Chapter 14: Rite of Purification

 

I raced back to the kitchen and found Everett sitting with Sarah Greeley, their plates pushed aside, and their heads close together. He sat up with a startled jerk, looking vaguely guilty when I burst in.

“Everett. Stay with Sarah. Juno and I will be back soon.”

He unhooked his boot heels from the stool’s rungs and stood. “Where are you going? I’ll come with you.”

“No,” I said, then cut my eyes to the girl. Her complexion was ghostly. I stepped close to Everett and spoke in his ear. “Stay here with Sarah and don’t open the door to anyone. Conceal yourselves in the tunnel if needed.”

“What is it?”

“There’s a fire burning near Juno’s house.”

Everett pulled his head back and stared at me. “Be careful, please.”

I gripped his upper arm, and the wiry muscle there bunched under my hand. “Thank you.” He would have been more useful to have with me than Juno, but she had a right to know what was happening at her property. Someone needed to stay with Sarah. “I hope we won’t be long.”

Juno waited by the front door, swathed in her cloak and carrying my oil lantern. Michael bounced impatiently on his toes. He swung the big door open. The orange glow was brighter than it had been. I would have paid gold for a horse and trap at that moment, but the Maida stables had been empty for longer than the house. We would have to go on foot, and it was over a mile even if we cut across the fields.

“You don’t need to go,” I said to Juno.

“Yes, I do.” Her jaw was set in determination, so I didn’t argue further.

We set off with Michael in the lead. He bounded down the gravel drive and veered off across the overgrown lawn. We had once held picnics there, and my father had related childhood memories of a beribboned maypole on Whitsundays. In its neglected state, the lawn had reverted to weeds and molehills.

The current, limited boundaries of Maida grounds soon gave way to fields sold off by my brother. We traversed the remainder of the distance on former estate land. The crops had all been brought in. To my eye, even in the dark, I saw signs of neglect in the stiles and hedgerows, in the stubs of wheat stalks left to rot. The fields should have been planted with a fall cover crop of Raphanus sativus or even simple oats. I made a silent promise to visit the farmers and position myself as a better landowner than whomever the current absentee proprietor might be.

The smell of smoke overwhelmed me as we drew close to the source of the fire.

“Come on,” Michael urged. “My father was by the lane when I last saw him.”

The boy ran ahead, and the silhouette of Juno’s house appeared against the backdrop of orange flames. I saw at once that the fire was centered in the stand of aspen trees just north of her property. The grove was surrounded on three sides by plowed fields and the dirt road, but the fourth side was Juno’s property line. The fire was creeping close to the house. One outbuilding, a little peaked roof shed, was already engulfed, and it would continue spreading. Fire was a force of nature I respected. But there was one other whose powers I dared not underestimate.

I glanced at Juno. “I don’t suppose you have any…” I made an imprecise gesture towards the flames as I searched for my meaning. Spells? Occult ceremonies? “Influence.”

Her dark eyebrows shot up. “Over a wildfire? No,” she said on a short laugh, “I cannot control flames. But how kind of you to think so. Imagine the time one might save on stoking the kitchen fire.”

I peered into the blaze as we emerged around the corner of her house. Much like Michael, Joseph and I had once helped our father and a group of neighbors battle a barn fire. It had jumped to a few other outbuildings, but the house had been saved, and I’d thought my father the bravest of men.

A raspy voice called out. Farmer Miller ran up and swept his son into a fierce embrace. The man was sweating and soot-blackened, and he carried a pickaxe. “Good work, boy.” He gave the child another squeeze and turned to me. “Ben, thank you for coming so quickly. And Mrs. Stephens! Am I ever glad to set eyes on you. We worried you were in your house.”

“No,” Juno said. She did not explain further.

“The village has a fire captain and some sort of organized procedure, but I’m not sure what we can do out here,” Miller said. “We’re far from much of the help. I did round up a few neighbors.”

“How many men do you have?” I asked. “We need a firebreak and a line of buckets. Otherwise, the fire could jump the lane and threaten your house, too.”

He grimaced and swiped a filthy hand across his forehead. “Only three other men, plus Michael and my wife. That’s why I wanted you.”

“All right.” I made the mistake of inhaling a deep breath as I tried to piece together a plan. The smoke set me coughing. Did Londoners truly breathe in a soup of hazy air every day? “Juno, if there’s anything you must save from the house, fetch it now. You have no more than five minutes. When you come out, bring with you a half-dozen wide, wetted strips of fabric. We’ll tie them over our faces.” She nodded. I turned to the boy. “Michael, you’re going to operate Mrs. Stephens’ pump. It’s just outside the kitchen door. Can you do that? It’s very important.”

The boy, wide-eyed, nodded instantly.

“Good.” I shifted my eyes to the farmer. “As for the men, we’ll need to set a line—”

“Wait,” he said. “Come and tell them directly. We’re just over in the road.”

“I only meant to—” I protested.

But Miller was already striding away. Michael and Juno headed for her house. She cast a glance back. “Go on, Ben. Organize them, help them, lead them. They need you.”

My stomach clenched. “Right.”

I coughed again when an errant gust sent smoke swirling. Miller led me past Juno’s house to the lane. A knot of men and one woman, apparently Mrs. Miller, waited just upwind of the burning stand of aspens. They all turned and watched me approach. I stopped a few feet short and met five pairs of eyes in soot-streaked faces. Their expressions were eerie and difficult to interpret in the uncertain light from the fire. I said nothing.

“This is Ben,” Miller said. I was glad he didn’t add my family name. “We have discussed a few options,” he explained to me, “but there’s no good way to bring a large volume of water over here. What do you think?”

“W-well, f-first we-we—” I stuttered horribly and stopped myself. The men standing around Miller frowned. One of them squinted and leaned forward as if seeing me better might help him understand.

“Pardon me?” Miller asked politely. All eyes were on me, and they all waited. Mrs. Miller had a furrow between her eyebrows.

“W-w-we sh-sh—” A rush of heat, hotter than that reaching me from the nearby blaze, consumed my chest and burned my throat.

“What did he say?” Mrs. Miller asked her husband in an audible whisper. “What’s wrong with him? Is he drunk?”

Somebody snickered.

Suddenly I had nothing to say, even if I could have spoken. My jaw hung open like a dead fish’s. I had stammered passably through awkward questions with Mrs. Pfeiffer and Mrs. Roberts, but those were personal conversations. The crowd of faces staring at me sent me into a panic. Everywhere my gaze moved, another pair of eyes met mine. They all watched, and their expressions churned from confusion to embarrassment and then distaste. They all knew I was useless. It was all I could do to draw my next breath.

One of the other men jumped into the silence. “If I got my wagon and covered the bed and rails with sailcloth, it would hold a good deal of water—”

“It’s not nearly enough—” Miller began.

“We have to do something quickly,” his wife pleaded.

They needed a firebreak and a bucket line, and they needed someone to clear the loose brush from around the Stephens house. I wet my lips and tried again.

“If-if y-you—”

Another of the neighbors spoke over me, something about fetching more help from the village. The conversation devolved into a cacophony of arguments and counterarguments. The men floated and rejected a half-dozen ideas. My fingers curled so hard that my fists ached. I knew what needed to be done, but I could see no way to make myself heard.

In frustration, I turned my back on the group and strode away, heading for the north side of Juno’s house. I couldn’t lead them, but neither could I stand around doing nothing. The blaze had devoured a tree near the property line, and the shed had been reduced to a pile of smoldering ash. The fire spread much faster than I thought possible, given the recent damp weather.

The woodpile by the house was a significant risk. If the flames reached the wood-framed building, the fire would be impossible to stop. I took up the axe from beside the pile and hacked at one of the vertical restraints. I swung with strength born of anger and fear, and the pole quickly succumbed. The pyramid of logs tumbled and rolled. I kicked at the stragglers to send them away from the house.

Juno ran up in a swirl of cotton and dark hair. Her trailing skirt was a risk, too, and for a savage moment, I envisioned ripping the fabric away. I coughed and panted as she approached. She carried a handful of wet strips, as I had requested.

“What are you doing? Where are the others?” she asked, thrusting one of the cotton strips at me.

I took it and tied it around my face like a highwayman. “Over there,” I said, waving in the direction of the road, where the others still argued.

“What is the plan? What shall we do next?”

“You should keep clear. I don’t know what they’re doing.”

I hoisted the axe again and turned to a young elm tree whose branches touched the eaves of the house.

“What are you doing?” Juno demanded.

“You shouldn’t have planted this tree so close to the house. Now it’s a fire hazard.” I swung and took a bite out of the trunk.

“Should I go get the others? Will you organize them?”

I grunted and chopped again. “Why don’t you do it yourself?”

“Ben!” Juno yelled and inserted herself between the axe and the tree. I abruptly halted the progress of my next blow and glared at her, straining for breath through the smoke and the improvised mask. She held hers pressed over her nose and mouth with one hand, but her eyes, visible above it, were dark and angry. “Because I am not you. Apparently, you are not yourself either. I don’t understand why you haven’t organized those men to help.”

“I tried!” I roared. I raised the axe but let the handle slide through my grip until I held it just below the head. “I tried to-to talk to them. I couldn’t—they didn’t listen.”

My words were barely coherent. Juno lowered her mask, and her features sank into an expression I hadn’t seen from her before—I realized with disgust that it was pity. Of course. The one person who’d harbored any higher expectations for me had come face to face with the truth of my many shortcomings. Organize them, help them, lead them, she’d said. I could not lead them. What made me think I was suited to be the master of Maida Estate? Of course, she would pity my pathetic failings.

“Move,” I said, shouldering the axe.

“Ben—”

“Out of the way!” My voice cracked. I was terrifyingly close to sobbing.

“Ben!” She grabbed my arms and gave me a hard shake. “Where is Michael?”

The boy. I’d sent him to operate the pump, but I hadn’t seen him in several minutes. Fear must have shown on my face. Juno whirled and ran towards the rear of the house. I dashed after her. If my self-absorption had caused the boy to come to harm…

“Michael,” Juno called, her head swiveling.

“Michael!” I echoed. The mask muffled my voice, and I yanked it down.

In the orange, murky air, I could hardly see more than a few feet ahead of me. We reached the pump, but the only sign of the child was a puddle under the spout. He’d been manning the pump, as I’d instructed, although there was no one to collect the water.

“Damn it.” Juno stared at the house in a motionless daze. I put a heavy hand on her shoulder and turned her to me. “Go and find Miller,” I said urgently. “See if his boy is with him.” She looked at me, her eyes watering from the smoke. “Go on.”

She went, finally, at a run. I didn’t think Michael was with his father. I just needed Juno out of the way. I had noticed the back door was cracked open. The boy was inside.

After lifting the mask back up over my nose, I cast aside the axe and dashed through the open doorway. The house was not yet on fire, but it was filled with smoke. The conservatory looked strangely barren. The planter beds were emptier than I recalled. The floorboards were clean. If the whole place went up in flames, it little mattered that I had so carefully wiped up the spilled cat’s blood.

“Michael!” I yelled. “Where are you?”

A popping sound like embers crackled in the kitchen, followed by a gust of cold air. I left the conservatory and followed the noise.

The kitchen window had shattered, letting in air and more smoke. The cause was a falling tree branch. Flames from the elm licked at the house. A thin line of smoke rose from the corner of the casement—the wooden structure caught fire.

“Michael!” I called again. My voice was rough from the smoke and tight with fear, but for once I knew there was no uncertainty in the sound. I wanted to find the boy and get us both out of the house before it was consumed. “Where are you?”

Nothing. I rushed to the parlor, where Juno’s writing desk was situated to look out through the front window, but he wasn’t there. Would she ever sit at that desk again? Another crash sounded in the kitchen—I was out of time.

Then, the sound of a light tread on the steps. I whirled, dashed to the foot of the staircase, and peered up into the gloom. The farmer’s boy was there, pale and clutching the railing, and he skittered towards me.

“Michael,” I gasped. “Thank God.” I held out my arms, and he fairly leapt onto me. He was too old to be carried but too terrified to care. He clung to my neck like a barnacle.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he cried. “I got scared and tried to hide. Where is Mrs. Stephens? Where is my father?”

“They are all fine. We’re going to them now.”

The front door was directly behind me, but when I turned, some impulse sent me back into the parlor. I hoisted the boy higher in one arm and reached for the largest desk drawer with my free hand.

“What are you doing? Let’s leave, Ben.”

“Yes. We’re going.”

In the drawer was a neat stack of envelopes, tied together in a familiar black, silk ribbon. Were my own scribblings somewhere in that packet? I’d given Juno five minutes to retrieve what she wanted from the house, and apparently, her correspondence had not been important enough. I felt certain she would want her letters. She wrote notes, kept a stationery set, and knew the power of words. Her house was burning because of my failure, but her letters didn’t have to.

I handed the stack of envelopes to Michael and shifted my grip on his limbs. I couldn’t have dropped him even if I’d tried, given his hold on my neck.

Then I hurried to the front door and flipped the bolt back. Holding Michael, I ran out onto the porch, leaving the burning house behind. The air outside was no clearer than that indoors, but at least the moonlight provided better illumination. I staggered out into the patch of grass in the front yard. A shout rose from the lane—the others had spotted us. I started to crouch to set down Michael, but suddenly my legs went wobbly and useless. I sank awkwardly onto my knees. Michael dashed away, and his father scooped him up.

The aspen grove was fully engulfed. The bright orange glow made my eyes sting, and I let my head droop to stare for a moment at the grass, lungs heaving, trying to gather myself.

I did not see or hear Juno until she was right beside me. She gave a wordless cry and lowered herself to kneel facing the other direction, toward her burning home. I didn’t lift my head, so all I saw was the begrimed hem of her dress. How could I ever meet her eyes again, knowing how I’d failed?

“I’m sorry,” I croaked. “My God, your house. I’m so sorry.”

Juno said nothing. What did I expect of her? Anger, fear, recrimination? Her hands fisted in her skirt, and I turned my face to avoid the evidence of her distress. From the corner of my eye, I saw that the north side of Juno’s house was burning freely. The fire climbed higher up the peak of the roof.

Finally, I drew myself to my feet, feeling a thousand years old, and left Juno there in the lawn to mourn her loss in solitude. I was uncertain of the depth of her feelings for the building turning to ash. If the groundskeeper’s cottage in Maida Green burned, I would be inconvenienced, but not sorrowful. But if Maida House burned…I would lose a piece of myself.

I retreated to find Miller and the others. They stood together in the lane and watched the flames. Had they done anything worthwhile to combat the spread of the fire? It seemed unlikely. I couldn’t blame them, given I had achieved nothing better. Together maybe we could have accomplished something if only we’d had a better man to lead us.

“Michael said you carried him out of the house,” Miller said. His son was glued to his side, much as he’d been stuck to my neck earlier, with his wife holding the boy’s hand.

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Miller softly.

I turned my head and spat a glob of ashy, gritty saliva onto the dirt lane. I could not accept their thanks. The child would not have gone into the house if I hadn’t assigned him to work the pump.

We all stood and watched the fire for what seemed like hours. The house was beyond rescue, and the aspen grove had nearly burned out. There was nothing to do but watch.

After some time, Juno crept up and stood at my side. Although her posture was rigid and reserved, it occurred to me that yet again I had walked away from her, and again she’d found her way back. Even a hungry dog will go away if kicked too often. I had thought that about myself, but in truth, I had rejected Juno more often than anyone should tolerate. Her resilience made her strong, where my pride made me weak.

“You’ll soon grow tired of coming back to me, and your absence will be what I deserve,” I murmured.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. Let’s go home. In the morning we can come back to salvage what’s left of your possessions.”

The blaze had calmed to small tongues of fire and smoldering wood. There was little danger of further spread. We walked a few paces from the others to speak privately.

“Home?” she repeated, then waved a hand at her smoking house. “I am home.”

“No, I meant—” But of course, I had asked her to leave Maida House. I turned and faced her directly. Tracks of tears left clean streaks along her sooty cheeks. “Come back, please. Sarah and Everett are waiting.” There was no hiding the hint of pleading in my tone. “You have nowhere else to sleep tonight.”

Juno shot me a dark look. “Thank you for that reminder of my circumstances.”

She took off at a fast walk. I stretched several long strides to catch up, although I stayed just behind her. As we crossed her yard, I stooped and retrieved my lantern, now dark, and the bundle of her correspondence from where Michael had dropped it. We reversed the route through the fields we’d taken with Michael several hours earlier. Juno kept up a brisk pace, and her silence was profound.

I came to a dead halt in the center of a field. Maida House waited on the crest of the next hill. “Juno,” I said. “Wait. We can’t go on like this.”