Move Heaven and Earth

by Christina Dodd

  “Looks like we’ve got a bit of a blow coming in,” Jasper observed. “Ye’d best get in the gig, Lady Sylvan, or ye’ll end up drenched afore we get to the Court.”

  Rand helped her up with an intimate hand on her hip, but he sounded distracted. “Is the corn in yet?”

  “They’ve harvested on the sunnier slopes, and a few have started their regular fields, but most of the tenants say to give it a week. Waiting for the greatest weight in the heads, just like my da used to.” Jasper jerked his head at the cloud that billowed and massed offshore. “Farmers are all damn fools.”

  “It’s a gamble,” Rand said. “It’s always a gamble.”

  “Aye, and my da wondered why I’d rather serve ye than take over his land.” Jasper urged the horse forward. “Said I wasn’t free if I wasn’t a yeoman, but I say I’m a damn sight freer than a man who waits on the weather.”

  A sudden cold puff of wind whipped Sylvan’s hat from her head, but before she could call for Jasper to stop and get it, Jasper cursed and Rand ordered, “Drive faster.”

  “What’s wrong?” Sylvan asked. The wind had disappeared as rapidly as it had come, and the afternoon was still.

  “Hail,” Jasper explained briefly. “There’s hail in that cloud.”

  She looked again at the gray monster that was rapidly filling the horizon. “How do you know?”

  Rude as ever, Jasper drove intently, ignoring her as he guided the horse at a trot along the winding road.

  Rand answered her question. “That cold came off of ice. In the autumn here, there’s always a chance for a freak storm. Really, it doesn’t happen very often.” Lightning snaked out of the cloud, and he waited, counting, until the boom sounded. “Sixty miles away, Jasper.”

  “Not far enough, Lord Rand. It’s moving fast.”

  To Sylvan, Rand said, “They blow up quickly and leave just as quickly, but sometimes, if it’s the wrong time of year, they can destroy the corn.” He had a grim cast to his mouth as he watched the cloud move. “That’s the cash crop for the people of Malkinhampsted.”

  “Will this destroy them?” Sylvan stared in horrified fascination as the lightning descended again, then again and again in rapid succession.

  “It might go right over the top of us with a splash of rain.” Rand’s words spoke of hope, but his grieving tone told the true story.

  The thunder sounded louder now, and the lightning now flashed continuously. The wind began to blow steadily, with gusts that brought drafts of freezing cold. Rand removed his wool greatcoat and pulled Sylvan close against him, then wrapped it around her as she huddled into a little ball. When she flinched against one particularly brilliant flash and boom, he pressed her head against his chest and tried to reassure her. “Maybe we can make it into Malkinhampsted before the storm hits.”

  Jasper leaned forward and spoke, and the gig jerked as the horse broke into a gallop.

  Sylvan cast her gaze upward. They weren’t going to make it, she realized. Nothing could outrun this cloud. A dark akin to the blackest night overtook them first, then the freezing rain hit them with a roar.

  She cowered and Rand drew his greatcoat over her head just before the hail struck. The gig jerked to a stop; she peeked out and saw Jasper had disappeared, then a tiny ball of hail struck her forehead and she jerked the greatcoat over Rand’s head, too. “Where’s Jasper?” she yelled against the shriek of wind and the rattle of hailstones.

  “Holding the horse so he won’t bolt.”

  She couldn’t see Rand, but his voice sounded comfortingly close, and his lips grazed her cheek. “Won’t he be hurt?”

  “He’s got a hard head.”

  If she weren’t there, Rand would be out with Jasper, she knew. He only huddled under his coat to take care of his silly little wife. He’d been most solicitous during their journey from London, and it bothered her to think he had seen what she sought to hide. But the knowledge she’d gained of men from her father told her that if she put on a good face, Rand would eventually be lulled into forgetting her past.

  She could act like such a demure lady he would forget she’d been a merchant’s daughter and a nurse. Men didn’t care about another’s misery; they only wanted everything to go their way.

  The lightning flashed so brightly she saw it under the coat with her eyes closed, and the thunder obscured her cry of dismay. Right now she didn’t care that Rand should be outside with his man and his horse. It was selfish, but she didn’t want him out there being battered by hail, and she dug her fingers into the front of his shirt. She was afraid to reveal herself to him, yet at the same time he gave her more comfort than she’d ever received from another human being.

  “This reminds me of Waterloo.”

  His reminiscence made her stiffen.

  “The pounding, the noise, the anguish, the discomfort. Doesn’t it bother you?”

  Her denial was as automatic as a knee jerk. “I wasn’t at the battle.”

  “But you were in Brussels. You heard the bombardment. Maybe you even watched the battle from afar.”

  It was stifling under the greatcoat.

  “And you were on the battlefield afterward. Did it bother you to see the bodies, to hear the moans from the dying?”

  Too hot, and she couldn’t get a breath.

  “I wonder sometimes if you don’t suffer with your memories more than the soldiers suffer with—”

  Gasping for breath, she clawed her way out into the fresh air and lifted her face to the sky. Hail mixed with rain splattered her face, but she didn’t care.

  “The worst of the weather’s over.” Rand lowered the greatcoat and glanced around as if he saw nothing unusual in her behavior.

  Had he been prodding her? she wondered. Surely not. He didn’t really suspect anything, did he? He was just a man, and not intuitive. He leaned out of the gig and called, “Do you think we can go on now, Jasper?” Then he met her eyes. “I’m worried about the villagers.”

  No, not intuitive at all.

  The village, when they reached it, had a creek running down the main street. Beneath the dripping eaves, the women stood, arms crossed, looking out at the ruin. They didn’t speak to Rand or seem to notice Sylvan, but just stood there in silence. Jasper brought the gig to a halt in the square, but when no one moved, he drove on.

  Through the fields of flattened corn, past men who squatted as if the act of standing took too much energy.

  On the ascent to Clairmont Court, the gig got stuck in a mud hole and Rand and Jasper had to get out and push while Sylvan guided the horse, and when the wheels had jerked free of the morass and she stopped to let the men climb back in, the gig got stuck once more.

  By the time they drove up to the house, even Sylvan’s dark traveling costume sported smears of mud. Rand nursed a sprained finger, and Jasper released a stream of good Anglo-Saxon curse words.

  Sylvan’s homecoming had become a time of mourning. “At least there are no flying chairs,” she murmured.

  “No, but look, Your Grace.” Jasper pointed. “The hail knocked the glass out of half the west-facing windows.”

  Rand put his arm around Sylvan’s shoulders as if together they could minimize the bleakness, and he scanned the face of the manor. “Not half. Not more than a dozen. The glazier’s been missing my business, anyway.”

  Shaking his head at such levity, Jasper said, “I’ll get the horse taken care of, Your Grace, and then if you don’t have need of me, I’ll dry off and change.”

  Their voices attracted one small, shorn head that popped out of an empty window frame. “Uncle Rand!” Gail waved both arms. “Uncle Rand is home, and he’s brought Aunt Sylvan.”

  A frozen piece of Sylvan warmed with the excitement of Gail’s welcome. A larger piece warmed further when Gail pulled her head in and Lady Emmie poked her head out. “Sylvan! Sylvan, he’s brought you at last.”

  She pulled her head in, too, and Sylvan heard Aunt Adela’s measured tones. “It’s about time she returned to fulfill her
duties.”

  Rand grinned at Sylvan, and desolation retreated a bit further. As they climbed the steps to the terrace, Betty came out the door, a plump, dark-clad creature who opened her arms and beckoned like a beacon on the stormy shore. Sylvan didn’t expect to find safety here at Clairmont Court, but she walked to Betty and laid her head on Betty’s ample bosom.

  A homecoming.

  Raising her head, Sylvan looked into Betty’s face. “How are you keeping?”

  Tears sprang to Betty’s eyes. “As well as can be expected, with a daughter who cries for her father and an empty bed for myself.”

  “You’re never far from my heart,” Sylvan said.

  “I know.” Blinking hard, Betty put Sylvan away from her. “But you need your tea, and I’m standing here blathering. Get you inside. Her Grace’ll be frantic by now.”

  Frantic? What did that mean? Wariness touched Sylvan again, but Betty urged her over the threshold.

  “I should have carried her,” Sylvan heard Rand say. “She is my bride.”

  “You’ve left that late enough,” Betty said tartly.

  “Typical man.” Lady Emmie posed in the doorway of the study, then flung herself into Sylvan’s arms. “Rand would be just as bad as the rest of them if he weren’t my son. I taught him any manners he knows. Heaven knows his father could be arrogant and primitive.”

  Remembering the night at the town house, Sylvan thought that arrogant and primitive described Rand very well.

  Rand must have suspected the trend of Sylvan’s thoughts, for he said, “Mother, I brought her home.”

  “Not as soon as Lady Emmie instructed, though.” Aunt Adela waited inside the study, her hands folded across her stomach and her mouth curved just the proper amount for a smile of welcome.

  Lady Emmie wrapped her arm around Sylvan’s waist and ushered her into the study. The violent winds had died, the cold had vanished, and the broken window brought a Jezebel breeze to the room. “I didn’t presume to tell him how to handle his marriage.”

  Aunt Adela moved aside. “You told him he’d made a mistake when he sent her away.”

  “Well, someone had to tell him!” Lady Emmie protested.

  At her most obnoxious, Aunt Adela said, “Rand is not only the duke of Clairmont, but he’s practical and disciplined. One must give him the benefit when one doubts the wisdom of his actions.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me about my son, Adela.”

  “Mrs. Donald!” Rand moved smoothly to break up the impending quarrel. “How good to see you.”

  Timid little Clover Donald was tucked into a settle by the fire, trying to appear inconspicuous and doing a good job of it. Rand’s attention made her shrink further into herself, and her gaze darted about the room as if she sought an escape. When she perceived there was none, she whispered, “And a pleasure to see you, Your Grace.”

  “How is the Reverend Donald?” Rand looked around him. “Where is the Reverend Donald? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without him.”

  Clover bent her head and hunched her shoulders, and Sylvan closed her eyes. Looking at Clover Donald was like looking at her mother; a waste of humanity, an embarrassment of diffidence, and all because of a husband who intimidated his wife.

  She thought of Rand, and told herself he would never try to intimidate her in any fashion. He liked her as she was and would never seek to change her. He said so, and she believed him.

  “I didn’t come here by myself,” Clover said in her miniature mouse voice. “I wouldn’t put myself forward in such a manner. The vicar my husband says it’s unattractive when a woman puts herself forward, and I try never to put myself forward.”

  “You succeed admirably,” Rand assured her.

  “The Reverend Donald will question me about my behavior while I was here alone, so I wish you’d tell him so.” She pleated her skirt between shaking fingers. “If that’s not too forward.”

  Gail rolled her eyes, and Betty took Gail’s arm and gave her a shake.

  “Not forward at all,” Rand said. “Where did he go?”

  Apparently, Clover had finished speaking, for she didn’t seem to hear Rand’s question, and he repeated it to his mother.

  “He went out to visit the farmers and view the damage. Did you see our windows?”

  “How could I not?” Pacing to one of them, he crunched across broken glass and stared out at the desolation. “This has not been a propitious year for Clairmont Court.”

  “The ghost walked for a reason, I expect,” Betty observed.

  Rand cast an ironic glance at Sylvan, and she looked quickly away. He treated her as if she were of delicate mind now; if he discovered she’d seen the real ghost, he’d have her committed to Bedlam.

  Gail could no longer contain herself. “Sylvan, Sylvan, see me!” She fluffed her hair. “Do you like it? It’s just like yours!”

  Sylvan realized the child’s dark hair had been cropped in a style like her own, and she found herself absurdly pleased.

  “What did you do with her hair?” Rand demanded.

  “Adela cut it.” Lady Emmie poured a sherry for Sylvan and offered it. “Gail wanted to have hair like Sylvan’s, and after we caught her trying to bleach streaks into it, we decided it would be better if we gave in.”

  “You decided, Your Grace.” Betty helped Sylvan out of her traveling jacket. “I didn’t see any reason to reward the child for defiance.”

  “I just like to indulge her a little now, Betty.” Lady Emmie reached out a trembling hand and smoothed Gail’s head. “She’s all I have left of Garth.”

  “Tugging on my heart strings’ll not make me agree we should spoil the child,” Betty said austerely.

  No real reproof tinged her tone, and Sylvan realized how difficult Betty’s position must be now. No one knew better the anguish Gail had experienced with the loss of her father, and probably no one wanted to spoil her more. But Betty was a practical woman with a practical view of the future, and Gail’s life as the illegitimate daughter of a duke would require strength of will and a hardiness of spirit.

  Gail studied Rand, and her face dropped. “Uncle Rand doesn’t like it.”

  “Of course he does.” Sylvan dug her elbow into Rand’s ribs. “Men just like to have a few days to get used to anything new.”

  Recovering, Rand said, “I don’t need a few days. It’s charming.”

  “Just be careful,” Sylvan warned. “Now he can kiss your neck like he kisses mine.”

  “Not quite like I kiss yours,” Rand murmured in her ear.

  She dug her elbow into his ribs again, and he winced.

  “Our travelers are hungry, I trow, and Lord Rand is looking grieved. Come, Miss Gail, and help me prepare the tea.” Betty held the door for her daughter.

  “No, I don’t want to. Uncle Rand just got home with Aunt Sylvan and I haven’t got to hear about London.” Something about her mother’s stance and expression must have warned Gail, for she changed her defiance for wheedling. “Please, let me stay. Please.”

  “Please, Betty, can’t she—” At a glance from Betty, Lady Emmie cut herself short.

  “Now,” Betty said to Gail.

  Gail dragged her feet, casting tear-filled eyes toward Rand and Sylvan, but neither of them was foolish enough to challenge Betty. When the door had shut behind them, Lady Emmie sighed. “This is very difficult. I wish Betty had agreed to marry Garth. Even a secret marriage would have made matters easier.”

  “Gail would still have to obey her mother,” Rand said.

  Aunt Adela said, “The child is running wild half the time. Her governess doesn’t know where she goes, and I say no young girl should have so much unseemly liberty, much less the child of a duke.”

  “She seems fine most of the time, then every once in a while, I see her staring at nothing, or crying. That’s when she disappears, I think.” Lady Emmie subsided in a chair. “When she misses her father.”

  “Sylvan and I are here now,” Rand said. “We’ll
help. Sylvan knows all about grief and loss.”

  Sylvan stared at him, but he was accepting a brandy from Aunt Adela and he paid her no heed. What did he know?

  Nudging him toward a chair, Aunt Adela asked, “Won’t you have a seat, Your Grace?”

  “No, please, Aunt.” Rand rubbed on his rear. “I can’t sit anymore. I’ve been sitting for three days.”

  With ill-concealed anticipation, she asked, “Did you see James in London?”

  Guiltily, he sipped his brandy. “I had planned to, but I didn’t take the time.”

  “Not take the time to see your cousin after his absence of over six weeks?”

  Rand grinned at that. “I would imagine he has not yet stopped celebrating his escape from Clairmont Court.”

  Aunt Adela stiffened. “He was not so surly.”

  “Not surly, Aunt, but frustrated. It was not as if he wished to go to London to debauch, after all.” Rand turned back to the window with a sigh. “Garth shouldn’t have kept him here.”

  “I was glad that he did,” Aunt Adela said in a low voice. “But I am a selfish old woman who wants to keep her son close.”

  “He’s better in London,” Rand said. “Happier. We’ll hear from him soon, I’m sure.”

  A bustle in the entry interrupted them. The door opened, and the Reverend Donald walked in. He had shed his greatcoat and stood in his stocking feet, and he bowed to Rand and Sylvan. “Your Graces, how good to see you back! Perhaps you’re the cure we need for this inauspicious day.”

  “I would that we could effect a change.” Rand shook the vicar’s hand. “However, I fear that is beyond my feeble powers.”

  Lady Emmie smiled. “Perhaps Sylvan brings us luck once more. After all, the last time she arrived she cured the lame.”

  “What an unfortunate choice of words, Lady Emmie!” The vicar stiffened in horror. “The Lord God cured His Grace.”

  “Of course.” Aunt Adela tried to soothe his shock. “What Lady Emmie means is that Sylvan was the instrument of God’s remedy.”

  “An interesting theory, Lady Adela.” The Reverend Donald smiled tightly at Sylvan.

  “No theory,” Rand said. “If not for Sylvan’s faith in me, I would have been fish bait.”