In the Shadow of Your Wings

by J. P. Robinson

  She shook her head, amazed at how much Northshire had changed her in the four months since her arrival. She had always adapted quickly, but her rapid progression from just being a guest at Northshire to becoming a part of its daily management had come as a surprise. She could only assume it was because she needed to be kept busy.

  Leila rubbed her arm absently. The time spent alone was the most difficult making her nights nothing short of torture. She always kept a loaded gun beneath her pillow in case Werner’s assassins were somehow able to penetrate the armed guards surrounding the property.

  Sleep was intermittent and, when it did come, she was tormented by fragmented nightmares. Malcolm, falling to the ground riddled with bullets. Malcolm, lying in mangled pieces in a shallow trench. But worst of all was the image of Malcolm returning from the war only to look at her with the same revulsion he had shown when he had left her in London. A shudder swept through her.

  “I am sure your husband is safe, Lady Steele.” Greyson’s gentle voice broke in on her thoughts and pulled her back to the moment. “Everything will be fine, you will see.”

  “I hope so, Greyson.” The butler’s insight no longer surprised her. While his clairvoyance was disconcerting at times, his mild nature made him a source of comfort.

  “Is everything ready?” Leila lifted her chin.

  Greyson nodded. “Yes, but there is a matter involving one of the Estate’s tenants that I wanted to discuss with you. The roof has fallen in and injured the tenant’s wife. Her husband is away at war. She will be unable to work because of her injuries and will not be able to pay the rent.”

  Leila sucked in a deep breath. “The poor woman. Who is it?”

  “It’s Millie, Lady Steele.”

  “Millie Banyan?” She clucked, furrowing a brow. “She has three children one of whom is crippled.”

  “That is correct.”

  Leila turned around, looking for her maid. “Jenny.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Have Belinda prepare a large basket of food and send it down to Millie Banyan later this afternoon.”

  Jenny’s eyes widened. “But we—”

  “I know that it is difficult to obtain some supplies and there are more mouths to feed at Northshire,” Leila held up a palm. “But we have more at our disposal than she does. See to it.”

  Jenny curtsied again and disappeared.

  “Greyson,” Leila turned back to the butler. “Let’s pay a visit to Millie. Her cottage is not far and we can walk.”

  She opened the door of the solarium and stepped into the warmth of a sunlit afternoon. As she did so, her eyes roamed over the estate, soaking in its pristine beauty.

  Northshire.

  Nothing of the war had touched the property, making it a haven amid the storm. To the west, vast fields of summer wheat were almost ready for harvest. To the north, grape vines bowed low under the weight of their purple burden. To the east, a thin hazy mist stubbornly clung to the verdant pasturelands on which the Estate’s Leicester sheep grazed. The south—the direction in which she and Greyson now travelled—contained a small village of cottages which housed the Estate’s resident workers.

  Shortly after Leila had agreed to remain at Northshire, Thomas had surprised her by committing the oversight of his tenants into her care. While he held final sway, his nomination had made her a de facto agent—a manager of the Estate, capable of making decisions as she saw fit. His words rolled back into her mind as her boot-shod feet moved lightly down the dirt path.

  You have a keen mind, courage, and a willingness to learn. Why waste such potential?

  After some hesitation, she had agreed to the challenge, more to escape the restless anxiety that prowled like a stalking lion within her than from genuine interest. But as the days swelled into weeks, she discovered that meeting the tenants’ needs offered yet another source of peace. In helping them, she found a sort of personal satisfaction. While they did not know the specifics of her relationship to Thomas, the Northshire tenants did know she had their best interests at heart.

  “If I may say so, Lady Steele,” Greyson slowed his pace, “Sir Thomas was right to place his tenants under your care.”

  She shook her head. “I hardly know what I’m doing, Greyson. Sometimes I think Thomas just wanted to keep me busy. Not that I mind.” She slanted him a wry smile. “The work is the only thing that keeps me sane.”

  Greyson was quiet for a long while. “Could it be that His Lordship sees you as a gift?”

  His words, though softly spoken, pinned her feet to the ground.

  “What?” She stared up into his warm, brown eyes.

  “Forgive me.” Greyson dipped his head. “Perhaps I spoke out of turn.”

  Leila eyed him askance. “No. What do you mean?”

  After a moment, the butler spoke again. “Sir Thomas knows that times are changing. This war is only the beginning. No matter who wins, the world as we know it will never be the same.”

  She nodded. This much she understood. “But what does this have to do with me?”

  He gestured toward the village. “In only a few months, you have won the respect of the tenants and staff of Northshire. You inspire those who serve you, even going out of your way to meet their needs.” Greyson shrugged. “His Lordship is a man of business, used to seeing beyond the outward appearance and judging the true value that lies hidden beneath the surface. Perhaps he feels that, if anyone can safeguard Northshire’s future... that person is you.”

  Leila reeled backward as though Greyson had struck her. Thomas is exploring the possibility of naming me his heir? Ridiculous! And yet, Greyson was not a man to waste words. He would only divulge a secret of this magnitude if he felt Thomas would approve of her knowing.

  But even as she began to doubt, Thomas’s comment the day of her arrival wove its way around her scattered thoughts.

  I must ensure that Northshire is left to hands that are worthy of her when I die.

  Malcolm stood to inherit the estate but—she swallowed hard—if he were killed or if he and Thomas were never reconciled then, upon Thomas’s death, the Estate and all its inhabitants would fall to ruin.

  Her heart clenched. Jenny would be forced to leave. Millie and her children would have nothing. Dozens of others would see their lives undone.

  She closed her eyes briefly. Could it be coincidence that had united her and Malcolm? Centuries before, her family line had saved his by betraying one of their own. Years later, the complex ties that bound them together had merged into an intricate conglomeration of love and politics.

  She, a German, had married an Englishman. Like their respective nations, the war had ripped them apart and now reconciliation seemed impossible. Was it only coincidence or was there indeed some higher purpose behind it all?

  “I-I don’t know.” Her eyes flew open as she trudged forward, thoughts whipping through her mind like the warm breeze that rustled through the leaves of the maple trees which lined the path. Somewhere in the sun-speckled foliage, a dove cooed for its mate but there was no reply.

  “Greyson, I’ve too much to fear from my past to even think about the future.” Leila’s shoulders slumped. “There are so many things I wish I could change. I’ve taken so many wrong roads that I-I’m afraid to even try to begin again.” She bit her lip as an image of Malcolm’s wounded face flashed through her mind. “God knows if I could start my life over... I would.”

  “There are times, Lady Steele, when the fear within is greater than the danger without.” Greyson gestured toward the wooden huts that rose just ahead of them. Northshire Village. Children darted about the small yards that encompassed each hut, squealing with laughter as they played.

  “We all live with fear each day,” he stroked his rounded chin once, “but how is it that the smallest of us, the children, are the happiest?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged.

  “Because they are small enough to still have faith.”

  Leila tugged at a
stray tendril of blonde hair. “Are you saying that God is the answer to fear?”

  Greyson did not respond but led the way through the clamoring children, stopping outside a home whose dilapidated shingled roof had collapsed in the center. “Violent winds have hurt this home. Do you believe it is worth repairing?”

  Leila spoke quickly. “Of course. Milly and her family need somewhere to live.”

  “When I last saw Milly, she was beside herself with worry. I’m certain that knowing you care for her will calm her fears.”

  Leila’s brows knitted together. She sensed there was a deeper connection between the unrelated comments but at the moment—

  “Love!” She stepped back, eyes widening as understanding illuminated her mind. “You’re saying that the answer to fear is love.”

  Again, he did not answer but she saw the muscles around his mouth tighten in a smile.

  “So, you think that believing that there’s a God who loves me will somehow help me conquer fear?” She rubbed the back of her neck, averting her eyes. “That seems rather... juvenile Greyson, don’t you think? I mean, it’s fine to believe in God but to think of Him as a living part of my life, I...” She let her voice trail off, still unsure if her interpretation was correct and unwilling to offend him.

  The butler turned toward a large meeting house, called the Commons, that rose like a lighthouse in a vast open plaza made of a circle of alternating gray and scarlet cobblestones. Also serving as a chapel, the Commons sat in the center of the cottages as though it were the heart of Northshire.

  “Tonight, there will be a service and vigil in the Commons for the men from the village who have gone to war. Will you join us?”

  Leila gritted her teeth. “Only if you promise to finish this conversation afterward and tell me exactly what you mean!”

  “I promise, Lady Steele. But I have a feeling that after tonight’s vigil, there will be no need for me to explain.” Greyson’s smile widened as he bowed and pulled open the iron gate before them. “Shall we go through?”

  THE SUN SANK BENEATH the horizon in a glorious display of purple and gold as Leila approached the imposing double-leaved doors of the Commons. She knew many of the faces in the crowd and they smiled kindly at her as they passed her by. Although they considered her privileged, she was one of them—an overlord who cared enough to share their burdens.

  “Good evenin’ Your Ladyship.” A woman dressed in homespun dropped a ragged curtsey.

  A wizened shepherd doffed his hat. “Thank you for comin’ ma’am.”

  Leila smiled back and waved but could not escape the sense of dread that swelled within her, squeezing the breath from her lungs. She had never entered the Commons and hesitated now at its imposing doors. They soared upward, towering above her like a mountain of wood. I can’t. I-I can’t go in.

  Her fear was irrational, but it was real and that made all the difference. She ran her hands over her simple brown skirt for the third time and stared up at the looming iron cross that dominated the façade of the meeting house.

  Suddenly, a finger of light from the setting sun reached out and caressed the iron transforming it from black to a dark crimson.

  Blood. She stood, transfixed, as the building and everything around it faded from view. She could only see the cross which was no longer empty. A man hung upon it, naked and bruised, writhing in indescribable pain. The white of his ribs protruded in stark relief against the bronzed hue of his skin.

  His bearded face oozed sweat mingled with blood and His lips were parted, revealing rows of battered teeth. His head was turned to the right as though speaking to someone she could not see. Then, with agonizing sluggishness, His head began to turn toward her.

  No! Her mind screamed its protests. Her jaw clenched. Don’t look at me. She willed her eyes to close, but they refused to obey. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think.

  Her feet remained immobile on the rocks below as though they too had turned to stone. Her skin was gooseflesh. She knew, beyond any doubt, that she was guilty of placing him on the cross. Bad blood Leila. The words ripped through her skull, clanging with the force of a hammer. Her chest heaved as she struggled to pull air into her lungs.

  Blood. His head, ringed with a thorny crown, lifted with agonizing slowness.

  “Are you alright Lady Steele?”

  Leila recoiled, feeling a light pressure on her arm. A tremor ran down her spine and she blinked to clear her eyes. The dying light revealed Greyson’s concerned face.

  “Grey—” Her eyes darted from the butler to the cross. Empty! Had she imagined the whole thing? Impossible. It had all been so real. The pain, the wounds. Christ’s gaze which ripped past the veils of darkness that shrouded her soul...

  “Y-yes.” Her tongue felt thick. “I’m fine. I thought I saw something, but I must have... been mistaken.”

  He offered her his hand. “The vigil is about to begin.”

  She gripped his arm as though it were a piece of wood and she were adrift on a stormy sea. They passed together underneath the cross into the heart of the meeting room and Leila released Greyson’s arm only to scuttle into the seat closest to the exit. She sat with back straight and head erect.

  The interior of the Commons was surprisingly well-lit. Electric lamps hung from the walls and a small chandelier dangled just above the audience. Rows of long flat benches formed the seating, but it wasn’t enough.

  Her eyes flitted over the patiently waiting crowd. About a hundred people—mostly women, children, and older men—had gathered. Some were clad in somber clothing still spotted with mud from the fields while others still carried the odor of sheep from their day in the pens. Farmers, housewives, shopkeepers and more, they were drawn to this building and to the comfort it offered them all. At least, all but herself.

  Leila fidgeted, torn between wishing the service was already over and dreading the moment it would begin. In the center of the far wall, above the small platform, hung another cross but this one was made of wood. The sight revived the memory of her experience outside the chapel. What had happened? She had not fainted, and she wasn’t given to hallucinations. There was no logical way to explain what she had seen.

  Movement at the front of the room drew her attention. The murmuring crowd stilled, and Leila squinted as a balding man stepped to the small platform.

  “Is that Elijah Farrows?” Her whisper was louder than she had intended, and several heads pivoted in her direction. Greyson only nodded in response.

  Leila stared at the middle-aged farmer. His mild manners and broken grammar certainly did not fit her perception of a preacher. She leaned forward, curiosity overcoming her fear.

  “I’m goin’ to read from the Old Testament.” Elijah shuffled his feet and opened a worn leather-bound Bible.

  Leila listened, spellbound as the words slipped with easy familiarity from the farmer’s mouth. They wrapped themselves around her soul, tugging at the core of her being.

  “But He was wounded for our transgressions.” A memory of her experience outside the church flashed through her mind. Leila gripped the bench beneath her. Why had Elijah chosen that verse?

  “He was bruised for our iniquities.” She cringed inwardly as she remembered the jutting bones and the marks that had marred His naked form.

  “The chastisement of our peace was upon Him.” Her knuckles went white. Peace? The world was at war! If Christ died to purchase peace, then He had died in vain.

  Elijah lowered the book and gazed soberly at his audience. The only sound was the muted breath of those who hung on his words.

  “We wonder today where that peace has gone. In a world filled with fightin’ and killin’ we ask ourselves, ‘where is peace?’” He placed the Bible behind him on a rectangular podium and stepped forward.

  “We don’t have peace because we,” he swept his hands expansively over the audience, “have put the Prince of Peace behind us.” His narrow chest heaved as he filled his lungs with air. “The Good Book says that th
ere’s no peace to the wicked and that’s exactly what we all are.”

  Leila’s mouth went dry. You’re wicked, Leila. It’s the bad blood. Orma’s voice, decrying her innate evil, filled her mind. But what choice had she been given? She had not asked to fall under some ridiculous family curse!

  “We can’t change who we are,” Elijah slammed his meaty fist into his palm. “We were born under a curse. It’s the curse of sin. But Christ’s blood has been shed to purge the evil within us.”

  Blood. She sucked in her breath. Blood. Why always blood? As if in answer to her unvoiced question, Elijah pivoted on his heel and snatched up his forsaken Bible.

  “Blood is the price of atonement. It was by blood that man sinned, and God demands blood as the price of redemption.”

  His fist pumped in the air. “Some claim airs, sayin’ that they’ve got good blood in their veins. ‘I’m of royal blood,’ they say. Well, I say that’s nothin’ but bilge water!”

  He clutched the Bible to his chest. “If we look inside our hearts we’ll find that we’ve all the same blood—bad blood thanks to our ancestor Adam’s betrayal.”

  Leila’s blood froze in her veins. Elijah had no idea who she really was or where she came from yet his words exposed her life’s story. Her life could be summed up in one word: failure.

  An image of her husband falling over the balcony, hands grabbing at her, flooded her mind. She had been unable to salvage their marriage.

  A memory of Charles’s corpse, riddled with bullets from her smoking gun, slammed into her skull. She had failed to keep her oath to her country.

  Then Malcolm’s disappointed gaze momentarily blotted everything else from view. She had failed him, the man she loved more than life.

  Leila buried her face in her hands, stifling a groan. If the whole human race was as miserably condemned as she was, what was the point of living?

  “But the story doesn’t end there.” Elijah’s voice contained a trace of hope and she slowly raised her head. “There was another betrayal; another sin. Because of it, Christ—an innocent Man—was jailed, tortured and died so that we, the guilty members of His family could be free. Our bad blood can be purged.”