Past Shadows

Part 3: The Fire

Lucinda stepped closer to the protective walls of the vicarage, her delicate face almost singed with the radiant heat of the mill fire. The night sky, a deep burnt orange, illuminated with the fireball, which bathed the village in unnatural light. Like her, most of the villagers left their beds to see what was amiss. Once outside acrid smoke assaulted their nostrils and many returned to the relative safety of their cottages. Lucinda remained, despite the increasing knots in her stomach, as it churned.

  "Come inside Lucinda out of the smoke." Her father insisted, "You'll catch your death in your flimsy nightgown. Not to mention the damage to your reputation and mine." The vicar shook his head and waited patiently to see if his daughter would heed his warning. Lucinda clutched the threadbare crocheted shawl closer to her body, as the cold bite of night air chilled her body despite the fire. Her throat tickled, dry from the smoke, she suppressed a cough until her father returned to the vicarage, still muttering darkly about her hoydenish behaviour.

Through the trees, which separated the village from the mill, she could see flames and smoke. The mill was on fire. She glanced around her; the people she sought were conspicuously absent. Tears welled in her eyes. Not for the mill or its owners but for her cousins and the punishment they faced if caught. Why did they ignore her advice? She warned them late this afternoon that direct action against Charles Bracken would result in imprisonment for them, with no benefit to the workers whose lives they sought to improve. Young, idealistic and more than a little wild, they ignored her well meant advice. Now the mill burned and they would be obvious suspects, given their previous militant reputations, unless she diverted attention away from them.

  Charles Bracken's virulent and unfounded accusations branded her a troublemaker. Maybe now she could use his slander to her advantage. Innocent of any wrong doing, no-one could prove she set fire to the mill but the resultant doubt would deflect the focus away from her cousins and allow them to escape the hangman's noose. Content with her decision, she ignored the nagging reminder in her head that said a reputation as a hoyden would be the least of her worries if her subterfuge was successful. She would never work again, who would trust their children to a woman tainted with the accusation of fire raiser?  She couldn't think about that now. She needed to save her cousins and her presence at the burning mill was the first step in her plan. Lucinda returned to the vicarage, warm clothes were a necessity before she went to the mill.

  "Glad you've seen sense at last m'dear," her father commented as she rushed into the vicarage hallway. She smiled, not meeting her father's gaze. Her expression held a mixture of excitement and regret that would instantly raise her father's suspicions. "Night Father."

  "Night Lucinda, get some sleep." I'm going to the mill. I need to check no one needs my services." Her father pulled his heavy cloak from the banister.

Lucinda shivered as her mind touched on the possibility of casualties, people trapped in the mill, as it burned all around them. She needed to establish the true situation before she put her plan into action. Her subconscious insistent she couldn't protect her cousins if innocent people died through their misguided actions, not matter how well meant they were. Stupid boys why didn't they listen to her?

She pushed open her bedroom door and sank onto the unmade bed, her thoughts in turmoil. Her father mustn't see her at the mill or he would become suspicious of her motives. The hum of excited conversation filtered into her darkened room. She jumped up and ran to her tiny bedroom window, which looked over the village square and street. Most of the village, it seemed, walked along the path towards the mill. She heard the heavy front door slam shut and the repetitive thud of her father's footsteps on the path towards the street. Her father's greying longish hair brushed against her window she stepped back so he wouldn't see her.

  "It's a bad business vicar," the blacksmith's distinctive brogue discernible above the chatter of the villagers passing by the vicarage. Lucinda listened carefully, her ear pressed against the cold window but the blacksmith didn't reveal any salient facts, before both men walked out of her earshot.

The steady stream of people would disguise her presence from her father. She pulled a heavy woollen dress from the chest at the foot of her bed and slipped out of her nightgown. The silhouette of her full breasts and rounded hips on the candlelit wall caught her attention as she pulled the dress on. Without the barrier of a shift or chemise, the wool rubbed against her nipples and they stood erect, visible against the soft moulding fabric of her dress. She ran her fingers over them ostensibly to remove any creases from her garment but the brief dart of arousal, which flooded her body made her think of Justin and how her nipples pebbled when she fell against him, fleeing from his creepy father. She bit her lip hard. No future there. She must concentrate on the difficult task ahead, her cousins' fate lay in her hands.

  Lucinda joined the excited throng of villagers who rushed towards the mill, the source of the strange light and smoke. Their interest was not macabre as it first seemed. Most worked or had family members whose livelihood depended on the mill. Death or injury of a family member or the loss of their livelihood was reason enough to seek clarification of the damage. The thick, choking smoke made moving forward difficult but few turned back. The smaller of the two mills looked beyond redemption. Despite this, the majority of people crowded round something or someone at the bottom of the hill, which led to the mill owner's house. Her father pushed to the front of the crowd. Lucinda stood back. 

  Justin's authoritative voice rose above the screams and shouts. Lucinda couldn't tell what he said, except when he sent for the doctor, followed by the command not to risk life and limb but leave the mill to burn.  A body carried by four of the mill workers came into view. Lucinda forced her ears to catch the snippets of conversations all around her. "No one injured..." "...the mill was empty." "...changeover between the twilight and night shift workers." She breathed deeply; her fingers clutched her dress' soft woollen skirt. She still couldn't see who they carried. Charles Bracken's name was on everyone's lips. Repeated like a mantra. "The shock of the mill fire caused a collapse." Lucinda smiled. A physical tell of her relief, rather than pleasure at Charles Bracken's demise. A surreptitious glance around her revealed no interest in her unguarded expressions. Her subconscious berated her carelessness and her lack of pity for Charles. She pushed the thoughts away. Charles Bracken was an evil man who got what he deserved. She wouldn't waste tears on him.

Lucinda merged into the hordes of villagers returning home, as dawn fought to make its presence felt against the grimy smoke. She shivered, suddenly conscious someone watched her. Her furtive glances revealed no-one who seemed to be paying attention to her. Her gaze focused on the white house on the hill. It blazed with light, candles plentiful for the mill owner's household. In a room on the third floor a shadow caught her eye. The tall, muscular outline reminded her of Justin?  She was certain he was watching her.

The intensity of his stare cut deep; pain and fear chased round her body, palpitations made her short of breath. Charles Bracken was dead. The thought chilled her. The pain she felt was Justin's. Fear made her tremble. He would blame her for his father's demise, if she allowed suspicion for the fire to fall on her. Elation and fear warred for supremacy in her troubled thoughts. Could she live with Justin's bad opinion of her to ensure no suspicion fell on her young cousins? Dawn gave way to early morning but the dark thoughts wouldn't leave her as she walked home. She climbed into bed and wrapped the comforter round her shivering body certain she would never be warm again.

 Jane Hunt ©2015/Past Shadows