Page 141 of The Summer Country

The flames flared up; stones fell from one of the great gables, landing with a crash on what once had been a flagstone terrace. Mary Anne felt as though her world was collapsing around her in the same way, stone by stone, tumbling to the ground, as a horrible suspicion overtook her, clear as day in the light of the fire, in the memory of Charles’s horror-struck face, of Jenny’s agitated cry.

My baby, she had said. Lottie. My baby.

And Charles . . . Charles . . . running into the fire . . .

A window burst from the flames, glass exploding across the lawn, and Mary Anne turned and ran, ran for the stables, for her carriage. The air was bright with flame and dark with soot; the smell of burnt cane was smothering. She lowered her head into the crook of her shawl, fighting her way through to the stable yard, where she was met by the sound of confusion.

A horse reared by her, hooves pawing the air, before plunging madly off, nearly missing kicking her.

The stable boys were running this way and that, trying to calm the horrified horses, but to no avail.

Mary Anne got a hold of herself and grabbed at a bridle. She was a good rider, wasn’t she? She’d ride back to Beckles. Beckles and Edward. Fear seized her, but she refused to acknowledge it. Her people would stand fast, she was sure of it. Well, mostly sure of it.

The horse flung back his head, snatching the bridle out of her hand, scoring the skin. Mary Anne barely noticed. She launched herself blindly at another and found herself staring at a booted foot.

She looked up, her eyes streaming in the smoke, and saw Jonathan Fenty, holding the reins in one hand, the other arm clamped around a blanket-wrapped bundle from which emerged a pair of wide blue eyes and dark curls tied up in blue ribbons.

“Where do you think you’re going with her?” Mary Anne grabbed at his boot, saying the first thing that came to mind. “That’s my property you’re making off with.”

Fenty’s riding crop flicked down, not hard, just enough to make her snatch her hand. “Don’t you dare,” he said, bringing his horse back under control with effort.

“Unker Johnny . . .”

“Hush, lamb,” he said.

Anger boiled up in Mary Anne, anger and fear and loss, all mixed together, bubbling and poisonous. “She’s not your lamb,” she said sharply. “She’s my property, and she’s coming back to Beckles with me.”

Fenty tucked Lottie’s head into his arm, shielding her. “Stay away from her.”

The horse sidled and a boy grabbed it, Fenty’s groom, one of the slaves she’d leased to Charles, Paris or Rome or something of that sort.

She couldn’t be outfaced like this, not in front of one of her own slaves. Mary Anne grabbed at the stirrup. “Don’t be absurd. Get down from there and give me the horse and the girl and I won’t have you up for theft.”

“You won’t have me up for anything, you poisonous hag. Not unless you want everyone to know the truth about you.” Mary Anne couldn’t help it, she stiffened, and saw the triumph in Fenty’s eyes. “I’ll do it too.”

“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.” He was bluffing, bluffing, he had to be. Robert, lying in a pool of blood. The writing desk heavy in her hands. Jenny, clutching Edward. “You’re bluffing.”

“Do you want to take that gamble?” Behind Jonathan, the night was orange and black. The horse reared in fear, the boy, with difficulty, holding him steady. “I didn’t think so. We’ll be going now.”

“No!” Mary Anne was too angry to think clearly.

This was Jenny’s girl, her Jenny’s girl, Jenny, who had lied to her, had kept secrets from her. Jenny owed her this. Oh God, Jenny. And beneath it all, the gnawing worry. Would Jenny have told? It was only a Redleg’s word against hers, but rumors had a tendency to spread. And who knew what MacAndrews might say in his cups if pressed?

“Charles went in after her, did you know that?” Mary Anne tossed at him. “They’re both dead.”

That hit him. He closed his eyes for a moment and held the girl a little tighter. “A bad end to a bad business. And it would none of it have happened if you’d shown a little human kindness.”

“Me?” Human kindness? This was her fault now.

“We’re going now. If you follow us, if you make any trouble for us, I’ll blazon your secrets to the world.” Fenty glanced over his shoulder, at the house, which was burning merrily. “I’ll make you a deal. You leave us alone, I’ll leave you alone. And hi! London!”

The boy stood to attention. “Master Jonathan?”

He’s not your master, Mary Anne wanted to spit. He’s just a jumped-up bakkra. But her throat was gritty with smoke and her eyes were sticky with smuts and there were no words, no words at all.

Fenty looked down at the boy, his smoke-grimed face and low-brimmed hat giving him the look of a pirate. “What would you say if I told you I was bringing my sister’s child to Antigua with me?”

“I’d say it’s good to care for family, Master Jonathan.”