Love, Come to Me(30)

“Do they ever—”

“Look at the sky . . . rain’s on the way. You’d better get back home before your hat gets ruined. Would you like me to take you in the barouche?”

“Oh, but people will see.”

“Yes, you must follow Daniel’s orders to the letter. I forgot.”

“I’m going to walk,” Lucy said stubbornly. “It isn’t far.”

He grinned and caught one of her hands in his, lifting it to brush a kiss across the tender skin below her knuckles. She went still, a strange, hushed feeling suffusing her at the merest touch of his mouth on her skin. “It’s been a pleasure, Cinda,” he murmured, and walked away with that distinctively lazy stride, as if he had all the time in the world to get wherever he was going.

Chapter 4

The first parish bell was ringing.

Lucy threw off the lace-trimmed sheet that was tangled around her legs and staggered out of bed to the window, staring at the scene outside before she was fully awake. The sky was filled with thick, low clouds that showered a gentle mist over the sleepy town. Despite the threat of rain, the clouds glowed a dull red, especially over the section of Concord around Lexington Road.

Her eyes widened as the street began to fill with people, vehicles, and horses. The wind drifted to her in a moist, warm surge, bringing with it the faint scent of smoke. She ran to the closet and hastily pulled out one of her oldest dresses, her movements awkward from haste and sleepiness. Everyone went to help when there was a fire; there were tasks that even the women and some of the older children could perform.

Snatching up the corset that lay across the embroidered seat of a chair, Lucy dressed as fast as she could. She pulled a powder-blue gown over her head and buttoned the bodice with clumsy haste. She tied her hair back with a ribbon and slipped on a pair of worn shoes that made little sound as she scurried downstairs.

Lucas Caldwell was already there, coiling a length of rope. He tucked the rope into a bucket that he had carried as a member of the bucket brigade, which had operated in the days before professional, paid fire departments and steam-pump engines. His white hair and snow-white mustache, usually so neatly groomed, were ruffled in comical disorder.

“Father, I’m ready,” Lucy said breathlessly, her flurry lessening in the face of his calmness. He was always so practical, so patient about everything, even in the face of disaster.

“The Hosmers have stopped their barouche outside. We’re going with them,” he replied, patting her on the shoulder briefly as they went to the front door.

“Father, please don’t take any chances tonight—you always take on the riskier tasks instead of letting the younger men do them! Remember, you’re all I’ve got, and if anything happens to you—”

“I’ll only do what’s needed, nothing more,” he assured her. “No heroics. But a Caldwell never avoids his duty, Lucy.”

“Yes, I know,” she said, and as she glanced at him she realized for the first time how quickly he was aging. A fine network of lines had dug into his cheeks and spread down to his neck, while pale brown age spots dotted his skin. She hated to think of how easy it would be for him to get hurt. “Please be careful,” she repeated softly, urgently. Lucas nodded absently, his attention caught and held by the sight of the thickening clouds in the distance. There would not be enough rain to quench the blaze or hinder its progress.

There was little talk between them and the Hosmers as the carriage raced in the direction that all the others were going. The Hosmers’ three sons perched eagerly in their seats; all of them were in their teens and filled with excitement untempered by the worries that the adults had to face. Lucy gripped the edge of a cushion in tension, her long chestnut hair threatening to escape its fastenings as the wind whipped over her. She let out a brief, surprised sound as they approached the blaze.

It was the Emersons’ home. The roof and the upper floor were already consumed by fire, which seemed to rise higher with each second, until it seemed to brush against the clouds. Hordes of people bustled around the ground, some daring to make brief forays into the bottom floor to rescue furniture and clothing. The members of the fire department were hard at work to control the flames, but it looked like it was too late for them to do much good. In front of the house, the huge white horses that had pulled the steam-pump engine stomped impatiently. The black boiler of the engine emitted large gusts of smoke as it labored to pump water through the thick suction hose, while water dripped down the shiny brasswork and gold-striped wheels. Slowly the barouche was brought to a halt in front of the yard, which was littered with personal articles and papers that had been brought out of the house.

“That poor man,” murmured Mrs. Hosmer, a graying redhead with keen blue eyes undimmed by fifty years of hard living. She was a brisk but kindly woman. Lucy followed her gaze to see Mr. Emerson standing before the burning house, his pale hair lank against his cheeks, his bent shoulders covered with a sodden coat. “He’s set in his ways, he is, likes everything in its proper place. This is harder on him than it would be on most.”

“He’s got many friends,” Lucas Caldwell observed mildly, helping Lucy out of the carriage. “The Emersons will get through this just fine.”

“I hope so,” Lucy said, and gave her father a quick kiss before dashing off to the line of women and children next to one of the downstairs windows. They were passing armloads of clothes and pieces of china from the house to the end of the line, out of harm’s way. The men were busy taking the best pieces of furniture outside, grunting with effort and sweating from the incredible heat of the fire. From several feet away Lucy could feel it scorching her cheeks. It was like standing in front of a hot oven in the middle of August.