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If Oliver was surprised by the request, he did not show it. Neither did he ask who would drive the carriage. His service as driver was assumed.

“Right away, Miss Norton.”

He put the grooming brush he’d been holding on a nearby shelf and started toward the other end of the stable when the thud of running feet reached them from outside. Moments later, the door burst open and Henry stumbled in.

“Good gracious, Henry.” Emily reached for the older man and took his elbow. “Whatever is the matter?”

“Fire.” Henry gasped the word, bending over to catch his breath.

Oliver was at his side immediately. “Where?”

“The tumps.” He took a rasping breath. “I cut through the orchard t’ go t’ the ’ouse, and I smelled smoke.”

“Are you sure it’s not comin’ from one of the chimneys?”

He shook his head. “Seen it. Doubled back,” he gasped. “Every single one of the tumps we ’ave left is on fire.”

Horror clawed at Phoebe’s throat, leaving her speechless. Surely Henry must be mistaken. There was no sensible reason for the tumps to catch alight. And yet, the old gardener would not have pushed himself to virtual collapse unless he was certain.

“Miss Norton, we’re goin’ to need all the ’elp we can get from the ’ouse,” Oliver said. “Buckets, pails, blankets—whatever people can find to douse the flames. We’ll fill the buckets in the river.”

Oliver’s firm voice sent Emily into action. It did not matter that the groom was the one giving orders to the young mistress; she picked up her skirts and ran for the house.

“We’ve got to get down there, Oliver,” Henry said, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. “The wind’s pickin’ up, and if the flames reach the trees, there’ll be no stoppin’ the fire.”

Oliver was already emptying buckets of feed into a large barrel. He handed an empty one to Henry. Phoebe tossed her hat and redingote onto a nearby bench. She could move more freely without them. “I will take two buckets.”

“It’s not safe fer you to be out there, Miss Hadford,” Henry said.

“I can haul a pail of water as well as Miss Glover or Mrs. Foster—maybe better.” Phoebe turned her back on the two men, searching the nearest stalls for anything that might carry water. “Here, Oliver.” She found another bucket of grain and ran it back to him. “Empty this one and give me another. I can carry one in each hand.”

During the short time Phoebe had been in the stable, the darkness outside had deepened. The smell of smoke was now undeniable, and an eerie glow hung over the orchard. With buckets in hand, Oliver, Henry, and Phoebe ran across the yard and into the trees. Ahead of them, the crackle of fire overwhelmed the gurgle of the river; behind them, the sound of frantic voices coming from the house carried on the breeze.

Phoebe focused on keeping Oliver within sight as he wove through the apple trees toward the river. She refused to think on how thick the smoke was becoming or upon how hard her lungs were fighting for every breath. Tree branches grasped at her hair as she passed; the roots tripped her. But she pushed on, drawing ever closer to the flickering orange light.

Suddenly, Oliver disappeared. Phoebe stumbled to a halt, wheezing as she caught her breath. There was no one behind her. She had outpaced Henry, who had already made this run once and was undoubtedly feeling his age. Her head whipped to the left and to the right. The darkness made it impossible to judge direction or distance. She had to be nearing the river by now. Had the groom reached it already? Phoebe spotted a flash of white up ahead. Oliver’s shirt. She chased after him.

The glowing flames had been before them, but now it seemed that Oliver was running parallel to the burning tumps. Was he trying to find a way around them? She heard him shout. But his words were indistinguishable. Phoebe pushed her burning lungs and legs harder, trying to close the gap between them. Then she heard a thud. One minute, Oliver’s white shirt was visible, and the next, it was gone.

“Oliver,” she gasped. She continued forward. “Oliver!”

Phoebe rounded a tree. A large object rolled into her skirts, and she stumbled. The buckets in her hands fell to the ground as she fought to stay upright.

“No!”

She dropped to her knees, groping in the darkness for the precious buckets. The one on her right had not gone far. She reclaimed it and swung left, her fingers brushing the edge of the bucket that had rolled just out of reach. And then she discovered what had tripped her. There was a third bucket tangled in the fabric folds of her gown. She seized it, her thoughts whirling. It was empty, but the smell of grain lingered inside.

“Oliver!” Fear lent strength to her voice. “Oliver! Where are you?”

The wind blew, and another object rolled toward her. The fourth bucket. With her heart hammering in her chest, Phoebe grasped two buckets in each hand and rose to her feet. The smoke had thickened, dropping visibility to a few feet. She walked forward, brushing another tree with her shoulder. And then she saw Oliver’s white shirt again—but this time, it was on the ground.

Dropping the buckets in a heap beneath the tree, she crossed the short distance between them and crouched beside the prostrate groom. She reached for his shoulder and gave it a gentle shake.

“Oliver! Can you hear me?”

Nothing. A sob caught in her throat. Had the smoke been too much for his lungs? She remembered his shout. She’d thought he’d been calling out to someone. Had it been a cry of injury instead? He was too heavy for her to move. She would have to fetch help. Now. She scrambled to her feet. Somewhere to her right, a loud crackle rent the air, followed by the whoosh of fire taking hold. She pivoted. At the edge of the orchard, a tree was engulfed in flames. As she lunged for the buckets, she sensed movement behind her.

“No need to take the pails, Miss Hadford.”