Chapter 26
“Your Grace!”
The shout cut through the quiet of the evening.
Catherine froze, quill suspended above the ledger. The faint scratching she’d been making over the figures of the orphanage accounts stopped mid-stroke, ink pooling on the page.
Until that moment, the night had been calm. The sort of calm she had come to love at Raynsford House. The low crackle of the fire, the rustle of parchment, Duncan’s measured breathing from the armchair opposite as he read the day’s correspondence.
They had shared a companionable silence for over an hour, broken only by the occasional flick of a page or the clink of the clock striking nine.
It was one of those evenings when they managed to exist together without words, each aware of the other’s presence, each content to let the stillness speak for them.
She had been thinking, just before the voice came, how the candlelight softened his face when he read, how the faint crease at the corner of his mouth eased when he was lost in thought. And then—
The fire in the hearth snapped, but it was not that sound that chilled her; it was the urgency in the footman’s voice as he burst into the drawing room, panting, eyes wide with panic.
“Your Grace!!” he repeated, nearly stumbling over the rug in his haste. His livery was askew, hair damp with sweat.
Duncan was already on his feet before she could ask. The letter slid from his hand to the floor. “What is it?”
The words were calm, but Catherine saw the tension ripple through his shoulders.
The footman swallowed hard, chest heaving. “It’s Brightwater, Your Grace. There’s— there’s a fire.”
Catherine’s heart seemed to stop. “A fire?”
He nodded, the motion jerky. “One of the boys ran to fetch help—the south wing, they said. The roof’s caught— the wind’s strong—”
She didn’t hear the rest. The words were only sound now, distant and unreal, swallowed by the rush of blood in her ears.
The quill slipped from her fingers; the ledger fell open across the desk, ink bleeding through the numbers she had written only moments ago, as if even they could not bear witness to what she’d heard.
“The children,” she whispered. The room tilted around her. She pushed back her chair so hard it toppled, the crash sharp against the silence. Her skirts tangled at her feet, but she barely felt them as she moved.
“The staff are doing what they can, Your Grace,” the footman managed, but she was already moving.
Duncan’s voice cut through the haze. “Catherine—”
His hand closed around her wrist, steady and solid, and for an instant, the panic inside her collided with the strength in his grip.
“I have to go,” she said, her voice breaking. “They need me.”
His grip tightened, steady and commanding. “You are not going alone.”
“Then come with me,” she snapped, meeting his gaze. “But I will not sit here while Brightwater burns.”
For a heartbeat, the room held nothing but their breathing—hers fast and shallow, his low and controlled. Then he released her wrist and turned to the footman. “Have the carriage brought round. Now.”
The man fled.
Duncan looked back at her. “Get your cloak.”
She was already running for it. The tremor in her hands made it hard to tie the ribbons, and he took them from her, knotting them with a sure, decisive tug. When he opened the door, the cold night air rushed in—sharp and biting, laced with the faintest trace of smoke.
Catherine’s pulse faltered. She could smell it already.
“Please,” she whispered, not sure to whom she spoke — to Duncan, to God, to the memory of her mother who had once founded Brightwater with such faith. “Let them be safe.”
Duncan’s hand settled against the small of her back, guiding her toward the waiting carriage. “They will be,” he said, voice low and certain, as if his will alone could bend fate.
But as the horses lurched forward and the city gave way to the dark road ahead, Catherine pressed her palm to the window and saw it— a faint orange glow on the horizon, swelling brighter with every passing second.
It looked, she thought with horror, like dawn coming too soon.
The carriage wheels roared against the cobbles.
Catherine sat forward, gripping the edge of the seat until her knuckles whitened.
Duncan’s presence beside her was solid, immovable, a quiet storm barely contained.
He said nothing for a long moment, only stared ahead, jaw locked, as the horses galloped toward the orphanage.
Then his hand came to rest over hers. It was a simple touch, but it steadied her more than she expected.
“We’ll save them,” he said, voice low but certain. “Do you hear me, Catherine? Whatever it takes, we’ll save them.”
The words sank into her like breath after drowning. For a heartbeat, the terror loosened its grip. She turned to him, seeing not the cold duke the world knew, but the man who would ride through fire if she asked.
“I know,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
He gave the faintest nod, and the pressure of his hand lingered, strong and grounding, until the carriage slowed and the first trace of smoke filled the air.
When they arrived, Brightwater was half-shrouded in smoke. The night glowed red behind it, a monstrous light, alive and ravenous. Flames licked at the roof, throwing sparks into the air like cruel stars.
Catherine’s breath caught. For a moment, she couldn’t move. Her mother’s orphanage was burning before her eyes. The familiar windows she had opened so many mornings were nothing but squares of black and orange. The air itself trembled, thick with heat and terror.
“Dear God,” she whispered, one hand pressed to her chest. It felt as though her heart was trying to break free from her ribs.
Catherine jumped from the carriage before Duncan could stop her.
“Catherine!” His voice thundered after her, but she was already running, skirts gathered in one hand, the other shielding her face from the heat.
Children’s high, terrified cries filled the courtyard. A crowd had gathered at the gates—neighbors, servants, a few of the older boys from the home. Their faces were pale in the firelight, their voices a blur of shouting and prayer. She could hear the children crying inside.
A line of servants and older boys was passing buckets from the well to the burning side of the building. Mrs. Simms, pale and frantic, saw her and rushed forward.
“Your Grace! You shouldn’t—”
“Where are they?” Catherine’s voice cracked, the smoke clawing her throat. “Where are the children?”
“They’re coming out now—the east wing is clear, but the nursery—”
Catherine didn’t wait to hear more. Her heart lurched violently, every thought narrowing to that single word. The place where the youngest slept, the ones who couldn’t even tie their own boots. She lifted her skirts and ran, ignoring the matron’s cry behind her.
The moment she crossed the threshold, the smoke struck her like a wall. It stole the air from her lungs, hot and heavy, tasting of ash and ruin. Her eyes burned, watering until the world blurred. She pressed a sleeve over her mouth and forced herself forward, step by step.
The hallway she’d walked a thousand times was unrecognizable, its walls blackened, portraits half-melted, the familiar smell of soap and porridge replaced by the stench of burning timber and despair.
Flames snarled along the ceiling beams, their light flickering like demons’ tongues.
Somewhere above, a beam cracked, the sound splitting through the roar like thunder.
Her body trembled, but she refused to stop.
Each step was agony, her lungs screaming for clean air, but the memory of small hands clinging to her skirts, of laughter echoing down these halls, drove her onward.
She thought of her mother, of the woman who had built this place with her own kindness, and felt that same fierce love igniting within her.
“Mary? Thomas?” she called, voice hoarse already, the words barely carrying over the din. “Can you hear me? Henry?”
No answer. Only the sound of fire devouring what had once been a sanctuary. She swallowed her fear and called again, louder this time, desperate.
“Henry? Mary? Thomas?” she called again, coughing.
“Here, Your Grace!” a small voice cried.
Catherine followed it, heart hammering, until she found two of the older boys near the stairwell, shepherding a cluster of younger children. Soot streaked their faces; one was crying, the other clinging to a doll.
“Good lads,” she gasped. “Take them out through the back courtyard, quickly now. Don’t look back.”
They nodded, and she turned toward the nursery corridor. The ceiling there was already sagging, beams glowing faintly red. Every instinct screamed at her to stop, but she could hear a child sobbing somewhere ahead.
“Henry?” she called, pushing forward. The name tore from her throat, rough and uneven.
No answer, only the groan of timber above her, the hiss and snap of fire feeding on wood.
She tried again, louder this time. “Henry! I’m here!” The smoke thickened around her, turning the air into something she had to swallow rather than breathe. “Henry, where are you, sweetheart?”
Her voice broke on the last word. She stopped for a heartbeat, straining to listen, her pulse hammering in her ears. The corridor ahead glowed faintly red, the heat pressing against her skin like a living thing.
Then she heard a faint, muffled sound, unmistakable—a small, terrified cry.
“Henry?” she called again, relief and terror tangling in her chest. “Keep calling to me, darling—I’m coming!”
The cry came once more, weaker this time, and she followed it, half-blind. Her eyes streamed; her lungs burned with every breath, but she pushed forward, one hand feeling along the scorched wall for guidance.
She rounded the corner and froze.
There he was, the weakest of them all, curled beneath a fallen blanket, his face streaked with ash, tiny fingers gripping the edge of the fabric as though it could protect him from the world.