Fields of Home by Marita Conlon-Mckenna Page B

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 dono 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 LadyBuckland 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