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Chapter Twenty-Three
The message passed through a chain of people in the darkest part of night, its content was so simple and so ominous, however, it did not change.
Pulley was in a light sleep and woke with a start when his bedroom door opened.
It was pitch-black outside; not a single ray of light passed through the gable window hidden behind a balustrade on the top floor of the mansion.
He sat up when he heard the heavy breathing of the night footman, signaling the man had run up all the stairs to the attic.
Pulley’s heart raced when he saw the look on the footman’s face, illuminated by the taper he carried. “What is it, Alvin?”
After hearing the message,he rose in his nightclothes, and Alvin averted his eyes while he dressed hurriedly. “Light that candle,” he instructed the footman.
The footman touched his flame to the wick next to Pulley’s bed. The wavering light cast Pulley’s and Alvin’s shadows up the wall and onto the pitched roof of the small quarters.
“Wake the coachman to prepare the carriage and a horse,” he ordered as he fastened his trousers.
Alvin left as Pulley pulled his nightshirt up over his head.
Donning a shirt but omitting his cravat in the interest of time, he hurried down the hall, gripping his candlestick. He and the housekeeper had the only private servant quarters; hers were down the hall, past the locked door separating the women’s rooms from the men’s.
Rushing, he descended to the basement and crossed over to the stairway leading back up to the main part of the house. Breathing as heavily as Alvin had been, he entered Mr. Robertson’s dressing area.
The valet, of course, had set out clothes for the next day, but he ignored those and pulled out the shirt and trousers Mr. Robertson wore to the docks.
Pulley forced his breathing to quiet and pressed an ear to the door to the bedroom. Hearing only silence, he opened the door.
His taper diffused the sole light in the large room. He approached the larger of the two figures barely visible in the bed.
“Sir,” he whispered.
Mr. Robertson didn’t move. He was on his back, a bare arm cast above his head.
“Sir,” he said in a louder voice, shaking the mattress next to the sleeping form.
∞∞∞
James stirred, hearing Pulley’s voice as if from a distance and knowing he needed to rouse. He forced his eyes open.
“Apologies for waking you, sir, but an urgent message has come from the wool warehouse. I’m afraid it’s on fire.”
James blinked and sat up. “Fire?”
Pulley nodded and draped his drawers on the side of the bed before turning around to offer privacy.
“Thank you,” said James, his voice no longer groggy.
He looked over at Clara, still slumbering. He thought of waking her to explain, but decided her sleep was precious.
“When she awakens, inform her,” he directed the butler as he rose from the bed.
After dressing, James ran out to the mews. Looking from the carriage to a single horse, he selected the fastest option. “I’ll take Hamish.” He ran a hand down the horse’s neck.
Within a few blocks of trotting down the streets lit by gas lamps, James noticed Hamish’s ears flickering.
“We’re on our way, lad,” he crooned calmly. “On our way, we are. There’s a lad.” He repeated the almost nonsensical words to Hamish, breathing deeply to relax his own body.
The fastest way to traverse the four miles to the docks was a steady trot over a tiring gallop, but clearly Hamish had sensed James’s frustration and fear.
