A Season of Miracles

by Heather Graham

  The entry ended. The next page began a letter written soon after, when Captain Michael Trellyn had gone on to war. Despite her cool presumption regarding her position in society—she was, after all, the daughter of a lord, and he was simply a soldier—passions had flared. She wrote as the lady of the house, admonishing him to keep his head down, to take the greatest care, to watch out for gunfire. Though it is my understanding that firing pieces are most sadly inaccurate, it is also my understanding that they are most deadly when aimed by accident or precision to actually strike the human body.

  “Oh, Lady Morwenna, if you could only imagine the weapons we have now,” Jillian murmured aloud. She kept reading, intrigued.

  The early writings continued to ask after his welfare, to warn him to keep his head low, to care for her father, who was also among the men fighting for King Charles I. Subtly, the relationship began to change. He’d been home, and they had met again by a river or a spring. The words became more intimate, the pleas more desperate and more loving. Then came one that warned of the end.

  Dearest…by all accounts it does not go well for the loyal troops of the King. Here, those afraid of Cromwell’s retribution have already begun to denounce him. In all honesty, and without disloyalty, I must admit that I do not suppose he has been the best king. He has always been so adamant about the Divine Right of Kings. He believes that God allows him any extravagance he sees as fit. Alas, by God’s right, he should have cared more for the plight of his people and less for his own excesses. But these are thoughts I share only with you. My father honors the King, and the man I honor above all others gives his faith, his loyalty, his sword—and is willing to give his life, as well—for the King. Be warned, beloved, as you face the fire and powder and bloodshed of the battles, that the tide has turned. Here, though he often makes me laugh with his presumption, Sir Walter walks the line, though evermore tottering toward the other side. What a righteous man he has become, simple in his wants and desires. He brought in a witch finder the other day before Sunday service. He was very angry when I laughed at such a notion. Only fools, he told me, refuse to see that the devil lives among us. He was so very angry when I laughed in his face. I know the King to whom I give my loyalty is heir to the very man, James I, who came to England believing with the deepest passion in the curses of witches and the work of devils and demons among us. Still, it is just a charade. Such a tragic comedy that a good God would ever allow such things to come to pass. I am well aware that there are laws, that witchcraft is illegal and punishable by death, but there are men, have always been men, sane men, even in the midst of the worst insanity, to refute the persecution of pathetic old women who have done no more than to raise a fist against injustice and mutter an angry curse. Sir Walter shakes his head at me and warns me that wise men, learned men, all recognize and fear the work of the Devil. He says that Satan himself walks among us, tempting us, moving us to acts of heresy and treachery and sin. Ah, but he swears as well that his sole purpose in life is to guard me, and my father’s property. His love is the deep love of kinship, he says, and he will see that I learn the ways of the Lord—and of Cromwell, it is becoming apparent. For me, I am well enough. Sickness in the village keeps me busy; fighting with Sir Walter keeps me amused. They speak of torturing the poor old woman who was arrested, and my fight in her defense keeps my mind from the fact that I miss you, my love, body and soul. Ah, well, I must end now, for the soldiers stopping by shall leave, and I am entrusting this to a Private Goodman, who has sworn he will see it through to you. Ride with God, my love, and come home to me.

  She did not sign her letter, or, if she had done so, the signature had not been transposed to the book. The next entries were from her diary again.

  Jillian went through page after fascinating page. Lady Morwenna wrote about the time in which she lived, interesting facts about farming, and about her land, her home. There is no place more beautiful than here, on the Welsh borderland, with the mountains, the streams, the rivers, trees, flowers and foliage. All the earth rolls. It is wild, it is verdant, gray on a harsh day, greener than emerald in the midst of summer when the grasses grow deep. How odd it is to think that years ago, an English King came here and brutalized all that he saw. Wales became part of his rule and we forever English, beneath the domination of Edward I, Hammer of the Scots and Butcher of the Welsh, though that was not to be written on his tomb. Yet now a King of England runs, and there is rumor that he runs for his life.

  There were more such entries, along with recipes for cures for wounds, her search for specific mushrooms to make tonics and salves, about the weather, blustering and calm, rain and sunshine and snow.

  There came a heart-wrenching entry in which her father came home injured. Terribly sick, his mind wandering, his body was confined to bed. The lady’s love for her father was touchingly evident. Along with her father’s infirmity came a subtle change to life at the manor. I have no time for the continual meetings Walter demands. I tend to Father, and ignore him. And yet, I wonder what ill I may be doing, for it has come to my ears, through faithful servants, that this usurper in my home becomes evermore entrenched, and grasps each day with greater strength for power here.

  She spoke no more of Walter for several days. She wrote about her father as he had been when she was little, so tender always, as she had grown. Yet even then, each entry was not finished until she had added in a prayer for her captain, still fighting the war, still commanding her father’s loyal troops.

  And then…

  He should have been far away at battle. I missed him so. I ached for him, prayed for him, and told God that I longed for him to come to me, for my soul was so very distraught.

  And then he came.

  Aye, he came to me last night. I knew not that he had returned to the village, here where we lie so close to Wales. The moon was full when I awoke, I knew not why, and looked out the window. He was there, as tall as the light, shimmering in half armor, as powerful as the darkness beyond. I said nothing, but rose, and he came to me and he held me, and I felt the strength and the trembling in his arms. He went down upon his knees, his arms around me still, his head bowed. I removed his plumed hat, slid my fingers through his hair and knelt down to join him. He kissed me, wrapped me in his arms, loved me. And I knew then that there were indeed miracles in this world. He told me that in a fortnight I must meet him by the stream. It will be summer then, and warm. He stayed the night, and there was magic. But come the morning he was gone, and I was bereft, afraid that I had dreamed, and yet, the essence of him lingered, that haunting scent upon my sheets. I can now scarcely wait for a fortnight to pass.

  There were no more entries until then.

  Dear God, I am so excited, so jubilant, it is near impossible to keep the secret! That I am so loved, so cherished, is a gift unequaled on earth. I thought myself insane, for there was no talk of the armies or soldiers nearby, no Cavaliers or Roundheads, and yet I believed. He had said that he would come, and so I went to the river. There, in the moonlight, with an owl crying out softly above, I found him. He had come with just a few of his men. I ran to him and I greeted his friends, and I told them all what I knew of the situation in London and in the field. At first I wondered why he had come to me with others to witness the night. Then I knew, for a priest stepped forward, and my love went down upon one knee, a glimmer of the moon’s refection alight in his eyes, and he most humbly asked for my hand—admitting, of course, that he was just a commoner and I, after all, the daughter of a lord.

  There, in the night, with the sounds of the river flowing and the owls and the night birds, the scent of summer wildflowers on the air, before God I swore to be his wife, and he vowed to be my husband. He had brought sweet wine from the King himself, and we drank and danced in the moonlight. Then all witnesses melted away, and we were alone in the soft yellow glow of the fire, surrounded by shadow. There was the comfort of the earth, the beauty of my love, the perfect warmth of his strength. And when at last the dawn itself came,
he spoke gravely of the worry that plagued him. I assured him that I was well and strong and could manage Sir Walter and his underlings! He told me that he wished I would come with him, but I again argued that he must stay. I could not desert my beloved parent or my father’s home. He swore that he loved me, held me, cradled me, and vowed that he would come, through wind and rain, snow or fire, that he would be with me, if ever I called, if ever there was the slightest need.

  “Hey!”

  The voice so startled Jillian that she dropped the book, feeling as guilty as if she had been involved in an illegal endeavor.

  It was Griff, standing in the doorway.

  “Hey back,” she said, amazed that she was still trembling.

  “You’re late.”

  “Late?”

  “For dinner.”

  “Dinner? It can’t be.”

  “Jillian, trust me, it is. Would I lie to you? Well, would I lie to anyone about something so trivial as dinner?”

  She grinned, closing the book. “No, you wouldn’t lie about dinner.”

  “I don’t really lie.”

  “You wouldn’t fib about something so trivial as dinner.”

  He bowed gallantly, offering her his arm. She grinned and took it, and they started out of the library together. As they turned toward the stairs, Griff suddenly paused. She saw that he was surveying them in the mirror at the far end of the hall. “Great-looking couple,” he teased.

  Griff was handsome. Tall, blond, with sculpted features, generous lips, large, deep-set eyes. She matched him well, with her light hair, just touched with red, and her own slimness and height.

  “You’re just gorgeous,” she said.

  “Not like tall, dark Robert Marston, though, huh?”

  “You’re my cousin, and you know I adore you,” she assured him. On tiptoe, she kissed his cheek.

  He sighed. “Scrod awaits. Feathery light, perfectly dusted with bread crumbs. Of course, let me remind you that we’re not all that closely related. If Tall, Dark and Overpaid falls short.”

  She laughed, but she was aware that the sound was just a little uneasy. She really was irritated by Robert’s unfair attitude toward her family. Sure they all had their quirks. Eileen was most often sweet, always very talented—but a young woman with a chip on her shoulder, always worried that people weren’t taking her seriously. Maybe she had the right. They’d both had to fight for their places with three male cousins. For all Griff’s devil-may-care manner, he knew how to deal with buyers and could charm almost anyone into taking a chance. Then there was Daniel, so serious that he seldom knew how to play anymore. And Theo, the most steadfast, but with his own secret world.

  But they were her family. All that she had. And they meant everything to her. Robert Marston couldn’t change that with his ridiculous suspicions.

  She was angry, she realized, especially angry that he seemed all but convinced she was the object of some foul plot, when he didn’t believe in anything else. All of this had started on Halloween, with the tarot card reader. He didn’t believe in the occult, in the miraculous, in anything beyond what was flesh and blood or tangible. But there he was, dreaming about her deceased husband’s ghost—and casting blame upon her closest relations.

  “Hey, are you with me?” Griff asked. “You are in love with him, aren’t you.”

  “Him…?”

  “Oh, please. Robert Marston.”

  “I—Griff, he just came into the company. I would never do anything so…quickly. I hardly even know him.” She turned to him curiously. “What do you think of him?”

  He shrugged. “He seems to be a good enough guy. Theo thinks well of him, and he should know. They went through college together.”

  “So you approve?”

  He laughed. “Do you care if I approve?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess I do. This family means a lot to me.”

  “Ah, there’s Douglas speaking.”

  “Maybe. Doesn’t the family matter to you?”

  “More than I ever let on,” he said. “More than I ever let on. Come on, let’s get down to dinner. I like Robert just fine. As long as he stays out of my office and remembers that I’m a Llewellyn, lord of the castle. Well, okay, one of a pack of lords of the castle, but you know what I mean.”

  “Hey, up there!”

  Douglas was at the foot of the stairs, calling them.

  “Coming,” Griff responded.

  “Race you down,” she challenged him.

  They were probably lucky they didn’t break their necks. Griff was beating Jillian, so she jumped up on the banister and slid down. He jumped down the last few steps and crashed to the floor, and she came sliding down on top of him. They were both laughing hysterically.

  She hadn’t realized that Robert was talking to her grandfather, that he was leaning against the door frame that led into the dining room. He watched her as she took Douglas’s hand and rose, sobering.

  “Shall we eat, since everyone is waiting?” Douglas asked pleasantly.

  “Of course. Sorry.” She hurried into the dining room.

  Daniel had been talking earlier about heading back that night, but now, because of a slight warming that day and a freeze setting in, the roads were dangerous. Daniel paused as Douglas entered and everyone sat down. Douglas always said grace. He did so, and as soon as the prayer was completed, Daniel said, “Jilly, pass the potatoes, please. I wonder if I should still get on the road,” he went on, returning to his previous topic.

  “We’d planned on going back tomorrow,” Robert reminded him.

  “Yeah, I know. It’s just that with all of us here, every exec in the office is out,” Daniel said.

  “Joe Murphy will be in. And Connie can handle a lot of what comes up,” Robert said.

  “Oh, yeah, Connie can handle a lot,” Daniel murmured. Jillian found herself studying him, wondering what had been going on in his room. Was he seeing Connie? She couldn’t believe it. Not here—not with Joe in the same house. Connie loved Joe. And they had those two beautiful little girls.

  It couldn’t have been Connie. It must have been Gracie.

  “As long as someone is in by the afternoon,” Theo said. “I wasn’t planning on heading back at the crack of dawn—too cold, the roads will still be bad. But if we head straight into the city around ten, that should be all right.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Eileen agreed.

  “Can you believe it’s this bad in early November?” Gracie Janner asked.

  “Which means it will be great when we get around to filming in Florida,” Griff commented.

  “We’re filming in Florida?” Jillian said.

  “You didn’t know?” Robert asked.

  “Artists never pay attention at meetings,” Griff said with an overly dramatic sigh.

  * * *

  Jillian was definitely angry with him, Robert realized as the night went on. Well, she loved her family, naturally, and he had attacked them. However, she was being a fool to ignore the danger.

  Too many strange events were occurring. First the tarot card reader. Something just wasn’t right there. Then there was the strange incident of the cat, which died in her office. Of natural causes? Of old age? The cat hadn’t looked all that old to him. Had the others finding the cat inadvertently ruined the plan for her to find a black cat dead on her desk immediately following the Halloween tarot card reader?

  The cat had been cremated, but there was a lot that could be learned from ashes, or so he hoped, because he wanted to know exactly how Jeeves had died.

  Then, a fence down, a speeding truck. An accident? Maybe just a hoped-for accident?

  Next, a broken saddle girth. On the horse anyone would have assumed she would be riding. Well, he’d taken the girth, and it was going to the cops, too, and he was damn well going to find out if normal wear and tear had been given a hand. A dangerous hand.

  Jillian wouldn’t listen to him, but at least she was nearby, where he could keep an eye on her.

&nb
sp; He was tired, having spent the afternoon with Daniel, going over plans for the new campaign, but he didn’t intend to leave her alone to go sliding down a banister again. He stayed up, not participating, but watching as the house was decorated. It was clearly Jillian’s project, with Henry her right-hand man, and for once the others seemed willing to be the workforce. They did seem more like siblings than cousins, he had to admit. They joked, teased, argued, scuffled, ruffled feathers, mostly made up.

  Daniel gave up for the night first. Soon after, Eileen and Gary gave in, and Jillian followed them.

  She kissed her grandfather, then offered a cool “Good night, Robert.”

  He didn’t stall, just bid Douglas good-night, thanking him for his hospitality.

  “It was a working weekend—no thanks needed,” Douglas told him gruffly.

  “Maybe, but I enjoyed myself.”

  Great house, he thought as he went up the stairs. Great place to raise kids.

  From his bedroom, he heard Jillian moving around in hers. Then he heard her settle down to bed. In the darkness, he pressed his temples. No mulled wine tonight, but he felt a slight buzz, anyway. He’d indulged in some hundred-and-fifty-year-old cognac with Douglas. Not that much, but it felt now as if he’d imbibed for hours.

  “No ghosts tonight, okay?” he mocked himself aloud. He gave his pillow a punch and settled down, praying for some sleep.

  * * *

  A hot shower had done little to soothe her, and Jillian didn’t think she would ever be able to sleep. She was still too bothered by the ride that morning, and by Robert’s attitude. He had made no attempt to talk to her that night, but every time she’d looked at him, she’d known what he was thinking. Fool.