She heard her name being called, but her eyes refused to open. She was growing weary in her dream, and only wished to return to undisturbed sleep. It felt like something was searing her arm, and it felt real. Not like a dream at all.
Suddenly, someone grabbed her body and lifted her over their shoulder, and she heard a window open, followed by the sensation of falling. Her dream stopped.
Chapter 9
Gavin was aroused from sleep by the smell of smoke wafting through his open window. He then heard the church bell sounding an alarm in the distance. During his years in the army and as a doctor, he had learned to sleep in a half-waking state. He threw the covers off and pulling on his shirt, breeches and boots, ran down the stairs as fast as he could, stopping only to collect his medical bag from the study. As he ran toward the stables, he could tell by the smoke and orange sky that the fire was large. It appeared to be coming from the southerly direction, and when, moments later, he saw the groom from Breconrae galloping towards him, his heart felt as if it had been ripped from his chest.
“M’lord!” the groom shouted. “Fire! Come, quick!”
Gavin turned and took the first horse from the stables, mindless of saddles, only throwing on a bridle and mounting, all the while shouting for his own grooms and stable boys to wake up and join the brigade as fast as possible.
He started out for the shortest route to the fire. The light from the moon reflecting off the billowing smoke in the sky was sufficient to guide the way. He would not later be able to recall having jumped hedges, fences or ha-has in his single-minded determination to reach Margaux.
The estate workers had already assembled in a line when he and the groom reached the Dower House. The fire was nearly put out, and the brigade was efficiently passing bucket after bucket to quench any wayward embers that might reignite. A wave of relief swept over him when he realized Margaux must be unharmed, and he quickly turned his attention to the occupants of the Dower House, who had gathered outside and were watching in disbelief and horror at the scene before them. Gavin was quickly in their midst, ensuring none of them had life-threatening injuries. He began treating those with burns and sought out Mrs. Bailey to have the sufferers moved to the manor house.
“Has anyone seen Mrs. Bailey?” Gavin asked of the girls.
Most shook their heads, but one of the older girls spoke up. “She was arguin’ fierce with another lady. “’Twas after she got evry ‘un out the fire.”
“Who was the lady?” he asked.
“Mrs. Mulligan, the vicar’s wife, m’lord. But Mrs. Bailey were yellin’ that she weren’t s’possed to be there.”
“Fire!” someone shouted. “The big house is on fire!”
Gavin turned and saw smoke rising beyond the path to the main house and ran as fast as his legs could carry him and his bag.
A corner of the manor house was ablaze, and the workers hurried behind him to assemble once more. They would be hindered by the height, though it looked to be the second storey that was alight.
“Where is she?” Gavin demanded as he looked around for his wife. Minutes before, he had thought her safe, and his mind had moved to doctoring. He fought panic, knowing it did little good. He was well trained not to panic, but never had he been so afraid. Had no one thought to wake the family? Of course! The servants were in the fire brigade.
“The family sleeps upstairs, m’lord,” the groom answered, trying to catch his breath after running behind him.
Gavin covered his mouth and nose with a cloth, took a bucket from the brigade and doused himself before running into the house. He was immediately assailed with thick smoke and heat, and could scarcely see through his watering eyes. He was forced to drop to the ground and crawl when he reached the top of the stairs.
Flames were engulfing the landing with menacing heat. A large beam broke free and crashed across the doorway blocking his path. He saw a flash of clothing and tried to reach it, but was propelled backward by the force. He was too late. Dear God, don’t let it be her. Instinct told him it was the housekeeper, but it was too difficult to see well. God rest the poor woman’s soul. Sweat was pouring from him and his throat was seared. He felt as though he had swallowed a shovel of red hot coals. Despite his growing fatigue, he hastened back down the stairs and did his best to yell for a ladder and direct the men to aim water on the inside to prevent the fire from spreading.
He made his way around to the side of the house, where a group of estate workers was attempting to wet what little of the interior they could reach.
“Which window?” he gasped, trying to inhale as much good air as he could before going back in.
“There, m’lord.” A servant pointed.
“You there! Follow me up in case I have need of you,” he warned.
He doused himself again to relieve the heat, climbed to a window via a ladder and pushed it up before hurrying through. Underneath the frame sat Lady Ida, curled up and gasping for air. He picked up the frail woman and handed her to the servant who had climbed up behind him. But where was Margaux?
He ploughed through the door, paying little heed to his own safety. Flames were already finding their way into the next room and parts of the upper floor were caving in around him. He tried the room next to Ida’s and kicked his way through the burning door. Margaux was lying asleep on the bed, flames reaching from its canopy. Smoke and flames were billowing in the room behind him as the fire began to take over the last corner of the wing.
He could feel the heat licking at his back as he wrapped her in a blanket and scooped her up into his arms. He opened the window and shouted for the men to move and catch her before he released her down to their mercy. The ladder was moved back to the window and he followed as fast as he could. Water was poured over Margaux’s burns, and once he determined she was still alive, he called for his horse and carried her back to his house himself.
This was all his fault, he chastised himself, as he watched his wife struggle to breathe. If he had not sent the Mulligans away, Margaux would not be fighting for her life before him, and Mrs. Bailey would still be alive. They had not been able to find the house-mother after the fire, and he surmised it was she he had seen being engulfed when the beam fell. He assumed the woman had been trying to reach Margaux and Lady Ida, bless her soul. He had been sleeping—sleeping!—while the orphanage and manor house had been set on fire. He thought back over the day’s events. He had no doubt it was deliberate, nor who was responsible. Mrs. Mulligan had been venomous, and she had been seen at Breconrae that night, arguing with Mrs. Bailey. He’d had no idea the vicar, being a man of the cloth, and his wife would be vindictive; he should have taken better precautions to protect all of them. While he had summoned several men to go after the Mulligans, it was likely they were miles away by now.
He watched Margaux as she wheezed. It would only get worse before it got better. If she could make it through the next two days, she would likely survive. But those days would not be easy. He went to the window and opened it further, hoping the cool, night air would ease the swelling in her air passages. He had tried some elixirs, but she had not swallowed much. He had set them steaming in a pot nearby, in a desperate measure to supplement what she had not swallowed. As her breathing became more high-pitched and she gasped for air, he climbed behind her on the bed to hold her in an upright position and thus give her the best possible chance. He was terrified. His skills as a physician would fail him when it mattered most. Outwardly, her burns were not too severe, but she was struggling for survival. He had seen too many cases of people dying from inhaling smoke. She had taken in much more than he or Lady Ida, who had been near the partly open window when he had found her. If he could just keep Margaux alive long enough to heal her lungs, he prayed. He felt helpless. She had to live.
He had sent one of his men express to London to inform Lord Ashbury about the marriage, the fire, and Margaux’s fight for life. It would take four days, in good conditions and riding at breakneck speed, for the message to
reach the capital, unless the messenger caught up with the Ashbury coach first on its journey south. He hoped he would not need to send another messenger with worse news. He had not intended to announce the marriage in such a fashion and he fervently hoped Lord Ashbury would not object —if his daughter survived. In all probability, Gavin was not the husband Margaux’s parents would have chosen for their daughter, but with her recent declaration of spinsterhood, he suspected they would accept him. At least he wasn’t a mere country doctor, now. Despite their force in the ton, they had never been high-sticklers when he had associated with them.
He had written to Lord Ashbury with as much detail as he could provide, including his suspicion that the Mulligans had deliberately set the fires. Mrs. Mulligan had been seen arguing with Mrs. Bailey. If there had only been a fire at the manor house, he might not have suspected foul play. But the Dower House had also been set alight. Thankfully, none of the girls there had suffered serious injuries. He had sent for Seamus and his apprentice from Alberfoyle, to help the injured. His attentions were centred solely on Margaux. He looked down at his wife’s beautiful form, safe in his arms. He had not thought to hold her in such a way for some time to come—if ever.
He struggled to stay awake as he held her. He had also suffered some injuries in trying to rescue her and Lady Ida. The rush he had experienced was now wearing off, and he was feeling pain in places he had not realized he had been hurt. His back and arms had received only minor burns, while his throat burned and his chest was tight. But he was alive.
Lady Ida had been huddled under her window, too afraid to jump out. Tears streamed down his face as he recalled how Mrs. Bailey had met her end, trapped by a burning beam in the hallway, unable to save herself. He had nearly been too late for Margaux. She had not even wakened. A few more minutes…
“My lord?”
Gavin looked up to see the butler peering into the room.
“Master Seamus has arrived. Shall I send him in?”
Gavin nodded. Seamus would be a welcome sight, indeed.
Seamus entered the room a few minutes later. Gavin held out his hand to take his ward’s. Seamus’s face was sad when he looked upon Margaux. By now his son had enough training to hear her struggled breaths and know the danger for her still remained. Few words were exchanged between mentor and pupil. Words were not necessary.
“I have just come from Catriona and Maili. They told me the news. They are doing a fine job of mixing salves for the burns. I will go and assist with the orphans and Lady Ida, unless you need my help here,” Seamus said, barely above a whisper.
“Nay. There is little else to do now but wait for the dropsy to pass.”
“You have tried the horehound and tobacco?” Seamus asked about the combination of medicines they had learned from Lady Easton’s experience with Native Indian healers in America.
“Aye. As much as I dare.”
Seamus nodded and looked again at this beautiful lady in Gavin’s arms struggling for breath, before turning to leave. Gavin felt powerless; the worst part of being a physician was when there was nothing more you could do but wait. Never before had the wait been so personal. He whispered encouragement to Margaux for some time, before deciding to give her another dose of medicine and allow her to rest.
“Please fight for me, Margaux. I need you to live,” he mumbled in a desperate plea.
Gavin spent the longest days and nights of his life trying not to fuss over his wife. He had soon decided he much preferred the role of doctor to that of nurse. It was simpler to give remedies and check on progress the next day. Watching someone suffer, and be near helpless, was agony. As it was, he felt a fraud—an intruder. He barely knew this woman who now bore his name, yet he was seeing her in a way he was certain she would not wish.
Dawn had broken over the mountain, and crept through the break in the curtains. Seamus entered to see if Gavin was in need of anything.
“Good morning, sir. How is Lady Craig this morning?”
“Not worse, but not better.”
“As is to be expected.”
“Aye. How do the other patients fare?” Gavin asked.
“They are well enough. Only a few severe burns, but I expect everyone to recover fully.”
“Thank you for coming,” Gavin said gratefully.
“Mr. Saunders has just arrived and is tending to the young women. I thought to give you a rest.”
“I doona need a break. I would like to stay until she wakens.”
“Sir, shall I give you the same speech I have heard you give over and over?”
Gavin smiled. “You must take care of yourself to take care of her. It will do her no good if you also fall ill,” he recited.
“Get a wash and a shave. Have some breakfast. I will come to you if she wakens—or worsens,” Seamus suggested in a reassuring tone. He sounded older than his years.
“Verra well. I willna be long.”
“Any change?” Gavin asked as he re-entered the room, feeling mildly refreshed from a bath, a shave, and a slice of cold meat washed down with a pot of coffee.
“She opened her eyes for a minute, but went back to sleep before I could come for you.”
“That is a verra good sign, anyway. I wasna expecting her to wake for several days, considering how long she was in the fire.”
“Her skin looks improved from last night.”
“Yes. She no longer looks sun-poisoned. Also a positive sign.”
“Is that common in a fire?” Seamus asked, eager to learn.
“Aye. I have seen the same in chimney sweeps, but the fires are no’ lit when they clean. So I doona think it is from the fire, but perhaps the smoke.”
“Fascinating. I wonder if anyone has reported on it. I will look in the library when I return to school,” Seamus said eagerly.
Gavin could not help but gaze upon his protégé with pride. “Thank you for the reprieve. If you wouldna mind fetching some more of the horehound, I will be in need of it soon.”
“Of course.”
“Are her burns severe?” Seamus gestured to the bandages around her hand, neck, and part of her face.
“Some. I doona think her face will be scarred, but her hand and neck will likely be.”
“’Tis a shame.”
“Aye, but it willna matter if she doesna make it through tonight.”
Gavin spent the rest of the day watching for any signs of worsening or improvement in Margaux. He continued to dose her and check for fever, but her breathing was still high-pitched and wheezy. That night, however, his worst fears were realized: she began to lose the fight. Her breathing slowed and grew quiet, but it was not normal. He thrust his ear next to her chest and found there was little air moving into her lungs. He only heard a faint whistle and then silence. Her skin had taken on a pale blue hue. She was dying.
He immediately rang for Seamus, and then began to perform a procedure he had only heard tell of, but had never performed. He had gone over it in his head a thousand times since he had lain Margaux on the bed, the night of the fire, fearing for this very moment. He took a deep breath, steadied the scalpel in his hand and cut a hole in her beautiful neck. Seamus handed him a small tube they had fashioned to hold her airway open.
Margaux’s eyes opened immediately with pain, but her lungs filled with air. Her eyes wide with panic, she grasped at her neck as she struggled to speak.
“Shh, lass. You canna try to talk right now,” Gavin spoke soothingly to her, while trying to hold the tube in place. “Doona fight. I had to place a tube in your throat. You couldna breathe.”
She was trying, his brave girl; trying to solve the riddle of how to breathe without using her nose, and deal with the pain in her throat. He tried to place her back against the pillows while Seamus kept a cloth pressed to her throat to stop the bleeding. Lord, what should he do now?
Margaux was frightened, and she could not seem to speak around the tube. Had he damaged her voice? Or was it too painful from the fire?
&
nbsp; “Seamus, please give her a small dose of laudanum.” He turned his attention back to Margaux. “It will be all right, lass. Once the dropsy in your throat goes away, we can try taking the tube out.”
She tried to mouth something to him. He studied her lips.
“What happened?” he asked.
She nodded slightly, clearly afraid to move her neck.
“There was a fire at the manor house and orphanage.”
She tried to mouth again. Ida.
“Lady Ida is doing better than you. The worst of the fire was near your room.”
“The servants?” she mouthed.
“Everyone will be just fine, except Mrs. Bailey. She dinna make it, lass. The orphan girls and servants are all safe.”
Margaux looked perplexed, but closed her eyes. Tears rolled down her cheek, and Gavin struggled to maintain his composure. He felt his own throat tighten, and realized hers would be doing the same thing. He bent down to her ear, and began to calm her with soothing whispers until she went back to sleep.
Margaux felt as if she was trapped in a tunnel. It did not hurt to breathe now as much as it had, but it was strange. Air was not moving through her nose, and she could not smell. She fought to open her eyes, but it was too much effort. Where was she? Nothing seemed familiar and she felt odd. She could hear voices speaking quietly near her; was that her father? She attempted to speak, but no sound came out.
“How is she?” Margaux heard her father ask.
“She is improving now. Last night…” Gavin paused. “I had to put a tube in her throat when it was swollen shut. We almost lost her.”
“Dear God.” She heard her father’s voice crack with suppressed emotion.
“Aye.”
“Will she have that tube in her neck forever? Will she be scarred?” Lord Ashbury asked after a lengthy pause.
Through the Fire Page 9
