Move Heaven and Earth (18 page)

The buffer hadn’t survived her first hour with the wounded.

“Now it’s happened again. I’m alive, and my brother’s dead, and just because I was a moment too late.”

She looked at his guilt-stricken face, and realized she still didn’t know the words to comfort him. Feebly, she said, “This isn’t your fault.”

“Easy to say.”

“And you can’t blame yourself for drinking water.”

“It torments me to think that if I’d been a minute faster—”

“You’d be dead, too.” This wasn’t right. Sylvan jerked with the realization. Why was she here, offering comfort where there was no comfort to be had, rather than inside, helping the living? She was such a coward, using Rand’s grief as an excuse to avoid her duty.

And what was Rand doing, assuming he had the power of life and death? His brother’s body lay on the ground, and he was mourning his own existence.

“If I’d got out to the steam engine—”

“You’d be dead, too.”

Her voice was stronger now, more belligerent, and it penetrated his haze. “Sylvan?” He groped for her hand.

She slapped it away. “You’re alive.”

He covered his face and groaned. “I disgust you.”

“Yes…you…do.”

Her bluntness, her outrage brought his head up. “What?”

“You’re a milksop.”

He looked so shocked, she would have laughed, but she seemed to have forgotten how.

“You’re alive, and you’re cowering. You took a drink, you were lucky, and you’re blubbering about it.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“I should hope so.” Her own words pumped strength through her veins, and she dropped to her knees in the rubble and shook her finger in his face. “You’re alive because it wasn’t time for you to die. Because there’s work to be done on this earth, and God has decided you’re the one to do it. I wonder how many times he’s going to have to cuff you before you pay attention.”

He gestured to the mill. “You call this a cuff?”

“I call this work to be done. Your brother would want his people cared for, and you had best stay on your feet and care for them.” Standing, she cast him a scornful glance. “Afterward, you can mourn.”

“What about you?” He stopped her with one question. “What will you do afterward?”

She stood with one foot lifted, frozen by his derision, and wished she could answer that she never mourned. But that would be a lie. No matter how she struggled, no matter how she worked in her mind, she couldn’t face her fate with courage, nor her past with resignation.

She heard Rand groan, and she wanted to echo his pain, but he said, “Dear God, it’s Mama.”

Lady Emmie stood by the side of the mill, Aunt Adela and James on her heels. As she took in the scene before her, her kind face struggled with recognition and shock. She swayed, her tiny frame crushed beneath the weight of this new horror, and behind her Aunt Adela commanded, “Hold her, James.”

James caught Lady Emmie, and Aunt Adela wrapped them both in an embrace, but Lady Emmie shook them both off with surprising vigor and ran forward. Rand sprang to meet her, clasping her in his embrace for one moment before she broke free once more and fled to Garth’s side. Her hands fluttered over Garth’s frame before one came to rest on his chest above his heart. With the other, she reached for Rand, and he took it and held it. “My baby,” she said, looking at Garth. Then she turned to Rand. “Did he give you back your legs?”

Slowly, Rand nodded. “Yes, I suppose he did.”

Aunt Adela passed Sylvan, rushing to succor Lady Emmie, and James dropped to his knees where he stood. They were a family, mourning one of their own, and they didn’t need Sylvan now.

She strode toward the mill, planning Nanna’s amputation and ignoring the voice that whimpered inside.

Dr. Moreland held the pink
, sore-looking stub of Nanna’s leg in his hand. Lightly, he touched the seam where Sylvan had lapped the skin over the bone and muscle to form a natural bandage, and smiled at Nanna. “I wager you were thankful Lady Sylvan was near at hand when the explosion occurred.”

Nanna cast a grateful glance at Sylvan, who waited nervously for his verdict. “That I was, sir. If it had been left to the stupid ol’ horse doctor we used to call for emergencies, I’d be dying in pain and agony. Not that there’s anything wrong with Mr. Roberts, but I’m not a horse.”

“You certainly are not. Well, I couldn’t have done a better amputation myself.” He carefully placed the limb on the pillow where it rested in the makeshift hospital in the halls of Clairmont Court. “I would that all young surgeons learned as well as you did, Your Grace.”

Sylvan stared at Dr. Moreland without understanding. “Your Grace,” he called her, and that was right, but she wasn’t used to it.

Garth lay in state in the grand salon. His brother—her husband—was now the duke. It was a progression unbroken through four hundred years, so why had it taken her by surprise? Why had it never occurred to her that, in the case of Garth’s death, Rand would become a duke?

And she would be a duchess.
Was
a duchess. The daughter of a merchant would be the duchess of Clairmont. Somehow, that seemed the ultimate, most horrible irony.

“You couldn’t have had a better nurse here for this crisis,” Dr. Moreland said to the mill women who stood in a circle around him.

They murmured their agreement, shifting their crutches and adjusting their slings.

“We never expected such kindness and care from a duchess,” Dorothy said, then glanced at Lady Emmie in discomfiture. “I mean…”

“I know what you mean.” Dressed in the black of deep mourning and looking suddenly frail and old, Lady Emmie sat on a stool and attempted to smile at Dorothy. “Sylvan has an experience I cannot hope to match.”

In similar garb, Aunt Adela stood behind Lady Emmie. “I think everyone would agree that our dowager duchess and our new duchess have brought distinction to the Clairmont title, especially in regard to my nephew.”

Lady Emmie’s smile became genuine as she looked on her only remaining son. “I can’t believe it, even seeing him with my own eyes. He’s walking. Walking!”

Rand nodded at his mother and Aunt Adela, then glanced around at the women of Malkinhampsted. Universally, they watched him with tender approval, and Charity lifted her bandaged head off the pillow. “It’s been a dread and ghastly year since ye returned from the
war all crippled. That ye’re walking is a sign that the bad times are turning.”

Leaning on her elbow, Nanna said, “It’s put the heart back into us all, Your Grace, when this blast might have torn us apart.”

Moving with the care of one who had only recently relearned the skill of walking, Rand wrapped his arm around Sylvan’s shoulders. “If not for Sylvan, I’d not have lived long enough for this miracle to happen. It’s Sylvan we all should thank.”

All gazes swiveled to fix on Sylvan, and Sylvan wanted to fend them off physically. Nothing she had done had cured Rand, and the gratitude weighed on her. If only she could say so, but when she looked at him, saw him on his feet, observed his occasional wobbles, she wanted to cry for joy. One thing—one thing only—had gone right in these last wretched days, and it was so right she forgot the pain and remembered only the rapture.

She didn’t realize it, but her eyes shone as they looked on Rand, and his shone with equal delight as he examined her. Then he frowned, and said, “But she’s tired. She’s worked unceasingly for the last two days. It’s been all I could do to make her snatch some rest in a chair.”

“Yes.” Dr. Moreland examined her with his sharp gaze. “On the battlefield and in the hospital afterward, she was relentless in her devotion to the men. She seemed to think she could personally keep death at bay.” He patted her head as if she were a puppy. “That’s why gentlewomen could never assist with wounded on a regular basis, I suppose. Their delicate sensibilities are strained by the horrors.”

Resentful at being patronized, yet afraid he might divulge her secrets, Sylvan stirred within Rand’s embrace. “Do you mean I wasn’t effective in the hospital?”

“No, I mean you almost drove yourself mad caring for the lads.”

Sylvan flinched when Dr. Moreland looked at her meaningfully.

Satisfied he’d made his point, he patted her head again. “Of what use is an exhausted nurse? Your devoted husband sent for me, and I came at once. You can go to bed and sleep, and leave the nursing to me.”

“Adela and I will help, too, dear,” Lady Emmie said. “We’ve discussed this, and we’ll personally supervise the care of our patients so you can sleep. Except for this afternoon, of course, when we…”

Her voice wobbled, and Aunt Adela took up where Lady Emmie left off. “You haven’t slept since your wedding day, young lady, and I doubt that you slept the night before that, either.” Aunt Adela glared, her imperious manner belying the red glaze of her eyes. “We can’t have the new duchess fall into a decline.”

Rand wrapped his arm around Sylvan more tightly. “I won’t let that happen.”

Sylvan looked at him helplessly. All unknown to her, he had sent for Dr. Moreland. That proved his doubts in her ability, but she couldn’t blame him for that. He’d been at her side when she amputated Nanna’s foot. He’d heard the rasp of the saw and Nanna’s screams. He’d seen the other women cower and turn away, and he’d held her head when she vomited afterward.

Men studied at French universities to become physicians, and even surgeons now had some respectability. Sylvan had practiced medicine with no knowledge except practical experience, and she knew that regardless of Dr. Moreland’s kind words, she was guilty of gross incompetence. Worse, she hid the paralyzing fear that by trying to help, she’d committed murder.

Certainly, no one was suggesting that Rand had overexerted himself, although he had dark circles under his eyes.

As if Dr. Moreland read Sylvan’s thoughts, he asked, “Your Grace, if I may be so bold as to inquire, how are those legs?”

Rand seemed to have accepted his rise to the dukedom with a good deal more grace than Sylvan. He didn’t jump guiltily or look behind him, but answered simply, “The muscles cramp when I stand too long or walk too much, but every day seems easier.”

Tugging at his beard, Dr. Moreland nodded. “It’s these types of miracles which make my task worthwhile. Remember that, young lady.” He waggled his finger at Sylvan. “You might have had to cut off a foot, but you cured your husband, and both actions were in the best interests of the patients.”

“I didn’t cure him,” she denied.

“He thinks you did, Your Grace.”

Your Grace
—again. What a jest! What other duchess in England had had to amputate a woman’s foot? What other duchess had set bones and stitched wounds, applied poultices to burned and scalded skin and mixed herbs to relieve infections? What other duchess…She clenched her fists and tried once more to realize—she was a duchess.

“She’s going to swoon,” Lady Emmie said.

Rand swung her off her feet, then braced himself as if he thought he might stumble. He did not, and he looked both pleased and surprised. “You’re a tiny thing,” he said to Sylvan. “Tinier than I’d realized.”

He started toward the stairs, but she shook her head. “I can’t sleep yet.”

He didn’t slow.

“Not until I’ve paid my respects to Garth. Not until…you’re burying him this afternoon, aren’t you?”

Rand hesitated. “Yes.”

“I should be there.”

He looked down at her, and she realized his equanimity had failed him. With tears in his eyes, he said, “We’ve discussed this, and even”—he struggled to keep his breathing steady—“Aunt Adela says that you should rest rather than attend the services. No one will mutter about your absence if Aunt Adela says it’s permissible.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then rubbed her with his chin as if he were a cat gaining comfort from her touch. “Garth would understand.”

Yes, Garth
would
understand. Sylvan believed that. Of all the Malkins, she comprehended Garth’s mind more than that of any of the others. He cared for his family, his patrimony, and his people, and he would bless her for her feeble attempts to help his people. “I want to see him,” she insisted.

Rand carried her to the grand salon and set her on her feet. The odor of camphor permeated the air. The coffin stood in the center of the large room, drawing one’s eye with the magnificence of the carvings and the sheen of the dark wood. It was decorated with wild-flowers, some set in a magnificent arrangement, others woven into small, wobbly looking wreaths.

The lid was not open.

Rand watched the coffin with dry eyes and a brooding anger. “We have to bury him this afternoon. We can’t wait any longer, and the body…the body was so injured…”

She interrupted him, trying to divert him from his grief. “I’d like to sit.”

Chairs stood around the coffin for the mourners who wished to pay their respects, and Rand took the one nearest the door.

Sylvan didn’t want to face the reality. As with all the deaths she’d seen, there existed in her no resignation. When she thought of Garth, she thought of a man who’d worked for the good of his people. To think that one of those people had killed him was beyond Sylvan’s comprehension. She wanted to shout, “No!” and to demand that Garth rise and take his proper place once more.

As she moved forward to touch the coffin, she almost tripped on a woman’s figure, dressed in widow’s weeds, prostrate on the floor in front of the coffin. Had the Malkins hired a professional mourner to take the place of Garth’s wife? But no, real sobs shook the woman, and Sylvan knelt on the floor beside her and touched her shoulder. Betty turned to face her.

Sylvan froze in shock.

Coming to her knees, Betty took Sylvan’s unresisting hand and pressed a kiss on it. In a voice made hoarse by unceasing tears, she said, “Thank you for coming to pay your respects.” She took a quivering breath. “It gives me comfort to know you are here.”

A widow’s speech, Sylvan realized, from the woman who considered herself Garth’s widow. No wonder Garth Malkin, duke of Clairmont, had never married. He had loved his housekeeper.

Betty chuckled with soggy amusement. “You look so confused, miss.”

“I don’t think I’m confused,” Sylvan answered. “I think I see things clearly for the first time.”

“Likely that’s so.” Sobering, Betty touched the coffin with a trembling hand. Her voice broke repeatedly as she said, “He would have cast…propriety to the wind, would His Grace, but I refused to marry him.” Her fingers clutched the curve of wood so tightly her knuckles turned white. “One of us had to do what was proper.”

A waste, Sylvan thought. Such a waste. “It was proper to live with him, but not be his wife?”

“Now don’t you start, miss.” Betty pushed the black veil off her face. Her shiny pink skin looked blotchy, her dull eyes drooped. “He wasn’t a big one for society, but if he’d married me, I’d have been as out of place as a fish trying to fly. The ton would have cut me, and he’d have had to defend me.” She took a quivering breath. “It would have been just awful.
You
know, miss. Just like those so-called gentlemen and ladies tried to do with you on your wedding day, but you know how to act the lady and confound them, and I do not.”

It was true. Betty comprehended her situation and understood her limitations. “But it’s such a shame!” Sylvan cried, rebelling at the injustice.

“I had many good years with him. He’s been my love since I was a lass, and I’m glad for the time we had.” She stroked the coffin. “Well, he’s dead now. Appearances no longer matter, and I can mourn him openly. If the ton gossips, it’ll hurt no one now. Not even Gail. She’s so sure of herself, she’s a lady already.”

“Gail.” So Gail
was
Garth’s daughter. Not James’s, and certainly not Rand’s. She turned and looked at him, and found him gazing straight at her. She had wanted to think Gail was Rand’s daughter because it had been her way to prick at the growing balloon of her attraction to him, and it had amused him to watch her flounder toward the truth. Then the object of her thoughts stumbled into the room; a small, thin, painfully dejected girl who had just lost her father, and Rand took her in his arms and comforted her.

Gail
was
his daughter now.

Although tiredness weighed on her, Sylvan couldn’t sleep. Too many worries preyed on her peace. Through the bright afternoon, the death knell rang out and she counted each dull clang. When the bell stopped, she lay back on her pillow, stared at the fire Bernadette had built, and thought about Gail. The child had been happy and carefree, the daughter of love if not matrimony, and her sense of security had exploded with the mill. She still had Betty, she still had Rand, she still had Lady Emmie and Aunt Adela, but she would never again bask in the arrogant carelessness of childhood.

Could she help Gail? Sylvan thought she could, for even with all her legitimacy, she had never had her father’s love or approval. The quake that had just destroyed Gail’s world had shaken Sylvan throughout her life; perhaps she could guide Gail around the looming obstacles.

A board outside the door creaked, and she shivered with a chill that came from deep inside.

If the ghost only walked when there was trouble afoot, he’d done so with good reason this time. Danger had lurked in the halls and on the estate of Clairmont Court. Danger still lurked, as far as she knew, for no culprit had been seized in connection with the explosion of the mill. She didn’t really know
what
Rand had discovered these last few days—not much, she supposed, when he had spent so much time assisting her. But would Rand have considered confiding in her if he had discovered something? She wasn’t part of the family, not really, and she was a woman. Men frequently thought women should be shielded from the reality of life—which was another way of saying they thought them too stupid to withstand life’s harshness.