Move Heaven and Earth (9 page)

“We missed ye this last Christmas, Lord Rand,”
Shirley said. “We got our part of the ale and meat, but we had no one to flirt with us.”

“Aye, made our husbands right uppity,” Roz added.

“But ye brought yer husband back down, didn’t ye, Roz?” Loretta stood with her hands on her hips, and Rand laughed when Roz blushed.

“Yes, she’s a randy character,” he agreed.

“’Tis a shame about yer legs, m’lord.” Loretta broached the subject with no discomfiture. “But His Grace says yer nurse is the best to be had, and she’ll take proper care of ye.” Loretta took Sylvan’s hand and kissed it, too. “And I’m sure ye will, miss. Ye have a kind face, as well as a beautiful one, and we know we can depend on ye to help our dear Lord Rand.”

Now Sylvan blushed, and Rand liked that. Let her be embarrassed, too.

“I don’t see Pert,” he said.

“I’m here, sir.” The tiny woman stepped forward.

The bruises around her eyes had faded to green and yellow, and she had a cut beside her mouth that looked sore. She’d lost two teeth since last he saw her, but she might have lost teeth from natural causes. She smiled timidly when he reached for her hand. “This ghost sports quite a wallop for a vaporous spirit.”

Pert’s eyes filled with tears, and she glanced over her shoulder as if she feared whoever stood behind her. “It wasn’t even fully dark, but he was dressed all in black. It was my fault, I suppose, for being out so late, but His Grace paid me to stay and help, and I never thought someone would…would…”

Loretta wrapped her arm around Pert’s heaving shoulders. “It’s not your fault some misbegotten coward hit ye. Don’t ye ever say so again.”

Nowhere in Malkinhampsted could one find as timid
and self-effacing a woman as Pert, and someone had done this to her, Rand thought.

Some person. Some man. Some maniac.

“Lord Rand,” Pert cried. “Ye’re hurting me!”

Hastily, he released her hand and watched with horror as she rubbed the red marks he’d left with his too-tight grip. “I am sorry,” he said. “My mind was wandering.”

Pert tried to smile. “No harm done.”

“No harm,” he muttered.

“Ye’re not to worry,” Loretta said in her bossiest tone, still cuddling Pert. “We’re not stupid, no matter what ye men think. We’re not going out alone at night.”

“That does relieve my mind,” he answered. He couldn’t see the mill, the women pressed in so closely, but he heard the door open.

Garth called, “Have you finished your dinners yet? We’re behind, you know.”

The women glanced at each other, then parted to let Garth see the objects of their attention. Garth smiled in delight and surprise, and striding forward, he called, “Rand! Thank God, you’ve come. I need you to help with these hussies.” He frowned at them in mock displeasure. “They’ll work for you when they won’t for me.”

“’Tis not our fault we’re behind, Yer Grace,” Loretta protested. “The machines still aren’t running right. They’re still breaking the threads all the time, and when we reach in to tie them, we’re lucky if that instrument of the devil doesn’t buck.”

“I know it, Loretta.” Garth gingerly patted her shoulder. “I’d swear there were gremlins in the cotton. Go in now, and we’ll see if we can’t make up time.”

“Will we work late, Yer Grace?” Shirley asked.

“At least until the machines are working smooth.” Grimacing in disgust, Garth offered, “I’ll pay extra.”

The women smiled and headed for the mill with hearty goodwill.

“Miss Sylvan.” Garth wiped his hand on a greasy rag, then took her arm. “And Gail.” He offered his other arm to the child, and she took it with a glowing smile. “How good to see you.” Leading them toward the door, he said, “Allow me to show you my pride and joy.”

“Hey!” Rand called from his wheelchair in the yard. “What about me?”

“Well, come on,” Garth ordered. “Don’t lag behind.”

Sylvan broke away from Garth and, going back to Rand, gave him a shove to start him on his way. Pushing his way toward the door, Rand entered the mill without flinching.

Sylvan could not. Her father held a part interest in several clothing mills. She’d visited them before, and she hated the noise, heat, and odor. Women stood at their stations, placing the cotton on the machines, taking off the thread when it was ready, binding it together when it broke. It required little strength or intelligence, but the women of Malkinhampsted performed their work willingly, alternating tasks as another group stopped to eat their suppers.

Gail hung on Garth’s arm, chatting with fiery excitement, and Garth watched her with such affection Sylvan’s heart was touched. Maybe Garth was her father. The more Sylvan came to know Garth, the more she accepted the possibility that he might have indulged in a moment of frivolous passion in his youth and then gravely taken responsibility. He certainly enjoyed Gail and treated her as a father should, but was he doing so because James would not or Rand could not? Every time Sylvan thought she had settled the matter, something occurred to change her mind.

When Sylvan and Rand came up, Garth shushed Gail gently. “Let’s show Miss Sylvan our mill.”

“Oh, yes,” Gail said enthusiastically. “It’s a great plant. It’s not in full operation yet. We can only spin the thread, but when we get the weaving machines set up, we’ll make the finest cloth in the country and we’ll help support the families of Malkinhampsted. A family like ours has a responsibility to its people, and this is the best way to fulfill it.”

She recited the phrases as if she’d heard them many times, and Garth smoothed the hair out of her eyes. “I’m prejudiced, of course, but she’s unusually clever, don’t you think?”

“Very clever,” Sylvan agreed, and thought surely Garth must be Gail’s father.

Rand watched them with poignant melancholy. “You spoil the child.”

“Who better?” Taking Sylvan’s arm, Garth explained the process by which cotton was turned into thread and thread became cloth. As he spoke, Sylvan marveled at this duke who cared for that which he might easily leave for an overseer.

With tact and a stifled curiosity, she’d also sought Gail’s mother, but without success. Yet that lack seemed unimportant. This family, these Malkins, showed more compassion for their people and their children than any noble family in England.

Gail broke in. “It’s the Malkin family salvation. With this mill, we’ll make enough money to support Clairmont Court forever. At the same time, it’ll keep our people home and away from the cities.”

Garth’s face lit with enthusiasm. “Yes, the men can work the fields, and the women—”

A shriek pierced his complacency, and Garth shoved Gail against the wall. Sylvan looked wildly around. Rand yelled at the machine operators, and in the center of the
plant, a cluster of women raced to one of their own. Loretta ripped at the spinning threads around Roz, whose eyes bulged as she screamed. A patch of red appeared at her feet, splattering her shoes, the floor, the threads.

Sylvan froze.

Not now. Please not now. No more blood. No more pain. No more useless death and helpless terror. Please not—

Sylvan jerked herself free of the horror and ran to Roz.

Her hand had tangled in the spinning threads and the flesh had been sliced to the bone. Blood spurted, and Sylvan grabbed Roz’s arm, applied pressure, and wrapped the hand in her skirt. “Get me some place to sit her down,” Sylvan shouted.

Garth gently lifted Roz into his arms, and with Sylvan still holding her arm, he started toward the corner of the plant. They entered a small room with a desk spread with papers, and he lowered Roz into a massive leather chair.

“Water,” Sylvan said tersely, unwrapping the cut. “And needle and thread.” It looked bad, with shreds of muscle and tendon showing.

“Will I lose my thumb?” Roz shook in massive tremors. Her lips were blue and her skin turned chill and moist.

“Your Grace, have you got a blanket and a place this lady can rest while I fix her thumb?” Sylvan smiled at Roz. “This looks like the hundreds of saber cuts I treated after Waterloo.”

“Ye can fix it?” Roz shivered as Garth threw a blanket over her shoulders.

“I’ll do my best.”

Garth swept the paperwork off his desk and helped Roz onto it, and Sylvan went to work.

“Miss Sylvan!” Gail ran from Rand to Sylvan’s side when Sylvan stepped out of Garth’s office. “Will she be all right?”

Sylvan had never been around children much. She didn’t know how to respond to them, but right now, the sight of Gail’s fresh, bright face fed a need in her. Gail was whole, untouched, as far from the reek of death as it was possible to be. Reaching out with one trembling hand, she smoothed Gail’s cheek. “She’ll be fine.”

“Is her hand going to work again? ’Cause she has eight children and her husband fell ill six months ago, and he wasn’t ever worth much anyway. If Roz can’t work here, I don’t know what she’ll do.” Gail peered up at Sylvan. “But you fixed her, didn’t you?”

The noise of the machines assaulted Sylvan. The air stifled her. Fragments of cotton floated like a blizzard of unwoven cloth. Windows on high illuminated the threads spinning in a constant, dizzying motion. “I did what I could. The rest is in God’s hands.” Looking at her own hands, her incompetent hands, she saw blood under the fingernails. It sickened her.

“But think of her children,” Gail said. “You had to have made her better. You just had—”

“Gail.” Garth stood beside Sylvan. “Don’t nag.”

Rand said, “I’ve arranged transport for Roz, and Loretta will ride with her and care for her tonight.”

Garth nodded. “Good. I’ll pay them both, of course.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Rand spoke so gently, Sylvan thought he was speaking to her. But before she could reply, Garth said, “I know, but it seems this endeavor is plagued with accidents. Are we cursed by heaven?”

“More likely, we’re cursed by inexperience,” Rand said.

“I hired the best set-up men in England.” Garth rubbed his eyes with his hands and left two oily rings.

“We’ll get better,” Rand assured him. “We’re just too new to all of this, as are all our workers, and when we’ve been at it longer—”

“We.” Garth stared at his brother. “Does that mean you’re coming back to help?”

Rand looked around at the anxious women, the concerned machinists, and at his brother, worn with worry and struggle. He didn’t say no, and he didn’t commit either. Instead he promised, “I’ll help while I can.”

“Miss Sylvan.” Gail pointed to Sylvan where she leaned against the wall. “You have blood all over your skirt.”

Sylvan picked it up and stared at the fine lawn fabric. Crimson smeared the material with the weight and wet of the blood, and for some reason, that seemed more than she could bear. She glanced wildly at Garth and Gail and Rand, seeing them through a shifting red mist. She saw Rand’s lips move, but heard only a buzzing.

Then the floor came up to meet her.

Leaning forward, Rand tucked
the carriage blanket tighter around Sylvan’s waist, then pushed Gail closer. “Cuddle up,” he instructed. “Keep Miss Sylvan warm.”

It wasn’t really cold, only the chill of a spring evening by the ocean, but Sylvan cherished the heat of the child and the blanket, and it was only pride that made her object. “There’s nothing wrong with me. It was just a reaction to the excitement. I’ve certainly seen worse wounds than that.”

Rand ignored her, as he had each time she protested. Jasper had arrived with the closed traveling carriage that had been especially outfitted for Rand. The door had been widened, and the backward facing seat had been removed. Straps held Rand’s wheelchair securely, and he seemed quite comfortable as he said, “We’re almost back at Clairmont Court.”

Sylvan glared at his shadowy figure in resentment. She hated to have anyone see her in distress, and she had been in distress back at the mill. That whole plant was an accident waiting to happen. In reality, it hadn’t been the noise or the moving parts that made her ill, but the potential for injury that she saw existed at all times.

Since Waterloo, she had seen danger everywhere. She was like a mother whose child had just learned to walk, imagining the worst possible mishap in every instance—and she seemed to be mother to all the world. It made her sick to think of all the blood spilled without reason, because of war or carelessness.

But Rand offered solace. “Garth took Roz and Loretta home in one of the other carriages, and he’ll stay until they’re comfortable. The cook’s sending a basket of food. Mother’s sending blankets, and Loretta promised to do just what you said to treat Roz.” She saw the flash of his teeth in the dark. “Loretta thinks you can work miracles, so she told me. Do as I’m told, she said, and you’ll cure me, too.”

Sylvan gave a laugh that sounded remarkably like a sob. She hadn’t ever cured anyone. She’d just bandaged them and prayed, and usually they died anyway.

“So you can eat and go to bed. Everything’s taken care of. No arguments, and no brooding over ghosts.”

“Ghosts?” Her mind flew to the corpses she’d seen at Waterloo, to the once vibrant men who walked in her dreams. “How did you know about my ghosts?”

He hesitated, then said gently, “I wasn’t talking about your ghosts, but about the ghost of Clairmont Court.”

“Oh.” She laughed shortly. “
That
ghost. No, it’s not your ghost who frightens me. It’s the madman who masquerades as the ghost and attacks the women.” She broke off when Gail wiggled. “But I have great faith that
he’ll be caught soon.” Infusing her voice with false cheer, she added, “Really.”

“Are you afraid of the ghost, Miss Sylvan?”

“No!” Sylvan could have kicked Rand for opening the subject, and kicked herself for speaking on it. She wasn’t used to having to watch her words, but Rand was. Didn’t he worry about scaring the child? “Big girls aren’t afraid of ghosts.”

“There’s a reasonable explanation for this nonsense about the ghost.” Gail’s voice took on strength and depth as if she quoted one of the adults. “We’ll catch the ghost and we’ll see an end to it.”

The carriage jolted to a halt, and Sylvan almost didn’t hear Rand murmur, “That’s the truth. That’ll be the end.”

Jasper jumped down from his perch and flung the door back so vigorously, it shook the carriage. Sticking his ugly, worried face inside, he asked, “Mr. Rand, are ye still well?”

Servants stood up and down the terrace stairs with lanterns, which they protected against the ever-present breeze. “I’m fine,” he said. “Help the ladies out.”

“But, sir…Aye, sir.”

He offered his hand to Gail, but she leaped out without help. When he grasped Sylvan, the tremor in his fingers shocked her.

“We heard all kinds of rumors about the accident and who was hurt.” Jasper squeezed her hand a little too hard. “I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to Mr. Rand while I wasn’t hard by.”

He reached in to help Rand free the chair from the restraining straps, leaving a shaken Sylvan standing on the steps.

Jasper was jealous.

She knew he didn’t like her taking Rand out every
day, for every day he had given his help more grudgingly. But the sensation of menace he emanated startled her and left her staring at the servant’s broad shoulders. Could he have been the ghost in the hallway?

No, surely not. Why would Jasper want to frighten her? What reason would he have for perpetrating this kind of hoax? Besides—she relaxed—he didn’t look like Radolf. Once again, she was seeing danger where none existed.

A cry from the top of the stairs had her whirling, her heart in her throat.

“My son!” Lady Emmie rushed down, her hands outstretched. “Are you well?”

Sylvan closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Yes, she’d better calm herself before she surrendered to screaming hysterics.

“I’m fine.” Rand suffered her hug. “Mother, I’m fine.”

“Your mother was worried about you.” Aunt Adela descended the stairs in a dignified manner, leaning on James’s arm. “Convinced that you were hurt in the mill, she was. I told her that Malkins were tough and strong, but would she listen?” Rand passed her on the stairs, carried in the arms of Jasper and the footmen and accompanied by a softly babbling Lady Emmie. Aunt Adela began to ascend again. “No. She invariably frets about that mill. It’s a constant worry to all of us, and a shame that you and your brother insist on continuing construction of a project which can mean only our ruin.”

Sounding desperate, Rand interrupted. “Mother, it’s Sylvan who’s not well.”

Lady Emmie stood at the top of the stairs and looked back. “Sylvan, dear, what’s wrong?”

She started down, and Sylvan held up her hand. “A footman can help me up.”

“Gail can help her up, too.” Betty stood at the top of
the stairs, her hands wrapped in an apron so wrinkled she must have been wringing it. “You do it, Miss Gail.”

Gail snapped to attention. “Yes, ma’am.” She took one of Sylvan’s arms and a footman took another, but Lady Emmie still bore down on her with Aunt Adela and James in her wake.

“You poor dear.” Lady Emmie got a good look at Sylvan, and her eyes widened. “You’ve got blood on your dress. Were you hurt?”

“No, Lady Emmie.” Sylvan negotiated the first few steps. “I only cared for the woman who
was
hurt.”

“Thank heavens! I would hate to have to explain to your father you’d been injured in our service. You got a letter from him today, and so did I. Here, Gail dear, let me do it, you’ll hurt your beautiful straight back helping Miss Sylvan.” Lady Emmie nudged Gail out of the way and took Sylvan’s arm.

“I got a letter from my father?” Sylvan could have groaned. “And he wrote you, too. Was he obnoxious?”

“He cares about your reputation a great deal. It’s obvious from his missive.”

That was no answer, and Sylvan knew it. She cringed at the demands her pushy father must have made on this lady.

“You got a letter from a doctor, too.”

“Dr. Moreland?”

“I believe that was his name,” Lady Emmie conceded. “I only glanced at the post. So rude to read other’s letters.”

“And one of my father’s favorite pastimes.”

Lady Emmie excused him as she helped Sylvan up the stairs. “Every parent has his own methods. Tell me if you feel faint, so I can catch you.”

Sylvan looked down on the diminutive figure.

“I’m behind you, Miss Sylvan,” Gail piped.

“I feel quite secure now,” Sylvan answered.

“So dreadful that your illness occurred while you are our guest.” Lady Emmie kept her arm wrapped around Sylvan’s waist in what felt like a gesture of affection. “Of course, you’re the nurse and you were probably right in the middle of this tragedy.”

Aunt Adela did an abrupt about-face when they passed her, and she proclaimed, “I always said women weren’t strong enough to handle the sight of blood and whatnot, but young persons nowadays don’t listen.”

“Adela, dear, that’s not strictly true.” Lady Emmie steered Sylvan to the top of the stairs and past Rand in his wheelchair. “Think of all the years when women were midwives and healers. You must admit women are stronger than men give us credit for.”

Betty caught Gail to her in a powerful hug, then said, “If you don’t have further need of me, Your Grace, I’ll put Miss Gail to bed.”

“Excellent.” Lady Emmie broke away from Sylvan and planted a swift kiss on Gail’s cheek. “Sleep well, child. You’ve been a brave girl today.”

“Women nurses are scandalous! They are required to look upon”—Aunt Adela swooped in to take Lady Emmie’s place at Sylvan’s side, and lowered her voice—“men’s parts. You know you agree with me.”

“Mother!” James stopped beside Rand and glared, embarrassed by the direction of the conversation.

“Oh, I might have once, but that was before I met Miss Sylvan.” Lady Emmie rushed up, ordered the footman away, and took Sylvan’s now free arm. “She’s such a lovely woman, so charming, with such exceptional manners. And so brave!”

“But there’s something wrong with her now,” Aunt Adela said triumphantly. Together, the women urged
Sylvan through the door and into the study. “So she must not be equal to the tasks.”

“I’m fine.” Sylvan felt like a hank of bone between two small, feisty dogs as they tugged her cloak off. “And I assure you, Lady Adela, that while I have seen men’s parts, one doesn’t notice them when blood is spurting.”

“No,” Aunt Adela said, “I suppose not.”

“There you have it, Adela.” Lady Emmie brought Sylvan a sherry. “Although I do think you’re making light of your illness, Sylvan, or Rand wouldn’t have brought it to our attention.”

“Rand just likes having everyone concerned about someone else for a change.” Sylvan sipped the sherry and sighed. The Malkins served very good sherry, and she treasured its restorative properties right now.

“Our Miss Sylvan seems fine.” Aunt Adela poured two more sherries, handed one to Lady Emmie, and they both studied Sylvan. “When one thinks of the difficulties and…er…body effluents associated with childbirth, I think it’s surprising that so many persons consider women unfit for nursing.”

“We are the weaker sex,” Lady Emmie said.

“But you can’t leave these matters in a man’s hands.” Aunt Adela frowned at Rand and James as they entered the room, treating them as if they were personally responsible for the vagaries of the male gender. “Why, my dear husband, the late duke’s brother, quailed when James scraped his knee, and I know your husband, the dear late duke, did the same.”

“That’s true, but Roger was happiest when he fought and drew blood. No, dear, I’m afraid women aren’t fit to be nurses.”

“Dear, they are.”

Sylvan’s head spun in confusion, and from the
expressions Rand and James wore, she thought they were experiencing the same sensation. But they, obviously, were used to it, for Rand diverted the ladies with one simple statement. “Miss Sylvan swooned.”

The ladies paused in midquarrel.

“Garth caught her,” Rand continued. “But I think she should be put to bed at once.”

“When I’m ready,” she snapped. He smirked, and she realized he really did like transferring the attention to someone else. It was a sign that he was healing, and she relaxed another degree.

“Dinner has been waiting,” Lady Emmie said. “Miss Sylvan, would you prefer a light meal in your room, or would you join us as our guest of honor?”

With an invitation like that, Sylvan couldn’t refuse, and a pleasant hour laden with food and wine passed before the family returned to the study to finish their gossip. Sylvan lagged behind, her gaze on the letters tossed on the table in the entry. She shouldn’t read them now, she knew, but she worried what her father had said, so she slipped them into her pocket and carried them into the study where already a quarrel had developed.

Standing in front of the fireplace, Aunt Adela folded her hands across her stomach. “This is what comes of owning the mill.”

Seating herself, Sylvan accepted a sherry and sneaked the letters out.

Rand sighed loudly. “Oh, Aunt Adela, we’re not going to go through that again.”

Sylvan first sighed as she juggled the missive from her father, then smiled as she clasped the missive from her mentor. Bad medicine first, she decided. With a guilty glance at her hosts, she broke the seal on her father’s letter.

With lofty indignation, Aunt Adela said, “Why not? It’s the truth, isn’t it? I admit, I had my doubts about this young woman before she arrived, but she has proved to be a well-spoken, genteel lady. And what have we turned her into? A drudge who treats the village women with their ailments.”

“It wasn’t an ailment, it was an accident!” Rand protested.

Garth sneaked toward the doorway.

“There wouldn’t have been an accident if there weren’t a mill,” Aunt Adela answered.

Garth backed out of the room.

“Come back here, young man.” Aunt Adela chased into the hall after Garth.

Skimming the sprawling epistle, Sylvan wondered if her father simply recopied one letter, over and over.

She was a disappointment. He’d worked hard to make money so she could have everything she ever wanted. He’d bought a barony for himself to help her get into the ton with the expectation she would find a nobleman to wed. But no. She’d obstinately refused all offers. She’d ruined her best chance when Hibbert died, but living at Clairmont Court, she could get herself a duke. Stop dithering and nab him.

“We’ve discussed this before, and nothing has changed.” Garth appeared with Aunt Adela dragging him by the arm. His rough appearance contrasted with the spotless room and its fashionable occupants. “Use all the excuses you like, but we all know you care only for the spoiled reputation of the duke of Clairmont.”

Sylvan crumpled the letter in her hand, walked to the fire, and threw it in.

“Well, somebody has to,” Aunt Adela said. “Obviously it’s of no concern to you.”

Sylvan wished she could toss her anger aside as easily. Slipping Dr. Moreland’s letter in her pocket, she decided to save it for the morrow. It would be discourteous to read it amid the discussion swirling around her, and after her father’s letter—she sipped her sherry—she had a bad taste in her mouth.