The Leaping Flame, page 25
“It’s all right, darling. You’ve got to go downstairs and I’m going to cover you up, right over your face.”
He didn’t understand and she could feel him struggling against the enveloping blanket. She held him tightly to her breast and started on the downward journey.
Now the smoke seemed to grip at her throat. She felt that it was impossible to breathe, impossible to go on. There was another rending crash and she wondered what had fallen, but still she forced herself forward until suddenly, as she reached the foot of the stairs, she felt the flames leap at her, saw their yellow tongues, evil and menacing, surrounding her.
There was only one thing to do – to make a dash for it. She knew where the front door was straight in front of her and it was open, the draught blowing the flames higher, making them leap and dance like some devilish fantasy.
“Help me, God help me!”
Mona wasn’t certain whether she said the words out loud, but she knew that in that moment of her prayer, strength would be given her to save Peterkin’s life.
‘I must save him,’ she thought.
She held the child even closer and put her face into the blanket that enveloped him.
She went forward but it was difficult to go quickly. She felt a sudden agony of pain in her legs. She heard her hair singe and her own voice scream with the torture of it.
Then there was the coolness of the night on her face – the burden of Peterkin was being lifted from her arms – people were touching her, hitting her – there came a merciful oblivion and she knew no more.
Twenty
Mona opened her eyes and took in her surroundings. She was in a small white room, and as she moved, a nurse came to the bedside and raised a glass to her lips.
“Are you feeling better?” she asked.
Mona had been vaguely conscious for some time of voices of people, of an agonising pain that seemed too intense to be borne but which faded away into a grey oblivion.
Sometimes she dreamed and knew that the fantasies that crept through her mind were dreams. Now she remembered reality.
“Peterkin! Is he all right?” Her voice was broken and hysterical.
“The little boy?” the nurse asked in a clear, pleasant voice. “Yes, he’s quite all right. You saved him.”
“H-he wasn’t burnt?”
The nurse shook her head.
“No, he was quite all right, all the children were. You were the only person who was hurt.”
Mona closed her eyes. Gradually she became aware that one of her hands was bandaged, that something weighty seemed to be holding down her legs and that there were bandages round her head. She opened her eyes again.
“Am I badly hurt?”
“Not too badly,” the nurse replied. “The scars on the legs will heal and your hair will grow again.”
Mona shut her eyes. Somehow it didn’t seem very important. She was glad that her face was untouched, she would have hated to be ugly, but for the rest, well, it didn’t matter. As long as Peterkin was all right. She heard the nurse move across the room and speak to someone in the doorway, then footsteps approached the bed.
‘If I keep my eyes closed,’ Mona thought, ‘they’ll think I am asleep.’
She felt tired, a great lassitude encompassed her, yet she was aware of someone standing there and without conscious effort her eyes opened.
Looking down at her was Michael. She was not surprised to see him, somehow it was inevitable. A sudden gladness made her feel as if life itself returned to her body. When she spoke, her voice was stronger.
“Hello, Michael.”
“Are you better, darling?” His voice was low.
“Much better. How did you get here?”
“Your mother and I have been waiting some days,” he replied. “We’ve been rather worried about you.”
“Have you? How silly!”
“Not really. You see, we love you.”
Mona felt a warmth encompass and enfold her. Everything was all right now that Michael was there. Vaguely and hazily, she remembered that in the past she had been lonely and afraid. But she had made reparation, yes, that is what she had done. Now, as if a golden dawn lay before her, she knew that the world held herself and Michael, united and together.
A happiness beyond anything she had ever known pervaded her whole being and she waited, saying nothing, savouring that moment of joy as though fearful if she spoke or moved it might evade her.
“Your mother will want to see you,” Michael said. “Shall I go and call her?”
“In a moment,” Mona replied. “There are things I want to ... ask you. First, how long shall I be here?”
“A week or so, then we will take you home.”
‘How lovely that word sounds when he says it,’ Mona thought.
“Was the house completely burned?” she asked irrelevantly.
“It’s quite uninhabitable.”
“What about the ... children?”
“They are being looked after. As a matter of fact, your mother and I had quite a tussle as to whether they should go to the Park, or the Priory. I won. I wanted to make quite certain that I should have you near me when you got well enough to go on working.”
Mona smiled. For a moment it almost seemed as if she would laugh, but the effort was too great.
“Oh Michael!” she said. “Do you always get your own way?”
He shook his head, but there was a sudden hope in his eyes and the vision came to her of him crawling towards that machine-gun post, determinedly, doggedly reaching his objective. The glory and gladness in her own heart seemed almost overpowering. She felt as if she could talk no longer but must give herself up to feeling it, to letting it drift over her in a wave of utter happiness.
Yet before she surrendered, she looked up at Michael.
“There’s one other ... question,” she whispered.
“What is it, darling?”
Her voice came very softly from between her lips so that he must bend forward to hear what she said.
“D-do you still want me?”
She saw an almost unbelievable gladness transform his face. Then he was on his knees beside her, his face very near hers.
“I love you, my darling, my foolish, wonderful little love. How could you risk your life when you belong to me?”
There was so much adoration in his voice she could only tremble with a sudden ecstasy that was beyond words.
“M-michael,” she managed to say brokenly. “Look after me. I’ve been such an idiot ... but I love you. I know now I love you with all my heart.”
“That’s all I want to hear,” he said softly. “You’re mine, my precious, and I’ll never let you go again.”
“N-never?” she questioned weakly.
She closed her eyes as it was all too wonderful to be borne.
“Never,” he answered, and she felt his lips touch hers.
He was very gentle, but a flame shot through her, a flame so vivid, so compelling, she knew it was the leaping flame of life.
“Oh Michael! Michael!” she murmured wonderingly. “This is love.”
THE LATE DAME BARBARA CARTLAND
Barbara Cartland, who sadly died in May 2000 at the grand age of ninety eight, remains one of the world’s most famous romantic novelists. With worldwide sales of over one billion, her outstanding 723 books have been translated into thirty six different languages, to be enjoyed by readers of romance globally.
Writing her first book ‘Jigsaw’ at the age of 21, Barbara became an immediate bestseller. Building upon this initial success, she wrote continuously throughout her life, producing bestsellers for an astonishing 76 years. In addition to Barbara Cartland’s legion of fans in the UK and across Europe, her books have always been immensely popular in the USA. In 1976 she achieved the unprecedented feat of having books at numbers 1 & 2 in the prestigious B. Dalton Bookseller bestsellers list.
Although she is often referred to as the ‘Queen of Romance’, Barbara Cartland also wrote several historical biographies, six autobiographies and numerous theatrical plays as well as books on life, love, health and cookery. Becoming one of Britain’s most popular media personalities and dressed in her trademark pink, Barbara spoke on radio and television about social and political issues, as well as making many public appearances.
In 1991 she became a Dame of the Order of the British Empire for her contribution to literature and her work for humanitarian and charitable causes.
Known for her glamour, style, and vitality Barbara Cartland became a legend in her own lifetime. Best remembered for her wonderful romantic novels and loved by millions of readers worldwide, her books remain treasured for their heroic heroes, plucky heroines and traditional values. But above all, it was Barbara Cartland’s overriding belief in the positive power of love to help, heal and improve the quality of life for everyone that made her truly unique.
The Leaping Flame
Barbara Cartland
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