Around her was pandemonium and she was in Hell, and Hell was a black eternity where the only sensation was pain, sharp as a knife.
Lucie. Lucie. Lucie.
Clevedon had to decide in an instant, and he decided against the stairs. The fire seemed to be moving from back to front on the western side of the building. That meant a conflagration might await them at the foot of the stairs. He went the other way, to the back, but keeping to the side of the passage where he’d found Lucie, in hopes that the floor would hold. Above the showroom and workrooms, packed with combustibles, the fire would burn more fiercely.
That was the gamble, at any rate.
“Hold tight,” he told Lucie. “And don’t look.” Her arms tightened about his neck and she buried her face in his neckcloth. She didn’t release the doll, and he was aware of one of its limbs tapping his shoulder blade. A bizarre thing to notice, and he wanted to break the doll in pieces for the trouble it had caused, but she needed it, and the doll was the least of their problems.
He hurried to the back, keeping close to the wall to find his way, because the way was utter darkness. But he remembered seeing a back door on the ground floor. That would give way to a yard. All he needed was a back stair or a window or even a light closet, which would contain a window.
He came to the end of the passage, and his outstretched hand struck plaster. He’d found no door frame on the way.
Now his hand met only flat wall.
No. There had to be a way out.
The smoke was thickening, the heat unbearable. Holding fast to Lucie, he slid one hand along the hot wall and struck wood—a window. He didn’t even try to wrench it open.
“Hold very tight, sweet,” he told Lucie. “Don’t look and don’t let go, no matter what.”
Then he kicked as hard as he could, and glass shattered, and wood, too. He kicked and kicked, knocking out the glass and the crosspieces. The night was dark, and he looked down, dreading what he’d find: a long leap down, for these buildings rarely offered any purchase for climbing. But his luck held, and below, he made out the outline of the yard’s back wall. Circling Lucie with his arms, to shield her from sharp ends of glass and wood, he climbed over the sill and dropped to the wall, then down, onto the roof of a privy on the other side of the wall. Though the air was smoky, it was cooler, and he could make out the faint glow of a street lamp through the smoke.
Yes, he said silently. Thank you.
His throat closed up and, cradling the child he’d feared he couldn’t save, he wept.
Marcelline was sunk so deep in grief that she scarcely noticed anything else.
At some point, though, she became aware of the atmosphere about her lightening, and the clamor abating. The street grew so hushed that she could hear clearly the hiss and gurgle of water streaming into the shop and the voices of the fire company men giving orders.
Even while she listened, their voices subsided, too, and someone cried, “Look! Look there!”
Noise again, but different. Glad noise. Cheering.
She felt hands on her shoulders, pulling. She lifted her head and thought at first it was a dream, a cruel dream.
That could not be Clevedon…that great, hulking, blackened and ragged mess…carrying…carrying a blackened bundle. Little legs dangling out from the edge of a dress…rumpled stockings…one foot missing a shoe.
Hands were pulling Marcelline to her feet and she shook her head and closed her eyes and opened them again. But it wasn’t a dream.
It was Clevedon, and that was Lucie in his arms.
Alive?
Marcelline couldn’t make her feet move. She only stood, swaying and confused, like one come back from the dead.
He walked out of the nightmare—the black monster behind him, flames still flickering in the windows.
He walked toward her, his big hand cradling Lucie’s head. She had her arms wrapped about his neck, her face buried in his chest. But as he neared, Marcelline saw the doll dangling from Lucie’s hands. She was holding tightly, to him, to the doll.
She was alive.
“Oh,” Marcelline said. And that was all she could say.
He came to her and then he looked down at the child he held. Taking his hand away from her head, he said, “It’s all right, Erroll. You’re the bravest girl there ever was. You can look now.”
As he gave her back to her mother he said gruffly, “I made her promise not to look. I thought it best she not see.”
He’d seen, though. He’d stared in the face of a fiery death. He’d faced it to save her daughter.
“Thank you,” Marcelline said. Two words. Inadequate, beyond inadequate. But there were no words. These were all the language gave her. All else was in her heart, and that could not be said and could never be eradicated.
The shop stood in blackened ruins. The stench drifted over Chancery Lane and Fleet Street.
It might have been far worse, Clevedon heard people say. The wind had not carried the fire east to the shop on the other side of Chancery Lane, and the fire engine had arrived in time to stop it from destroying the shop next door.
He knew it might have been infinitely worse. They might have lost a child.
Lucie rode her mother’s hip, and Noirot walked with her, back and forth, back and forth, in the street. Now and again her gaze turned upward, to her shop, in ruins.
Her sisters stood nearby, under a lamp post, standing guard over a paltry pile of belongings they must have grabbed before escaping the house. He watched their gazes swing from the shop to Noirot and back to the shop. The redhead held the doll. Even through the smoky atmosphere choking the gaslight he could read the despair in their faces.
They’d lost all their materials—the most expensive element of their business—along with all their tools and records. They’d lost everything.
But the child was alive.
He was aware of the ink-stained fellows from the various London journals converging on the scene. He ought to make himself scarce. The night was dark, the smoke made it darker, and with any luck, nobody had recognized him.
But he couldn’t turn his back on the three women and the little girl, all of them on the street, literally. No shop, no home, no money. He doubted anything could be salvaged from the blackened building.
Still, they had fire insurance, else the engine wouldn’t have come. And he knew that Noirot was practical and mercenary to an aggravating degree. She would have money in a bank, or safely invested.
But money in the bank wouldn’t put a roof over her this night, and he doubted she could have saved enough to rebuild her business in short order.
He stood for a moment, telling himself he couldn’t linger. He’d already dishonored his friendship with Clara and betrayed her love. But only he and Noirot knew that. What Clara didn’t know couldn’t hurt her, and he wouldn’t hurt her for worlds.
Find another way to help them, he counseled himself. There were discreet ways. One could aid those in need without courting notoriety. It was notoriety, furthermore, that would do Noirot no good.
He remembered what the other woman had screeched at her: Everyone knows you’re the duke’s whore. Every-one knows you lift your skirts for him, practically under his bride’s nose.
He remembered what Noirot had told him, early on: What self-respecting lady would patronize a dressmaker who specializes in seducing the lady’s menfolk?
It was time to leave, long past time. The