Deborah’s vision blurred with tears. She tried to imagine what those final moments had been like for her mother, holding her stillborn son and knowing she would never see her small daughter grow up. And all the while, her father had stood vigil, suffering the loss of his wife and only son.
“That’s all I’m trying to do,” Arthur explained. “I’m trying to make everything perfect for you, trying to give you the life your mother wanted for you. And by God, I intend to see it done.”
Gaslight hissed gently into the silent house. Deborah knew her father meant well, but she also knew she could not marry Philip Ascot or anyone else, for that matter. She must make her father understand and, in time, possibly even forgive her. After a lifetime of existing only to please Arthur Sinclair, crossing him in this one all-important matter would daunt even strong-willed Lucy or sturdy, practical Kathleen. Phoebe would be just as appalled as Deborah’s father, for she could not imagine anything more perfect than marrying the handsome, dashing heir to one of the oldest families in the country. Part of the marriage arrangement specified that the famous Ascot residence, Tarleton House in New York City, would be restored as their principle residence. Everyone at Miss Boylan’s thought it sounded like a dream come true, so much so that Deborah had forgotten to ask herself if it was what she wanted.
Deborah had no allies in this struggle of her will against that of her father. “Please,” she said. “Can we just discuss—”
“Certainly not,” he said, speaking brusquely. “I have said all I have to say on the matter.”
The look that crossed her face prompted him to add, “Go to bed, my dear. We’re both tired. In the morning you will apologize to Philip and pray he forgives you for being such a ninny.” Drawing the buckles tightly around his important papers, he walked to the door of the study. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must dismiss the help early tonight on account of the fire.”
A loud blast, like a gunshot, exploded in the night. Deborah sat up in her bed, already screaming before she was fully awake.
Her gaze darted to the lace-draped French windows. Judging by the angry scarlet glow of the sky, she thought morning had come. But then the sky flickered uneasily, and she remembered the fire. Dear heaven, hadn’t it been brought under control yet?
“Father,” she shrieked, leaping from her bed and yanking open the door.
To her relief, she spied him rushing down the hall toward her, satchel and cane in hand and kerosene lamp held high.
“What was that terrible noise?” she asked, shaken.
Gripping the head of his cane, he strode to the window. “The gasworks substation. Coal gas,” he added, his hand shaking just a little as he moved the drapes aside. “Highly explosive. I’m sure that was it, because there’s no gaslight in the house.”
Deborah joined him at the window and caught her breath in shock. The fire, which had caused her only a glimmer of concern earlier, had made hideous progress. Everything to the south and west was a sea of flame.
“Dear God,” she said. “It’s crossed the river. The whole city is on fire.” The incessant shriek of ships’ whistles pierced the roar of the wind. Boats crowded behind the bridges, demanding to be let through. The clear bong of a bell tolled a steady alarm. Shouts and the clatter of hooves could be heard in the neighboring streets. She pressed her fingertips to the window pane; the glass felt unnaturally warm.
“It’s that infernal wind,” her father said. “I went to bed thinking it couldn’t possibly spread the fire across the river, but there you are. It’s in the North Division.”
Whirlwinds and swirling gusts carried flaming brands from one building to the next. Structures ignited as if a torch were being touched to each, one after another. Dervishes of flame spun across rooftops with furious speed. The pine-block roadways and boardwalks fueled the inferno. In the main thoroughfares, people fled on foot or in overloaded conveyances manned by frantic drivers.
A shattering sound drew her attention to the upper-storey windows in the house across the street. As she watched, the windows blasted open, one after another, all in a row. It was as if someone had taken a gun and shot them out. Then, from an alley behind the house came a teamster, beating the horses of a cluttered cart, and as the team roared past, she could see that the very contents of the cart were in flames.
Huron Avenue itself lay in a shroud of smoke. Deborah turned to her father, clutching his sleeve. “This is a nightmare,” she said. “We must go!”
“Of course.” He glared out the window. If his ill temper could not douse the flames, nothing could. “The phaeton’s waiting in the mews behind the house. I had it readied before sending the hired men home tonight. Can you be ready in five minutes?”
“Less,” she said, already snatching her dress from the upholstered clothing stand in the corner. “Where will we go, Father?”
“To Avalon,” he said, referring to his summer estate in Lake View as he hurried out to ready himself.
Deborah had rarely dressed without help. On formal occasions, her corset was so stiff and tight that she couldn’t even bend to do up her own shoes. Tonight, the sense of impending danger made a mockery of the vanity that used to delight her so much. Her white batiste nightgown served as chemise and petticoat, for she tugged the dress right over the garment. She left her hair in its untidy braid, pulled on stockings and shoes, and grabbed her shawl.
Her nerves wouldn’t settle until she reached Avalon. Situated on the north shore overlooking the lake, the estate would provide a tranquil oasis from the flames, where they could wait out the fire. Perhaps, in the calm after the firestorm, she could bring her father to see reason in the matter of her marriage.
Firelight streamed through the windows, illuminating the suite of rooms where she had spent her childhood. All her costly, beautiful things were here, in a chamber redolent of verbena furniture polish and fresh-cut flowers. What if this magnificent house burned to the ground, and all its contents with it? She found, to her surprise, that she felt curiously indifferent about the notion of never seeing it again.
What sort of person was she, Deborah wondered as her father reappeared at her door, that she could be so calm about losing everything?
She noted that he had donned his best Savile Row suit and kid leather spats. Even in the face of disaster, he seemed determined to keep up appearances. He held his cane and the bulging case containing his most important documents. “Are you ready?” he asked.
“Yes, let’s go,” she said briskly. “And I’m glad we’re together,” she added.
They hastened to the door, and her father stopped. He put out his hand and cupped her cheek. She froze in surprise, for he rarely touched her with affection.
“I’m pleased that you came to see me tonight,” he said with the gruff tenderness that never failed to remind her that she was all he had in the world. “This matter with Philip—we’ll find an accord. You’ll see that marrying him is the proper course of things. The proper course indeed.”
“Oh, Father.” She bent her cheek into the cradle of his hand. “We really must go.”
She stepped out of the room and he turned, his hand on the door handle. A look of pure and utter desolation settled over his craggy face. In that moment, she realized that, although there was nothing for her in this house, nothing for her to clutch to her chest and go running through the streets with, it was different for Arthur Sinclair. This vast mansion was his dream, his place in the world, built by his own hard work and ambition.
“Come,” she said gently. “This pile of wood and stone isn’t worth your life.”
Together they went to the head of the main stairway. Then Deborah stopped and glanced over her shoulder toward her private suite of rooms.
“What