Move Heaven and Earth

by Christina Dodd

  22

  Gentle hands took Sylvan by the arms and lifted her to her feet, away from the vicar’s body.

  The village men stood in small groups outside the mill. The women had remained inside, and now they closed around Sylvan, surrounding her with life, cutting her off from the finality of her latest failure.

  “You can’t save them all, Your Grace, especially not from a head wound like that.” Betty sounded brisk and sensible as ever.

  The flickering torches had been stuck here and there, chasing the night away, but Sylvan knew the dark still waited to pounce. Then the ghost of the clergyman and of all the others who had died would return, and right now, Sylvan didn’t know if she was strong enough to throw off those clinging hands.

  “Ye did all ye could.” Loretta’s face was puckered where the Reverend Donald’s club had struck months ago, but she still stood tall and confident.

  Tiny Pert edged close and patted Sylvan’s trembling hand. “Not even Clover Donald stayed as long as ye have.”

  Rebecca jostled Sylvan and whispered, “It’s better this way.”

  “Ye can’t say it wasn’t justice,” Roz said strongly.

  Sylvan nodded, still numb with the horror of losing another life. “I know it was.”

  “It was almost as if Garth came back and handled it for us,” Rand said.

  “Or His Grace, the first duke of Clairmont.” Beverly pulled Sylvan out from under the still-precarious edge of the roof.

  Touching her aching forehead, Sylvan remembered how the ghost had once led her away from danger, then vanished before her eyes. “I felt that, too.”

  Loretta said, “It felled him like a hammer to the skull.”

  Gail had climbed one of the slanted beams and sat perched high above them. “He kept calling himself the hammer of God.”

  “Gail, get down,” her mother commanded.

  Scampering down, Gail stuck out her lower lip. “I guess he struck himself down.”

  “Gail,” Sylvan rebuked.

  “He deserved it,” Gail insisted. “He hurt those women, he tried to hurt you, and he k-k-killed my…my…” She burst into loud sobs. “He killed my father!”

  Mortified, she tried to hide her face, but Betty and the other women rushed to the girl, petting her and encouraging her outburst.

  Only Nanna remained apart, seated on a block with her amputated limb outstretched. She watched Gail and said to Sylvan, “That’s the best thing for the child. She needs to bring her grief out into the open, or it’ll eat at her guts until she loses her vitality and ghosts stalk her dreams.”

  Sylvan, startled to hear her own symptoms described so accurately, slithered to the ground close against Nanna’s seat. “Why do you think that?” She glanced at Rand. He’d watched Sylvan’s frantic attempts to resurrect Bradley Donald without uttering a word, and she didn’t want him to hear. But he leaned against a post, arms crossed, and looked out into the night as if he could barely tolerate the brew of anguish and sympathy that emanated from the women.

  Beyond him stood the fellow who had helped release James from his prison, and all the way outside James paced and spoke to Jasper.

  Of course, they were men. This flagrant display of emotion must frighten them.

  It certainly frightened her. It might be catching.

  Quietly, Sylvan said, “It’s superstition, surely, to think that crying and sympathy helps ease the pain of a loss.”

  “Is it?” Nanna looked at her as if she saw more than Sylvan wished her to see. “When ye cut off my leg, my body had to heal. It was swollen, and it oozed, and it hurt so bad sometimes I’d just cry.”

  Sylvan winced.

  “No.” Nanna refused Sylvan’s wordless sympathy. “It mended, and the pain’s mostly gone. So my body’s healed, but my mind still doesn’t always understand. That foot’s been there my whole life, and it’s taking effort to convince myself it has departed. Sometimes I think the foot is there, and try to walk on it. Sometimes it itches, and I try to scratch it. It’s the same way with Gail. Her da’s been there her whole life, and she still hears his voice, still feels his presence, and she thinks she’s going to turn around and see him.”

  “Poor child,” Sylvan murmured.

  “Lucky child,” Nanna corrected. “It’s well known to country folk that when a person dies, his soul is trapped on earth by ceaseless mourning. His Grace no doubt wants to come back and comfort the girl, and with each tear she sheds here, she’s releasing her father to his grave. He’ll rest now, and so will she.”

  They fell silent, watching the drama of Gail’s tears and Betty’s solace, and finally Sylvan asked, “What about you? Have you cried for your loss?”

  Nanna sighed. “Not yet, Yer Grace, but it’ll come in God’s good time, and then I’ll be healed through and through.”

  Hunching her shoulders, Sylvan said, “I’m so sorry.”

  “Fer what?”

  “For doing that amputation. A doctor would have been better, but it had to be done immediately, and—”

  “Why should ye be sorry? Ye saved my life.” Nanna touched Sylvan once, lightly, on the head. “I guess ye don’t want to hear it, and that’s why ye avoided me so, but I have to tell ye one time. When I laid under that beam, I thought meself dead fer sure. I knew no one could move the beam without probably crushing more of me, and I thought I would just remain there and die in agony.” Nanna lifted the stump and stared at it. Her voice quavered as she confessed, “I’ve got children, ye know, and as I lay there, I thought I would give anything to see them grow up, be strong, maybe hold their children in me lap. I’ve got a husband, too”—she pointed to the man who had released James—“my Mel. He’s an ornery old mule, but he’s my old mule, and I want to age with him. I’ll never forget how I felt when ye said ye would free me from that beam. Ye cut off my foot, and ye gave me my whole life back.”

  Awestruck, Sylvan stared at Nanna. Nanna thought Sylvan had saved her life, and in a way, Sylvan had. It wasn’t the life Nanna had had before, but Sylvan felt her gratitude like salve on an old, painful wound.

  “God bless ye, Yer Grace.” Nanna smiled through a tracing of tears on her cheeks. “If ye never do another thing, ye’ve earned yer place in heaven.”

  “Sylvan.” Rand called her. “Jasper’s ready with the carriage.”

  Mel came to help Nanna. “Ready, Ma?”

  “Aye, Da, I am. Been a long, weary day.” Nanna held out her hand to him.

  He took it and held it as if it were more precious than diamonds, then turned to Sylvan and bared blackened teeth.

  Sylvan flinched, then held herself still as he picked Nanna up and carried her out.

  “Well, I’m in awe.” Rand chuckled beside her. “I haven’t ever seen that man smile, and he smiled at you. You’ve won a slave for life.”

  “I have?” Dazed, Sylvan let Rand lift her to her feet.

  “You have.” He kissed her once, lightly. “Let’s go home.”

  The ride back to Clairmont Court would have been silent, except for James, who sat in the backward facing seat and railed without ceasing. “Told you opening the mill was a damn fool idea. All you could think about was the people of Malkinhampsted, their needs, their hungry bellies. Never even thought that the madman might take it in his head to kill you. Then you know what would have happened?”

  “What would have happened, James?” Rand tucked Sylvan tighter into his embrace and wished they were alone. Alone, he could have spoken, explained, and listened.

  “I would have been the new duke of Clairmont, and I would have had to worry about the people of Malkinhampsted and their hungry bellies.” James clasped his head in his good hand. “Couldn’t have done my politics, couldn’t have traveled, couldn’t have dallied with the light skirts. Would have had to marry a proper woman, settle down, and produce a pack of brats to yip at my heels.”

  “A pack of brats.” Rand thought that sounded rather pleasant.

  “Realized some maniac was ab
out when I searched for Sylvan and heard those stupid groans he emitted to frighten her.”

  Sylvan sat straight up. “You heard him?”

  “Of course,” James said.

  “And you denied it?”

  “Didn’t want to alarm you!”

  Leaning forward, she gave him a light slap on the cheek. “You fool. That was one of the reasons I locked you in that office. I thought you might be the ghost stalker.”

  “Oh.” James touched his cheek. “That didn’t occur to me.”

  She thumped her head back onto Rand’s chest, and he massaged her shoulder.

  Rand had been listening to Nanna, hearing the nuances of her comfort to Sylvan. Nanna thought Sylvan needed to grieve for some reason; Rand agreed, and he would never allow her to shut herself off from him again.

  James shrugged. “Oh, well. No harm done. Just Jasper and me stalking around like a couple of melodramatic dolts, trying to guard you both, bumping into each other and eyeing each other suspiciously.”

  Rand cackled, remembering Sylvan’s apprehensions, remembering his own.

  Even Sylvan shook under a slight gust of amusement. “So Jasper was guarding me.”

  “We took shifts once we realized. Made things easier, then.” The carriage slowed, and James had the door open almost before it stopped at the terrace stairs. He stepped out. “Don’t need to bother our mothers with the ugly facts until morning, Rand. I’ll tell ’em. You and your lady come in when you’re ready. No one’ll plague you.”

  James’s prescience startled Rand, and he once again realized his cousin was more than the graceful dandy he appeared. “How will you keep our mothers restrained?”

  James poked his head back into the carriage. “Going to show them my hand.” He held up his swollen fingers. “Going to tell them I’ll never play the piano again.”

  “You never did play the piano,” Rand answered.

  “Should take ten minutes before they realize it.” With a grin, James bounded up the stairs.

  Jasper held the door as Rand helped Sylvan out of the carriage, and he grinned sheepishly when she said, “Jasper, I have wronged you. Were you protecting me all along?”

  “Yes, and ye led me a fancy dance a good part of the time.” Leaning into the carriage, Jasper brought out two of the carriage blankets and handed them to Rand. “I sure wished Lord Rand had married himself a meek and mild one, but as I told ye the first time I drove ye, the dukes of Clairmont aren’t interested in good sense and comfort, only interested in struggle and challenge. Whole damned family’s mad.”

  Rand leaned his head back and roared with laughter. “With a testimonial like that, I’m surprised Sylvan didn’t turn back before she even got here.”

  “Ah, I knew she’d stick when she weathered that welcome ye gave her.” Taking her tiny hand gingerly in his large paw, Jasper bowed over it. “If I may be so bold, ye’re a duchess worthy of the Clairmont.”

  His servant and his lady made their peace, and Rand sighed in relief to see it. Then Jasper climbed back onto the carriage. Touching his hat with the whip, he said, “As Lord James said, ’tis a lovely night to sit on the terrace. Hope ye enjoy yerselves.”

  As he drove to the stables, Rand took the hand Jasper had so recently abandoned and kissed it. “You are a challenge.”

  “I don’t know why Jasper says so.” She freed herself with a little jerk. “Why do they think we want to stay outside?”

  “Lovely night.” He gestured up at the house where candles blazed from every window, then out at the grounds, where trees stretched beneath a gibbous moon. “Why not?”

  “Because your legs are hurting you, and you should rest them.”

  “You needn’t worry. The marble’s soft stone, and we’ll cover it with these.” Rand showed her the carriage blankets he held tucked under his arm.

  “But you—”

  Laying his finger over her lips, he said, “Trust me.”

  He couldn’t see her well, but he thought tears filled her eyes, and when she blinked and turned away, he was sure of it. Turning back to him determinedly, she took his arm. “I trust you.”

  “You’ll need to,” he said.

  “What?” She tried to pull her hand free, but he caught it and led her up the stairs.

  When they reached the terrace, someone—or a series of someones—extinguished all the lights in the lower story of the house. Was the entire household leaning against those windows, watching the drama they hoped would unfold, or were they tiptoeing away, leaving the married couple in peace to work out their problems?

  “Eavesdroppers,” he said to the facade of the house, and he ushered Sylvan to the most secluded corner of the terrace. There he spread blankets and gestured to her. She settled onto the blanket neatly, tucking her skirt around her ankles and sitting with her hands folded in her lap. He stretched out beside her, close enough that their hips touched, spread a rug over the two of them to keep out the chill, and propped his arms under his head. “Look at that,” he said. “I’ve never seen a lovelier night.”

  The moon produced enough light for him to see her tilt her head back, but not so much light it obscured the stars. And there were millions of those.

  “Millions and millions and millions,” he said, “stretching across that blackness in patterns and paths. Where do you suppose they lead?”

  “I don’t know.” She turned her head and looked from one horizon to the other, tracing the clustered length of the Milky Way with her gaze. “Perhaps we’ll follow those paths someday.”

  “Someday,” he echoed. “So many stars, we could never number them. One for each soul, the old wives say.” He laid his hand on her spine. “Do you think there’s one for Garth?”

  She turned to him and smiled. “I hope so.” Then her smile disappeared. “Do you think there’s one for Bradley Donald?”

  “Perhaps that is his punishment. Perhaps he’ll be denied his star.”

  After thinking about that, she decided, “That would be fitting.”

  “Do you think there’s one for each of the lads who died at Waterloo?”

  She inhaled sharply. “Would that there were.”

  “I think there are. See how vigorously they twinkle? They’re twinkling just for you, Sylvan, sending a message of thanks.”

  “For what?” She no longer looked at him, or at the stars, but at her hands as they smoothed the rug across her thighs.

  “For trying to give them life, and for mourning them when—”

  “When I killed them?”

  He tugged her around until she faced him, and waited until she lifted her gaze to his again. “You didn’t kill them.”

  “No.” She shoved her hair back out of her face. “I know that. Really I do. Some of the soldiers came to me so wounded, it was a miracle they didn’t die in the field. Some of them died because we didn’t know what to do to help them. God called them to His bosom, I tell myself, but if God placed me there to help them, why didn’t he give me the knowledge and the medicines for a cure? Why did they have to die like that?”

  Her suffering was his, and he ached for her. He wanted to cure her, but he could only answer, “I don’t know.”

  “Some of them cursed me. Most of them clung to me. None of them wanted to die. There wasn’t any resignation, and there wasn’t any dignity.” Silent, she contemplated the stars, and he held his breath, waiting. Finally, she confessed, “There was one lad…I’ll never forget him. His name was Arnold Jones. Strong as an ox, even with a bullet in his chest. Everyone thought him stupid as an ox, too, because he was nothing but a common soldier, but he wasn’t stupid. Just silent, to keep the evidence of pain and fear inside him.” She turned to him. “Not that he was a coward. He wasn’t. He was just a boy. A cat could have licked the whiskers off his chin….”

  Rand realized words had failed her once more. She was too flustered to ask for succor. “Did you help young Arnold Jones?”

  Now she did more than shake her head. She laughed, and
laughed, and laughed, a hysterical note in her voice. He sat up in alarm. Scooting back, she raised her arm as if she expected a blow, and he conjectured that she’d been treated for hysteria before, and in the most brusque manner possible.

  He clasped his hands to keep them at his side and watched as slowly, painfully, she regained control.

  “Help him?” Her voice shook. “If keeping a man alive is helping him, then, yes, I did. He took an infection in his lungs. Well, the doctor who removed the bullet said it nicked one lung, so it wasn’t surprising that he…well, Arnold just wanted a soft hand to hold occasionally. He had no family, had brought himself up in the streets of Manchester, and only survived with his wits. That’s why I knew he wasn’t stupid, because he…”

  She was edging away from Rand, and edging away from the story. Gradually, trying not to startle her with sudden movement, he lay down again. “So you held his hand?”

  “He was so sick. I was the only one who could control him, because he was strong as an ox.” She hesitated. “Did I already say that?”

  “Strong as an ox,” Rand repeated. “But you could control him with the touch of your hand.”

  “And my voice. I used to sing to him.” She chuckled, but the sound cracked. “There’s no accounting for taste. The other men in the ward used to ask me to stop, but Arnold liked the lullabies and the rhyming songs you sing to a baby. It was like having my own giant baby to tend.” Drawing her knees close to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them and began rocking back and forth, back and forth.

  “How long did you tend him?”

  “Weeks. He was in hospital from the moment I stepped in until the moment I left.”

  Rand was startled. He had thought she was going to confess a tragedy. “He was alive when you left, then.”

  Tucking her knees in tight, she rocked harder. “I left one evening because I…I had to rest sometime. As soon as I came back to the hospital, I went immediately to examine Arnold. If I didn’t, no one else would, so I always made him my priority.” Her breath quivered as she sighed. “And they’d covered him with a sheet, all the way over his eyeballs. Those fools. They thought he was dead.”