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Chapter Twenty-Six
The next Sunday, Clara and David attended services at Grosvenor Chapel. As had been the case in the three days since returning home, Clara was struck by the disparity between her calm and prosperous world, and the suffering and destruction wrought by the fire.
Normally, she adored listening to the haunting music emanating from the organ built over a century earlier. Today, her ears were uncomfortable with its glory—so at odds with the cacophony of coughs, moans, and screams she’d heard at the warehouses.
The pristine cleanliness and perfection of the chapel’s white and gold interior couldn’t be reconciled with the devastation at the docks, the broken ruins, and men covered in soot, grime, and ashes.
Today’s services were dedicated to those lost in the fire. Only thanks to this was Clara able to remain in the chapel; at least the tragedy wasn’t ignored.
Indeed, it remained on everyone’s tongues.After services, Clara returned to David’s for their traditional elaborate lunch.
“Reverend Cassell’s sermon about the fire was touching,” she remarked after a spoonful of cold pea soup. Its bright green was the very color of spring and tasted almost sweet.
“A fine sermon. As fine as the fire was dreadful. I visited yesterday, you know.”
She looked up with surprise. “No, I didn’t.”
“For an emergency meeting of the London Warehouse Council.”
“I thought that none of your warehouses was affected.”
“They’re notunaffected. The structures are sound, but we lost most of this week’s work. Everyone, save the watchmen, was dispatched to fight the fire. And the smoke was so pervasive that all the fiber goods are a total loss.”
She stared into her soup and placed a hand to her throat. She didn’t need to imagine the smoke. “What did you see?”
David set down his soup spoon, his eyes far away. “The fire smolders still. They say it might for weeks, perhaps months. The district was saved by bravery and progress, but the damages are catastrophic. Why, the floating engines and the steam engines, they’re a marvel! Since the floats arrived, they’ve worked day and night.” He shook his head. “This will change business. It will change London itself!”
“How so?”
“Going forward, the fire brigades can no longer be supported by insurance companies alone. They lost a vast fortune. Changes are already being discussed.”
“What caused the fire, would you say?”
“That, dear Clara, is the subject of much debate at present.”
“I read a number of theories in the newspaper,” she prompted.
“Indeed.” He sighed. “More ghastly business.” He shook his head in disgust. “The conflagration isn’t extinguished, yet blame already cast. Twenty-two souls confirmed lost, doubtlessly more. Countless pounds lost to the devastation. It’s quite natural to seek who’s responsible for such a tragedy—butwasit the result of an act? Or simply an accident?”
Clara tried to veil all sentiment. “By some accounts, James Robertson is responsible. Is he not that person who interrupted our picnic?”
“He is.”
The butler signaled to the footman to remove the soup course. Another footman served plates of baked trout and onions.
“I cannot abide that man,” David said in clipped tones. His eyes, the color of dark sea foam, narrowed. He picked up his fish fork, then set it back down. “Even more, however, I abhor those who permit excitement to overtake reason. There’s no evidence that Robertson planned the fire. It didn’t ignite in his warehouse.”
“He’s a clever man. To avoid suspicion, wouldn’t he arrange for it to start elsewhere?”
David dipped his head in agreement. “Heiscunning, doubtlessly—as are you, evidently. If he were to set a fire, be assured, he’d take every measure to avoid detection. But Robertson burning down warehouses simply to rid himself of substandard cargo?” He shook his head.
Perhaps David isn’t so dead set against James!
Hope rushed through her, whispering that perhaps they could find peace, eventually.
Clara forced herself to choke out her next words. “The newspaper described how he tried to sell the wool, to no avail. He was out a considerable sum.”
“Those pointing the finger have been gutted.” Suddenly realizing his language, his eyes turned apologetic. “I beg your pardon, Clara. What I mean to say is, they’ll be devastated by the losses, likely beyond the point of recovery.”
