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“Did the fire brigade find his body?” I asked, convinced he had slipped out without anyone noticing.
“They haven’t, my lady. But they are still investigating, trying to find the source of the fire.”
“Then there is a chance he wasn’t killed,” I said. “Jack can’t be dead. He can’t! I won’t believe it until I see it for myself. Have someone bring a car around.”
“But my lady, there is nothing to see but ashes and ruin. There is nothing left.”
Miss Pricket was right. There was nothing left. The house, all of our belongings. Everything was gone. Jack was gone.
I never forgave Jackson and the others for surviving the fire. I didn’t understand why someone couldn’t save him. None of the servants could tell me what happened. Not coherently, anyway. The only people who made it out of the house unhurt were the staff downstairs. Everyone in the main part of the house was killed. The fire marshal said there was likely some sort of mishap with the fireplace in the study. He said there was an enormous amount of rubbish, papers, and files stuffed into the fireplace, and that he found Jack’s body sitting near the fireplace in what was left of his chair. He thought Jack had fallen asleep sitting there and that’s why he hadn’t realized the room caught fire. That the smoke had caused him to become unconscious and that’s why he didn’t wake.
“Then he didn’t feel pain, he didn’t suffer in the flames?” I asked.
“No, my lady. I don’t think so. There is no sign that he was trying to get out of the room. In cases like this we would see evidence that the person tried to break a window, or make it to a doorway. Your husband was still sitting in his chair.” Then he asked me the unthinkable.
“Was your husband upset about anything, my lady? Had he shared any concerns he may be having?” I didn’t understand. “I’m sorry my lady, but I have to ask. The papers, the debris in the fireplace. There was so much of it. It did look as if he was trying to burn those things on purpose.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. My husband was the happiest person I know. He wouldn’t do something foolish. And he wasn’t trying to hide some sort of shady skullduggery! I’m not entirely convinced that is his body you found! He wouldn’t do that to me. He wouldn’t leave me. He wouldn’t.”
We had no means of identifying Jack’s body, or any of the servants’ bodies that were found in the main house. For all I knew it was one of the footmen who died in Jack’s study, sneaking a drink and a nap by the fire. Nothing of the body’s clothes were left. Nothing of him. I became more convinced that Jack wasn’t home when the fire broke out, so I waited. I waited in the ashes for my love to come home. I refused to leave, sure my Jack would come home to me. Mama finally sent a car for me and had me brought back to Belgrave Place. She had me take my old room, and instructed Jackson and the other survivors of the fire to stay downstairs, out of sight.
I locked myself up in my room for weeks, refusing to eat, refusing to believe my Jack was gone.
I still feel in my heart he is alive.
I stayed locked in my old room at my mother’s for about three weeks before she tried to force me out. But that is another chapter. Another part of the story. I don’t wish to write about that now. It breaks my heart too much. I’d rather keep writing about my Jack. But what else is there to say? He’s either dead or pretending to be dead. At one point I thought maybe he had left for some business trip without telling me. Perhaps some sort of emergency? I didn’t know. I was grasping at any explanation I could think of. But it’s been quite some time now since the fire. Everyone keeps telling me I should accept that the person in Jack’s crypt is really Jack. My beloved Jack. My Crackerjack.
They tell me I should say goodbye, but I can’t bring myself to say it. Not yet.
It had been almost a month since the fire. I was still staying with my mama in Belgrave Square, sequestered in my old room, refusing to see anyone. That is until the morning my mama came crashing into my room with a battalion of maids. She directed them like a great general, pointing them in various directions and barking orders.
“Rose! Open those curtains! It’s depressing in here. And open a window. Lady Cruella hasn’t had fresh air or sunlight in weeks!”
“Do not open those curtains!” I said from under the blankets, frightening my mother’s maid. I wasn’t about to get up. I didn’t care how many maids my mother brought into my room. I was staying put. I pulled the duvet over my head and tried to hide from the mayhem that overtook my solitude.
From under my duvet I could see the room was filled with bright afternoon light, and I could make out the shadows of many servants scurrying around the room doing my mama’s bidding.
“Violet, draw Lady Cruella a bath!” barked my mother, startling me. I had refused any visitors for weeks, and I wasn’t used to all that noise and commotion. It was unsettling to be besieged by so much happening at once, and all I wanted to do was go back to sleep. I was exhausted and heartbroken. I didn’t understand why my mama was trying to force me up.
“I’m not taking a bath!” I said from under the covers.
“Cruella, stop acting like a child and come out from under those covers at once! You will get out of that bed, bathe, and dress yourself!” my mother said. I could see her shadow standing over me from under the duvet.
“Sarah! Where’s that tray I asked to be prepared for Lady Cruella?”
“In the hall, your ladyship,” the maid said, rushing to go get it.
“I’m not hungry!” I yelled after her, but she was back with the tray before I could finish protesting. I could see her shadow standing over me, holding the tray and waiting for me to sit up.
“Cruella, sit up, and at least have a little something to eat.” This time my mother’s voice was raised. She was getting angry. And that was the last thing I wanted, so I reluctantly came out from under the covers, squinting because the room was flooded with light.
The room went silent. Everyone stared at me.
“My goodness! Everyone out of the room at once! Violet, call the doctor! Now!” My mama looked positively gobsmacked. All the maids scattered like frightened mice.
“What is it, Mama? What’s wrong?” I asked. Her face was filled with a mixture of worry and horror. “Mama? What is it?”
“Nothing, my dear. Nothing,” she said, petting my hand and trying to pretend everything was all right.
