Move Heaven and Earth

by Christina Dodd

  Keeping pace with her, Sylvan asked, “Put the stones on your father’s marker?”

  Gail whirled on her. “How did you—”

  “Your mother found the rocks in your bedchamber.”

  “In my bedchamber?” Gail cried. “She knows I don’t want her in my bedchamber.”

  “You were gone for so long, she thought maybe you were hiding.”

  “Oh.” Gail’s face worked, then grudgingly, she explained, “I fell asleep while I was hiding from the man. Did she take my rocks?”

  “I’m afraid she did, but you should be grateful. I recognized them from the monument you built and knew where you were.” Sylvan walked on toward the little pyramid, and Gail came to stand beside her.

  A little abashed, the girl kicked at the stones. “It’s not much.”

  “Rand saw it with me today. We both agreed your father would have liked it.”

  The quiver of Gail’s lip matched the quiver in her voice. “Do you think so?”

  “Makes us adults feel foolish not to have thought of it.” Sylvan hugged Gail again, and this time the girl permitted it. “But you know, it is getting dark, and we should go back to the house before someone—”

  “Is everyone coming after me?” Gail asked in disgust. “Because I’m tired of everyone acting like I’m a baby. There’s you and my mother, and now Uncle James and I suppose—”

  “Uncle James?” Sylvan turned to see James bearing down on them purposefully. His dark hair and towering stature reminded her suddenly of Rand and Garth and Radolf and…the ghost. Her earlier alarm came back, burgeoning with the appearance of this new target. She felt both prudent and absurd when she grabbed Gail’s arm and said, “Where’s your hiding place?”

  Gail’s amazement might have been funny if not for James’s approaching figure. “What?”

  “Go there. Hide. Hurry!”

  “But Uncle James—”

  “Now.”

  Something of Sylvan’s trepidation must have struck Gail, for she fled into the mill, leaving Sylvan to face the oncoming threat.

  “Damn the girl,” James said as soon as he got close enough. “Where’s she going? I’ve got to get my hands on her.”

  He started into the mill, but Sylvan grabbed him by the arm. “Why?”

  “I’m going to lock her up. And you, too, Your Grace, the newest duchess of Clairmont. Haven’t you any sense at all?” Grabbing her wrist, he dragged her toward the building. Setting her wrist, he dragged her toward the building. Setting heels made no difference. He was a big man who refused to be gainsaid. He looked tired and exasperated, and when she wouldn’t step up onto the floor, he put his hands at her waist and lifted her. “As soon as I heard the servants gossiping about the mill, I spoke to Rand. I swear, Rand doesn’t know what a cesspool he’s splashing around in, and he doesn’t believe me when I tell him. Would you come on?”

  Her fingers fastened on a heavy piece of machinery and clung, and he glared.

  She glared right back, and his glance softened. “You look as ragged as I feel. The dukes of Clairmont play the tune, and we peasants dance.” James glanced around at the demolished, now-shadowy interior of the mill. “Where’s the brat?”

  “She’s hiding in Garth’s office.” Craftily, she asked, “Shall we go get her?”

  “What’s she doing in there?” James started toward the intact area.

  Sylvan led for a moment, and when James followed willingly, she shook herself free of his grasp. The sun cast long shadows where it still reached through the open roof and the shattered walls, but the farther they went inside, the darker it became. “She’s just playing. You know how children are.”

  “No.” He kept one eye on her and one on his footing. “I’ve done my best to avoid them.”

  “I suppose it wouldn’t do to get too attached to Gail.” The closer they got to the office, the more Sylvan watched. If Gail really did hide in the office—a likely location—her presence there would be a disaster.

  He frowned as if he found her words cryptic. “Oh, I’m attached. A man doesn’t have a choice in a family like ours. But I just don’t understand her. It’s really a mess in here, isn’t it? I haven’t been back since Garth died.”

  She pretended astonishment. “You haven’t?”

  “No, I…no. I’m so guilty I can’t stand myself anyway.” He laughed sharply, in pain. “Why should I come here and torment myself more?” She stumbled, and he caught her. “Be careful,” he admonished. “I don’t need something else to feel guilty about.”

  Looking at him in the dimness, she saw the hollow of his eyes, the draw of his cheeks, the height of him. He looked like the ghost—like Rand, the ghost she’d seen the first night, and the real ghost who’d led her on a merry chase, and like the glimpse of the ghost she’d seen running from her room. Too many ghosts, too close a resemblance, and he’d admitted his guilt. James—pleasant, charming James—was the one, and he was smiling at her as if she were too stupid to comprehend.

  “Are you feeling well?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  He mocked, and fury shook her. He would not be sneering when she got done with him. She kept her gaze on him as she opened the door to Garth’s office. “Gail, if you’re in your father’s office, come out right now.” She hoped that if Gail were within, she would come out, and if she hid close enough to hear, she’d understand and stay in seclusion.

  With his gaze on the opening, James said, “Are you sure she’s in there?”

  Taking a chance, Sylvan stuck her head inside and looked. She couldn’t see Gail, and her heart leaped in relief. As if she were speaking to the girl, she said, “Gail, come on! Stop playing games.”

  “She is in there?” James sounded surprised. “Why won’t she come out?”

  “I don’t know.” Sylvan worked on looking and sounding disgusted. “Maybe you could talk to her.”

  “I?” James put his hand on his chest. “What would I say that would persuade her?”

  Now Sylvan acted with the flair of Drury Lane’s finest. “Young Gail misses her father, and while I cannot command her, I think perhaps your persuasions would bring her forth.” Sylvan pushed him toward the office. “She’s hiding under the desk. Just go in and call to her as if she were a babe, without seeking her. She’ll come out for you, I know.”

  “Where are you going to be, while I’m making a fool of myself?” he asked in exasperation.

  “Right here, cousin, waiting for you.”

  He believed her. The fool believed her, because he was a man and she was a woman, and women were stupid creatures who fell off of cliffs when they imagined unearthly groans—unearthly groans that were only an animal mating.

  She hadn’t realized how much she resented his patronizing her on the night he’d rescued her, but now, she wanted the blackguard to be James so she could absolve herself from the charge of simplemindedness.

  Stepping into the room, James started talking, and Sylvan got a grip on one of the heavy metal machines. Taking a breath, she heaved. It moved a foot. She heaved again, and heard James say, “What in the—”

  In a panic, she shoved it as hard as she could. It blocked the office door just as it swung out toward her, and James squawked when he smashed against the wood. “Sylvan?”

  She leaned around the machine and looked, and saw James’s three fingers grasp the doorframe. “No!” she said, and pushed again, and the machine skidded as if it rolled on wheels.

  His fingers were trapped between door and frame. James howled in agony. Horrified, she tried to pull the machine back, but a man’s voice said, “Don’t!”

  She gave a scream and spun around. The Reverend Donald leaned against the metal beside her; he had provided the grease to move the machine. Catching at her heart before it beat out of her chest, she said, “I’ve got him!”

  “I know you do.”

  His stern face swam before her eyes, and she thought she’d never been so glad to see another human being
in her life. “James is guilty.”

  “Yes.” The vicar nodded sadly. “He is.”

  “Sylvan,” James yelled. “No, please, listen to me.” With his free hand, he pounded on the door. “Please, Sylvan.” Then she heard him mutter, “My fingers.”

  Sylvan didn’t want to feel compassion, but she was never free of it. Gesturing wildly, she said, “His fingers are caught. We’ve got to—”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “He’s hurt.” She shoved at the machine, trying to pry it away from the door, but the vicar grabbed her shoulder and swung her away.

  “No!” he shouted.

  Hitting the spinning mechanism, she tripped on one of the legs to land sprawled on the floor like a dockside floozy. He loomed over her before she could catch her breath, and her overactive imagination made him appear dread and sinister. “Reverend?” she croaked.

  “Leave her alone!” James battered the door with his body. “Don’t you understand? If you touch her, you have to kill me, too.”

  James’s words began to make sense to her, and she scooted backward. “Reverend?”

  She was looking for reassurance in a suddenly skewed world, but the clergyman picked up a length of metal pipe. “I’m glad you shut him in there. It would have been much more difficult if I’d had to take care of you both.”

  Take care of. What did he mean? He couldn’t mean…

  Her skirts caught under her heels as she tried to scramble to her feet, and he kicked her foot out from underneath her. “No use trying to get up. You’ll just fall down again.”

  Her ankle ached beneath the impact of his boot, and she grabbed it and rolled backward on her spine. “Dear God.”

  “I always bring them back to God.” He smiled at her with the kindly insight he displayed at such moments. “They’re always praying when I finish with them.”

  James was still shouting. “Run, Sylvan!”

  Sylvan scarcely heard him. All her energy was concentrated on the Reverend Donald.

  “You shouldn’t have given succor to those who went counter to God’s will.” He chided her in a compassionate tone, but he held the pipe so tightly his knuckles and fingernails turned white.

  “I didn’t!” She groped for a weapon, but this part of the mill had been swept clean for machinery storage.

  “How could you imagine that the hammer of the Lord would fail to find you and fell you?”

  Still incredulous, she stammered, “Y-you’re the hammer of the Lord?”

  “Who better?”

  His eyes also appeared deep and hollow in the dimness of the inner mill, but his blond hair glimmered. “You can’t be the ghost. The ghost had black hair. He looked like Rand and Garth and”—she glanced at the office where James still hollered—“James.”

  “Oh, woman, thou art so foolish. You see only what you expect to see. Boot black does well to change a hair color.”

  “You’re not related to them.” She glanced longingly through the twisted metal and dangling wood to the still-sunny exterior. The sun was bidding farewell to the land with long streaking rays. “You don’t look like them.”

  “Don’t I?”

  He chuckled with such gentle humor, she looked again at the length of pipe in his hand. She couldn’t have made such an appalling mistake. She couldn’t.

  He continued in his soft, reproving voice. “But the first duke of Clairmont spread his seed liberally throughout the district, including a long-dead and easily seduced great-great-great-grandmother of mine. Others have told me I have the look of the family, and I think I pass for the duke quite well in the dark.” He planted one large booted foot on her skirt as she tried to scoot into the open, and she looked up, up to his hands. He held the pipe firmly, with both hands on one end like a bat, and he smiled with gentle reproof. “The other women thought I was the first duke of Clairmont, but you know better, so I’m afraid I’ll have to make the ultimate example of you.”

  21

  No one in the village had seen Gail, no one had seen Sylvan, and Rand was tired and disgruntled. No wonder monks in early England took vows of celibacy. It most likely saved them years of suffering.

  Grimacing, he limped toward the vicarage.

  Of course, the monks probably suffered in other ways.

  A fence encircled the neat cottage, and the yard inside was still fragrant with the scent of herbs and late-blooming flowers. Clover Donald, it would seem, was a gardener. Rand tapped on the door and waited irritably to have it opened. The vicar, with his everlasting nosiness, might know the location of Rand’s niece and wife, although he’d also give Rand a lecture on maintaining control of his family.

  The Reverend Donald had strong views on the proper roles of man, woman, and child. He hadn’t yet come into the nineteenth century; Rand doubted he ever would, and that made the vicar uncomfortable to be around. That was why Rand had exhausted all other sources before seeking his assistance.

  Impatient, he rapped again, and Clover’s quavering voice called, “Who is it?”

  Surprised, Rand stepped back from the door. Country folk never demanded to know the identity of their visitors, but this was Clover Donald, the woman who feared not only her husband’s judgment, but everything else in the world. “It’s Rand Malkin,” he said.

  Nothing happened; she didn’t open the door.

  He sighed. “It’s the duke of Clairmont,” he said clearly and slowly. “May I come in?”

  The door opened a crack, and her eye examined him. Cautiously, she swung the door wide. “Welcome, Your Grace.”

  It would seem his title gained him entrance where his name did not. As it should, he supposed. The clergyman for Malkinhampsted was in a position appointed and paid for by the duke of Clairmont since time everlasting. Clover Donald damn well should understand she owed her livelihood to Rand.

  Then he took another look at the bashful woman who backed away from him as if he would take a stick to her, and began explaining before he stepped across the threshold. “I need to consult with the vicar about a matter of importance. Would you get him for me?”

  “He isn’t here right now, but I expect him soon.” She didn’t look at Rand when she invited, “Would you like to come in and wait?”

  Obviously, she didn’t want him, but he was weary and in need. “Thank you. I will.”

  The room he stepped into was the kitchen, bright with the westering sun and the smell of bread toasting by the fire.

  “In here, Your Grace.”

  She indicated the door to a smaller, darker room, a parlor to impress the parishioners, most likely, and on impulse, he refused. “I’ll sit here and you can make me a cup of tea, if you don’t mind.”

  She gaped at him as he lowered himself into a chair by the table, then she whispered, “I don’t mind.”

  Of course, what else could she say?

  She put the kettle on to boil and stood watching it in such acute discomfort, he wondered how they’d ever get through this time together. “Won’t you sit with me?” he asked, knowing she might be in too much awe of him to take a seat in her own kitchen.

  “No!” She shook her head vigorously. “The vicar my husband wouldn’t like it.”

  “Ah.” He exhaled soundlessly, then suggested, “Maybe if we didn’t tell him?”

  She gasped audibly, her eyes opening so wide he could see the whites all the way around the iris.

  He held up a hand. “Forget I suggested it.”

  She gulped and said, “I have to tell him everything. He says women lead men into temptation always.”

  If she hadn’t been so pitiable, he would have laughed at the thought of being tempted by this limp, apathetic creature. “I think I’m strong enough to resist,” he assured her.

  She didn’t seem to hear. “He says when a woman behaves in an unseemly manner, a man thinks she’s a harlot, and whatever happens to her is a woman’s fault.”

  A duke couldn’t remove his vicar for being a pompous ass. If that were the case, ther
e would be few vicars in all of England. But looking at Clover’s tear-filled eyes, Rand was very tempted. “I can’t say that I agree with that.”

  “Don’t you?” She glanced around guiltily. “I have occasionally thought it harsh, but only when I’m at fault, I’m sure. The sin of rebellion will surely send me to hell, the vicar my husband says.”

  Rebellion? Rand struggled to answer without vilifying her husband. “Your little sins could never drag your soul down. You’ll reach heaven before any of us.”

  “Do you really think so?” Her lips parted, and she appeared to be thinking, then she said slowly, “The vicar says that when a woman doesn’t stay at home and mind her hearth as the holy writ instructs, she lays herself open to all manner of discipline and castigation.”

  Studying Clover, Rand was inclined to say, Madam, your husband is not worthy to sit in judgment of half the human race. When he thought about Sylvan, and the anguish she’d found when she stepped out of the traditional role of women, he wanted to horsewhip the self-righteous ignoramus who called himself a clergyman. Reining in his fury, he said, “I think some things are better left for God to judge.”

  “I think”—she hesitated as if those words were radical—“you’re right.”

  He might be right, but that wouldn’t save her if she repeated this conversation to her husband. “When did you say you expected him?”

  “Oh, a long time ago, but sometimes he doesn’t come when he should.” She jumped as if the shade of her husband stood over her. “I mean no disrespect. He ministers to many people, and sometimes he has to stay out all night to, um, minister to so many.”

  “I understand.” The silence fell again, hard and dense as lead, and he tried to think of something, anything to chat about, that didn’t involve sin or unpure women or punishment. Rubbing his aching calves, he said, “It amazes me that after three full months on my feet, I still suffer cramps in my muscles. The ones in my hip make it difficult to walk.”

  “When the pregnant women suffer leg cramps, we make them drink milk.” Clover sounded sure of herself for the first time today. Maybe for the first time in her life. “Are you drinking milk?”