Love's Way Read online

  “Now that he has such a fine mount, he does not mind the ride,” she answered complacently.

  As it was to be one of those evenings when every word uttered threw me into a pelter, I retired to the lamp corner with a book, only to discover that what I had picked up as a book marker was a piece of paper bearing the arms used by Wingdale at his inn. It confirmed my suspicion that his crest had been borrowed holus-bolus from Queen Anne. I do not know the technical terms employed, but it consisted of a unicorn with a leash around its neck on the right, and a lion wearing a crown on the left. There was a note scribbled on the page, a reminder of the time of tonight’s meeting. The writing was not in Edward’s hand, nor was it Wingdale’s. As an active church worker I had seen a few of his pledges. This was executed in a more haphazard script than Wingdale’s military writing. Gamble popped into my head.

  I turned the sheet over mechanically, unthinking, to see a series of lines and blobs. A closer examination told me it was a rough sketch of the local area. The shape of Grasmere suggested it, while the longer finger of Windermere below confirmed my guess. I puzzled over it, for while some of the features were familiar, others were totally wrong. A curious study showed me its unfamiliarity was due to its being a map projected into the future, when Wingdale would occupy the area now containing the few scattered farms. The arrow-straight road was there, in all its splendour. It was only a rough sketch, yet for even a rough study the eye could see it was inaccurate.

  According to Wingdale’s original plan, Ambledown was to be the culmination of his arrow street. It was not so on the map. The street not only came to us, it went shooting right through us, to terminate at Carnforth Hall, a few miles beyond. The village had been enlarged to incorporate the Hall as its highlight. Edward, lured into debt, was to lose Ambledown. It would be pulled down, and a dozen cottages put in its stead.

  My blood began a slow boil, as I scrutinized the cursed map for further offences. And found them. The twenty acres stolen from village common land were checkered in with the words Pleasure Park inscribed in the haphazard script already identified as Gamble’s. A half circle was drawn at the lake’s edge with the words Pleasure Dome inscribed thereon. Had the map been more complete, no doubt tents for side shows would have been included.

  I sat staring, working myself into a dangerous fit of rage. Could nothing be done to stop this curst development? The Nabob, with his pots of gold from India, meant to let this development spread out like a great stain, till he had destroyed the whole area. And how on earth could he be brought to a stop? Between them, Wingdale and Gamble had the money, the law, and half the population on their side. It would take an act of God to prevent their succeeding now.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I passed the time till Edward’s return by explaining to Nora the significance of my find. She was much inclined to disparage it. Only a scrap of paper after all—what did it prove? We would ask Edward what it meant when he returned. As I sat there, tallying up all the recent occurrences that bolstered my suspicions, I imagined I smelled smoke. Having failed to wrest Ambledown from us by connivance, they would burn us out, as they had the Leroys and others before them. I thought I was imagining the smoke, till Nora lifted her eyes from her work long enough to sniff the air.

  A sudden panic seized me. With nerves taut from imagining, I dashed into the hallway to see if the house was in flames. There was no fire, no discernible smoke, though the smell lingered here, too. There was a good wind blowing outside. I stood irresolute, wondering where to begin my more detailed search of the premises when Herbie, our backhouse boy, came pelting up the stairs. “Fire! Fire in the stables, Miss! Come quick!”

  The awful word, and the boy’s strident yell, served to reduce me nearly to idiocy. We were too far removed from the village for the volunteer fire brigade to be of any use. Neither had we a large number of hands living in at Ambledown. Our help was hired seasonally as it was required for individual jobs. I felt a lurching of my heart, then a tightening followed by a brief period of nearly total unconsciousness, though I did not actually fall over. I looked into the mirror over the hall table and saw a white-faced ghost blinking back at me—wild-eyed, petrified. Then I glanced to see Herbie staring in fascination at my blanched countenance.

  “Round up everyone in the house,” I said, in a voice that was calm with desperation, or incomprehension. “Herbie—go into Grasmere at once and fetch Mr. Barwick—at Wingdale Hause. Take a mount—Belle.”

  “She’s in the stable what’s a-burning, Miss,” he told me, not without a certain repressed glee, I am sorry to relate. Or maybe it was only shock, for he is not really a bad boy.

  It was the sudden image of my beloved Belle, faithful mare and companion on so many jaunts, that galvanized me into action. I pelted out of the hallway, down to the kitchen, and out the back doors towards the stables, where as yet only the west corner was alight. An orange tongue of flame licked up over the tinder-dry roof. I knew the stable was lost, but I had some hope of saving Belle and Dobbin, and the plough animals.

  I ran as fast as my legs could move to the big double doors and threw them open. I was well into the barn before I realized that opening the doors had set up a draught that drew the flames inward to the center of the barn. They leapt at me in a frightening way, almost as though they were human, ravenously hungry, and determined to make a meal of me. I fought back the urge to flee. There is something so elementary and terrifying about fire. But common sense told me I had time to free the animals first.

  I peered into the shadows, ears cocked for their frightened whinny, worrying that panic would make them unmanageable. Dobbin, for instance, had an unstable temper that did not match his placid name. I was surprised they made so little commotion. My eyes were not yet accustomed to the darkness, where the encroaching flames gave a flickering, unsteady, and dim light. I edged closer to the stalls. They were empty but for one. Only Belle was there, snorting and frisking in fear. My fingers fumbled to find the invisible rope that closed off the end of her stall, only to feel it was already unfastened. The next step was the dangerous one. I had to ease my way in beside her to undo the rope tethering her in her stall. If she became upset, if she reared or kicked or decided to lean against me, it could be serious, possibly fatal. I was terribly aware of her large size, her great wide hips and sturdy legs. I put out a tentative hand to pat her flank, to speak soothingly in an effort to calm her, and instead I shrieked in utter terror. What I touched was not the warm, smooth side of Belle, but a human hand.

  A dark shadow swam into focus before me, very close. The leaping light danced off his face as he advanced, in such a way that I could see only his eyes. What diabolical eyes they were, with the orange flames mirrored in them. My shriek had the effect of settling poor Belle into a furor. Her front legs came up. Thank God I had not gone far into the stall.

  “Chloe—get out!” the shadow said. There was no mistaking that voice. No one but Jack Gamble would speak so arrogantly when caught in the very act of committing arson.

  “Get out yourself, criminal!” I answered.

  Belle’s rear legs scuffled as her front feet reared up and came down. Her flank heaved towards me. I leaped back just in time. Before I could see or do more a blanket was thrown over my head—an evil-smelling horse blanket. What would anyone think in such circumstances? I had caught a man red-handed burning down our stable, and he meant to murder me by suffocation. My body would be left behind to be incinerated, destroying the traces of murder. My arms began flailing, my feet kicking. A strong arm was put around me, pulling me back. Jack was under the blanket too. It was absurd, but he was.

  “Hold your breath, old girl. We’re going through that door,” he said. “Quickly now, run.”

  “Belle ...”

  “I’ve got her rope, and my jacket over her head. She’s sound. She’ll make it.”

  The flames made no impression on me, so thick was the blanket. We passed right through the fire, which had reached the edge of t
he doors on the west side due to the whipping wind. Soon we were outside, dashing farther from the flames to safety, the blanket shucked off behind us.

  “Are you all right?” Gamble asked. He still had one arm around me protectively.

  I yanked away and turned to give him a piece of my mind. “Yes, alive and kicking—sorry to tell you. You set that fire.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He was hardly listening, but looked back to the barn to make sure the flames did their work.

  “You arranged to have it set then.”

  “It had to be done. Sure you’re all right? Better get Belle away to safety. I had no idea she’d be left behind. Go on back to the house, Chloe.”

  I opened my mouth to argue. Suddenly I was alone, with Belle’s rope thrust into my hands. He was gone, disappeared into the dark shadows. I ran to turn Belle into the enclosed field, where luckily Edward had left the other animals, as the weather was warm. Dobbin cantered over to greet her. I slammed the gate and dashed back to the fire, where some of our servants had gathered to stand in open-mouthed, ineffectual wonder. The horse trough (full of water) and buckets were not even thought of as a means of extinguishing the blaze. I shouted to them to get busy, but a glance told me the futility of trying to stop so great an inferno by this means. The barn was lost, but at least it was far enough removed from the other outbuildings and the house that the blaze did not spread.

  Not seeing Gamble in front of the stable, I ran around to the back, making a large circle to avoid the heat of the flames and the sparks that jumped as far, in some cases, as ten feet. Impatiently, I ran to tell the servants to come with buckets to extinguish these mini fires that were starting up in the dry grass.

  By the time I reached the back of the barn there was a full-scale battle in progress. It was for all the world like a scene from the works of Hieronymus Bosch. There was an aroma of brimstone to it, caused by the flames and shadows. I did not recognize Gamble’s Indian servants among the combatants at first for he had outfitted them in dark clothes on this occasion, being better concealers than their customary white. At closer range, however, their dark, thin faces and black eyes gave them away. Who they were fighting was a mystery. It was not our men from Ambledown. In fact, it was not anyone I had ever seen before in my life. It was a gang of hired ruffians, obviously, but hired by whom? Had Edward tumbled to it after all that there was trouble brewing and made this unexpected preparation? If so, I fear he had not hired sufficient men, or not well enough trained ones. Gamble’s Indians had some uncanny way of overpowering them, even as they turned (the cowards) to flee. They had what appeared to be ropes weighted at the end with some object. They flung these ropes at the departing bodies, bringing them to the ground, where they would be leapt upon by one or more Indians, and soundly beaten.

  I lifted a weapon (a pitchfork left lying on the ground by a careless stablehand) and went after the arsonists, brandishing it like a herald, while I argued with myself as to the morality of actually using its sharp end, for it looked very lethal. My scruples proved unnecessary. Gamble appeared from nowhere and lifted it from my hands, as easily as taking sweets from a baby.

  “Go to the house, you fool!” he raged.

  This coming on top of the rest was too much. I doubled my hand into a fist and took a swing up at his chin, which he ducked. Then he reached out swiftly to grab my wrist in his fingers. Undaunted, I kicked as hard as I could at his shins, hurting my own toes a good deal more than his booted shins, I suspect.

  “Hell-cat!” he said, grabbing my two arms roughly and pinning them to my sides so that I was completely helpless. Smoke, heat, anger, rage, and frustration overcame me. My eyes filled up, blurring the infernally grotesque scene before me; then the tears brimmed over and scalded down my cheeks. I felt a heave shake my chest, and an ugly, convulsive sound issued from my mouth—a groan or sob or moan of protest.

  “Chloe, Chloe!” he said, looking at me, almost smiling. The night and the danger bred some madness in the air. His grip tightened. I thought he was going to kiss me. “Pull yourself together. Go to the house now. This is no spot for a lady.”

  “You ...” I could say no more.

  “We’ll talk later. Go now, before you get hurt.” He dropped my arms and turned back to the fray, to become lost in the running, squirming melee of dark bodies. I did not go to the house but slunk back into the shadows, hopelessly confused and defeated, to watch alternately the collapse of the roof of the barn, and the rout of Edward’s hired defenders. The Indians took the battle, rounding up two or three of the hired men, which struck me as a very odd thing for them to do. But then the whole night had been so bizarre that I did not question it. When the fighting was over and the fire no longer exciting, I walked, as one in a trance, to the house. It was empty. Absolutely, completely empty. The servants and Aunt Nora were down at the barn, of course. I sat on a chair in the saloon and cried.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I was still there but had stopped crying thirty minutes later when the others returned. I had succumbed to complete apathy. Edward would have to borrow more money to rebuild the barn. It would be enough to make mortgage payments impossible. Wingdale and/or Gamble would snap the mortgage up, dispossess us, and knock down Ambledown. In my mind, I saw us—Nora, Edward, and myself—walking forlornly down the road, into oblivion. This dismal prospect occupied my mind when the sound of heavy male footsteps invaded the hallway.

  Edward’s voice could be heard above the others. “The luckiest thing is that I decided to leave the horses out in the pasture tonight. You mentioned yesterday at lunch, Jack, that it was your custom to leave them out in summer. Maybe that is why I did it. Pity Belle was not out too, but Chloe used her this afternoon and had her stabled.”

  “Where is Chloe?” Gamble’s voice asked, rather angrily, or at least impatiently.

  “I expect she is ...” They rounded the arch into the saloon.

  “Here she is, waiting for us,” Nora said.

  The three of them looked like coal-miners. They were dishevelled and covered in soot. I realized then that I was in the same state of disarray myself. I could hardly credit Gamble had the gall to enter this household, after what he had done.

  “You arsonist.’“ I charged, jumping to my feet—not without an effort, for the night had taken its toll on me.

  “Chloe!” Edward said, advancing in a placating way towards me. “Jack told me of your foolish idea. You owe him an apology. If he had not been there, there is no saying Ambledown would be standing over our heads at this minute.”

  “Edward—don’t you know what he ...”

  “Yes, yes, Chloe, I know all about it. It was not Jack who had the fire set. It was that vermin of a Wingdale.”

  “How did Wingdale happen to have a squad of Indians at his disposal?” I asked, with a demanding stare at the intruder.

  “He didn’t.” Jack answered. “I brought them over. You must have noticed they were fighting Wingdale’s men.”

  “Wingdale’s men? Edward, I thought you had hired…”

  “I? I hadn’t a notion any of this was going to happen. It was Jack who saved us.”

  My conclusions were obviously wrong. To prevent making an even bigger fool of myself, I demanded to be told exactly what had happened. For sixty totally incomprehensible seconds, the three of them explained it to me. At the end of this time they realized no sense was emerging and stopped. Nora took the matter in hand. She led Gamble off to wash up. Edward, coated in grime and ashes, gave me his version of the night’s proceedings, and what had led up to them.

  “Jack has been suspicious of Wingdale practically from the first day he met him. He has only been pretending to play along with his plans for developing the village to learn exactly what he is up to. He worked his way into Wingdale’s confidence enough to learn our place was to be included in the village—our land, I mean, while the house was knocked down. He gave me warning of it, and that is when I decided to fix up Ambledown, to make it an add
ition to the village instead of an eyesore. Wingdale seemed to go along with it, but when he realized how much blunt Gamble has got, he began to think of enlarging the project—stretching the village way beyond Ambledown, with his arrow-straight road, which he is so fond of, passing right through us. Wingdale learned of our financial position. He showed Jack figures to prove—well, indicate at least—that we could not possibly hang on past next spring. Imagine—you had brought us that close to ruin with your ... Not that I mean to blame you in the least. It was and is my responsibility.”

  “We would not have been ruined! The shearing would have brought in enough to carry us, if we lived frugally.”

  “Aye, if our wool had ever got to market, a thing by no means certain hereabouts. In any case, Wingdale let slip something to give Jack the notion our bankruptcy was to be hastened along so that he could get on with his road and subdividing Ambledown before next spring, if you follow me.”

  “How did Gamble leap to the conclusion tonight was to be the night?”

  “He thought it was suspicious when Wingdale was so very insistent that I be present at the meeting to discuss the wrestling match next year. He wanted to get me away from home, you see. Jack feels Wingdale wished to have an iron-clad alibi for himself as well. The meeting served the dual purpose of catching you ladies undefended and ensuring his own so-called innocence.”

  “Did you know of this before you went?”

  “No, Jack didn’t tell me—in case he was mistaken, you know. It would be a pretty hard thing to accuse a man of such a monstrous crime if he were actually innocent. But when Jack saw a bunch of rough-looking customers riding into town just after nightfall, he was convinced he was correct in his fears and brought his foreign servants over to catch the criminals.”

  “Did he catch them?”

  “They have got four of them—not men from around these parts. They have been taken to the roundhouse. Jack thinks from their speech they are sailors, or maybe ex-sailors, which ties them to Wingdale, but they are either afraid to speak or have been well bribed to hold their tongues. We could not get a word out of them.”