Chapter 47
Chapter Forty-Seven
She caught a soot-covered Benedict in her arms as soon as he stumbled from the window.
He urged her to back away from the house before melting into her.
“Are you well? Are you hurt?” His voice was hoarse as he tugged the damp cloth to his neck.
She shook her head, still pressed into his shoulder, clinging to him even tighter.
They were only able to enjoy a moment’s reprieve before great shuddering coughs racked her body. Benedict’s hands soothed down her spine as she hacked.
“Sir,” a voice interrupted. “The other gentleman has not made it back out yet.”
Eliza froze, somehow knowing that the man wasn’t referring to Blackwood.
“Papa?” she called out, voice hoarse.
Before she could move, Benedict’s lips found her forehead.
“Stay here. Don’t move.” His hand slipped from hers to pull the damp cloth back over his mouth and nose. And then he strode purposefully back into the burning house through the front door. She stared stupidly for a moment while her mind caught up with her eyes.
“Benedict!” She took a singular step before powerful arms banded about her belly.
“No, you don’t, sweetheart. The lad will not forgive us if you’re hurt,” a man’s voice said. “Keep her?” he asked someone else.
Suddenly, a woman was beside her, nodding. The woman grabbed her wrist, holding her there. “Go help with the brigade. Be careful!”
Eliza could not comprehend the sight before her, even as the fire raged, various thuds and crashes sounding as parts of the house succumbed to the feasting flames.
Soft hands wiped at her filthy face, brushing away the tears Eliza hadn’t noticed.
A dam broke once she was aware of the tears, the sobs trapped in her chest demanding to escape.
She collapsed against the woman, whimpering between heaving, ragged breaths.
The soot coating her throat and lungs pooled in her mouth. She retched.
Each horrific banging and smashing sound that escaped the house left her more certain that no one could ever escape.
The woman stayed beside her, steadying hands rubbing Eliza’s shoulders. She murmured something soft Eliza could not hear.
Help arrived, and buckets thudded into dozens of hands, followed by water hissing against burning stone and men shouting directions over the roar.
And then an illusion formed—a mirage brought forth from the deepest depths of her heart—a silhouette against the billowing smoke pouring from the doorway.
Two men dragged each other, stumbling from the ashy depths of hell.
Papa!
She raced toward them and crashed into the men mere feet from the doorway. They staggered back a bit before each caught her with one arm.
After too brief a moment, Benedict moved to pull away. Eliza’s fist tightened on his shirt, refusing to allow him his freedom.
“Eliza,” he coughed. “Sit with your father for a moment. I need to—”
“No!” she cried, pulling back from her father but not releasing her hold on his shoulder.
“No?”
“No, you cannot go back in! Please!” Her throat burned with the effort to force the words through—but they were too important to keep trapped.
He shushed her, running a hand along the filthy nest of her hair. “I need to make sure they have everything they need, little violet. Stay with your father.” He backed away before turning toward the man directing the sand procured from somewhere.
“Benedict!” Papa called after him. When Benedict looked back, her father shocked both Benedict and Eliza. “Thank you, son.”
Benedict froze, eyes wide and soft. Then he nodded, swallowing as his lips pressed together. He spun to his task with a resolute air.
Her father pulled her farther away from the flames. He grabbed her filthy face between his equally filthy hands. “You are well? You are unharmed? Draycott, he didn’t—”
“I’m well. He never— I’m unharmed. Are you?”
“I am now, petal, I am now,” he said, tugging her into his chest to hold her tight.
“I am so sorry, Papa. I should have said it sooner. I—”
He hushed her. “I know. You need to let your throat rest—you’re hoarse. I should go see if I can be of help.”
“But—”
“I love you, too, Petal,” he said with a crooked smile. The clean bottom half of his face served as a stark contrast to the filthy top half. “Stay here.” With those words, Papa strode off to join her—Benedict—in assisting with the brigade.
The woman who had held and attempted to comfort her earlier approached and offered a cup of water. “There now, everyone is well. Try to wash your mouth out.”
Eliza nodded gratefully, then swished the water before spitting. She was horrified to see that the water that left her mouth was a revoltingly darker shade than the clear liquid that went in. She repeated the process several times until she was satisfied.
“Thank you,” she wheezed.
“Rest your voice, sweet girl,” the woman murmured as she produced a damp cloth and wiped Eliza’s face gently. “I’m Mrs. Weston, but you can call me Effie. My, you are as pretty as a flower, aren’t you? No wonder you’ve got Bennie all tied up.”
“I—” Eliza’s voice refused to cooperate, even that singular syllable was a raw agony.
“You don’t need to say nothing. He nearly drove himself mad trying to get to you. I hope you’ll let him make it right—if you wish it.”
A clattering of bells rose over the crackling fire and rhythmic thump of buckets. Men accompanied by a team of horses pulling a pump engine rushed into view.
Benedict spoke to the captain while Effie stepped away. She took charge, directing the other men to feed a long hose into the pond.
The captain called out to the remaining man, “There’s still one inside!” The man dunked a woolen blanket in the pond before racing up to the captain’s side.
Benedict and the men approached the window Eliza had escaped from only minutes before.
The three peered in. Benedict pointed to the general area where she had last seen Blackwood.
Her heart stopped when they handed Benedict a length of rope.
It only started again when it became clear he was acting as a tether and not returning inside the inferno.
First one man, then the other climbed through the window. Eliza’s breath caught as she watched for long minutes. At last, one man climbed out, then the one inside handed him—Oh God.
The second man climbed out after and clapped Benedict on the shoulder, offering something that looked like an apology before the men carried the blanket wrapped bundle off to a wagon.
She hadn’t made a conscious decision to move, but Eliza found herself beside Benedict as he stared, unmoving, at the wool-covered bundle that contained his father.
Carefully, gently, she ran a hand down his arm. He seemed to startle at the touch before turning to her.
“Eliza, I don’t—” For the first time, Benedict sounded soft, small. A wave of tenderness crashed over her, and she reached up to run her fingers through the soft curls at his temple.
“I am so, so sorry,” she rasped. On the last word, Benedict fell into her. His arms banded around her waist, pulling her to his chest. His face found her shoulder as her hand twined through the hair at the nape of his neck.
She didn’t notice the dampness at first, too overwhelmed by the surrounding turmoil, but when a shudder shook his frame, she recognized the tears for what they were. The lump that grew in her throat had nothing to do with the ash and acrid smoke.
Benedict whispered something into her shoulder—too quietly for her ears to make out. It was clear from the soft volume that he didn’t particularly care if she heard him or not. But she wanted those words desperately, no matter what they were, and she strained to listen.
When she finally heard him, her heart seized with overwhelming anguish as he repeated over and over, “You’re alright, you’re alright…”
Her hand slid into his sooty waves, holding him to her. For the first time since the orangery, her heart unclenched.
“I’m alright,” she whispered, reassuring him, sliding an arm down to pull him even closer.
Benedict stiffened with a sharp inhale, and she loosened her grip.
Beneath Eliza’s palm, she felt something damp. When she pulled her hand away, it was her turn to gasp. “Benedict—”
“It’s fine. I’m fine. You’re alright.”
She pulled back in spite of his clinging grip. “You’re bleeding. Why are you—”
Her father strode over, interrupting her questioning. “They’re nearly finished here, son. Why don’t you let Eliza see to your back? This Effie woman offered her house. Seems a pleasant sort of assertive. I’d love to see what she could do with my club.”
Benedict’s nod was shaky, but he caught her hand and guided them down a small hill to a fine stable master’s cottage in the dull light just before dawn.
It was in a much better state than the house itself had been, which puzzled her, but not enough to question it.
Ivy clung to the white exterior, but it did not overtake the windows, which had been recently washed.
He strode inside to a worn but well cared for kitchen and sitting area. A large lamp hung beside the door, providing enough light to see while casting intimate shadows about the room.
“Wait here,” she whispered. “I saw a pump outside.”
“I’ll—”
“You sit. You’ve done plenty.” She stepped back out and rounded the side of the house where she found the pump and a basin.
When she returned, the sight of Benedict’s back stole her breath. His shirt—once white—was now nearly black, the linen clinging wetly to the line of his spine, outlining the wounds beneath.
Benedict himself stood in the center of the room, seemingly a little lost. She maneuvered around him and placed the basin on the dining table.
Turning, she fussed about in the kitchen, searching for some fresh toweling.
She located a few in a drawer near the wood stove and brought them to join the water.
At last, she turned back to him, considering where to start. He was caked with soot, save for a band between his eyes and neck. Eventually, she determined the wounds would need to be washed first. Otherwise, she had no hope of keeping them clean.
She swallowed—forgetting for a moment that each swallow was a blade dragging down her throat—before gathering her courage.
“Take off your shirt.”