The Secret of Pembrooke Park(82)

Abigail forced a smile in return. “Your mother died when you were very young?”

“Yes. I was only five.”

“I’m sorry.”

Eliza shrugged. “I don’t remember her very well. Or my father for that matter. Though Auntie tells me he passed on his way with words to me.”

Abigail thought again of the local writer’s pseudonym: E. P. Brooks. A play on E. Pembrooke, perhaps? Maybe neither aunt nor niece were quite sound of mind.

Suddenly eager to quit the place, Abigail thanked the women for tea and took her leave, feeling queasy from the bitter cup and uncomfortable conversation.

When she neared the bridge on her walk home, a black barouche rumbled past, forcing Abigail to step to the far edge of the road. She had seen the equipage before, she thought, but she couldn’t remember where. Heavy draperies hung on the windows, obscuring her view of the occupant.

Continuing on her way, Abigail became aware of an acrid odor. She sniffed and walked on. Was someone burning brush? Crossing the bridge, she looked ahead to the estate. A crow shrieked and flew away, drawing her attention skyward as she followed its flight. Her heart thudded. A roiling column of grey and black smoke spiraled upward . . . from the church? No, behind it. The parsonage!

For a moment Abigail remained frozen, mind whirling. William. She looked this way and that and saw no one to call to. Then she hitched up her skirts and ran—through the gate and around the church to the parsonage.

Flames shot from the rear window. Abigail pushed through the door and looked inside. There was William, trying to beat out the flames leaping up the window curtains.

Seeing her, he yelled, “Ring the bell!”

Why hadn’t she thought of that? She ran back through the churchyard, jumping over abandoned gardening tools and a watering can, and hurried into the porch. Hands quaking, she reached for the rope spooled on spokes high on the wall away from youngsters’ reach, and nearly too high for her as well. Rising on tiptoe, she managed to uncoil the rope. She gave it several jarring pulls, the clang, clang, clang lacking the usual solemnity of a service toll. Then she ran back to the parsonage, pausing to snatch up the watering can and carry it with her. Not that one pail of water would do much good against the growing flames, but it was all she could think to do.

Duncan called from Pembrooke’s front door, “What is it?”

“Fire!” she yelled back, pointing toward the billowing smoke.

Duncan gaped upward, then disappeared back into the house. She hoped he had some idea of how to help. Reentering the parsonage, she saw daggers of flame leap from the curtain onto William Chapman’s shoulder and arm.

“William! You’re on fire!” she shouted.

The roar of the fire had grown, and he didn’t appear to hear her. Stepping forward, she sloshed the contents of the watering can onto his shoulder, missing the mark, and getting half of it on his neck and the back of his head. Still, it extinguished the flame.

He whirled at last, stunned.

“Your arm was on fire,” she said. “What else can I do?”

“Gather everyone you can and start a fire brigade. And pray.”

She blinked. She had no experience with one and not much with the other. But she hurried outside to do his bidding.

With relief she saw Mac—stern, competent Mac—barking orders and forming a line down to the river, which was thankfully quite close, encircling most of the estate as it did. Duncan, Molly, Polly, Jacob, Leah, Mrs. Chapman, and even Kitty ran over from the direction of the cottage, stables, and perhaps the potting shed with various pails and cans. Other people ran over the bridge from the direction of nearby Easton and began filling in the line. She recognized several of the older boys from Sunday school among them, as well as Mr. Peterman, Mr. Wilson, and Mr. Matthews, and several other parishioners she knew by face if not by name.

Her eyes stung from the smoke and the awful beauty of seeing a close-knit community sweating, straining, and working together like the loyal family they were.

Abigail joined the line.

Half an hour later, they’d managed to put out the fire. By then, the greater portion of the rear wall and two interior rooms were all but destroyed.

“Kitchen fire, was it?” someone asked.

Another quipped, “That’s what happens when you give a bachelor his own kitchen.”

“Never leave a cooking fire unattended.” Mrs. Peterman wagged her finger at William. “If you had a wife, she would have known better.”

Her husband added, “Don’t worry, Parson—we’ll help you patch ’er up.”

Patch? Abigail thought incredulously. It would take far more than a patch to repair the damage.

William said little, neither confirming nor denying their theories. He stood, hands on hips, staring at the ruined parsonage, jaw tense and soot-streaked, his red hair marled with black.

The villagers began to drift home, Mrs. Chapman and Leah thanking everyone for their help as though hosts at a party. Or a funeral.

When only Abigail and his father stood beside him, William said, “This was no kitchen fire.”

Mac asked, “No? What do you think, then, Will. A spark from the stove?”

“In my bed?” William snapped. “I think not.”

“In your bed? I thought it started in the kitchen.”

William shook his head, mouth pursed, his eyes measuring, thinking. . . .