Incredulous, Rand demanded, “You know who it is?”
“I’m a bit of a fool,” Garth admitted. “But yes, I know who it is. The evidence has always been there, but I didn’t want to think that it could be one of my own.”
“Who is it?” Sylvan demanded.
“I don’t think I should say until I’ve—”
Sylvan reached for her throat. “You sent for him? Now?”
“He’ll be along directly, I imagine, and—”
“Don’t you understand how dangerous he is?”
Sylvan didn’t scream, but she came close, and Rand jumped. “Sylvan?” he questioned. “Is there something you should tell me?”
“Dangerous?” Garth visibly struggled with his disbelief. “He’s misguided, certainly, but—”
“Misguided? You call a man who stalks women in the dark misguided?”
“He hasn’t—”
“Killed anyone?” Rising to her feet, Sylvan slapped her palms on the desk and leaned toward Garth. “Is that what it takes?”
“Sylvan, I’m going to punish him as he deserves, but—”
“How can you be so blind? He’s taken Rand’s recuperation and used it to try and drive Rand crazy. He came to my room and—”
“Recuperation?” Garth seized on that one word to the exclusion of everything else. “Rand’s better, yes, but isn’t recovery too strong a term?”
Sylvan looked guiltily at Rand, and he shook his head. In her excitement, she’d said more than she should, but he couldn’t work up a fury. He and Garth were close, closer than most brothers, and ever since Sylvan had convinced him of his innocence, he’d wanted to share his delight.
“Rand?” Garth stood and came around the desk. “A recovery?”
Rand heard the lilt in Garth’s voice and rejoiced. “I’ve been walking in my sleep.” To temper Garth’s dawning rapture, Rand warned, “But only in my sleep.”
“Walking in your sleep?” Leaning down, Garth grabbed his brother in a bear hug that lifted him out of the chair, then dropped him back. “How long have you known?”
“For months,” Rand admitted. “I thought that I—”
“Was the ghost?” Garth followed his thought with a sure instinct. “And that bastard let you think so?” He looked at Sylvan, at the fists she clenched in her lap and the earnest fright in her expression. “You think I’m a fool, don’t you?”
“I think you’re a man,” she corrected. “Always thinking you’re too big and strong to be hurt, always thinking you can protect everyone else from injury. But this scoundrel doesn’t fight like a man; he lurks in the shadows and attacks when you’re weak, and if you don’t take him seriously—”
“Yes.” Garth bowed his head. “You’re right. I’ll send some of the men to escort him here, and we’ll confront him together.” Looking at Rand, some of his serious mien disappeared. “But you’re walking at night, and someday soon…I would give anything to have you walk again.” Lifting his head alertly, he held up one hand for silence. “What’s that?”
Outside in the mill, the sound of the machinery had changed. It seemed to stagger from start to stop and back again, and as Garth came to his feet in a rush, the door slammed back against the wall. Rand stared at the wild-eyed mechanic as he yelled, “’Tis making a chugging noise, Yer Grace, like it’s trying to go somewhere, and the piston’s freezing.”
“Have you tried the bleed valve?”
“Nothing came out.”
Garth pushed Stanwood aside and leaped out the door, and Rand snagged the mechanic when he would have followed. “What does this mean?”
“Means trouble,” Stanwood said, and tore himself away.
“Dear God.” Sylvan lunged at Rand as he pushed himself toward the door. “Don’t go! Can’t you feel that?”
He could indeed. Beneath them, the floor trembled. In the mill, the women shrieked, and he feared—
Boom! The blast hit them, hot and harsh. It rattled the hinges and threw her against the wall. It blew papers in a whirlwind.
It knocked Rand’s chair over and sent him sprawling. “Garth!” Shoving the chair aside, he leaped up and ran toward the door. “Garth.”
12
Sylvan grabbed for Rand and missed. He ran out into the mill, and she darted after him.
And staggered back. Beyond the office door, hell reigned. A new hell, one of twisted lumber and curling steam. The far wall had blown out. Sunshine beamed in inappropriate gaiety. Tiles of the slate roof fell in masses, like playing cards from a careless hand. Machinery rested on its side. Dust mixed with the wind, and Sylvan tasted it—the dust of defeat.
In an instant, the mill had changed from manufacturer’s dream to worker’s nightmare.
Sylvan coughed and squinted, trying to see through the floating grime. Rand struggled through the wreckage, and for the first time, Sylvan realized—he was walking. Without a thought to himself, he was walking. It was a miracle—the miracle they’d been seeking. He leaped overturned machinery, cleared a path through the devastation, and called his brother in a desperate tone.
Another beam crashed to the ground, and she jumped. God, a miracle, but at what cost?
Other voices joined Rand’s, quietly at first, then louder. Women moaned, cried, called out names. One slowly built to a scream that hit a high note and stayed.
This looked like a battlefield. This looked worse than a battlefield.
Sylvan cringed. They wanted her. They needed her. She had to help them.
She couldn’t. She couldn’t help them. She already knew that. She’d already proved that.
Below the constant shriek caused by someone’s pain, she could hear a low, steady weeping that begged for attention.
Across the room, someone staggered to her feet. A bedraggled, filthy Nanna swung her head back and forth like a pendulum, seeing the destruction through shocked eyes. Leaning over, she picked up a long fragment of wood and tossed it aside. Then another, then another. She collapsed onto one knee, then walking her hands up a crooked timber, she dragged herself erect again.
She needed help.
Sylvan took her first step out. Everyone needed help.
“Lady Sylvan.” A feeble voice called her. “I think my ribs are broken, but if ye’ll help me, I’ll stand and give a hand.”
Beverly. Sour-faced Beverly struggled to tear strips off her skirt so she could wrap herself and help the others. Sour-faced Beverly. Brave Beverly, who knew what was required and did it without question. Without whimpering.
Sylvan whimpered and clambered through the chaos to her side. “Let me.” With her teeth, Sylvan ripped strips off her own linen petticoat. After all, she did know how to do that. She’d done it often enough. Assisting Beverly as she sat up, Sylvan bundled the strips around Beverly’s chest and tied them. “Is that better?” she asked.
“Much.” Beverly’s white cheeks told of the lie. “Thank you, Lady Sylvan.”
“I found her,” Nanna called. “I found the screamer. Shirley’s caught. Lady Sylvan—”
“I can’t. Oh, God, please, I can’t.”
“Could you go find somebody to dig her out?” Nanna finished.
Jolted, Sylvan stared at Nanna, then at Beverly, and slowly she realized they didn’t expect her to bandage them, cure them, help them. They didn’t expect anything from her, now that she was a noblewoman, and that was fine with Sylvan. “I can’t help.”
She whispered, but Beverly heard her, for she patted Sylvan’s hand as if she were the one in need of succor. “Lady Sylvan, if you would just prop me on my feet—”
The building released another shower of tiles, stone, and rafters, then, with a groan and a mighty bang, an oak cross beam hit the floor. Sylvan ducked, cowering, almost wishing something would strike her and put her out of her misery. Pain had to be better than this constant uncertainty, this debilitating cowardice.
But the dust settled once more, Sylvan was uninjured, and she raised her head.
Nanna had
disappeared. The screaming had stopped. It was silent. Dead silent.
“No,” Sylvan whispered. Staggering to her feet, she strained her eyes as if Nanna would rise from the rubble. “No, please.” She started across the room. Each step seemed weighted, too slow to help yet so heavy it would produce another rupture in the mill’s framework. Above where Nanna had stood the sky gleamed. Rafters hung askew. Heavy slate shingles slapped the floor as they slithered off the roof. Not a glimpse of Nanna remained.
Sylvan took a breath, then another; faster and faster until her head buzzed and she realized she didn’t need air. She just needed courage.
Scorning breath, she started carefully moving sticks and plaster. A splinter jabbed her palm; she impatiently jerked it out. As she shifted down through the debris, she saw an apron and underneath that, the shape of a leg, trapped beneath beams and boards that crisscrossed like a child’s game of pick-up sticks. Pull the wrong board, and the whole structure would fall on her head.
Cautiously, she moved a board. Nothing happened. She moved another. And another. Parts of two bodies appeared, then Nanna’s face. At first Sylvan thought she, too, was unconscious, but her eyes flickered open as Sylvan uncovered her face. Her mouth was one thin line, held tight with pain, and when Sylvan uncovered her leg, she saw why.
The massive beam had landed right on her ankle and crushed it into the floor. There was no way to move it, no way to move her. If anyone had the right to scream, it was Nanna, but she clung to silence. Sylvan stared into her eyes, knowing what would have to be done and sick with the knowledge.
Nanna mined the bedrock of her courage—where was Sylvan’s bedrock?
“I can help.” One of the other women stood beside Sylvan. “I’m just a little scalded.”
Scalded, indeed. The steam from the explosion had blistered one side of her neck and her cheek. More courage.
“Shirley’s under there,” Sylvan said. “Let’s see if we can find her.”
They carefully cleared debris. Others joined them. Pert, Tilda, Ernestine. All were injured, but they reported on the others. Ada had a broken arm. Charity was awake but seeing double. Jeremia had lost teeth and had both eyes swollen shut. Beverly was trying to herd them all outside.
The talk kept their minds off their increasing worry as no sound issued from beneath the rubble. Then—
“I’ve got her, Lady Sylvan.” Ernestine dug eagerly for a moment, then sat back on her haunches. “She’s here.”
Sylvan didn’t need to look beyond the expression on Ernestine’s face to know Shirley’s fate, but somehow she’d taken the lead in this small, besieged group. Solemnly, she leaned forward and pulled the last board away to uncover Shirley’s torso—a torso robbed of breath and heartbeat by massive injuries.
She’d seen death before. Why did it always tear her heart out? Why did it always place another weight on the guilt in her soul?
A sob shook Ernestine, and Pert put her arm around the larger woman. “She was Shirley’s sister,” she explained.
“Of course.” Sylvan looked into the sky. Shirley had been alive after the blast. Danger still hovered over their heads, and they never knew when another part of the mill would give way.
“Salvage something to build a shed over Nanna,” she commanded.
“Should we send someone to the village and Clairmont Court to tell them?” Tilda asked.
“They know,” Sylvan assured them. “I imagine they heard that blast for miles.”
“Felt it, too,” Tilda said.
“Yes.”
“What are we going to do about Nanna?”
Sylvan looked at Nanna’s agonized expression. “I’ll take care of her.” But she didn’t move, still staring at the crushed foot that held Nanna in place. Visions of saws that separated flesh from flesh and bone from bone ripped at her until a man’s voice brought her head up.
“Dear God.” The vicar stood not five feet away, taking in the scene with horror, then comprehension. Swiftly, he came to Nanna’s side and dropped to his knees beside her. With a gentle hand, he smoothed her face, then picked up her hand. “God has chosen you for a special mission, Nanna.” His voice sounded deep, strengthening, and he rubbed her wrist slowly as if to massage the significance of his words into her flesh. “You’re still alive, and God placed Lady Sylvan here at this time to save you. Do you hear me?”
Nanna’s gaze clung to his, and she nodded.
“Do you believe me?”
She nodded again.
“Good.” He beckoned Tilda and had her take his place at Nanna’s side, then rose and took Sylvan’s arm. “Lady Sylvan, you have already done much good in this place. It’s time to do more.”
Ashamed, she whispered, “I’m afraid.”
“I’m here to help you. We’re all here to help you. See?”
He pointed, and for the first time, Sylvan saw the others. Lady Emmie and Aunt Adela stood before the carriage that had brought them, taking in the scene with a shock that equaled Sylvan’s own. Through the open wall, she could see James running down the hill toward them, his elegance in disarray. Then she looked up into the Reverend Donald’s eyes. Tears leaked from the corners, and a great compassion gleamed from the depths of his soul. As Nanna had before her, Sylvan gained strength from his boundless sympathy. Somehow, without words, he conveyed his faith in her, and she straightened.
“Oh, I’ll do it. I’m just afraid.”
“You have every right to be afraid, but God will guide your hand.” He patted that hand, and said, “Now, tell me what you need and we’ll find it somehow.”
Somehow she managed to tick off the required supplies, and he replied, “It shall be as you require.”
He released her and gathered the other women around him, and Sylvan once again had a demonstration of his power. Was it just this morning that he’d performed her wedding with such majesty? Then he had been an apt representative of the church. Now he was more the able servant of God. She might not like him or his unbending attitude, but he had a deft, sure touch in steering panicked people in the right direction.
Using the strength he had lent her, Sylvan knelt beside Nanna’s head. “I will take care of you,” she promised.
“Aye, Lady Sylvan,” Nanna agreed, but she didn’t really seem to hear. Her gaze never left the Reverend Donald, and she took a sustaining breath. “At bottom, he’s a good man.”
“Lady Sylvan.”
The shout jolted Sylvan, and she swiveled to stare at Jasper. He stood outside the mill’s former wall, waving his arms.
“Lady Sylvan, ye’ve got to come!”
“Rand,” Sylvan whispered. Amazingly, she’d forgotten about Rand, but then, she knew Rand could take care of himself.
Or could he?
With an anxious glance, she located Lady Emmie and Aunt Adela. James had them both by the arm, holding them still and speaking rapidly. Although Sylvan couldn’t hear them, it was clear by their gestures that they argued in return, and she seized the moment to escape the confines of the mill. She didn’t want to talk to them now. Not before she discovered the extent of the tragedy.
“Look.” Jasper pointed before she had even cleared the mill’s foundation. “Look.”
Rand sat among the remains of a wall, holding his brother’s body, his head held to Garth’s chest as if listening for a heartbeat.
It was useless. Even from a distance, Sylvan could see it was useless. Garth’s limbs flopped and twisted, and his head kept slithering off the support of Rand’s knee. He was dead.
Sylvan turned away.
Jasper grabbed her. “Where are ye going?”
“Back inside to get Lady Emmie. There’s nothing I can do here.”
“Lord Rand is yer husband,” Jasper snapped. “Help him.”
Sylvan hesitated. Her first instinct was to leave Rand to his grief, but was Jasper right? Was it her function as Rand’s wife to comfort him? Gingerly, she approached him and laid her hand on his shoulder. “Rand?”
&
nbsp; He tilted his head and looked at her. “What?”
His intense frown reminded her of Gail when she sought to understand something beyond her comprehension. “Can I help you?” she asked, then immediately cursed herself. Stupid question, for all the world like a hat shop girl with a customer. But she didn’t know what to say. What did one say in the face of death? “I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
Oh, God, this was worse than she thought.
With exquisite care, Rand laid Garth on the ground and arranged him so his body looked as if it were in repose. He tucked the singed, torn clothing into a semblance of normal form. He frowned at the face; nothing could return it to its original shape. “Do you think it hurt him?”
Hurt him? To be blasted through a wall, to have every bone in his body broken?
“He was gone when I found him, and I was angry at first, because I didn’t get to say what I wanted.” His eyes shone glassy with the fever of trauma. “But then I thought how much he would have suffered, and I wondered if you thought he might have died instantly.”
“Of course he died instantly. I’ve seen a lot of death, and I know.” Know? Sylvan wanted to laugh at her own idiocy. She was telling a falsehood, but it was surely a good falsehood. Rand seemed to believe it, and it seemed to comfort him. Maybe her lie would cushion the blow until he was ready to face the truth. Maybe he would never face the truth. Maybe—she touched Garth’s cold hand—maybe the truth didn’t matter.
“I’m always the lucky one,” Rand said. “Always the one left behind while the others go on to glory.”
She hadn’t known Garth long, but she’d liked him, respected him.
“I’m the only one left alive out of my regiment, did you know that?”
Garth had been a good duke: too arrogant for his own good, of course, but he took responsibility for his people and his lands in a manner almost lost in modern England.
“I’d been fighting for hours with no surcease, and my regiment had been commanded to charge the French. The French were winning.” He laughed harshly. “We would have done anything for Wellington.”
Rand’s narrative and Garth’s dead body before her sucked her back into the past. She remembered holding her parasol over her head and observing the battle from a distance. The distance had provided a buffer between her and the suffering.
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