It was Miss Redgrave whose unholy experiments have been putting us all at risk. This fire was no accident. It started in her secret laboratory!”

  “That is untrue!” exclaimed Harriet. “I mean, I have been doing experiments here, but none tonight.”

  “I will apologize for her actions, mes amis,” said the Duc d’Argon. “I was to announce tonight that she has made me happy by consenting to be my wife, but now all I can do is to apologize for the harm she has done and to assure you all that I will ensure that her hobbies will in no way endanger anyone again.”

  Thornton turned to her, his eyes large and filled with betrayal. Something in Harriet’s heart snapped. She put her hand to her chest. It hurt—it actually physically hurt. Surrounding her were eyes of accusation. Thornton had always protected her, always shielded her from the derision of people’s disdain. Tonight, he slowly walked away.

  “No!” called Harriet. “No, I did not cause this!”

  Harriet followed Thornton with her eyes until he disappeared into the darkness. How could d’Argon believe such horrible things about her? And why did he think they were engaged?

  “I did not do this! And I have not given you my answer,” she insisted to d’Argon, but he was
not listening. Instead, he was apologizing again, as if he was her parent and she had been a naughty girl. She wanted to scream.

  People began to talk, glancing at her sideways and hushing their voices so she could not hear.

  Miss Crawley had no such compunction. “I do not know why he would want to marry her,” she declared. “Now that all her money is gone.”

  “What is this?” the duc d’Argon dropped a conversation he was having and immediately questioned Harriet.

  “I thought you had heard about the money,” said Harriet.

  “No, no, indeed I had not.”

  “But you said what was important was the work, the science.”

  The duc d’Argon stuttered for a moment. “Yes, yes, of course.”

  “Come now, my dear friends. We need to return to the house.” Marchford raised his hands to usher the guests back down to the Hall. “Thornton has graciously offered to put out a nourishing wine punch which will be good for the soul.” Marchford and Penelope led the way down the hill.

  Harriet watched as the guests, including d’Argon, turned their backs on her and left. Her knees shook and she fought against falling to the ground. She had lost everything. Everything.

  She tried to take a deep breath but coughed on the smoke. She considered having a nervous attack or collapsing from grief, but instead, she walked back to her former laboratory, careful to stay out of the way of the servants attending what was left of the blaze.

  The stone building was nothing more than a charred husk, but she inspected it inside and out. Was it possible something she was working on had gone awry? Or perhaps someone had tampered, intentionally or accidentally, with her equipment?

  She inspected more, trying to determine the cause of the fire, but nothing inside appeared to be the culprit. Instead, she found a line of scorch marks on the outside wall, as if someone had poured lamp oil down the wall. This was no accident.

  This fire was intentionally set.

  Thirty-seven

  Penelope walked back down to the house with Marchford, leading people away from the scene to a safer area. The worst of the fire was over. Now they needed to soothe the nerves of the frightened guests.

  “See to the guests,” said Marchford. “I will check on the book.”

  The book! In all the excitement she had forgotten. She wanted to run to the library herself, but she doubted her legs would carry her.

  In the entryway of the house, she quickly arranged for wine punch to be available to take the sting out of the sad night. The guests began to request hot water to bathe and other amenities, which kept the house busy and led to a bit of confusion.

  The duchess, Langley, Sir Antony, and Lady Thornton emerged from their intense game of whist, so focused they had not heard the warning cries. They were immediately concerned and were quickly informed of the unfortunate events.

  Last to arrive was Harriet. A more bedraggled creature one could not imagine. Her dress was ripped and stained, her face covered with soot.

  “Come with me.” Penelope took Harriet’s hand and led her through the glaring crowd and up to her bedroom. “You need sleep.”

  “We need to speak,” whispered Harriet.

  Penelope nodded and ushered her up to her room. Whatever she wanted to talk about, it would certainly not be for the ears of the assembly.

  “The fire was intentionally set,” said Harriet when they were alone in her room. “This was no accident.”

  “How do you know?” asked Penelope.

  “Scorch marks on the outside of the building, leading up to where the roof was.”

  “But could that not happen during the fire?”

  “Forgive me, but I have had my share of setting minor fires, accidentally of course, and I have some experience in noting the patterns. This fire did not begin in my laboratory. It was intentionally set from outside. What I cannot understand is why. Who would do such a thing?”

  “I think I know why,” said Penelope. “But who remains the question.”

  “Why?”

  “I shall call for some water for you,” said Penelope, standing to leave and attempting to divert Harriet’s attention. “Please get some rest.” She needed to tell Marchford this news.

  Harriet caught her hand. “Please tell me why. I have a sense I am caught up in some larger game, and since someone seems to have taken pains to implicate me, I want to know what is amiss.”

  Penelope sighed. It was only fair. “You know Marchford has been holding meetings to discuss strategy for the war. He suspects a spy or traitor among us. He attempted to set a trap tonight. I would conjecture that the fire was a diversion.”

  Harriet took a moment, digesting the new development. “How do we catch this spy?” She sat straight, her eyes clear and bright. She may have appeared ragged, but she was far from defeated.

  “Let me talk to Marchford and see what our next move will be.”

  Harriet stood. “I will come too.”

  “No, please stay here. Lock the door. I will let you know what he says.”

  “Promise me.” Harriet once again took her hand in her steady grip. “I do not know why I was involved in this, but it has done more damage than you can know and to someone…” She paused and swallowed back emotion. “To someone very special.”

  “Thornton.” Penelope did not have to guess.

  “Yes. I cannot stand idly by and see him hurt. I want to find whoever did this.” Harriet’s eyes burned with an intensity that made Penelope take a step back.

  “I will let you know. But rest now. You will need your strength.”

  ***

  Penelope found Marchford in the library. He had washed the soot from his hands and face and put on his coat, but when she walked nearer, he still held the telltale aroma of smoke. He acknowledged her with a brief nod, his face gray.

  “Is the book gone?” she asked, but she already knew the answer.

  Marchford gave another short nod. “I have searched the place looking for clues. I have found none. I do apologize about the book.”

  “I expected it. I believe the fire was set purposefully as a diversion.” Nothing else could be said about her book. It was gone.

  Marchford gave her his full attention. “Continue.”

  “I spoke with Miss Redgrave who said she found scorch marks on the outside of the wall of the building. She says this means the fire was set from outside. Someone set it intentionally.”

  Marchford frowned. “It is as I suspected.”

  “You do not believe it was caused by one of Miss Redgrave’s unholy experiments?” Penelope had expected more of a fight on this point.

  Marchford shook his head. “Too coincidental. The castle bursts into flame at the same time I attempt to catch the spy—this was no accident. No, it was the spy. But who?”

  “Who knew you would be hiding in here? Why would the thief not just take the book, thinking you were outside?”

  “Must have been suspicious. No one but you knew I was here.”

  “Did Lord Thornton know you had set a trap?”

  “Yes, but he would not have told anyone.”

  “Forgive me, you are not going to like what I have to say, but have you considered the possibility that Thornton himself might be responsible?”

  “Thornton a French spy? Don’t be absurd.” He waved a hand at her to dismiss the comment.

  Penelope sat across from him, her back straight, her hands folded neatly over her soiled dress. It was time to give bad news, and she found it was best to get it over with quickly. “Here are the facts. When we searched for the thief of the pearls, Thornton was not accounted for outside. He has been getting up early for some unknown reason. I often see him coming back into the house, his boots muddy, when I have just come down for breakfast, and I am one of the first to rise. Tonight, he was the only one who knew you were in the study, waiting.”

  “Stop.” Marchford’s voice was gruff. “Thornton is a friend and one I would trust with my life. Besides, he wo
uld hardly set his own castle ablaze with all his livestock inside.”

  “I do not know the particulars regarding what was in the keep, but maybe there was a reason he wanted it destroyed. And you cannot deny that his financial situation would make him an easy target.”

  “A target yes, but easy, never.”

  Penelope raised her hands to surrender. “Just think about it. I sincerely hope it is a false accusation, but we need to look at all the information we have.”

  “Enough. Thornton is a good man.” But the seed of doubt had been planted.

  ***

  By morning, Thornton felt like hell. Truth was he had felt that way since the fire. His throat burned, his head pounded. He spent most of the night running after his horses and trying to find neighbors and townspeople willing to house them. He could not even begin to think of the financial impact this was going to have. The keep was nothing more than a burned shell. All his hard work, all his money—it was all gone. Gone. Just like Harriet was gone.

  How could she have seduced him all while she was engaged to d’Argon? She was false. And everything he thought he knew about her was false too. He pushed away the thought that perhaps he had been the one to seduce her. Or perhaps they seduced each other. Or maybe it was the faeries at work. In any event, she was engaged to another, to that bastard d’Argon.

  Thornton dragged himself back to the house in the gray light of morning. He wanted to toss out every houseguest, turn the keys over to Crawley, and curl up in some hole. Instead, he stumbled up the stairs to his room and collapsed on his bed.

  “It was not her, you know.” Marchford walked into his room and sat down across from him. Marchford handed him a glass of cold water. It felt good.

  “What do ye mean?”

  “Miss Redgrave. It was not she who set the fire.”

  Something inside him burned at the sound of her name. “How would ye know?”

  “The fire was started as a diversion to get me out of the room and get the book we set as bait.”