Move Heaven and Earth (30 page)

“No!”

He looked back at her. “You might as well admit it. What else would have brought you back when you had escaped?”

Through the mist of his lunacy, he saw too clearly, and she realized how desperately she wanted to save Gail. Gail had lost so much by this man’s hand; she didn’t deserve to lose her life, too. “Perhaps I returned to face a murderer.”

“It wasn’t murder, I tell you!” The jagged edge of the roof was right above their heads, and the vicar looked up into the dusky sky as if he sought divine assistance in controlling his temper. “It was God’s justice.”

A brew of anger and exasperation made her say, “I’ve heard a lot of nonsense in my lifetime, but saying that you sabotaged the steam engine and then that it was God’s justice is the worst.”

He seemed to grow taller, and in the deep, chiding voice of a minister, he said, “You have no understanding. I owe you no explanation.” He stepped toward her. “And God owes you only death.”

It wasn’t anger that etched his face, but determination, and it chilled her to realize how firmly he believed himself justified in this duty. Her fingers clenched the shawl until they ached, and she battled to maintain her aplomb. “I think you should tell me, then, why you believe you’re innocent, for if I die, I will fly to God’s side and He’ll ask why I’m there so prematurely.”

“You’re only a woman, and a wicked one at that. You’ll not have a chance to speak with the Lord.”

Rand’s deep voice said, “Perhaps you could explain this to the duke of Clairmont, who is the lord to whom you owe loyalty on earth.”

Sylvan staggered, her limbs abruptly losing vigor.

Rand had come. From beyond hope and prayer, he had come. Tears of joy sprang to her eyes, but what good were they? She might be a woman and an object of the vicar’s scorn, but she wasn’t a weakling. Swinging the shawl, she brought it up under the pipe he held and knocked it out of his hand. As it flew through the air, he grabbed for her, but she leaped back and his hand closed on thin air. She taunted, “You were right, Vicar. I couldn’t use my weapon to hurt you.”

He went for her again, but this time Rand jerked him around and clipped him under the chin with a punishing right. The vicar went down into a pile of slate roof tiles, scattering them and clattering them. James began a new barrage of yelling while Rand approached the floundering clergyman. “Tell
me
why you’re not a murderer.”

Sitting up, the vicar touched his swelling jaw with one finger. Harshly, he said, “I thought everyone would be at the wedding when that contraption of the devil exploded. That your brother was here, and the women, was God’s work, not mine.”

“Damn you!” Rand grabbed him by the cravat and half lifted him by the throat. “You killed him and you’re too egotistical to even feel remorse.” He hit him again and again, glorying in the crunch of tendon and bone beneath his fists.

But someone grabbed his arm. Someone said his name. “Rand, stop. Stop, Rand. You’re hurting him.”

“I know.” Rand dragged breath into his scorching, deprived lungs. “I like hurting him.”

Someone petted his face as he stood over that damnable assassin. “I know, but I can’t watch it.”

Rand looked into Sylvan’s face, and the bloodlust began to fade beneath her anxious, loving expression.

“Rand?”

She was begging him, and he closed his eyes. “All right. I won’t kill him.”

“Thank you.” She kissed his knuckles where the skin had swollen and burst. “Thank you.”

Smiling with acrid pleasure, he stroked the place in her cheek where her dimple appeared. “If not for you…”

And pain exploded in his hip. He collapsed with a cry, and the vicar staggered to his feet and kicked him again with his hard, shiny boots. Rand rolled away from the agony.

“You dare contest the wrath of God?”

“You’re not God!” Sylvan cried, flying at him with her fists, and the clergyman slapped her and sent her flying.

Rand shouted, “You’re a murderer! A madman!”

The Reverend Donald paid him no heed, stalking after Sylvan with the vindictiveness of a man who’d heard the truth and abhorred it. Rand tried to rise, but his joints, worn and bruised, rebelled and he collapsed.

The vicar stood over the prostrate Sylvan. Rand wildly sought a weapon, then crawled toward the pipe the Reverend Donald had been clasping. His fingers curled around the smooth, cool metal.

But something dropped out of the darkening sky onto the vicar’s back. He screeched and the creature hanging from his shoulders screeched, too.

Gail. It was Gail! Rand gripped the pipe, but he couldn’t throw.

The Reverend Donald bucked like a mule, but Gail dug her hands into his hair and clawed at his face. Yelling at them, Sylvan came up and caught Gail around the waist. The vicar hung on to Gail’s ankle. The little girl kicked at him with her other foot.

Rand brought himself to his feet. Relief swept him; he could still stand. Consternation rocked him; in this condition, he couldn’t avenge his brother, and he desperately wanted to. Someone had to.

He concentrated on the Reverend Donald, scarcely noticing that the sun seemed to rise again. Then he realized flames moved within the mill.

The women had come. Their men stood behind them.

From the village, the farms, and Clairmont Court, they came bearing rush torches. They held them high and moved deliberately, their accusing stares on their vicar.

He froze, looking at them as if amazed by their presence.

“Reverend,” Betty said sternly, “let go of my child.”

He released Gail, but only to draw himself up and say in a voice of disdain and command, “Stand back!”

Betty ran at them, and Sylvan pushed Gail ahead of her. Gail met her mother and Betty caught her in her arms as if Gail were a baby, swinging her up and away from the minister’s madness. Sylvan wrapped her arm around Rand’s waist, but whether to support him or to get support from him, she did not know.

The Reverend Donald spoke in a solemn tone. “You cannot halt the advance of God’s justice.”

Nanna stepped out of the crowd, a crutch under her arm and her amputated leg suspended. “’Tis not God’s justice ye’ve meted out,” she said. “But yer own.”

Gesturing grandly, the Reverend Donald said, “How
dare you claim to know God’s will—you, an ignorant woman who’s never been beyond the boundaries of your own village?”

“How dare
ye
claim to know God’s will?” Nanna countered. “It is not for a mere man to know.”

The vicar stepped toward her. “
I
know, and you will all die if you resist.”

“We’ll all die eventually, anyway,” Beverly said. “But when ye help us to heaven, it’s called murder.”

“Yes, it is.” Clover Donald’s tiny voice spoke from the back, and the women cleared the way for her. “Bradley, yes, it is.”

The flames of the torches reflected in her husband’s eyes. “I might have known you would betray me, Judas.”

“Oh, Bradley.” Clover blubbered, wiping at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “Don’t you understand? It’s over.”

“It’s not over!” he roared.

“What are ye going to do?” Loretta lisped slightly, teeth missing from his attack. “Kill us all?”

“It’s the only way to bring this parish back into the fold.” But the mighty vicar faltered.

“Kill us all?” Nanna repeated scornfully. “Not even
ye
can justify that.”

James was still shouting and banging, but he stopped abruptly, and the scrape of metal sounded as someone moved the machinery back from the door. Then James, Jeffrey, and one of the village men stepped into the light.

Three more accusing faces, three more people the Reverend Donald had harmed. James cradled his fingers. Jeffrey returned to the shadows. The villager moved behind Nanna and she leaned against him.

The mill grew quiet. Only the Reverend Donald’s harsh breathing broke the silence. Night had fallen, and
the torches fluttered in the breeze. He did look like the ghost now—like Garth and the first duke and, Rand supposed, himself. He also looked sick, conscious of what he’d done and how hopeless his situation had become.

He put one hand up; everyone jumped back. He paused and stared, then rubbed his hand against his ear. “What do you plan to do?”

He sounded almost meek, but Rand didn’t trust him. “What should I do with a man who betrayed the family who fostered him?”

“I didn’t owe my loyalty to you, but to the Lord.”

“You spied on me.”

“It was God who brought you to your feet at night.”

“And it was you who made me think I was mad.”

“It was God’s work I did.” The vicar pleaded now.

“No.” Sylvan stepped out of the shelter of Rand’s embrace.

“It was. It was, it was!” In fury, he smacked the slanted oak beam with his fist. Lumber, nails, and heavy shale tiles slid off the shattered roof and rained down on them in response.

The flooring shook as each heavy tile hit and broke. The women drew back. Clover sobbed out loud. The Reverend Donald spread his arms wide and cried, “Don’t worry, my children. The Lord speaks through me, and I say you are safe. Safe!”

“Safe even from you,” Rand said. “It’s a long, weary road to Bedlam, Donald, and we’d best start you on your way.”

Still posed in his all-encompassing posture, the vicar hesitated as if shocked. “Bedlam?”

Clover Donald echoed, “Bedlam?”

“He’ll go to Bedlam as a madman, or go to the gallows
as one who murdered a duke,” Rand said relentlessly. “Perhaps in Bedlam they’ll have a use for his delusions.”

“Bedlam?” the Reverend Donald repeated again. “You cannot send the hammer of God to Bedlam. I will not go.” He bowed his head and wrapped his hands together under his chin in a prayerful attitude. “I am innocent!”

And a shale tile slid off the roof and smashed into the back of his head.

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 about 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—”