Again the Magic (Wallflowers 0.5)(16)

Aline nodded with an impatient sigh. She turned to face the stove, where a cook maid was clumsily attempting to turn the fish. Oil splashed from the pan repeatedly as each piece was flipped, the liquid spilling into the basket grate filled with unused coal. Raising her brows at the girl’s ineptitude, Aline nudged her elbow into the housekeeper’s plump side. “Mrs. Faircloth—”

“Yes, we’re almost finished,” the housekeeper murmured.

“I know, but the stove—”

“One more word with Cook, my lady.”

“Mrs. Faircloth, I don’t think the cook maid should—”

Aline was interrupted by a shocking blast of heat accompanied by an explosive roar as the oil-soaked basket grate caught fire. Flames shot up to the ceiling and spread to the pan of fish, turning the range into an inferno. Stunned, Aline felt the cook maid stumble against her, and the breath was knocked from her lungs as her back struck the edge of the heavy table.

Hiccupping for air, Aline was dimly aware of the kitchen maids’ frightened screams, overlaid by Mrs. Faircloth’s sharp cries for someone to fetch a sack of bicarbonate salts from the larder, to smother the blaze. Aline turned to escape the heat and the smoke, but it seemed she was surrounded by it. Suddenly her body was encompassed with a pain more searing than anything she had ever imagined possible. Panicking at the realization that her clothes were on fire, she ran instinctively, but there was no escape from the flames that ate her alive. She had a blurred flash of Mrs. Faircloth’s horrified face, and then someone knocked her violently to the ground…a man’s voice cursing…there were punishing blows to her legs and body as he beat at her burning clothes. Aline cried out and fought him, but she could no longer breathe or think or see as she sank into the darkness.

Five

Twelve years later

“It seems that the Americans have arrived,” Aline said dryly, as she and her sister, Livia, returned to the manor house after an early-morning walk. She paused beside the honey-colored stone facade to have a good look at the four ornate vehicles that were stopped in front of the manor house. Servants dashed across the large courtyard that fronted the manor house, from the stables located on one side, to the servants’ quarters on the other. The guests had come with a great quantity of trunks and baggage for their month-long stay at Stony Cross Park.

Livia came to stand by Aline. She was a winsome young woman of twenty-four, with light brown hair and hazel-green eyes and a slim, small figure. From her blithe manner, one would think she hadn’t a care in the world. But it became evident to anyone who looked into her eyes that she had paid a high price for the rare moments of happiness she had known.

“Silly things,” Livia said lightly, referring to their guests, “haven’t they been told that it isn’t done to arrive so early in the day?”

“It would seem not.”

“Rather ostentatious, aren’t they,” Livia murmured, observing the gilded moldings and painted panels on the sides of the carriages.

Aline grinned. “When Americans spend their money, they like for it to show.”

They laughed and exchanged impish glances. This wasn’t the first time that their brother, Marcus, now Lord Westcliff, had hosted Americans at his renowned hunting and shooting parties. It seemed that in Hampshire, it was always the season for something…grouse in August, partridge in September, pheasant in October, rooks in spring and summer, and rabbits all year round. The traditional chase took place twice a week, with ladies occasionally riding to the hounds as well. All manner of business was conducted at these parties, which often lasted weeks and included influential political figures or rich professional men. During these visits, Marcus cleverly persuaded certain guests to side with him on one issue or another, or to agree to some business matter that would serve his interests.

The Americans who came to Stony Cross were usually nouveaux riches…their fortunes made from shipping and real estate, or factories that produced things like soap flakes or paper rolls. Aline had always found Americans rather engaging. She liked their high spirits, and she was touched by their eagerness to be accepted. Out of fear of seeming too modish, they wore clothes that were a season or two behind the current fashion. At dinner they were terribly anxious about whether they either had been seated below the salt or had been given the more prestigious locations near the host. And generally they were concerned about quality, making it clear that they preferred Sèvres china, Italian sculpture, French wine…and English peers. Americans were notoriously eager to make transatlantic marriages, using Yankee fortunes to catch impoverished British blue bloods. And no blood was more exalted than that of the Marsdens, who possessed one of the most ancient earldoms of the peerage.

Livia liked to joke about their pedigree, claiming that the renowned Marsden lineage could make even a black sheep like herself seem attractive to an ambitious American. “Since no decent Englishman would have me, perhaps I should marry one of those nice rich Yankees and sail with him across the Atlantic.”

Aline had smiled and hugged her tightly. “You wouldn’t dare,” she whispered into her sister’s hair. “I would miss you too much.”

“What a pair we are,” Livia responded with a rueful laugh. “You realize that we’ll both end up old and unwed, living together with a great horde of cats.”

“God save me,” Aline had said with a laughing groan.