The Bride Sale (31 page)

Verity had had more than enough of Agnes's vicious tongue.

“I think you are hateful,” she said, almost spitting out the words. “I know you lost your daughter, but it was not James's fault. He cannot help the way he is.”

“He cannot help being a murderer? An arsonist?”

“No! You know that is not what I meant. He is neither of those things and you must stop saying he is. He has torn himself to pieces with guilt over the deaths here at Pendurgan. He loved Rowena. And Trystan.”

“He never loved her. He simply wanted her because Alan Poldrennan wanted her, and he was always in competition with Alan. I tried and tried to convince her to marry Alan, but Rowena was bound and determined to be Lady Harkness.”

“I think you are wrong, Agnes,” Verity said. “James loved Rowena. I know he did.” In fact, Verity doubted he could ever grow to love her as much. She was nothing at all like Rowena.

“You think you know him so well,” Agnes said, her lip curled into a sneer, “but you don't know anything. It doesn't matter anymore, though.” She gave Verity a strangely intent look. “Things are going to change soon enough, are they not?”

She walked away, leaving Verity confused. But she had no time to ponder the matter, for Davey came bounding up against her knees so fast he almost knocked her down in his enthusiasm.

“Miz Osborne? Can we go see the pony now?”

“My goodness, Davey. With so many fun things to do here, you want to go see your pony?”

“I ain't been out to see him all day,” the boy said. “I did be havin' too much fun. But I done ever'thin' there is to do. I wanna go see Osborne now, afore he do go to sleep.”

Verity looked about to see if she was needed anywhere, but it looked as though the festival was running itself. It was winding down now that the sun was setting, but the adults might drink and sing and dance until all hours. She could spare a few minutes for Davey.

He took her by the hand and tugged her along through the stalls and the livestock and the games. Flaming tar barrels had been placed all along the way, lighting their path. They really did look lovely, reaching all the way to the farthest edges of the estate.

When they left the main area of the stalls and headed toward the western stables, neither of them noticed the person following close behind.

“Q
uite a sight, i'nt it?” Mark Penneck asked as his gaze swept over the festival grounds. “Looks like a real fair. Just like Morvah or one of them places.”

“It is nothing less than amazing,” James said, and meant it. Not just the fair itself, but what it had accomplished was truly astonishing. The people loved it, and seemed ready to welcome him back into their good graces on account of it. It was all due to Verity, and James wanted nothing more than to track her down and show his appreciation by kissing her senseless.

“Now, where the devil is Verity? Have you seen her, Mark?”

“Last time I did see her was up to the bonfire, talking with Miz Bodinar.”

With Agnes? Had she actually got Agnes to take part? James had assumed the old woman would stubbornly stay inside and refuse to have anything to do with the festival. He thanked Mark and headed toward the bonfire.

He was stopped all along the way up the slope, for a handshake or a simple greeting. Verity had told him, when she first began planning the festival, that people were unlikely to be discourteous to their host if they were having a good time. He wondered if all this goodwill would last beyond the morning.

When he reached the top of the slope, he circled the huge bonfire, searching faces for the only one that mattered. She was not there.

He walked over to Sam Kempthorne. “Have you seen Mrs. Osborne, Sam?”

“Aye, that I have, my lord,” the farmer replied. “I did see her walkin' back down to the stalls with young Davey Chenhalls.”

As James trod back down the slope, he was aware of the heat of the fire against his back. It only then occurred to him that he had not even flinched at the sight of it.

He wandered through the stalls looking for Verity but not finding her. He reached an area that looked to have been used for sheep shearing earlier, and caught sight of Tomas Chenhalls. He flagged the boy over.

“Have you seen Mrs. Osborne, Tomas?”

“Not in the last hour or so.”

“Damn. I've been chasing her all over this festival but she seems to have disappeared. She was with your brother, I'm told.”

“If she did be with Davey, most likely they be at the old stables.”

“The old stables?”

 

“Aye. Where the ponies are kept. Davey got hisself a new moorland foal and can't seem to stay away from the little trotter.”

“I suppose it is worth checking,” James said, “though why one small pony would hold more fascination for a boy than all this, I'm sure I don't know.”

“Are you ready to go back now, Davey?” Verity asked. “Do you not think we should be getting back to the festival soon?”

“Soon,” the boy said, but made no move to leave.

Verity wanted to get back to make sure everything was still running smoothly, that there was enough food and ale and cider, that people were still enjoying themselves. She wandered about the barn, waiting impatiently.

It was a long, low barn with two separate wings flanking the central open entry. The wing to the south was closed off with a massive door. The north wing was open and apparently used only for the few ponies on the estate. Besides Osborne, there were just his dam and two others, odd little creatures with small heads, tiny ears, thick necks, and short legs. Verity strolled about the barn to look in on the other ponies when she heard a strange thudding sound, followed by a strong whoosh of air and an unmistakable smell. She spun around and saw smoke and then flames erupting along the far wall near the foal's stall.

Dear life, the barn was on fire.

“Davey!” she cried. “Fire! Get out of here!”

The ponies were screaming and she managed to guide the two nearest her quickly out the main door, slapping them on the rump to ensure they bolted at full speed. She dashed to the other end to get the foal and his dam. Flames licked at the loft above and hay burst into flame with an explosive rush.

Dear God. “Davey, help me, please. We must get Osborne out and his mother. Hurry!”

Coughing and choking on smoke, eyes watering, she urged the dam and her foal, wall-eyed with fright, out of the stall and through encroaching flames toward the main entry.

“Come on, Davey, come on!” But when she turned she found the little boy frozen with fear at the other end of the barn. He had not moved, and fire had erupted all around him. He screamed.

In the next breath, before Verity could take so much as a step toward him, the big door to the central entry slammed shut. There was no other way out.

They were trapped.

 

James watched in horror as the barn went up in flames.

As he had approached the building, he could see Verity and Davey inside through the open door and windows. Excited to have finally found her, he increased his pace, but came to a stunned halt when the tar barrel outside it suddenly toppled over and ignited the barn wall.

Old nightmares skirted the edge of James's consciousness, temporarily immobilizing him. Explosion. Fire. Burning barns. Charred flesh. Rowena. Verity.

He tried to fight them off but the images tormented him. He had to save her. He had to save Verity.
Please, God, don't let this happen again. Verity
!

With a tremendous effort, he willed himself to move toward the barn. Wanting to run, he could manage only one slow step at a time. His head pounding, his vision blurring, each step brought him closer to immobility, to darkness, to death.
Verity. Verity
. Her name became a litany, a prayer, as he dragged one foot forward, then the other. He pushed everything else out of his brain. There was only Verity. No fire. No darkness. No pain. Just Verity.

He caught a glimpse of her again, running toward the back of the barn—away from the door! No! He wanted to scream. No, please God. There was no exit that way. She was going back into the fire. No!

Another figure, silhouetted black against the flames, darted around the front of the barn and into the central entry. Thank heaven. Someone to help. Did they know she was inside?

He had to get to Verity. He could not lose her now.
Please, God, don't let me fail again
. One more step. Another. Another. He could do it. For Verity. He could do it. One more step. One more.

When he reached the central entry at last and saw Alan Poldrennan standing inside, James sank to his knees, panting, shaking, dying.

“Alan! Verity is inside,” James gasped. He took in a deep gulp of air but inhaled only smoke and started coughing. The throbbing in his head was beyond bearable. “And Davey Chenhalls. Quick. Help me. Help me to get them out.” He struggled to his feet again, fighting the darkness that clouded the perime
ter of his vision. He would not give in to it. He would not lose Verity.

Alan turned to look at James, a strange, almost wild expression in his eyes. “I'm sorry, Harkness,” he said in a maddeningly calm voice. “I'm afraid I cannot do that.” Then he lifted the heavy wooden bolt and locked the door.

James stared at him, incredulous, confused. “What? What do you mean? Quickly, lift the bolt, Alan! Verity and Davey are inside.”

“I know.” He took the torch he'd been holding—why hadn't James noticed it?—and set fire to the bolt and all around the perimeter of the door.

“Alan! My God!”

From some secret resource, James found the strength to lunge at his friend, but Poldrennan swung out and struck him, knocking him to his feet again. James now had his back to the wall, and Poldrennan held the torch inches from James's face.

Oh, my God
.

“I'm afraid poor Mrs. Osborne has to die, James.” An eerie light shone from the depths of Poldrennan's eyes, like those of a mad dog.

“No.”

“Yes. She was making you forget. Agnes thought you might even marry her. I couldn't let you do that, James. You have not yet finished paying for Rowena's death. My darling Rowena.”

Poldrennan swung the torch back and forth in front of James's face, taunting him. But fire no longer held the power over him it once had. The man's words had shattered the blackness completely. Somehow James had to save Verity from this madman.

“Rowena's death was an accident,” James said. “You know that.”

“Yes, I do.” Poldrennan's voice had become high-pitched and singsong. “She was never meant to die. The fire had been meant for you, James. You never deserved her. I was the one who loved her. But, yellow-bellied coward that you are, you let her die for you. It is only right that everyone should blame you for her death. Just as they will blame you for Verity's death. But you will die here with her and become just another Cornish tragedy to feed the folklore. I shall not fail this time.”

He waved the torch back and forth. Back and forth. James grew dizzy at its hypnotic pull, but the heat of the close flame kept him alert, kept him from succumbing to its spell. That, and the urgent, desperate need to get away from Poldrennan. The door was now completely engulfed and flames had spread to the rafters. There was no hope of rescue through the door.

Verity!

“Look at the fire, James. Look at the fire. You know what it says to you.” The flame swung back and forth. “Look at the fire. You know what it will do. Look into the fire.”

Good God, what was he to do? Poldrennan had him trapped, and soon the whole place would be ablaze and come falling down upon them.

Verity!

“Look into the fire, James. Let the fire take you. Hear the men screaming. Smell their flesh burning. Look into the fire.”

No.
He must appeal to what was left of the man's
rational mind. He must not give in. “We cannot let Verity die, Alan. We must try to save her.
Help me
!”

“No. She must die. She is dead already.”

Oh, God, no. Was his beautiful, sweet Verity dead? The one person he loved in all the world? The one person who had brought meaning back into his life? Was she dead?

It would be so easy to give in to the darkness again, to let it pull him in. If Verity was dead, he would sink comfortably into the dark and not have to feel the pain.

But the blackness would not come. He had fought it and won. It was gone forever. He would not be spared the agony of Verity's death. Grief swept over him, intensifying with each pass of the flame. Back and forth. Back and forth.

No!
She could not be dead. He hadn't even told her he loved her. Dear God, he hadn't told her. She would never know. Why hadn't he told her?

But she was
not
dead. She could not be.

“She is still in there, Alan. We can still save her. Let me pass so that we can try to get to her.”

“No. You cannot save her. It is too late.”

“What about the boy? You have no quarrel with the boy.”

“An incidental sacrifice. It could not be helped. Just like before, with Trystan and the Clegg boy. It doesn't matter. Look into the fire. Let it take you.”

“Baassttarrrddd!”

Digory Clegg flew into the barn and, taking Poldrennan by surprise, knocked him to the side and straight into the flames. The torch flipped out of his hand and landed at Clegg's feet. Oblivious to the
flames licking near his trousers, Clegg cried out, “You killed my boy! You killed my boy!” He picked up the torch and began to pummel the fiery, flailing, screaming form of Alan Poldrennan.

Within a heartbeat, both men were totally engulfed, and became a single ball of flame, a single piercing, wretched cry into the night.

 

Sickened by the all-too-familiar smell, James wasted no time on remorse, but ran outside where he found Clegg had not been the only witness. A small number of horrified spectators had gathered, and a group of men were shouting at the north end of the barn. He ran toward them.

Jago Chenhalls, Cheelie Craddock, and Jacob Dunstan wielded heavy axes, breaking down the outer wall of the barn, while others passed buckets of water brought up from the river to throw on the flames. Just as James approached, a sizable breach in the wall was obtained, spewing out great billows of gray smoke and heat so intense he had to cover his eyes.

“Are they still in there?” James shouted above the roar of the fire. “Verity and Davey?”

“They are, God help 'em,” Cheelie shouted back.

Jago kept swinging his axe, a ferocious glint in his streaming eyes. It was his little boy inside.

“I'm going in,” James said, taking off his cravat to protect his face.

“No, my lord, let me.” Jacob Dunstan eyed him warily.

James ignored him and headed toward the breach. Verity was in there somewhere. Dead or alive, he would bring her out himself. He dipped his cravat in
a bucket of water, wrapped it around his face, dumped the rest of the water over his coat, and plowed headfirst through the opening.

Tongues of fire licked at him from the edges of the breach, and a thick wall of smoke almost knocked him backward. His eyes watered and burned so badly he could hardly see where he was going. Barely able to breathe, he pulled the wet cloth away from his mouth and shouted for Verity, over and over.

The raging inferno beyond swallowed up the sound of his voice, so he replaced the cloth around his mouth. She would never be able to hear him, and he couldn't see where he was going so he simply held his hands out straight and inched his way through the smoke.

He bumped into the railing of one of the low stalls and the wood was so hot it scorched his hand. “Damn.” At the same moment, his other hand connected with something soft, something moving, something alive. “Verity?”

A rasping cough was the only response.

It was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. She was alive.

He grabbed on to fabric and tugged her toward him. He could just barely make out her form in the smoke. She had the boy bundled tightly beneath her chin. James removed the already dry cloth from his face and wrapped it about hers. She had probably already inhaled too much smoke for it to do much good, but she needed it more than he did.