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  ‘I’m well used to racing up and down these stairs, your ladyship.’ Turning on her heel, her dark hair streaming behind her, Mercy raced across the kitchen and back through the door and up the stairs while the others stumbled outside to safety.

  Through the night air they could hear the farm bell ringing, calling the tenants to help.

  Lord Henry led them around to the front of the house, where the true enormity of the fire struck them when they saw the roaring flames blaze through the windows and cover the whole front of the house.

  ‘Oh my dear God!’ cried Lady Martha, slumping on the lawn.

  ‘We’ve got to try and save the house!’ shouted Lord Henry. ‘Fill buckets, pails, whatever receptacles you can find.’ Total chaos and commotion followed as the frantic search for buckets began.

  Finn raced around, half-crazy with excitement. ‘For heaven’s sake, Rose, get a piece of rope and tie up that dog!’ yelled Lord Henry.

  Within minutes the stableyard staff had arrived on the scene. Michael ran as fast as he could, heart pounding, alongside Toss and Tom and Liam and Paddy and young Brendan.

  ‘Oh Michael! Toss! Bring buckets! The house is on fire!’ Miss Felicia came running towards them in bare feet, wearing only her white cotton nightgown, her hair loose and wild.

  Brendan and Paddy turned back down the avenue to go and get buckets. The others stopped in shock for an instant when they saw the blazing house, then they rushed to join the line of household staff and Lord Henry and Miss Rose, who had all formed a human chain. The chain extended from the side wing of the house across the gravelled walkway, along the herbaceous border and up the stone steps. Buckets were filled from the outside tap, then passed along the line as fast as everybody could manage it.

  Soon the massive hall door had blistered and burnt and cracked, enabling them to kick it down. Someone poured water into the hallway, splashing it onto the sizzling flames and causing them to hiss momentarily. Toss and Bernard doused the old grandfather clock that stood in the hall, then, rushing across the floor, heaved it up and dragged it out the door, where everyone helped lift it awkwardly down the granite steps onto the lawn. The wood was still warm and one side rather blistered, but at least it was out of the house.

  ‘Two of the maids are still upstairs!’ shouted Felicia, ‘one of the others has gone to help them.’

  With a tug of his heart Michael realised that Mercy was missing from the chain and knew he must find her.

  ‘Where are they, Felicia?’ he shouted at the bewildered young girl.

  ‘They sleep right up in the attic, Michael. Mercy went to get them.’

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘She went up the servants’ stairs …’

  Michael was already racing across the yard and through the kitchen. ‘Mercy!’ he called.

  The stairs were pitch black and when he tried to take them at the double he almost fell. He could hear the creaking roar of the fire as he climbed up through the darkness. ‘Mercy! Are ye all right?’

  The smoke was so thick it nearly choked him, making him cough and wheeze. There was so much noise that he couldn’t make out if the young women were hearing him or not.

  He climbed up further, holding onto the narrow banisters. The door onto the first landing glowed a fiery red and would probably explode in a few minutes. The fire was right behind it on the other side. He quickened his pace.

  ‘Mercy!’ he screamed hoarsely.

  He thought he heard something. ‘Up here! We’re up here!’ It was Mercy.

  One more landing, and the sound of the fire had changed. High up here it had a strange, rumbling sound, like thunder that would engulf you.

  Michael opened the tiny door into the attic space. He gasped when he saw that part of the ceiling and roof had already collapsed. Claws of flames which belched from the chimney had set fire to the beams.

  ‘Oh, thank God!’ murmured Mercy.

  The other two girls were sitting mesmerised and terrified on the narrow bed. Mercy was trying to drag them away, but she couldn’t get them to move.

  ‘Out of here!’ shouted Michael firmly, grabbing Dolores by the arm. ‘Move!’

  As if he had waved a magic wand, the two girls got to their feet. He had broken the spell.

  He pulled up a bit of old, worn carpet off the ground. Follow me!’ he ordered, trying to hide the quiver in his voice.

  Mercy was holding a wound-up sheet. ‘I damped this, Michael,’ she said. Doubling the sheet around her neck she ran with the rest of them across the narrow landing, burning her hands as she touched the door leading to the stairway. It was slow going in the darkness, trying to manoeuvre down the winding, narrow wooden steps. It would be far easier to fall going downwards.

  ‘Nobody talk!’ said Michael. ‘The air is too smoky.’

  Mercy covered her mouth with the sheet and Lizzie, following behind, used the other end of it. The heat was getting more intense, the smoke choking them. They scrambled down as fast as they could. Suddenly the darkness disappeared and giant yellow-orange flames blazed up at them, blocking their path. They all stopped in a line. They were stuck. The door on the first landing had burst through and Michael could see that this whole section of the stairs had caught fire! He peered through the smoke. It seemed that only a section of the stairs was burning yet – if they could get through that bit, they should be safe.

  ‘We must go through it!’ Michael said quietly. The flames were racing upwards, second by second. The banisters were too hot to touch.

  Quickly Mercy unwound the heavy sheet. ‘It’ll only give us a second or two,’ she murmured.

  She tossed it down in front of them, and as the flames died for that second or two, the four of them stumbled forward, ignoring the pain in their legs and feet. In a flash the fire had destroyed the water-soaked sheet, but they had all managed to jump away from it and tumble down the rest of the wooden steps.

  Gasping and choking, they emerged out into the kitchen. Michael grabbed Mercy’s hand as the four of them stumbled through the smoke and escaped out the door.

  Dolores flung herself on the ground in shock; part of her frizzy hair was singed and her foot was blistered. She was confused and scared, and wailed quietly to herself.

  ‘All I want is to throw meself in that lake and cool down,’ said Lizzie. ‘I thought me hour had surely come!’

  Michael took in the scene on the front lawn. More help had arrived. In the distance he could see Lord Henry directing operations. They had broken the large bay windows of his study on the side of the house overlooking the lake, and the men were lifting out books and tables and trying to drag out the massive mahogany desk which seemed to be stuck.

  Michael let go of Mercy’s hand. ‘I’d better go and help, love. You stay here. I’ll come back to you later, I promise, Mercy!’

  He ran over to help with the lifting, ignoring the searing of pain he felt as he moved. The study was soaked. They were flinging bucket after bucket of water against the door, giving Paddy and Toss a chance to lift things out.

  Young Brendan was way back down the line and Michael realised that he was calling him over.

  ‘What is it, Brendan?’ quizzed Michael, going to him.

  ‘I’m right worried about the horses, Michael,’ said Brendan.

  ‘They’ll be fine,’ murmured Michael. ‘They’re far enough from the house.’

  ‘I think we should go and check on them.’ Before Michael could object, young Brendan took off, and, without knowing why, Michael followed after him down the avenue.

  The smell of smoke was heavy in the air and the horses in the far paddock whinnied anxiously. The carriage-horses were going wild, nostrils flaring, as they kicked against the fencing, trying to escape the choking smoke that blew across from the yard.

  As they rounded the final bend in the avenue they saw that the smaller haybarn was ablaze, and Michael knew instinctively from the silence of the two stables close beside it that the horses inside were already dead. Fra
ntically, Brendan began to open the stable doors and lead the other horses out.

  ‘Be careful!’ Michael shouted. He knew how dazed and scared the animals would be, and watched transfixed as the terrified horses thrashed and kicked out when their door was opened. Troy’s front legs and hooves caught the stable boy unawares. Brendan lay sprawled against the wall, blood gushing from his arm as Troy galloped way.

  Michael cursed to himself under his breath. Why hadn’t they left all of the horses outside? Why had they stabled any of them? He began to call to the horses, trying to make his voice sound normal, the way it was every morning when he came to see them, hoping they would recognise him.

  Pippin, Miss Felicia’s horse, whinnied. ‘Good girl!’ he told her gently. She was trembling with fear, her small fawn-coloured body quivering. He patted and stroked her neck, grabbing hold of her mane as he eased the door open, ready to push it shut if she started to rear. But Pippin was content to let him guide her across the yard to the company of the other horses in the paddock. The low, timber frame of her stall crackled and burst into flames behind her, hay and straw lighting up in seconds.

  Michael decided to throw open all the doors and let the horses run free, and hope they wouldn’t panic and injure themselves. He ran from one door to another, pulling back the heavy iron bolts and flinging open the doors.

  Glengarry was covered in sweat and thrashing at her door, trying to get out. In a far corner, Morning Boy rolled his eyes in terror. The mare had given herself a few knocks, and, confused with pain and fear, was making the situation worse for both herself and her foster foal. Michael realised that if she got out she would just gallop till she dropped or batter herself against anything that got in her way. But what would happen to the foal then?

  ‘Get me a halter, and the canvas one for the foal,’ Michael shouted, hoping that Brendan had recovered enough to help him. Seconds later the boy was back with them. Slipping off his shirt, Michael climbed over the door, balancing on top of it as he tried to avoid Glengarry’s hooves. With the halter over his shoulder, Michael reached up for the mare’s head, surprising her when he flung his shirt over her nose and across her eyes, blocking out the sight of the pandemonium around her. A second later Michael had slipped the halter on her.

  ‘Open the door, Brendan,’ he yelled.

  He held firmly onto the mare, who reared up and tried to kick away from him. Michael struggled to hold her as she bucked, but once he got her outside the stable she allowed him to lead her across the yard. Brendan ran over and opened the paddock gate to let her in, then closed it behind them. Glengarry was safe.

  The two boys ran back to the stable for the foal. Michael slipped the familiar canvas halter over the foal’s head and began to pull the terrified young horse outside. The colt jerked backwards, careering into the red-hot door. He started to jump and kick as he felt the burning wood scorch his side, singeing his skin, and Michael and Brendan barely managed to hold him. But out in the yard they finally calmed him down and were able to coax him into the paddock and reunite him with Glengarry.

  By the time Toss came to the burnt-out stables searching for them, Michael and Brendan had saved most of the horses – many of them had simply disappeared, galloped off to God knows where, and would have to be rounded up tomorrow. The two lads had doused the flames in the harness room and prevented it from being destroyed. But the haybarn was gone, and the carriage-house all but ruined.

  ‘Good God!’ shouted Toss, his eyes raking across the scene of destruction. ‘There’s no way the flames could have spread here from the house. This fire is a deliberate act, carried out by some blackguard,’ he said, narrowing his eyes.

  Michael and Brendan nodded miserably, the boss voicing their own inner thoughts. The burning of Castletaggart House and stables was definitely no accident. And Michael had his suspicions.

  * * *

  Michael watched as the house continued to burn. This was the beginning of the end of a way of life. The air was heavy with the smell of burning timber and plaster, a choking, thick, all-enveloping sensation that filled your nostrils and mouth till it lay heavy in the very pit of your stomach.

  Castletaggart House glowed livid red, its gaping, empty windows touched with a raging blaze of colour. Flames danced and jeered through the roof, bursting from all the tall chimneys. No buckets of water, no fire-wagon, no chain of human fire-fighters could stop it now as the fire completed its joyful victory.

  The large hall where kind old Lady Buckland had been waked, where the Castletaggart hunt had met, where visitors had called to pay their respects, was now a huge, open, gaping, pain-filled mouth as the old house lay dying.

  Those who had helped gave up only when Lord Henry called a halt. Defeated, he walked slowly down the line of helpers. ‘It’s no use, my friends! We can do no more!’ His broad face was reddened from the heat, and there were dark shadows of exhaustion under his eyes.

  The maids and cook and many of the other staff began to sob as the buckets were dropped and the pump stilled. A hush fell over them all while the fire raged on, consuming everything in front of it.

  In total silence, Rose Buckland and her mother stood like two ghosts, watching their home being destroyed.

  * * *

  Noticing a flurry of noise, Michael became aware of the arrival of yet more tenants. They held themselves apart under some huge chestnut trees, watching. Michael couldn’t see them clearly, but he thought he could make out Peadar amongst them.

  Then a carriage and two horses turned up along the avenue and Michael recognised Philip Delahunt, a friend of the master’s. Grim-faced, Mr Delahunt drew up in front of the house. Michael ran forward, offering to hold the horses.

  ‘Good God! How on earth did this happen?’ Mr Delahunt asked, stepping down. ‘Where are Henry and the family?’ Michael pointed out the family to him.

  Philip Delahunt had a gruff manner and was not one for idle chit-chat. He stood for about five minutes watching the house, then strode down to join Lady Buckland and Rose on the lawn. He was obviously arguing with them. Soon Lord Henry joined in the conversation, the result of which was that the ladies walked slowly to the carriage with Mr Delahunt.

  Suddenly, a lone voice called from under the chestnut trees: ‘Burn them out!’

  Lady Buckland raised her head and tightened the belt of her dressing-gown around her. She tilted her chin proudly, and through barely open lips muttered, ‘Rose! Don’t say one word!’

  Rose swallowed hard and her eyes filled with tears, but she obeyed, following her mother into the carriage.

  ‘Where is Felicia?’ asked Lady Buckland, her voice quivering.

  ‘She’s over there,’ said Michael, pointing to the young girl, who was marching in her nightclothes towards the chestnut trees, her auburn hair loose. Michael chased through the crowds after her.

  Felicia stopped in front of the group under the trees. Standing there wild-eyed, in her white flowing cotton nightgown with her pale skin and wild hair, she looked for all the world like a banshee.

  ‘I heard what you said!’ she screamed. ‘I know what you did!’

  Michael grabbed her by the elbow. ‘Come on, Miss Felicia, you’ll catch your death. Your mother and Miss Rose and Mister Delahunt are all waiting for you.’

  ‘I hate you!’ she yelled, ignoring him. ‘Each and every one of you! Keep your stinking dirty cabins. You’ve destroyed the finest house in the county. My father is a good man – he’s done his best for all of you, and this is how you pay him back!’

  ‘Please, Miss!’ begged Michael, tugging at her. The eleven-year-old girl looked fit to collapse.

  ‘Go back to England!’ someone muttered.

  Felicia stopped for a second as if she had been shot. ‘I was born in that front room there.’ She pointed towards the house. ‘I am as Irish as any of the rest of you. But you don’t care about that. If we go away who will you blame then? I’ll tell you what’ll happen.’ She laughed hysterically. ‘You’ll all fight am
ong yourselves, that’s what my father says. You’ll fight and kill each other one by one, that’s what you’ll do. Each and every one of you can go to hell. See if we care!’

  The crowd was silent as she turned away from them.

  ‘I’m cold, Michael.’ She shivered.

  Michael didn’t know what to think as he helped the angry young girl up to the waiting arms of her mother and sister.

  ‘I’m so sorry for all that’s happened,’ he said, taking a deep breath. But the three women seemed not to hear him. The carriage turned, the wheels skidding on the gravel, and they drove off down the avenue and away from Castletaggart House.

  CHAPTER 12

  Partings and Promises

  CASTLETAGGART HOUSE BURNED FOR HOURS, the huge beams still smouldering when daylight came. Finn lay across the bottom step in front of the door, guarding the house despite the heat and sounds that rumbled from inside.

  Someone had arrived with clothes for Lord Henry, and he marched around the outside of the building engrossed in serious conversation with Philip Delahunt, his manager George Darker, and two more of his acquaintances. Toss had told him about the stables, but Lord Henry seemed unable to take in the news.

  The furniture and books and possessions that had survived had been lifted onto carts and taken off to be put in storage.

  The parlour maids, the cook, the kitchen staff, the tutor, Bernard the butler – all sat on the grass, exhausted. Michael hunkered down too, and leant against a beech tree, stretching out his legs and listening to the wind rustle through the leaves. He was so tired he felt that if he closed his eyes he would sleep forever. He thought of Morning Boy and his mother Ragusa, and of all the horses he’d cared for here, of all the good times he’d had since he first came to work in the big house, and how proud he’d been of his first proper job and the chance to work with such magnificent horses. Every day he’d ridden past this house admiring its beauty, its solid strength, wondering what the rooms were like inside. It was a world apart. At times perhaps he did envy it, but always there had been a respect.