Chapter 5 #3
“We should hurry. Henry seemed under the impression someone was watching the front of the shop.”
Mrs. Martin took only minutes to return with a bag no larger than a book. Her daughters came down the stairs with her, carrying a small suitcase. Ginger helped them extinguish the oil lamps in the room before they all hurried outside.
“This way.” Ginger kept her voice low as they went down the path leading to the gate. They’d gone only a few steps when the crashing sound of glass shattering behind them made Ginger jump.
Mrs. Martin whirled around toward the house, horror on her face. “The shop!” She hugged her baby closer.
The smell of smoke reached Ginger before she saw flames shooting from the top of the roof. Her heart pounded. Who would do such a thing? “Hurry!” Ginger lifted one of the smaller girls nearest to her. “Hurry, Mrs. Martin!”
They fled past the gate. Ginger felt a sharp pinch in her ankle as she twisted it. She ignored the pain, her grip tight on the little girl. Each step ached, her teeth grinding as she led the Martin children forward. “Quickly, quickly now!”
The car wasn’t far, but somehow the distance felt longer than when she’d followed Charlie. Fear clawed at her. She had the unmistakable feeling they were being watched and followed.
Would someone really attack a woman fleeing with her children?
Ginger shivered. Or her? Many of the villagers benefited from the Braddock estate. Surely, they wouldn’t attack.
If they could even recognize her this time of night.
As they neared the car, Bosworth rushed to her aid.
“Lady Virginia, please hurry into the car.” He took the child from her and helped her step inside.
Mrs. Martin and her children followed, the space quickly becoming crowded.
A few of the children sat on the floor. Ginger settled the little girl she’d carried onto the seat, then stepped back out of the car.
“Henry said not to wait for him,” Ginger told Bosworth. He nodded and jumped into his seat.
Ginger stared at their pale white faces, the terror in their innocent, wide eyes. They breathed heavily, shoulder to shoulder. Mrs. Martin stared out the window toward her home. The reddish haze of flames filled the dark night.
Pinning her arms against her stomach, Ginger backed away from the car slowly. She closed the door to the car, the scent of petrol stinging her eyes. She could be to blame for this.
Bosworth turned toward her. “My lady?”
She swallowed hard. “Go on ahead, Bosworth. I’ll be along with Henry.”
“No, my lady, I can’t leave—”
Giving him a stern look, she leveled her chin. “Go. Henry asked me to go and find him.”
The struggle on Bosworth’s face was evident. He clearly didn’t want to leave her—fearing the wrath of her father—but he also didn’t want to contradict her or Henry’s orders.
At last, he gave a nod. As the car tore away from the village, Ginger’s hands relaxed from tight fists.
She turned sharply and rushed back toward the burning house.
Her ankle throbbed now. Shouts sounded on the side of the house facing the main street.
By now, the fire had stirred neighbors. Some stood at their back doorsteps, gawking at the conflagration.
Ginger rushed back to the gate. She’d have to run around the block rather than go by the side of the house. A head butted the gate, giving it a shake. The goat. Poor creature was probably terrified.
Going through the gate, Ginger found a rope. She looped it around the goat’s neck and tied a knot. Pulling, she tried to help it through the gate. It didn’t budge. Thick smoke and ash filled the air.
“My lady!” a voice came from nowhere. One neighbor had rushed from his back door. He held out his hand for the rope. “I’ll take care of the goat. You shouldn’t be here!”
Glad to be rid of the animal, Ginger handed over its care.
She lifted her skirts as she hastened around the block toward the main street of town.
With each step, the pain in her ankle grew worse.
She limped her way forward. The ringing of the fire engine bell clanged, followed by the clopping of horses’ hooves.
As the wagon pulling the water pump drew closer, Ginger searched the street for any sign of Henry or Charlie.
A crowd had gathered by now, watching the spectacle.
Sickness clawed at her throat. She had wanted to help the Martins, not cause the destruction of their home.
A boy approached down the street, looking over his shoulder at the fire. He turned away, then stopped short when he saw her. Archie Winser.
Their eyes met. Archie bolted.
“Wait!” Ginger called. Drat. A flash of white-hot pain shot through her as she dashed to follow him, her ankle screaming. He might know what had happened to Charlie. He’d taken off at a full sprint, down a lane.
The darkness of the lane swallowed him. Her footsteps faltered. Archie’s father had every reason to be angry with her. If he was behind the fire and the brick, she could be in danger.
Images of Mrs. Martin clutching her baby to her played through her mind. No mother should ever have to leave her house in terror like that. Especially when Mrs. Martin had done nothing wrong.
She had to help Henry find Charlie. Archie Winser might be the best way to do that.
Her heels struck the pavement with loud clacks as she pushed herself forward. Her safety wasn’t important compared to Charlie’s. He was just a boy.
The lane emptied into a dirt road, and past it was a public house.
She didn’t see Archie anywhere. The area around the left side of the public house had shabby stalls for horses.
Had he hidden there? Ginger drew closer, then froze as the stalls came into view.
Three rough-looking men had gathered in there.
They hovered over a recumbent form on the straw-covered floor of the stall. Muffled crying greeting her ears.
Charlie.
She rushed into their midst. The boy lay bruised and battered, blood soaking his pants. The man closest to Charlie held a piece of lead pipe in his hands. They turned toward Ginger with menacing looks.
“It’d be best if you go,” the man with the lead piping said, his voice cold.
“What have you done?” Ginger pushed her way toward Charlie, but another man grabbed her arm. “Let me go.” She yanked herself free, trying to get to him, then slapped the man restraining her.
He shoved her away. She fell on the straw with a cry, her backside hitting the ground hard.
The fall had done no favors to the ache in her ankle, either.
She gawked at them. In the dark, she couldn’t recognize them or distinguish their features well.
They had to know who she was from the manner of her dress, though—didn’t they?
Then again, announcing her name might not help her right now if they didn’t. Not if she’d caused this.
Charlie moaned beside her, his little hand trembling as he reached for her. The man with the club lifted it, as though to knock his hand away.
Her heart slammed against her rib cage. “No!” She threw herself over the boy. “Stay away from this child.” The smell of horse manure was cloying.
“Stop!” Henry’s familiar voice boomed through the space.
Relief pulsed through her at the sight of him.
His white tie garments were in stark contrast to the setting, but they gave him an air of authority.
At the sight of Henry, the man’s companions backed away, fear on their faces. They turned and ran away.
The man with the lead pipe whirled toward Henry.
“You might be a spy, too, Whitman. Ye’re willin’ to betray England to the bloody Huns.
” Rather than backing away, he charged toward Henry, knocking him off his feet.
The two men tumbled to the ground. A scuffle of groans and sickening punches between them followed.
Ginger shielded Charlie for a moment longer, scanning the perimeter for some tool to help Henry.
Spotting a rake, she dove toward it. Ginger stumbled to her feet, straw sticking to her skirt. Her hands wrapped around the handle of the rake. She turned it flat side out. Whirling it toward the attacker, she struck his back.
The man grunted and fell forward. The distraction was enough for Henry to scramble away, heaving with deep breaths.
Moments later, the attacker was on his feet again, running away.
Ginger’s knees weakened as the attacker disappeared. Unsteadily, she approached Henry. “Are you all right?”
In the pale moonlight, his expression was haggard. Scrapes and cuts marred his face and hands and his lower lip was swollen and split. He dabbed at his lip with his fingertips, then pulled her into his arms. “I could murder you for being here, but thank you.”
“I-I…” Relief overcame her. Thank goodness he’s all right. She took a shattered breath, then pulled herself away. “Charlie—they hurt him.”
Henry approached Charlie with caution. The boy continued to moan and shake. “My leg—” he managed.
“It must have been the same lot that torched the Martins’ shop,” Henry said, crouching beside the boy. He winced at the dark pool of blood under his leg. Slipping his arms under Charlie’s thighs and back, he lifted the boy, causing the boy to scream. “Let’s get him to Dr. Morgan.”
The cottage hospital wasn’t a long walk. But for the first time in her life, Ginger feared being in the village. She followed Henry closely. “They attacked us,” she said, partially to herself.
“They did.” Henry squinted in the darkness.
His words told her nothing about his thoughts.
Was he still angry with her for all of this?
For as much as was happening in the village at this late hour, they were alone.
Surely people had heard Charlie—his cries were enough to provoke curiosity.
But it was as though others felt they shouldn’t interfere.
They arrived at the cottage hospital. Ginger removed her glove and rapped on the door with the heavy knocker. Within minutes, a shuffle sounded as the lock turned. The door opened and Dr. Morgan stood there.
He gaped at them, the glow of a yellow electric bulb behind him. Ginger had only met the man once—he’d replaced the former physician in the village late in April. “Two men with burns, a woman in labor. What now?” The annoyance in his voice was thick.
“It’s one of the Martin children,” Henry said, lifting the boy just slightly. “They’ve attacked him.”
“Come in.” Dr. Morgan held the door for them. He gave Ginger an odd look. She touched the back of her head. Straw stuck out from her hair and to her dress.
She brushed away the straw on the step, then followed Henry and Dr. Morgan into the hospital.
He led them into an examination room and switched the light on. Henry set Charlie on the table. The boy shrieked as his leg met the hard surface.
Ginger leaned into the door frame, hanging back. In the light, she saw more than she’d been able to before. The bone below Charlie’s kneecap jutted out from the skin and fabric of his torn pants.
She grimaced.
Dr. Morgan cut the fabric of his pants away, revealing the gruesome injury further. Charlie howled, and Ginger stepped further in. She gripped the boy’s hand and offered a soothing hush. “It’s all right, sweet boy. Hold my hand tight,” she whispered. She mopped up his tears with a handkerchief.
The attacker had bludgeoned Charlie’s kneecap, breaking the bone. Dr. Morgan’s lips set in a grim line as he leaned closer, inspecting the wound. His touches were light, but even the slightest pressure seemed to provoke screams from the boy.
Straightening, Dr. Morgan nodded at Henry. “Follow me.”
Henry did as Dr. Morgan had asked him. Eager to hear what the doctor had to say, Ginger pressed the handkerchief into Charlie’s hand. “I’ll be right back,” she said, before rushing to follow them.
Dr. Morgan shut the door to the examination room. The closed door did little to diminish the sounds of Charlie’s cries. He turned to them. “I’d like to speak to the boy’s father.” He checked his pocket watch. “I have little time. I must go to check on the laboring mother.”
“The boy’s father isn’t available,” Ginger said. She hesitated to say more. Who knew how Dr. Morgan felt about the Martins? Her willingness to trust in the goodwill of the people in the town had serious limits.
An impatient look crossed Dr. Morgan’s face. “Then I’ll need to speak to the mother.”
“I can go and fetch her.” Henry put a soothing hand on Ginger’s shoulder. “My sister will stay with the boy in the meantime. May I borrow your telephone to call my driver?”
“Can you give the boy something for his pain?” Ginger asked as Dr. Morgan moved to lead Henry away.
He scratched his forehead. “I can sedate him. I’ll return shortly.”
As Henry and the doctor walked away, Ginger let herself back into the room. Charlie’s eyes were wild as he pivoted his head toward the door. “I want my mum.” Fat tears ran down his cheeks, his face red. “I want my mum.”
Ginger was at his side and wiped the tears from his face, her heart heavy with guilt.
His mother needed to be here. She would be the only one who could console him.
But who would console the other frightened children she’d have to leave behind to come here?
“She’s on her way, Charlie. We’re going to make sure you’re taken care of, I promise. ”
Without Dr. Morgan or Henry in the room, disquiet crept into her heart. The image of the man hovering over her with a lead pipe made her startle. Had Henry not arrived, what might he have done? She’d been foolish to go on her own. She’d been too trusting.
The people in this village had known her since she was a child. They’d celebrated at events thrown by her parents. Benefited from her family’s charity.
They had still attacked her and Henry.
As she held onto the sobbing child, her promise to help him felt hollow to her own ears. Had she done anything at all to help the Martins…or had she only made things worse?