A HAZARD OF HEARTS (57 page)

It was a forlorn hope, given his state of mind. Whatever
death he envisaged for her would be staged as a performance for his particular
enjoyment. Mad or not, he would plan meticulously to extract the most from it,
as he had from the hanging in the gaol. She would never forget his expression
at the moment when he placed the noose around the unfortunate prisoner’s neck –
so gloriously sated, as if he’d risen from a banquet. It was the nadir of indecency
to dine on another human being’s terror, and it made him less than human.

But as time passed and Cornwallis did not come,
her courage began to fade, and she weakened in her determination to exclude
from her mind all the things she cared about. Paul’s image pushed forward,
claiming her attention. Dear Paul, who might never learn what had become of her,
and certainly couldn’t know how much she loved him.

Curled up against the cold stone, Elly tallied
the attributes she most admired in a man who had lost everything yet built himself
another world to replace the one taken from him, a man to be proud of. She
loved his lop-sided smile inviting her in, yet keeping a distance; his incisive
brain that cut through problems to the core and quickly found a solution; his
grey-green eyes that could laugh at her yet quicken with sympathy; his heart that
could pick a strumpet from the gutter, rave publicly over the rights of common
men or simply win the adoration of a small dog. His strong physique excited her.
The remembered touch of his lips and hands could make her tremble. Like his
audience when he spoke publicly, she could be swayed by his charm.

He was also a typically arrogant male, convinced
that he knew better than any female, however hard he tried to hide it. He would
go his own way in the end. She knew his easily wounded pride, and the thoughts
of vengeance he had harboured over a lifetime. There would always be periods when
he would withdraw, even from those he loved. These things were a part of him. There
was nothing about him she did not love and dread to lose. Oh, Paul, Paul. Would
she ever see him again?

Sobbing, she laid her head on her drawn-up
knees.

It seemed only minutes later that the door was
flung back with a terrific bang and Cornwallis erupted into the cellar, the oil
lamp jiggling wildly in his grasp as he flew at Elly. She cringed in the
corner, her heart slamming in her chest.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘Whore! Did you set them on? How did you do it? Tell
me before I shake the life out of you.’

‘Set on whom?’ She grasped his free arm as it
sought her throat, and hung on with all her strength. The lamp wavered before
her face, oil slopping, the chimney smoking.

Cornwallis’ face was greasy with sweat as he
panted, ‘The mob outside. They’re threatening to fire the house. Don’t you hear
them?’

Still desperately holding him off, she became
aware of a distant sound like heavy surf. A mob? How had they known where to
find him?

‘I swear to you, it wasn’t I who set them on. I
don’t even know where I am.’

‘It had to be you. Bitch! I’ll finish you before
they come for me.’

Almost without thought, Elly brought up her
knees and knocked the lamp flying. At the same time she jerked her chain
forward, dragging Cornwallis across her. His face hit the stone wall along with
the lamp, and flaming oil mixed with shards of glass jetted into his face. He
fell back, screaming, tearing at his eyeballs, then began to stagger blindly
about the cellar. Elly rolled frantically on the smouldering mattress, strewn
with broken glass, and managed to extinguish the flames; but she couldn’t
extinguish Cornwallis’ voice, screeching imprecations. The darkness terrified
her. It hid them from each other, but she knew he’d come for her – for her
throat.

She held the chain taut so it wouldn’t chink and
give away her position, and tried to still her heartbeat hammering in her ears.
Cornwallis was quieter now, although still spewing words of hate and vengeance
in a voice thick with pain. He had only to feel his way around the walls to
find her. There was no escape this time. She could sense his groping hands, the
long fingers clawing, seeking to meet around her throat and snuff out her life.

The distant noise of the mob had become a roar,
mingled with the sound of breaking glass and mysterious thumps. They must have
broken in. But they wouldn’t know where she was, beneath their feet. No-one
would come to save her. Then she smelled smoke and knew that a worse death
might be in store for her. They’d fired the house. Cornwallis paused in his
diatribe to listen.

‘Do you hear? They’re trying to burn me out, but
they’ll fail. There’s a warren of cellars under the house, and an exit from the
far end. They haven’t trapped me.’

He was terribly close. He’d spoken almost above
her head. Cowering back she felt his breath on her cheek, heard the brush of
his sleeve sweeping by only a fraction of an inch away. She held her breath and
stayed rigid.

‘Where are you? You can’t hide from me. Speak,
why don’t you, dammit!’

A mighty crash overhead shook the floorboards,
making her flinch. Running footsteps followed, then the sound of doors flung
back, a voice she knew calling her name. Fingers touched her chin and she let
out a piercing shriek. ‘Paul! I’m down here. Quickly –’

Hands around her throat... crushing pressure...
no air... light searing her eyes... pain, terrible red raw pain... Then, quite
suddenly the pressure was released and air flowed into her straining lungs. She
lay breathing in great gulps. Torchlight flickered on stone, and now she was
aware of new sounds, animal grunts, the hiss of breath expelled by force, the
thud of a body hitting the door.

Pulling herself up on her elbow she saw the two
men grappling, bonded in hatred, hands clawing for eyes and throat. Now
Cornwallis, who must still be half blinded by the oil, struggled to hold his
adversary close, his arms tightening around Paul’s chest in a rib-cracking
hold. Elly saw the strain in both men’s faces, felt the tension of muscles
ready to burst through skin. Then Paul broke free, landing a terrific blow on
Cornwallis’ chin. The two staggered back against opposite walls, panting,
gaining a few seconds’ respite.

In the brief silence, Elly heard the fire raging
above, the crack of exploding timbers and windows blowing out as Cornwallis’
house of treasures melted into a funeral pyre. She could smell the smoke more
strongly, even thought she could see it sifting through the timbers overhead, imagined
it billowing down the cellar stairs and through the open door. How long before
they suffocated, before the building fell in upon them?

Cornwallis made a sudden dart for the torch,
still alight, lying inside the door. ‘You bastard,’ he snarled, swishing it before
him like a flail, holding Paul off. ‘I’ll best you yet.’ He began edging around
the wall to where Elly crouched on her cot. ‘I’ll set her hair alight, and you
can watch her burn.’

‘Not after I choke the life out of you.’ Paul
lunged, and the flaming torch arced down, narrowly missing his face, the heavy
wooden stave connecting with his shoulder to throw him off balance. His shout
of pain coincided with Elly’s horrified gasp.

Cornwallis sprang at Elly and she kicked out,
hitting him in the chest. Before he could raise his arm Paul was on him. The
two men swayed, locked in an embrace that this time, Elly knew, could only end
in one way. Cornwallis was like a bull, powerful, mad with rage and lust to
kill. He used his fists and knees, gouging, tearing at Paul’s hair, even trying
to sink his teeth into his flesh.

Paul, just as powerfully built, fought with his mind
as well as his body. She could see him accepting the blows without attempting a
defence, all his concentration on cutting off his opponent’s wind. His long,
strong hands ripped aside Cornwallis’ collar and closed around the massive
throat, and began to squeeze.

Paul’s shoulder’s hunched as he gathered all his
energy, pouring it into the muscles of his hands, his fingers digging deep into
the flesh. Cornwallis fists battered at Paul’s head, then clawed for his face. But
Paul now had him bent back over the end of the cot, locked in a position where
he could bring all his strength to bear. Cornwallis, his face engorged, blood
dripping from his nostrils, frenziedly tore at the strangling hands. Elly could
smell his terror. She covered her face. The cot shuddered as a weight lifted
and she peeped between her fingers to see Cornwallis heave upwards with a
mighty effort, bringing both men erect before toppling to the floor. A beam
overhead creaked, floorboards sagged. Smoke and hot ash billowed into the
cellar.

Elly screamed, ‘Paul, the fire’s breaking
through.’

He staggered to his feet, swaying, the key to
Elly’s fetters in his torn fingers. Cornwallis lay still at his feet, his eyes
turned up in his head.

‘Is he dead?’ Elly searched Paul’s face as he
undid the cuffs then hugged her to him, his face buried in her hair.

A moment later he released her, saying hoarsely,
‘No, not dead yet. But we’ll all die if we don’t get out of here immediately. Can
you walk, Elly?’

The body on the floor stirred. Paul swept Elly
up in his arms and headed through the door into the adjoining cellar. Here a
doorway high in the wall stood open, a gateway into a hell of flame. The steps
leading up to it were alight and the floor above crackled. Even as Paul dashed
through another opening opposite, burning boards fell behind him, sending sparks
in all directions.

They were in a narrow corridor with several
openings on either side. Elly felt Paul hesitate. Remembering Cornwallis’
boast, she said urgently, ‘There’s a way out through the end cellar. Keep
going.’

A curtain of smoke poured in to envelop them. Coughing,
Elly hid her face in Paul’s coat as he rushed up the corridor, with the sounds
of destruction following close behind. When he stopped and set her on her feet,
she saw their way was blocked by another door, locked.

‘Stand back, Elly.’ He launched himself at the panels.
The door shuddered, but stood firm. This time he smashed at the lock with his
booted foot and wood splintered.

‘Hurry, Paul.’ Elly could hear another sound,
mingled with the roar of flames, a voice that raised the hairs on her body, the
howling, inhuman voice of a creature treading in their footsteps, almost upon
them.

Paul’s boot smashed once more into the lock and
the door sprang open, creating a suction and drawing smoke and burning debris
upon them as they hurried into the next room. The furnishings and other
comforts showed it had been Cornwallis’ lair, but now it, too, was alight. In
one corner, the ceiling had given away and a heavy marble-topped table had
smashed its way through. Fire licked overhead and dropped onto the floor. Everything
that could catch alight had done so. They stood amid a forest of leaping
flames.

‘Where in God’s name is the way out?’ Paul
scanned the walls feverishly. ‘The house above is an inferno. It’ll collapse
any minute.’

‘There. In the far corner. Quickly. He’s right behind
us.’ Elly dashed through the flames licking at her skirts, beating at them with
her bare hands, making for a narrow iron door tucked almost out of sight behind
the remains of a book cabinet. This was burning strongly, with the volumes
smouldering and feeding the flames. Paul caught up the bedding and used it as
protection for his hands, thrusting the cabinet aside to get at the door,
slamming back the bolts, top and bottom, then flinging the door wide.

A blast of chill air hit them in the face, just
as Cornwallis plunged through the opening behind them, his eyes manic in a face
so deformed with hate that Elly’s heartbeat stumbled. The three faced one
another for a long moment. Then, simultaneously, the ceiling gave an ominous
crack, Paul kicked down the burning book cabinet straight in Cornwallis path,
before throwing Elly through the doorway and following, catching her up as he
ran. A tortured howl rose, culminating in a shriek cut off by the thunder of
tumbling brick and stone as the house collapsed behind them, burying the cellars
beneath an avalanche of debris.

Flames shot triumphantly into the sky, dimming
the stars, while the band of men surrounding the conflagration scattered in
panic. Elly burrowed into Paul’s embrace and drew in great breaths of blessedly
frosty, fresh night air, savouring her freedom, her rebirth into a world she
thought she’d never see again. Then she said a prayer of gratitude and sent it
out into the darkness.

‘There isn’t much to explain.’ Paul had been
cornered by the women in the sitting room of the Woollahra house, watched by an
amused J.G.. Ethan, with a sympathetic glance in Paul’s direction, sat down and
prepared to be a spectator.

A week had passed since Elly’s rescue, and
Sydney had rocked with the news of the Hon. D’Arcy Cornwallis’ perfidy. Daily
The
Empire
sold out every edition an hour after it came on the street, its
banner headlines heralding J.G’s exclusive reports on the secret life and
eventual dramatic end to one of the city’s most esteemed citizens. For
Cornwallis had perished in his own cellar, and with him went the iniquitous ‘records’
holding so many people in thrall to him. Only Elly’s close circle of friends
knew the truth of that night, and had agreed that it was best kept between
them. To Elly alone J.G. had whispered, ‘I’d have locked the beast in the irons
he had on you and left him to burn. Still, the scoundrel’s met his end, after
all.’