Chapter 7 #2
She was grateful for that. She did not want to enter his quarters again.
The chamber had been too small, and the distance between its door and the cottage too far to cross quickly if the door had closed behind her.
He had given no cause for alarm. He had been civil, even grudging in his helpfulness.
But civility did not make a man safe, and she had no one within earshot to call upon if civility proved insufficient.
She collected the bucket and walked back down the slope.
The cottage was smaller now that night had settled.
The wind howled at the stones and slipped in faint threads beneath the sill.
She knelt at the hearth and set the coal carefully, arranging it as she had seen it done before, though never had to perform herself.
She set the lantern upon the floor beside her, its light wavering across the flags as she coaxed flame from the flint.
It took several tries before she mastered the art of drawing a spark, and a handful more to land that spark on the coal. The flame caught reluctantly. Smoke crept outward before the chimney found its draft.
She coughed and waved the smoke away with her skirt. She continued to watch it with narrowed eyes until she was satisfied it would not choke the room, then sat back upon her heels.
Cheese and bread required little preparation. She sliced both upon the lid of her trunk and ate standing, unwilling yet to trust the settle. The sharp scent of the onions cut through the damp air.
The rain had strengthened into a proper storm—at least, she supposed the hammering sheets pelting the roof and washing down the windows would be accounted a proper storm here.
In Hertfordshire, rain like this would stop all carriages and farm work for a day.
Here, perhaps it was a nightly occurrence.
She crossed to the window facing the tower and wiped the steamy glass with the edge of her sleeve.
The pyre burned high upon the knoll, its light bending sideways under the force of the wind. Smoke trailed low across the headland and vanished into the dark. Beyond it, the sea lay unseen, though she could hear it more clearly now, a heavier pulse beneath the storm.
She waited.
Her uncle had spoken of the lantern with something close to reverence—the beam sweeping a broad arc across the water, visible miles offshore.
A steady rotation, white against the night, returning at exact intervals to reassure the coast. She had carried the image with her from London.
She had expected to see it from this window tonight.
But the tower remained dark.
She waited longer. Perhaps the apparatus required more preparation than she had supposed. Perhaps the keeper would not light it until well after dark, or perhaps the wind was gusting wrong for the flame.
Still nothing. Only the fire.
It was no small blaze. He had constructed it with intention—the same deliberate economy she had watched from this window that afternoon. She could see him at intervals moving against the backdrop of flame, adjusting some portion of the stack. Once the flame dipped, then rose again.
A warning, he had said.
She drew back from the window and set the lantern upon the mantel beside her books.
If the tower stood for the safety of the coast, why was the coast dependent upon a bonfire? Why had neither Mrs Hargreaves nor the keeper spoken of any defect? The trustees’ letter had contained no hint of difficulty. Her uncle had expressed no concern beyond the weather.
Yet something was plainly amiss.
The storm gathered its strength without haste. Rain ran in uneven lines down the glass; the wind pressed and withdrew, pressed and withdrew, as though testing the mortar of the walls. The pyre upon the knoll bent sideways under each heavier gust, its flame drawn thin and then swelling again.
Still, the tower remained dark.
Elizabeth leaned nearer the pane, narrowing her eyes against the reflection of her own small lamp behind her.
There—a point of light moved within the gallery.
Not the broad revolving beam her uncle had described, but a smaller, warmer glow within the tower itself. It shifted once along the curve of the glass, paused, then disappeared. It flared again, nearer the centre, and lowered as though set upon some surface within.
She held her breath to prevent fogging the window and peered harder. The keeper was there. The light proved it—advancing and retreating, describing no orderly arc, only the uncertain path of a hand-lantern carried from one side of the chamber to another.
He was trying to light it. She was watching a man fail.
If the apparatus were ready, why would the flame not hold?
The structure stood intact. The lens, from what she had seen, was whole.
Had some portion of the mechanism failed?
Had the oil spoiled? The questions multiplied faster than she could order them, and none had answers she could reach from this window.
The smaller light lifted once more, hovered briefly near the heart of the lantern room, and sank from view.
Elizabeth had just turned from the window when the chimney gave its first warning—a low, hollow sound within the flue, as though wind had found some unguarded cavity and set it moaning.
She tilted her head. The fire had been burning well enough. The coal bed glowed evenly; the smoke had drawn cleanly upward. She stepped nearer the hearth and watched the flame. It bent sharply toward the room and then righted itself.
A second gust struck harder. This time, the smoke did not rise.
It rolled.
A dark tongue unfurled from the throat of the chimney and spilled downward, bringing with it the bitter scent of soot long undisturbed. Elizabeth jumped back, one hand rising to cover her mouth.
“Oh, no.” She lunged forward and tried fanning it with her skirt. “No, no, no!”
If only she had a bellows—but no, it would be too late for that. The draft had reversed.
Wind forced itself down the flue in a violent breath, scattering ash across the flags and sending sparks outward against the iron grate. She seized the poker and attempted to shift the coal, thinking to lower the heat, but the chimney answered with a sharp crack above her head.
Not thunder. Her eyes went upward, tracing the sound.
That was the crack of stone.
She lunged away from the hearth as a thin rain of grit fell from the edge where chimney met ceiling.
Another report followed—louder. A fragment of mortar dropped, struck the edge of the mantel, and shattered upon the floor.
The smoke thickened rapidly, stinging her eyes, burning her throat. She could not see the roof seam she had inspected earlier; the air itself had grown solid and dark.
Then, the heavy, inward collapse of something that had long been held in precarious balance. A section of the chimney breast gave way.
Stone and soot fell inward in a violent rush. The impact struck the hearth, scattering coal across the floor. The ceiling above split along the south seam, and from that opening the rain found immediate entrance.
It did not trickle. It poured.
Cold water drove through the fractured join and fell directly upon the hearthstone, hissing where it struck the coals and sending up a suffocating cloud of steam and smoke.
Elizabeth staggered back toward the mantel.
The books!
She seized the volumes from the stone ledge—Shakespeare first, then the Horace, then Mary’s sermons pressed against them, the travel book last—and gathered them against her breast, wrapping the linen from her trunk about them as she moved.
Without thought for the gowns draped across the settle or the cloak hanging by the door.
The floor was already slick. Smoke pressed low, her eyes streamed. A second cascade of water broke through the widening seam, striking the centre of the room.
She could not stay. The weather or the smoke would finish what the chimney had begun. By smoke or by the elements, she would not survive the night.
With the books bound against her and the small lantern clutched in one hand, she crossed to the door, unbolted it, and forced it open against the wind.
The storm struck her full in the face.
Rain drove sideways across the headland, flattening the grass and tearing at her cloak. The pyre still burned, though bent nearly horizontal by the gale. Beyond it, the tower stood dark against the sky.
She lowered her head and pressed forward, boots sliding against the wet earth. The lantern at her side swung wildly; she shielded its flame with her body, but it was snuffed before she had taken three steps.
The slope was longer in the dark. The wind caught her at the shoulder and shoved her sideways; she staggered, regained her footing, continued. The books she held tighter than her breath.
The tower door loomed through the rain, a darker shape within darkness. She reached it, struck once with her free hand, and grasped for the latch. The storm howled behind her as she pushed her way inside.