An Heiress to Remember (The Gilded Age Girls Club #3) - Maya Rodale Page 0,82
through the crowds in his store. That was before the doors burst open and a deluge of smoke-smudged women came crashing in, with alternating cries of “Fire!” and “Water!”
Dalton rushed toward them, ready to help. But out of nowhere, Connor grabbed his arm, his expression grave.
“There’s a fire. At Goodwin’s.”
“I have to go to her.”
“Go,” Connor urged, eyes dark. “I’ll take care of things here.”
Dalton rushed through the revolving doors and skidded to a halt on Broadway when he saw the inferno raging. Flames were licking out of the windows. Swarms of women gathered on the sidewalk, spilling into Broadway, blocking traffic. The fire department was there, doing their best. But Dalton knew a hopeless case when he saw one.
There was only one question: Where was Beatrice?
He scanned the crowds and didn’t see her among the women who clutched each other, who stood in small groups speaking in hushed tones, women who wept into handkerchiefs.
He pushed through the crush, calling her name. “Beatrice!”
He asked everyone, anyone, “Have you seen her?”
He saw them step back at the wild, panicked look in his eyes. Dalton faintly registered that he must seem like a madman.
But where was Beatrice?
What he felt was panic and terror because he knew her, and so he knew that she would be the last one out of the shop.
If she left at all.
Firefighters were doing the best they could to contain the raging inferno. Their buckets and hoses were woefully inefficient. Police officers did their best to hold back the crowds.
Important work, that.
But he was the only one who knew to look for her. And the only one mad enough to run in after her.
“Sir!”
“Stop!”
Dalton pushed past the crying women, past the sweaty firefighters, past the officers in uniform. He ran toward the flames, toward the building as it started to crumble from within.
It was idiotic.
A stupid display of heroics.
But the world needed Beatrice. The world needed her, so vibrant and determined to live her best life and help other women do the same.
It was one thing to live alone in his mansion without her, lonely as all hell. He could do that. He had done that. He didn’t want to but if that was his fate, then so be it.
But he had always been able to go through his days and nights knowing that she was out there, somewhere, dreaming under the same night sky, breathing the same air, feeling the same sunshine on her cheeks.
If he really loved her, he would be happy just knowing she was alive and living her best life, even if it meant she was living without him.
And if he loved her, really loved her, he wouldn’t just stand by in her hour of need.
Dalton pushed past the officers and firefighters and their shouts to stop. He ran into the burning building, knowing full well that he might not come out alive.
If he died saving Beatrice, it would be the best thing he’d ever done.
Once inside, the smoke started to choke him immediately. The heat was unbearable. He pushed through, shouting her name. “Beatrice!” over and over until finally he heard her say, “Here I am!”
They were stuck behind some display counters, surrounded by flames and molten glass.
She looked so small, huddled on the ground near one of the marble pillars, trying to coax a small, terrified girl to leave. Dalton scooped up the child and turned to run to safety. Behind him Beatrice cried out and fell—she had twisted her ankle.
“Go!” she shouted. Fumes and flames were surrounding her. She wouldn’t be able to crawl out fast enough and he could not carry them both at once. “Go!” she shouted again.
Dalton rushed toward the street and safely delivered the child into the arms of a police officer.
Then he turned and went back in for Beatrice.
Chapter Thirty-two
The Goodwin Residence
One West Thirty-Fourth Street
The next day
If Beatrice was in no condition to travel downtown to Harriet’s drawing room, then by God, Harriet’s drawing room would come to her. In other words, the Ladies of Liberty came to call upon her at home, where she was stuck languishing in the drawing room.
Not only was she in a slightly injured state—a swollen ankle, some burns, a cough—but there was no place else to go.
Goodwin’s store was good and gone, burned to ashes and rubble.
It was gone on purpose.
Thanks to Detective Hyde’s diligent sleuthing—in disguise as a cleaning woman, whom no one ever really took notice of—and the police department’s own subsequent investigations, the arsonist was swiftly apprehended.