The Suffragette Scandal
Page 27
Free felt her hands go cold.
“He could be lying, Free.” Amanda came to stand by her. “These so-called men he wants you to hire—who knows who they might be? Men under his control. And once introduced, they’ll be here. Protecting us, so they say, but who knows what other master they’ll serve? Do you really trust him?”
Mr. Clark’s lips thinned, but he said nothing in his own defense. He simply folded his arms and glared at her, as if willing her to make up her mind—as if daring her to trust him now, when she had every reason not to.
But it wasn’t his silence that decided her in his favor. It wasn’t the memory of the last time she’d seen him—of the touch of his glove whispering along her jaw. It wasn’t even the perilous thud of her heart, whispering madness in the back of her mind.
No. Her trust, such as it was, was won on a far more practical basis.
“On this,” Free said, “I believe him.”
He let out an exhalation, his arms dropping to his sides.
“But—” Amanda started.
Free turned grimly and went to the window. “I believe him,” she said, “because I smell smoke.”
Chapter Eight
THERE WERE NO MEN PRESENT, only the half-dozen or so female employees who had remained to run the printing off the press. Cambridge, with its fire engines, was a full half-mile distant. By the time Edward had made his way out of the door of the press, it was already too late. Smoke had begun to seep out of the door of the small house down the way in light wisps.
He opened it anyway. A wave of heat hit him, followed by an outpouring of choking, eye-stinging smoke. Gray clouds billowed in the front room; fire crackled. He looked up; flames were already eating into the beams of the ceiling overhead. There’d be no putting this out on time to save the structure. There was no sand and only a few buckets.
Free was right behind him. She squared her shoulders and shoved past him.
He grabbed hold of her wrist, yanking her back.
She pulled against his grip. “We can put it out.”
“We can’t,” he told her. “I’ve seen more fires in my life than you could dream of. The smoke will kill you if you try.” His throat was already irritated, and he’d only been standing on the threshold.
“But—”
“Is there anything in there that is worth your life? Because that is what it will mean if you go in now.”
“My Aunt Freddy’s letter.” He could feel her whole arm trembling in his. “She left it for me when she died.”
“Would your Aunt Freddy want you to risk your life for a piece of paper?”
“No,” she whispered.
Her eyes were watering. If anyone ever asked him, he’d say it was the smoke irritating them. He didn’t think that Miss Marshall would be willing to admit to tears.
He took off his cravat and handed it to her. “Wet this and wrap it around your mouth and nose. It’ll help. We’ve work to do.”
She’d not taken the time to put on a hat; her hair was coming out of its bun and trailed down her back like an angry braid of her own fire.
She took the cravat from his hands. “I thought there was nothing to be done.”
“For your home? There isn’t. But we need to set a firebreak to make sure the flames don’t spread to the press.”
It had been years since he’d been on the fire brigade; he’d thought the memory of those weeks had hazed together into nondescript forgetfulness, but it was all coming back to him now. That tree, there—they’d have to lop the branches back, and then dig a line in the turf.
Her shoulders heaved one last time. But by now, the flames were waist-high in the room beyond, and even she must have known it was hopeless. She turned away, marching back to where the women were coming out of the press.
“Melissa, we need shovels, or anything like shovels you can find. Caroline, you must go fetch help. Phoebe and Mary, start with the buckets.”
Edward found a shovel himself and had started to mark off a perimeter when his brain finally caught up with his body. He looked up—at the women scattering in all directions, off to do battle against the blaze—and his mouth dried with a sudden realization.
This wasn’t the fire that his brother had been talking about. This was the distraction.
He had no time to think. He left the shovel in place and ran back to the press building. The doors were open wide, but the press floor was empty. But the overpowering smell of paraffin oil assailed him. The floor underfoot gleamed in iridescent colors.
He looked around, saw nobody about.
There had to be someone here. The arsonist must be inside; the place needed nothing more than a match to go up. He crept forward, checking under a table, behind a chest of drawers. He came to the other side of the room—the wall where the glass window spilled light into Miss Marshall’s office. Her door was ajar. And there, in the darkening shadows under her desk…
There was a boot tip poking out from the other side.
Emotion, he told himself, would be nothing but a burden now. He needed to act, and act quickly. And yet he could not dispel it. His stomach seemed full of rage.
He stalked into her office, grabbed hold of the man by the foot, and hauled with all his might. He was so angry he scarcely even felt the mass of the other man, even though the fellow must have weighed at least fifteen stone.
The man kicked out, knocking Edward’s grip loose. Another kick targeted Edward’s knees, and he crumpled to the floor. The arsonist scrambled to his feet, dashing to the door of Free’s office.
Edward lunged for him, grabbing for his ankle. He had it—but the man stomped, and his boot found Edward’s hand. Somewhere, pain registered. But in the moment, with the smell of smoke and paraffin overwhelming his senses, Edward felt nothing.
He reached up and grabbed the man by the collar with his other hand, twisting, cutting off air.
“You idiot,” he said darkly.
The sound of wood striking against sandpaper—the brief smell of phosphorus—brought him back to himself. For a moment, he felt fear, and with it, every other sensation returned: the sharp pain in his hand, the burn of his lungs.
“Let me go,” the other man said. “Let me go or I’ll drop this now.”
Edward’s attention focused on the flare of the match, that perilous dancing flame. Hell, the fumes in this room were thick enough that they might ignite.
“Stop being an idiot and put that thing out,” Edward growled. “You’ll kill us both.”
“He could be lying, Free.” Amanda came to stand by her. “These so-called men he wants you to hire—who knows who they might be? Men under his control. And once introduced, they’ll be here. Protecting us, so they say, but who knows what other master they’ll serve? Do you really trust him?”
Mr. Clark’s lips thinned, but he said nothing in his own defense. He simply folded his arms and glared at her, as if willing her to make up her mind—as if daring her to trust him now, when she had every reason not to.
But it wasn’t his silence that decided her in his favor. It wasn’t the memory of the last time she’d seen him—of the touch of his glove whispering along her jaw. It wasn’t even the perilous thud of her heart, whispering madness in the back of her mind.
No. Her trust, such as it was, was won on a far more practical basis.
“On this,” Free said, “I believe him.”
He let out an exhalation, his arms dropping to his sides.
“But—” Amanda started.
Free turned grimly and went to the window. “I believe him,” she said, “because I smell smoke.”
Chapter Eight
THERE WERE NO MEN PRESENT, only the half-dozen or so female employees who had remained to run the printing off the press. Cambridge, with its fire engines, was a full half-mile distant. By the time Edward had made his way out of the door of the press, it was already too late. Smoke had begun to seep out of the door of the small house down the way in light wisps.
He opened it anyway. A wave of heat hit him, followed by an outpouring of choking, eye-stinging smoke. Gray clouds billowed in the front room; fire crackled. He looked up; flames were already eating into the beams of the ceiling overhead. There’d be no putting this out on time to save the structure. There was no sand and only a few buckets.
Free was right behind him. She squared her shoulders and shoved past him.
He grabbed hold of her wrist, yanking her back.
She pulled against his grip. “We can put it out.”
“We can’t,” he told her. “I’ve seen more fires in my life than you could dream of. The smoke will kill you if you try.” His throat was already irritated, and he’d only been standing on the threshold.
“But—”
“Is there anything in there that is worth your life? Because that is what it will mean if you go in now.”
“My Aunt Freddy’s letter.” He could feel her whole arm trembling in his. “She left it for me when she died.”
“Would your Aunt Freddy want you to risk your life for a piece of paper?”
“No,” she whispered.
Her eyes were watering. If anyone ever asked him, he’d say it was the smoke irritating them. He didn’t think that Miss Marshall would be willing to admit to tears.
He took off his cravat and handed it to her. “Wet this and wrap it around your mouth and nose. It’ll help. We’ve work to do.”
She’d not taken the time to put on a hat; her hair was coming out of its bun and trailed down her back like an angry braid of her own fire.
She took the cravat from his hands. “I thought there was nothing to be done.”
“For your home? There isn’t. But we need to set a firebreak to make sure the flames don’t spread to the press.”
It had been years since he’d been on the fire brigade; he’d thought the memory of those weeks had hazed together into nondescript forgetfulness, but it was all coming back to him now. That tree, there—they’d have to lop the branches back, and then dig a line in the turf.
Her shoulders heaved one last time. But by now, the flames were waist-high in the room beyond, and even she must have known it was hopeless. She turned away, marching back to where the women were coming out of the press.
“Melissa, we need shovels, or anything like shovels you can find. Caroline, you must go fetch help. Phoebe and Mary, start with the buckets.”
Edward found a shovel himself and had started to mark off a perimeter when his brain finally caught up with his body. He looked up—at the women scattering in all directions, off to do battle against the blaze—and his mouth dried with a sudden realization.
This wasn’t the fire that his brother had been talking about. This was the distraction.
He had no time to think. He left the shovel in place and ran back to the press building. The doors were open wide, but the press floor was empty. But the overpowering smell of paraffin oil assailed him. The floor underfoot gleamed in iridescent colors.
He looked around, saw nobody about.
There had to be someone here. The arsonist must be inside; the place needed nothing more than a match to go up. He crept forward, checking under a table, behind a chest of drawers. He came to the other side of the room—the wall where the glass window spilled light into Miss Marshall’s office. Her door was ajar. And there, in the darkening shadows under her desk…
There was a boot tip poking out from the other side.
Emotion, he told himself, would be nothing but a burden now. He needed to act, and act quickly. And yet he could not dispel it. His stomach seemed full of rage.
He stalked into her office, grabbed hold of the man by the foot, and hauled with all his might. He was so angry he scarcely even felt the mass of the other man, even though the fellow must have weighed at least fifteen stone.
The man kicked out, knocking Edward’s grip loose. Another kick targeted Edward’s knees, and he crumpled to the floor. The arsonist scrambled to his feet, dashing to the door of Free’s office.
Edward lunged for him, grabbing for his ankle. He had it—but the man stomped, and his boot found Edward’s hand. Somewhere, pain registered. But in the moment, with the smell of smoke and paraffin overwhelming his senses, Edward felt nothing.
He reached up and grabbed the man by the collar with his other hand, twisting, cutting off air.
“You idiot,” he said darkly.
The sound of wood striking against sandpaper—the brief smell of phosphorus—brought him back to himself. For a moment, he felt fear, and with it, every other sensation returned: the sharp pain in his hand, the burn of his lungs.
“Let me go,” the other man said. “Let me go or I’ll drop this now.”
Edward’s attention focused on the flare of the match, that perilous dancing flame. Hell, the fumes in this room were thick enough that they might ignite.
“Stop being an idiot and put that thing out,” Edward growled. “You’ll kill us both.”
