A Curse Dark as Gold (28 page)

"Threatening me?" Something made me want to tell Harte the truth. About everything -- come clean there and then. I didn't dare, of course, but I did own what Bill Penny had said. "He says he sees ghosts here."

Harte's face was grim. "I'm sure he does. With his taste for drink, he probably has all kind of dread visions. And having buried three children? It can't be easy to stand in his shoes, Mistress, I'll give him that much. But it don't change what I've said. I'll stand by whatever you decide, of course. I'm just askin' you to think twice how badly we really need another hand round here."

Chapter Twenty

I could
not bring myself to discharge Bill, sound as Harte's advice was. Part of it was charity: How could I pour salt in that poor man's wounds? But the measure was my own selfish curiosity. If Bill Penny truly saw ghosts -- and I told myself I did not believe it; Harte was right and they were naught but drink-phantoms -- but if he
did
see them, I half wished to be close by when they appeared. I could scarcely explain this even to myself. My world was like a glass tipped on its side, reason flowing out and ... something else flowing in. Could Bill's ghosts somehow make sense of all the strangeness that I had witnessed these last months?

And there was another reason.
The master that was ...
Was my father in that congregation? Did he still linger, guiding my hand? I voiced the thought to Rosie, and she crowed with laughter.

"Aye! And we want him guiding your hand, so fine a job he did of things when he was alive." She shook her head. "You're wasting your money and your sympathy on that Bill, Charlotte. He's a shiftless old sack, drunk or sober, and you'll never get the work out of him you're paying for."

Not that it was costing any sort of fortune. I only paid Bill for days he worked, and in the months that followed, those were fewer and fewer. Neither did I pay much mind to gossip that placed Bill Penny with the Eagans almost as often as he could be found at Drover's. And it was all for naught -- for in all the long hot months that followed, I never saw so much as a queer shadow near him.

The cold bright spring dissolved into a damp, oppressive summer, of a heavy overhanging sky that would neither rain nor clear, but life at Stirwaters settled into an unusually smooth rhythm. Our next shipment to Porter & Byrd was building up in the woolshed; they had this season put in special requests for particular cuts and weaves of cloth. Stirwaters Blues were making their name, it seemed, farther afield than any Miller had previously dreamed. It even seemed possible that we might make our last payment to Uplands Mercantile with a bit of a cushion to spare.

One afternoon I was surprised to find Bill shambling about my office, mumbling to himself, his trembling fingers shifting over the bookshelves, the desk.

"What are you doing in here?" I said, sharper than I intended. "Go home. Have something to eat."

"I haven't seen her," he said mournfully. "She never comes home, and I thought she might come here, where the boy is."

"Annie's not here," I said gently. "She died last summer, remember? Bill -- maybe you oughtn't be here. This place isn't good for you...."

"I thought she could see me, now that I'm here all the time. But I got confused -- and then I took my knife and did it just like he said --"
"You what?"

He shook his head, urgent for me to understand. "I cut up them bales, right, what were all in bad colors? He said it frightened them, that they couldn't come anymore if it were there. And I said maybe we could just
move
it, but he said it weren't good enough."

I stared at him in dawning horror.
"Mr. Penny, did you cut all that cloth?"

"Oh, aye -- he told me to."

"Who?" My voice was stricken, shrill.

Penny pulled back like I'd slapped him. "The master. He gave me a present if I did it."

I barely heard that last part; all I saw was the millyard in moonlight, swirling thick with scraps of cloth like dust motes. I grabbed for Bill, shaking him by the shoulders. "What did you do? What did you do?"

"Mistress!" That was Harte, crossing the room in long strides to pull us apart. "What in the world's going on here?"

"He -- he slashed the cloth," I said breathlessly. I had no idea why I was so upset -- was it that Bill had done it, that
ghosts
had told him to ... or that I'd erred so in my judgement of him? Harte gripped my shoulder tightly until I was calm again. Bill had broken down sobbing, like a frightened child. "Mr. Penny," I said loudly. "You must go home, and you must never come back here. Do you understand me? Do you understand?"

Harte shook him until he met my eyes. "You're sacking me?" Bill said, and he suddenly sounded completely lucid.

"Yes, Bill," I said, as the millwheel crashed and roared.

***
I woke in the night when a pain stabbed through my breast. I shot up in bed with a gasp, fearing for the baby. But it was no more than a moment before I realized I felt no
physical
pain. Panting as if from a nightmare, I clutched at the sheets and stared into the darkness. A second pang gripped my heart, and I knew something was wrong. I shook Randall awake.

"Something's the matter at Stirwaters!"

He frowned sleepily. "It's the middle of the night. You were dreaming. Go back to sleep."

"No -- I felt..." I trailed off. What had I felt? Fear, and pain -- and a cry for help. "I must go." I clambered out of bed, shrugged myself into my dressing gown, and fled for the dining room. I shoved apart the drapes and pressed my face to the glass, straining through the darkness toward the millpond.

Which was orange.

Like a glowing ember in the night, the water shone back a flickering nightmare -- bright with flames, the mill buildings behind shrouded in a mist of smoke.

"Dear God -- what's that?" Randall stumbled into the room.

"Stirwaters is burning! I must get down there!" Heedlessly, I ran for the front doors, and flung them open onto Rosie, clattering up the brick walk on Nathan Smith's ancient pony. They skidded to a halt just feet from the steps.

"The woolshed's afire!"

I ran out to meet her, Randall following on my heels. "What of the mill?"

"Nay, it's not caught. Randall -- can you help? We need all the hands we can get."

"Of course," Randall said, pulling his boots on even as he ran.

I stared at the both of them helplessly. "I'm coming with you!"

"You are not!" Rosie said. "Phinny can only carry two." She reached down and squeezed my shoulder, and I smelled the smoke from her nightgown sleeve. "Truly, Charlotte -- you'll be no help."

"Don't argue," Randall said, kissing my forehead. "For once sit tight, won't you?"

I nodded in despair, but of course I didn't mean to obey. It might take all night to carry me down the hill, but I was not going to sit safe and sound half a mile away. I delayed only long enough to don shoes and pull a frock and cloak over my nightdress before following Rosie and Randall into darkness.

I made myself take care, on the rocky road in the depths of midnight, but the same sharp cry that had wakened me urged me onward. I heard it like a voice in a dream -- through the bones of my breast it resonated, silent and insistent, a distant, desperate plea. Say what you will: I say it was Stirwaters.

Calling its keeper.

As I descended the hill, the night sky before me lit up like sunset and storm together. I heard the roar of thunder before I understood it was the voice of the fire -- a terrifying whoosh and howl that drowned out everything else. The baby woke and kicked me hard, just as the mill's voice cried,
Go, go!

The scene at Stirwaters was chaos. Lit up like midday, the hands scurrying about the yard like bees at their hive, bustling everywhere with a strange, single-minded confusion as the flames leaped like windblown banners from the roof and windows. Somehow I kept myself from scrambling across the fence to join the battle. I might not have, if the baby hadn't stirred within me like a flutter of panic. I stood just outside the yard fence and hugged myself tight, and the fire burned on and on.

I saw Rosie and Randall in the bucket brigade, passing dyevats down the ranks to the pond and back. I searched for Harte but did not see him. Dear God -- where was he? What of Pilot? I stared at the flames pouring out his window and knew nothing could have survived inside.

A crash brought the roof down in a shower of sparks, and everyone scattered.

The woolshed was a loss. I heard a voice barking orders, but could not make out the words. The men shifted their concentration to protecting Stirwaters and the Millhouse, but watching, I knew -- I
knew
that Stirwaters would not burn. Something outside any of us kept it safe. Would it not have crumbled to dust long ago else?

The building stood in silhouette against the burning sky, a blackened face with eyes afire. A blast of heat knocked me back a few steps, and I gasped. It was like the furnace at Pinchfields -- black and hungry, the impossible pink sunrise of fire swathed in clouds of smoke and sparks. It seemed to swell toward me, looming, warning.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting on the earth, in a rivulet of hot water streaming down the shale. Dazed, I could not think how I had gotten there, but strong arms were round my shoulders, easing me upward.

"Easy there, Mistress," said a wonderful, familiar voice in my ear. I whirled in his arms.

"Harte!" I was on my feet, my arms flung around his neck. "Oh, thank God. Thank God." Frantically I searched his face and shoulders with my hands -- for burns, for sparks, for proof of life. He laughed and let me.
"Ah, it's all right then, Miss Charlotte. Here, easy now. You shouldn't be out here, but I'm sure it's no good tellin' you that."

"How did you get out?"

He shook his head. "I weren't
in.
Pilot woke me, sure she had some urgent mission off by the river. It were a fine night, so I took to follow her for once. She disappeared into the wood, and I couldn't find her. By the time I gave her up and turned back, the smoke was halfway up the southwest corner."

"How did it start?" I held tight to Harte's arms, unwilling to admit my legs were still trembling.

Harte frowned. In the flickering light his face was in and out of shadow, shiny and red and smudged with soot. "We might know more in the morning."

"If there's anything left by then," I said.

"Ah, the lads are trusty," he said. "If there's a way to save this old place, they'll do it for you. Look, I ought to lend a hand. Since I know you won't leave, will you at least sit down?"

I shook my head -- or I nodded. With one last squeeze to my shoulders, Harte left me, to go back into the living, livid fire.

They were all helping. Someone had propped a ladder against the Millhouse, and sturdy fellows hauled water up to douse the roof. It was slate, but underneath was timber -- and being slate hadn't saved the woolshed. A trench had been dug in the shale surrounding the house, and beaters staffed the mill, ready to stamp out any sparks that hit close by. In glimpses among the ruddy light I recognized millhands and villagers alike, all working frantically to protect the mill.

Except me.

And the cry in my heart was as loud as ever.
"Oh, mercy help us," I breathed into the night air, unable to do more.

I saw a sudden, bright flash -- quicker and sharper than the flames -- followed promptly by a clap of thunder so loud it knocked my heart into my throat. And like that, the glooming, lowering clouds broke open at last. Fat, beautiful droplets spattered the shale, and a cheer went up from the crowd.

Afterward folk told that it was like no rain Shearing had ever seen. At first it merely struck the fire and splattered into steam, but eventually the heavens gained the upper hand. Rain poured down, heavy and heavier, like a curtain of water being drawn across the Valley. In seconds I was soaked through to my skin, shivering with gooseflesh. I kept wiping my sodden hair from my forehead with the back of my hand, but it only fell back again, wetter than ever. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to scream. The voice within me crowed with triumph; I mourned for everything we had nearly lost.

From somewhere in the wet distance I heard Rosie calling. She emerged from the night, breathless and shouting, "They've got the fire out at the shed, but the roof's gone, and it looks like the loft might have collapsed as well. The stock --" She shook her head. Wool won't burn, but it will scald, stink, shrink, warp, and run. Half a season's work lay beneath tons of rubble and water, moldering as we spoke. "Do you think we'll save anything?"

"You saved the mill," I said. To my relief, Rosie grinned.

"Aye, that we did," she said, and threw her arms around me. I feared she might cry, but she pulled away again. "You should get inside and change," she said sternly, "before you catch your death. Why don't you let Randall take you home? We'll finish up here."

I looked around the sodden, ashen millyard, at my drenched and sooty sister. With every flash of lightning, I could see clean through her wet nightdress. I pulled off my wet cloak and bundled her in it.