South Landers: Wenna Part 23

Snow arriving, huffing. "Morning, Mr. Courtney. I'm wondering if anyone has seen Maisie." He glanced around at the bystanders.

Dev shook his head, confused. "Here?"

"She works for your wife now."

"My wife." Devon sprang forward. Wenna. His Wenna.

Chapter 20.

Ducking under the thick canvas hose, Dev leapt out of the way of a red-faced fireman and raced toward the door of Wenna's Place. Flames leapt from the adjoining shop, eating through the boards lining the veranda. This morning, his wife had dressed in service black. He needed to make sure she hadn't arrived for work yet; the fire had started a wall away. In a bare five minutes, that side of the building had been engulfed. This side, already hot, would burn faster.

He grabbed at the metal door handle and sucked air through his teeth. With no time to experience pain, he kicked in the smoldering wood. The frame crashed against the wall. Inside, smoke curled around the ceiling, an ominous premonition of the devastation to follow. A blast had torn apart a part.i.tion near the entrance, exposing splintered lengths of pine. He hurried around a broken chair lying his path, and then another. Shards of gla.s.s crunched beneath his feet. The smoke swirled above, sinking to a mere foot above his head.

Breathing through his fingers, he scanned the area behind. One end of a long red gum shelf had crashed onto the floor. Before he could check behind the door that closed off the back of the shop, he heard, "Devon!"

Almost directly behind him, he spotted Wenna, dust-covered and crouched under fractured plaster and lathe. He exhaled in relief, bounding to her, taking her precious face into his hands. He tried to lift her to her feet, but she resisted, clinging to the frame of the part.i.tion.

"Maisie's hurt," she said in a dusty, husky voice. Her anxious gaze left him and concentrated on the figure he could barely see under the fractured mess of wood. "I can't get her out by myself."

"Are you hurt?" He wanted to s.n.a.t.c.h her into his arms and never let her go.

She shook her head, her one long plait swinging with the force of her denial. "It's my fault. I asked her to come early."

"It's not your fault, my love. It's the gas supply. Move aside. I'll deal with this."

Eyes glossy with panic, she stared up at him. "You can't manage the weight alone."

"I can as soon as you let me get at the wall." The ceiling above creaked ominously.

Her face pale, she crawled back a few feet.

With strength he hadn't known he possessed, he heaved up the part.i.tion, cras.h.i.+ng the section back into the middle of the room. The remaining wooden chairs vibrated to the four corners of the room. "Leave now, Wenna." He dropped to his knees beside Maisie, who lay breathing but unconscious.

Wenna stood, her hands cupping her lower face, her eyes wide and glossy, staring at the other woman. "Is she still alive?"

"Yes. Go. We'll be right behind you."

She stood her ground, her expression uncomprehending.

He didn't have time for explanations. Leaning forward, he slid his hands under Maisie's inert body and rose to his feet. While Wenna watched, her face tight, he let Maisie's feet drop to the floor. Then, he bent his knees and flopped her over his shoulder. "Done. Let's go."

Wenna galvanized into action. She moved so fast that the hem of her gown swept up an ember as she disappeared around the front counter. Behind her, smoke rushed down from the ceiling, as if thrown in fistfuls by an angry G.o.d.

"The door frame is on fire." She reappeared, her fist over her mouth, and coughing. "We can't get out that way."

"We'll try the back."

"I don't have a key for the door into the side street. If we go into the back room, we'll be trapped. We have to leave by the front."

He prayed silently. "No choice, then. I'll go through first with Maisie. Follow closely behind me. Hold onto my belt." On the way to the door, he kicked at burning furniture, trying to make a safer path for Wenna.

The counter had begun to burn too. The flames crackled insidiously. A crash outside rattled the building. People shouted. Fear and sweat p.r.i.c.kled down his spine. His eyes stinging from the ash and dust, he gasped for fresh air. Maisie groaned. He waited, coiled by the entrance, watching for a break in the crackling flares. Wenna stood so close that her breath whispered onto his neck. She believed that he would push through. Her trust made him fireproof.

He glanced through the empty window frame at the eerie pink smoke haze. "Now or never. Crouch as low as you can," he said to her, his voice hoa.r.s.e. He couldn't crouch because of the weight on his shoulders. He had to get the women outside before the smoke choked them all. "Hold onto me and we'll run together."

"Together," she said in a shaky whisper. Her knuckles pressed into his skin of his back, so tight was her grip.

His arm rigid against the back of Maisie's knees, he took one last glance into Wenna's eyes and leapt through the flames, feeling the drag of her on his belt behind him.

A collective cheer arose from the watching crowd.

He landed upright, leaning forward so that he could ease Maisie off his shoulder. Two men relieved him of her weight. Hands pounded the smoke from his lungs as loud voices sounded in his ears. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up Wenna and hugged her, pressing his cheek against her hot face.

She coughed, pus.h.i.+ng at him, but he couldn't let her go.

"d.a.m.ned woman," he said, nuzzling into her smoky hair. "You scared the devil out of me."

"How did you know I was there?" She struggled against him.

And still he couldn't release her. He stared at every wonderful inch of her soot-smeared face, his heart a puddle in his chest. "I didn't. Snow was worried about Maisie. Then I saw the shop was called Wenna's Place. Two and two. Thank G.o.d I found you, my love."

Her expression seemed to flatten, and she nodded. "Wenna's Place. My shop. All my money, gone in an instant. And Maisie ... oh, G.o.d, Maisie." Her mouth loose, she glanced toward the stretcher where Maisie had been placed.

A trail of smoke wafted up from the hem of her gown. "You can see Maisie later. First ..." With a determined grip, he dragged her over to the wheeled fire pump, where two volunteers worked up a sweat, alternately pus.h.i.+ng on a two-handled bar. Volunteer trained, like every able-bodied male in the street, he called out, "Lads, stop for a moment and spread a little water over here."

The first nudged the second, and both ceased their exertions. The three men holding hoses looked back from Wenna's Place, where the main stream of water currently aimed, to see the problem. In an instant, the rapidly dwindling stream poured over Dev and Wenna instead, dowsing them. "Yo. That's enough, that's enough," he said, his words spluttering from a head doused with water. Relief made him grin. Having his usually neat wife drenched made him laugh with relief.

Wenna stared at him, leaning back, her eyes dark in her pale face. "It is more than enough." Her voice cracked.

"You were afire, Missus. Courtney here got you put out."

"And almost got himself put out, too." Dev glanced down at his soaked clothes, old and thin, and clinging to him like a second skin. Modesty be d.a.m.ned. "But not quite. Now, my love." He took her by her waist and pulled her closer. When she looked into his eyes, he cupped her wonderful face in his hands and gently kissed her. "My love," he repeated. "I almost lost you. I had no idea you were in that shop. Imagine what might have happened if Snow had not told me about your business."

As if on cue, Snow appeared through the smoke and gloom. "Looks like Maisie will recover. She's wakin' up. Thank the Lord you found 'em."

Dev lifted his head. "Thank the Lord you told me what Wenna has been up to. I wouldn't have gone in if I hadn't suspected she might be there."

Snow dropped his gaze. "She didn't want you to know about the shop. Thought a gent like you wouldn't like his woman to work."

"Is that true?" He kept his wife in the circle of his arms.

"No. I opened the shop to show you who I am."

His hands began to shake. Delayed reaction, no doubt. Wenna had been running a business. She thought he needed money. If he had loaded her with the riches she deserved, she wouldn't have been in a shop that was burning down. Her fault, she'd said about Maisie's predicament. No, his fault. The day he had married Wenna, he had made a commitment. He should have told her everything, including the size of his wallet. "I know who you are."

"Yes. A redheaded servant. That's why you married me. Admit it."

He wet his lips, trying to clear a throat that felt as if he had swallowed a hedgehog. Her words hurt, being somewhat related to the truth. "Strictly speaking, I married you because you wanted to go to Cornwall."

"Garn. He's crazy in love with you. Anyone could see that. Ran into a burning building to get you out."

"He didn't know I was in there, Mr. Snow. He told me so himself."

"He thinks the world of you. We all think the world of you. You're a woman in a thousand. You gave Maisie and a few other women the chance of a better life. We need people like you in the colony. People with ideas."

"I almost lost Maisie in that building." She s.h.i.+vered in his arms.

"Tell her you're crazy-mad in love with her."

The shouts in the street, the pall of the smoke, and the pelt of the water retreated to a hazy background as he gazed into his wife's seeking eyes. Her hair hung dark and lank over her face, and her gown streamed with water, but the flare at the hem had died. "I'm crazy-mad in love with you," he said in a voice gruff with tenderness.

"I'm soaked to the bone and I need to see how Maisie is." She dropped her gaze.

Reminded of the other woman, Dev gave Snow a rueful smile, placed his arm around his wife's waist, and took her to the stretcher where Maisie lay holding her head. The two hugged, rea.s.suring each other. Maisie squeezed his fingers for a few moments, and finally Wenna took note of her own appearance. She glanced down at her clinging gown, and looked up at him, her face a picture of desolation.

"It's only a black uniform," he said, wondering if any man had ever learned how to understand a woman. Only the Lord knew if she believed her "redheaded servant" comment. "We can afford to buy you better."

She flared up in an instant, his feisty, indomitable, beautiful wife. "I've just lost everything I own, and you are still talking about new gowns." Turning, she marched off toward the lodgings.

At a loss, he followed.

Though Wenna was upset enough to tear her gown to bits if only she could, she needed Devon to unhook the soaked material first. The moment he loosened her stays, she banished him from the bedroom. He took his fresh clothes with him, saying he could dry himself off in the kitchen. And good riddance too. He thought of nothing but getting under her skirts-always had. After those kisses in the street in front of everyone, she knew he had no scruples. She could tell from the expression in his eyes that he would toss her onto the bed as soon as look at her.

He had said he was crazy-mad in love with her on order, all for show. He couldn't love a woman who would rather work than sit at home. He should have left her to die. Then he could marry an aristocratic beauty who would know how to play the role of his wife.

Tears rolled down her face. She could never love anyone but him, no matter how mismatched a couple they were. He was a gentleman, born and bred, and she was decidedly working cla.s.s. However, though his motives were truly reprehensible, he had married her. In order to honor her vows, such as they were, she hardened her face, blotted her ridiculous tears, patted color into her cheeks, and donned her floral bodice and russet skirt.

After drying her hair, she braided a thick coronet. She knew she presented herself well, having had years of practice at presenting others well. Perhaps she could make herself look like a lady, but the thought of living as a lady in an aristocratic household terrified her. England and humiliation awaited her, but she would never let her fears show.

Despite her intent, her knees wobbled. No one in the aristocracy would accept a miner's daughter as a suitable wife for the son of an earl. If she thought owning a shop would set up the hairs on her husband's neck, her mere existence would p.r.i.c.kle him in England, and she had made a commitment to live there. She elevated her chin. If she produced the heir she had promised to her husband, likely he would be happy enough to keep her hidden away in the country. A woman who had not even tried to breed an heir deserved her husband's utter contempt.

With her transgressions heavy on her shoulders, she trod down to the sitting room. Devon rose to his feet as she entered. Those sorts of manners were inbred.

"I used a sponge," she said, clasping her hands behind her. Pride kept her gaze on his.

"Fair enough. If you prefer sponges to washcloths, I will buy you an ocean-full."

She blinked. "So that I wouldn't have a baby. It's a contraceptive device."

"You should have told me. I wouldn't have needed to be so careful."

"Don't you mind?" Eyebrows drawn together, she stared at him.

"Having a baby seemed rather precipitate, bearing in mind the months of sea travel ahead of us. You might be one of those sickly sorts of females for all I know."

She stared at him, at a loss. "We made a bargain. I was supposed to have a child you could present to your father as his heir." A great lump formed in her throat. "Your father, the earl, who would be appalled that you had chosen a former lady's maid for that honor. He would be right. I didn't honor our bargain. You have no choice other than to divorce me." She squeezed her hands into fists, remembering to stand tall.

He rubbed his fingers over his jaw. "I have no grounds. You have never refused your favors."

"Yes, I have."

"You had good reason." He held up his hand to stop her speaking. "I have been the worst of husbands. I deserved to be banished from your bed."

She paused, staring at him, puzzled. "Admittedly, you held your secrets tight."

"As did you," he said smoothly. "I didn't know you were out earning money."

"I thought I had to." Indignant, she placed her hands on her hips, instantly ready to argue.

He grinned. "I have more to tell you, my love, but the fire is still raging and I must go back to help."

"If you are going back, then so am I."

"Firefighting is a man's job."

"And a woman's job is to stay at home, tending to her lord and master. You're right. I should be confined to the home for life. My father had the same idea about a woman's place. I thought I could prove him wrong. Instead, I lost my business and put one of my best workers in danger." Her lips wobbled.

Devon drew a breath, his expression serious. "Firefighting is a matter of strength. You've already seen you couldn't lift the wall off Maisie. If that had required a brain and a will, the wall would have been flung aside. The wall required mere brute strength, such as a man has. If you want to help, put that brain and will of yours to work. For now, I must go back. Promise me you won't do anything to endanger yourself. I love you too much to lose you now."

Wenna's jaw loosened. Words of love came easily to his tongue. Hers had tied. "I'll be careful," she answered, her voice husky. She stood watching as he turned to the door. "Mrs. Lock, the pie maker-did she get out in time?" Her mouth went dry as she thought of the widow's children.

"She and the children are safe," he called in a fading voice as he sped out the lobby. The door smacked shut behind him.

Wenna clapped her hands together in front of her nose and breathed through the s.p.a.ces between her fingers, thinking. Now that her home and business had gone, Mrs. Lock would need accommodation. Mr. Snow would have a room for her upstairs, and he might let her bake her pies in his kitchen. If not, she could use Wenna's kitchen. She could even have the useless waste of s.p.a.ce that was Wenna's sitting room for her shop while she found another.

Her head awhirl with plans, Wenna left for the hotel across the street, wanting to discuss with the waitresses the serving of tea and food to the firefighters.

In a trice, the women sprang into action. Maisie chalked the hotel's board outside with the words "Aid for the Firefighters," and women started pouring into the hotel with offers of help. Mr. Snow was overwhelmed with the largesse, which Wenna organized into plates of food. Before too long, a cart with tea pourers was trundling along Rundle Street toward the fires. While she worked with the volunteers who arrived with bread and cheese and fruit, Wenna's head buzzed with a single thought.

Devon had said, "I love you too much." He risked his life to save a redheaded maid with an uneven temper and a sharp tongue. Her. He loved her.

Darkness had fallen before the last of the fires were extinguished. Exhausted, Dev opened the lobby door and trod into the lodgings, not expecting to find his wife awaiting him in the kitchen. Tales of her doings had been related to him all day. She had been here, there, and everywhere, making sure each firefighter had been adequately supplied with food and drink. She had also found housing for people whose homes had been lost. He couldn't have been more proud of her.

He had married an outspoken feisty redhead because he had wanted her beautiful body-in more ways than one. Her body was not the whole sum of the woman he now knew and loved. She had a brain, a will of her own, and more than a sc.r.a.p of ambition.

Her smile beamed at him as she turned. "This would be a day we would never want to repeat." She stood in the kitchen, elegant, self-possessed, and utterly confident. "Could you use another cup of tea?"