Imogen Robertson - Instruments of Darkness

“Jemima?” His tone was one of surprise, then he fell forward on his knees at her feet, his forehead resting on the silk of her skirts. She let her free hand rest briefly on his head, as a woman might pet a child or lapdog, then stepped back, shaking her lovely head slightly. She turned and began to run from the room, the knife still in her hand. As she passed her, Harriet reached out from her chair to try and stop her. As her hand closed on the rich fabric of her dress, Harriet fell forward, Lady Thornleigh stumbled, turned and saw Harriet clinging on to her. For a brief moment, Harriet looked into her eyes: they were black and dilated. And then she was up again, pulling herself free as a country girl does from a bramble, and fled the room.

Hugh came to himself and went to lift Harriet back to her feet. She managed to stand. The squire stood white and shaking, unable to comprehend what had happened in front of him. Michaels lifted Wicksteed under his arms as if he were a toy and placed him almost tenderly on the oak table. Crowther joined him. As Harriet looked to where they stood over Wicksteed, the body on the table groaned and shuddered. Crowther caught her eye and shook his head, though he had taken off his coat and was trying to staunch the flow of blood with it. Servants came at a run from within and were sent for linen and water. As Crowther worked, he could feel the body dying under him. At the last, he chanced to look into Wicksteed’s deep black eyes. The man had turned to fix them on the arms of Thornleigh Hall, and he was smiling at them as his last breath rasped and faded.

Harriet was not sure if what she was seeing or hearing was real. The cries of “Fire!” were repeated many times before the sense of it reached her.

Other servants were tumbling into the hall. Michaels strode into the midst of them.

“What? Where?”

The footman who had tried to deny them entry came running down the grand stairway.

“In the state rooms and above. Everything is aflame! Everything! My lady will not come down! She has her son!”

Michaels began to tear up the stairway, Crowther and Hugh on his heels. Harriet dragged herself after them, pausing by the footman as he reached the base of the stairs, hissing with the pain of her ankle.

“Get the people out,” she instructed him. “We’ll go after her.”

Crowther turned to Hugh as they reached the level of the state rooms.

“Thornleigh, your father!”

He nodded and raced ahead of them. Michaels and Crowther paused on the main stair. They heard a laugh, and a cry. Smoke billowed along the corridor in front of them-already the flames raced along the draperies and sucked at the ceiling above their heads. A maid stood in front of them like a guardian to the flames.

“She has locked herself in her room with little Master Eustache! I have not got a key!”

Michaels turned back and raced down the stairs again. Crowther turned to the girl.

“Go-get out.”

The maid paused, then screamed as one of the windows cracked behind her and sparks showered across them. Crowther threw his weight against the door, but it would not yield. Harriet reached his side and they heard the high wailing of a child in the room. Crowther looked at her.

“You should not be here.”

Their eyes met, and he did not ask again.

Michaels came stumbling toward them, a bunch of keys in his hand. Crowther tied his cravat across his mouth and nose, and Harriet pulled out her handkerchief and did the same. Michaels tried two keys-neither fitted. He cursed, then throwing the keys to the floor, he hurled his whole weight at the lock. Harriet staggered back, and again Michaels and Crowther threw themselves forward. There was a splintering of wood. Michaels kicked hard and the door gave. Clouds of smoke belched out, making Harriet’s lungs burn. She turned her face away, coughing violently.

“Lady Thornleigh. Give us the child!” Crowther called into darkness.

A window cracked, and Harriet could see a figure lying prone on the floor, with a little boy kneeling above her. She limped in, the pain in her leg forgotten, and grabbed up the little boy. He fought her, shouting for his mama, but Harriet would not let him go, and began to drag and carry him from the room and down the stairs. She looked up, and where the staircase climbed she could see fresh flames licking from the upper stories. The earls of Sussex remained immobile in their portraits all down the stairs, watching as the fire tasted the corners of their canvas. At that moment, the fire bit through the wood of the upper balcony, and the stairs groaned.

“Crowther! Michaels!”

They were behind her, Michaels holding Lady Thornleigh in his arms like a doll.

Crowther looked up the stairs.

“Go!” he shouted. “I must help Hugh.” Harriet began to protest, but he commanded, “ Now! ” And turned to run up the stairs into the inferno above.

Harriet and Michaels staggered through the hallway and down the steps into the drive and the open air. Fire danced at the windows of every room in the east wing. Michaels laid his burden on the gravel, and Harriet set down the little boy. He threw himself on his mother’s body and began to bawl. Lady Thornleigh did not move, and Harriet could see no sign of breath coming from her. There was blood on the woman’s chest: she had found another use for her knife. The little boy tried to pull her arm over him. Whatever had held Harriet upright till now gave way, and she collapsed to her knees amongst the cries and lamentations of the household.

Crowther found Hugh on the upper corridor, Lord Thornleigh insensible in his arms. A beam had fallen, flaming between them. Crowther kicked it away, and Hugh hobbled toward him, retching.

“Come on!”

They made it to the level of the state rooms, where the fire now seemed to rage at its fiercest. Hugh looked to Crowther.

“We can only go through! Run!”

They leaped forward. Crowther felt the air burning around him, the heat on his face so fierce he felt it would brand him. He somehow got to the bottom of the stairs and looked back, Hugh was on the half-landing, his father’s body in his arms, looking around at his flaming relatives like a child caught in a cathedral.

“Hugh! Move!”

He heard another groan in the timbers above him and looked up. Hugh was halfway toward him now, picking up pace. He heard his own name called and saw Michaels racing back into the house toward him. A crack and he looked up again at the fresco of Lord Thornleigh and his family at Judgment Day. Time seemed to slow. The depiction of Hell on the fresco was now smoldering. The young Lord Thornleigh painted in all his glory looked down on his own dirty and bloodied wreck of a body with his usual look of cool, sensuous disdain. Another groan and crack, and even as he felt Michaels’s arms grab his shoulders, Crowther watched in horrid fascination as the fresco gave way over father and son and began to fall, leaving a heaven of dark flames. Then everything went black.

FRIDAY, 9 JUNE 1780

Mrs. Westerman and Crowther stood at the entrance to Caveley Park with Daniel Clode beside them as the carriage drew up. The door opened and two children tumbled out and threw themselves at Daniel. He twirled the girl around in his arms before lifting the little boy into the air in turn. A young lady and gentleman stepped down from the carriage in more sedate manner behind them, followed by a woman somewhat older, thin, her cheeks rather pink. Harriet and Crowther exchanged smiles and went forward in welcome.

Graves made his bows.

“Mrs. Westerman, Mr. Crowther, may I introduce Miss Chase and her companion, Mrs. Service.”

The ladies curtsied, and Clode advanced to shake Mrs. Service warmly by the hand. Harriet smiled.