Move Heaven and Earth

  Startled, Sylvan stared in fascination at the minister. So that was how he herded his flock along the right path. She’d seen only his austerity, but his gladness in the performance of his duty startled, then pleased her. “Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

  He must have gestured his wife forward, for Clover Donald appeared beside him, a tremulous smile on her lips and eyes reddened from the tears that spilled during the ceremony. “May I offer my congratulations, Lady Sylvan, on your marriage?”

  “Of course,” Sylvan murmured, feeling foolish at having to give permission and wondering if this noble union had completely cut her off from communion with those of less breeding. Always before she’d straddled that chasm, one foot placed with the wealthy aristocrats, one foot with the common folk.

  She was, she supposed, lucky to have wed into a family so noble they felt no urge to prove it with sham snobbery.

  Clover’s smile wavered, and Sylvan said hastily, “Won’t you join us for our personal celebration?”

  “We would be honored,” the Reverend Donald answered, and steered his wife toward Rand to congratulate him with equal fervor.

  A long queue of neighbors formed to offer Sylvan their good wishes, and Lady Emmie and Aunt Adela stationed themselves on either side to perform the introductions. Whenever the guests expressed, through word or intonation, their vulgar interest, Lady Emmie or Aunt Adela stepped in. Sylvan, they made clear, was a Malkin now, and therefore beyond reproach. It was no small thing, Sylvan realized, to be a dowager or other relative of the duke of Clairmont. These women elicited respect by their station alone, and when that failed to quell the nosiest of the guests, their patrician demeanor squashed pretension.

  One by one, the neighbors moved from the terrace into the house where they would be presented with a fine repast and a chance to watch the newlyweds.

  Feeling a sharp elbow to the hip, Sylvan watched Gail struggle her way to Rand. “Uncle Rand, will I still be your girl?”

  “My first girl.” Rand enclosed her in a big hug. “And my best girl named Gail.”

  Gail giggled, and Betty called, “Miss Gail, you make your curtsy to Miss Sylvan.”

  “Lady Sylvan,” Rand corrected.

  Betty sniffled with joy as she looked from Rand to Sylvan, from one ring to the other. “Of course, Lord Rand.”

  As instructed, Gail curtsied, but Sylvan saw the wariness in the child’s gaze and experienced a kinship. How could Gail not be wary, with this hurried wedding forced by extraordinary circumstances? Circumstances that must have caused gossip to run rampant through the servants’ quarters and come finally to the child’s ears. Regardless of her paternity, it must be confusing. Taking Gail’s hand, Sylvan leaned over and whispered, “You’ll always be his best girl, but he’s afraid to say so for fear of hurting my feelings.”

  Startled, Gail withdrew her hand, and Sylvan blushed. Foolish to be so incompetent when dealing with a child.

  Then Gail stood on tiptoe and whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, “Don’t worry. Uncle Rand told me before he would’ve married you if you were ugly as a wart-causing toad.”

  The crowd roared with laughter, startling both Gail and Sylvan, and Rand took each of them by the hand.

  “Garth!” Aunt Adela’s voice boomed a little too loudly for discretion. “It’s time you followed your brother’s suit and took a bride.”

  Garth stiffened, then laughed with counterfeit jocularity. “I don’t need to marry yet. I can still hold in my stomach.”

  There was a light spatter of chuckles, but no one seemed really amused, and Rand said, “Sylvan and I have no objection to providing the heir to the Clairmont dukedom. Do we, Sylvan?”

  What was she supposed to say? All the platitudes about blushing brides came to her as she struggled to reply with a trifle of dignity.

  James rescued her with a swift peck on the cheek and a cheery, “Let’s go inside so the peasants can quaff their beer and swallow their meal without trying to display manners they don’t possess.”

  “They have manners,” Garth rebuked. “They’re just not our manners.”

  “Amen to that.” James pushed his way to the edge of the stairs and shouted, “We’ll just throw the raw meat down to you, and you can fight it out.” A ragged cheer answered him, and he turned back to the family with a smirk. “See? They love me.”

  “They think you’re naught but a fop,” Garth answered sharply.

  James put one hand on his hip in exaggerated astonishment. “I wonder who told them that.”

  “No one had to tell them,” Garth said. “When a man hangs about doing nothing, the peasants, as you call them, recognize his worth.”

  “Gentlemen.” Something about the tone of Rand’s voice jerked Garth and James to attention. “This is my wedding day, and you’ll do me the courtesy of calling a truce.”

  James flushed, but Garth rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I’ll do better than that. I’ll go to the mill. It’s been one thing after another these days.”

  “You can’t go, dear!” Lady Emmie hurried forward and took his arm. “It’s Rand and Sylvan’s wedding luncheon.”

  Garth smiled and patted her hand. “Rand won’t mind, and Sylvan doesn’t yet know what hit her.” He lowered his voice, but Sylvan heard him. “Besides, you know how I am about weddings.”

  Below them, the villagers began their exodus to the back of Clairmont Court, where the food would be distributed and barrels of beer tapped. It would be a pleasant respite from the continual labor of summer in both the fields and the mill, and when they finished they would return refreshed and ready to work.

  “Rand,” Lady Emmie wailed, “talk to your brother.”

  “I will,” Rand said. “Go and entertain our guests.” He nodded at Aunt Adela. “Please, Aunt, take her inside.”

  “Garth needs to remain,” Aunt Adela said stiffly.

  Rand cut her off with a motion, and James laughed dryly. “Rand’s back, Mother, can’t you see? We’ll all do as we’re told.” He presented an arm to each lady. “You know you can squelch the gossip with one look from your fine eyes.” He led them toward the house, then paused. “Do you want me to take your leg shackle, too?”

  It was meant to be amusing, but Rand wondered if James knew how close he came to disaster. “Go, James.”

  James went. Sylvan sat on the flat surface of the marble railing, her hands folded in her lap, and stared out at the rapidly emptying grounds. The tumult that went before only accentuated the growing quiet, and Garth burst out, “By Jove! Mother’s right. I must stay here to lend my support to you and Sylvan. I try to forget, sometimes, that I’m the duke.”

  “I don’t think that’s true,” Rand said. “I think you just weigh your primary duty and proceed with it, regardless of the consequences. Now, what’s wrong at the mill?”

  “Someone’s…doing things.”

  “Things?”

  “Breaking things. Hiding things. Making it as difficult as possible for the mill to operate.”

  Rand pursed his lips in a low whistle. “What are you doing about it?”

  “I haven’t done anything yet. I didn’t even realize, the first few days, what was occurring.” Garth thrust his hands into the top of his best waistcoat. “I’m a stupid fool.”

  “Not stupid,” Rand denied. “Trusting.”

  “I’m going to organize a patrol of men at the mill. Men who’ll watch for any unusual activity. But dammit!” Garth glanced guiltily at Sylvan. “Beg pardon, Sylvan. By Jove, what will I tell them? How will I explain this sudden display of malice?”

  “They’re no dunces, Garth.” Rand watched his brother with concern, noting the thinning of the broad cheeks, the way he held his hand over his stomach as if it ached. “They’ll just be glad to know their wives have added protection when they work.”

  “Yes.” Garth pushed his hand through his carefully combed hair. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Rand wanted to hug his brother as he had done when
they were boys, when Garth’s idealism had clashed with reality and Garth had been wounded. But Garth wouldn’t welcome it. Not right now when he’d just seen Rand wed the woman of his choice. Later, when the wound had healed a little…“Go on to the mill,” Rand said. “I’ll make your excuses, and when you come back, we’ll talk.”

  “Something’s wrong.” Rand stared out the carriage window at the mill. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but somehow, something was different and he couldn’t help but remember Garth’s anxiety.

  “The machinery’s not running,” Sylvan said. “There’s no noise.”

  Rand snapped his fingers. “That’s it!” Foolish, he told himself. So foolish he didn’t observe the obvious.

  The square white building looked the same. The shingles toasted in the summer sun. The shorn grass around the foundation wavered in the wind. Charity, Beverly, Nanna, and Shirley straggled toward the sprawling structure, smiling and chatting about the wedding feast, so it would seem all the celebrations were winding down.

  A good thing, too, for as they pulled to a stop, they could hear shouting from inside the mill. It was Garth, and he sounded furious.

  The women groaned, and Rand called from inside the carriage, “I’ll go in, ladies, and divert his wrath.”

  “Blessings on ye, sir,” Nanna called back.

  “Congratulations to ye both,” Charity said, and in a lower voice she wondered aloud, “But what are newlyweds doing here?”

  Rand didn’t take the time to answer. He waited impatiently as Jasper handed Sylvan down, then helped unbuckle the straps that held his chair in place. The women came to lend a hand with unloading him, then Sylvan gave him a push to start him through the grass into the mill. He let her go in first, of course, but just inside the door, she stopped and looked around with troubled eyes.

  The stillness and silence reminded Rand of the hopeful time before the steam engine had been installed and started for the first time. Garth had been ecstatic, sure that the mill would immediately prove itself to all skeptics. Instead it had been a project that swallowed hours of Garth’s time and much of his idealism. If only there were some other way to keep families on the estate, but there didn’t appear to be.

  “Damn stupid machine!” Garth’s voice snarled from the center of the mill. “Stupid damn thing won’t run!”

  A loud, metallic pounding accompanied his invective, and Rand glanced at Sylvan apologetically. “We’ve found him.”

  Amusement brought some color back into her cheeks, and she said, “So we have.”

  About a dozen women sat in a circle on the floor, and they stood as Rand and Sylvan approached, clearing a path and bobbing curtsies while offering felicitations. The commotion attracted Garth’s attention, and he called, “Rand! Sylvan! What are you doing here?” He looked down at them from atop a ladder that leaned on the steam engine. “Did you enjoy as much of the company as you could stand?”

  “Yes, thank you indeed.” Rand glared at his brother.

  Garth tried to be normal and make conversation, when clearly the steam engine held his attention. “I can scarcely believe you walked out of your own party because you found the neighbors shallow.”

  “You should believe it,” Rand answered.

  Garth’s lip curled in disgust. “Was someone rude?”

  “Yes.” Sylvan chuckled. “Rand.”

  “Were you?” Garth took a moment to examine his brother. “Such a surprise.”

  “I wasn’t the only rude one.” Rand glared meaningfully at Sylvan. “But you’re the duke. You should have had to suffer, too.”

  “Ignorant batch of beggars, aren’t they?” Garth’s blue eyes twinkled in puckish merriment, but he dripped sweat from the heat of the furnace.

  “Not all of them.” Rand took Sylvan’s hand and patted it. “Just Lady St. Clare. She tried to question Sylvan about her ancestry.”

  Sylvan hung her head. “You were angry because I asked about her ancestry, too.”

  “No, I was not.” Rand looked up at Garth. “Sylvan asked Lady St. Clare if her parents were married.”

  Garth released a bark of astonished laughter.

  “She made me angry,” Sylvan confessed to Rand. “She stared at you as if you were some kind of lesser creature. Whenever you spoke, she acted amazed.”

  Rand hid his hurt behind a jaunty smile. “The organ-grinder’s monkey performed on cue.”

  “Believe me, I’m sorry.” The engine clanged, and Garth clanged it back with a wrench. “I thought that our neighbors would be sophisticated enough to treat you with respect, as the son and brother of a duke and as a war hero should be treated.”

  He looked so guilty that Sylvan hastened to say, “Most of them were lovely.”

  “Most of them were civil,” Rand corrected. “A few were lovely. I could comfort myself that they’re cretins, but some of them I formerly called my friends. So who’s the cretin?”

  “You don’t expect me to defend them, surely.” Turning back to the engine, Garth tapped a pressure gauge. “I have no reason to love them.”

  Rand didn’t like his brother’s appearance. Garth still wore formal clothing, but his cravat had been torn off and black streaks marred the pristine white of his shirt. Placing a steadying hand on the ladder, Rand asked, “What’s wrong with the damn stupid machine?”

  “Did I call it that?” Garth tried to look innocent. “It won’t start. It keeps hiccuping like it wants to, but it just doesn’t catch.”

  Glancing at Sylvan, Rand experienced her anxiety almost as if she spoke aloud. Something gnawed at her, but when he took her hand and asked, “What is it?” she just shook her head.

  “I don’t know. I just don’t like this place.” She tried to smile. “I’ve seen my father’s mills, and I don’t like them, even when they’re quiet.”

  “I shouldn’t have brought you,” Rand said.

  “You would have left me at the party?” Sylvan asked.

  He laughed at the exaggerated hurt in her voice. “No. I guess even a mill is better than a roomful of nosy aristocrats.”

  Around on the other side, Stanwood, the master mechanic, thrust his head out. “I just cleaned out the stuffing box, Yer Grace. Want to try it again?”

  “Do it.” Garth climbed down the ladder. “These delays are irksome.”

  “Perhaps Jasper could assist,” Rand offered. “He’s got a way with carriages. Maybe he can fix any moving parts.”

  Jasper didn’t move out of the shadows. “Carriages aren’t steam engines. These contraptions are inventions of the devil.”

  Garth laughed. “You don’t believe that superstitious claptrap, do you?”

  “This place makes me squeamish.”

  Sylvan looked as if she wanted to agree.

  “But I wager you could fix this. Won’t you try?” Rand coaxed.

  With a sigh that rattled the piston rods, Jasper came forward and accepted the wrench Garth offered.

  The big engine before them shuddered, and Stanwood called, “Stoke that fire. We’ve got it now.”

  Garth opened the door to the boiler and a blast of heat roiled past. Grabbing a shovel, he ladled coal inside onto the glowing fire until one of the women nudged him and took the shovel.

  “Pressure’s going up,” Stanwood called, and Garth ran around to check the pressure gauge.

  “Look at that,” Jasper crowed. He circled the engine as the main piston began shoving the flywheel. “That rod thing is moving.”

  “We’ve got it now.” Garth wiped a drip of sweat off the end of his nose. “We can start up again. Come on.” He offered his arm to Sylvan. “Let’s go to my office and have a congratulatory drink.”

  The noise level began to accelerate, the floor to vibrate. The women raised their voices above the rhythmic roar of the engine as they walked to their stations. Threads began to twitch, then roll, and Sylvan flinched as the mill developed its customary roar and cadence.

  Rand held her hand tighter and said to Garth, “S
he’ll come with me.”

  Garth’s lips twitched as he subdued a smile, but he said nothing as he led the way.

  Following close behind, Rand asked, “Do you think these problems are the work of the mischief-maker?”

  Lines of care etched themselves around Garth’s mouth and eyes. “He wouldn’t dare mess with the engine. The danger’s too great. If the pressure’s wrong in that thing, if a valve sticks, it could blow this—”

  Sylvan made a sound of distress, and Garth must have heard it, for he quickly added, “Of course, that won’t happen.” He held the door to his office as they entered, then followed them in. He pressed Sylvan down in a chair and brought a bottle of wine from his cabinet. Waving the dusty bottle, he said, “This is the last of the smuggled stuff. French wine is authorized for import now that Napoleon’s been safely shunted off to his island, but I think the illegality gives this quite a tang.” He poured three glasses and distributed them, then raised his in a toast. “May you find the kind of happiness I have found.”

  “God grant,” Rand agreed, and tapped Sylvan’s glass with his.

  “Drink up, Sylvan,” Garth urged. “It’ll bring the roses back into your cheeks.” He waited until Sylvan had complied, then asked, “Now, what really brings you here?”

  “It occurred to me you might be interested.” Rand placed his glass on the desk. “Sylvan had a ghostly experience last night.”

  Garth looked from one to the other. “A ghostly…?” Comprehension swept his face, and he focused on Sylvan intently. “Were you hurt?”

  She shook her head.

  “I beg pardon.” Garth looked furious and embarrassed. “I never would have pressured you into coming to Clairmont Court had I realized you would be subjected to danger. I suppose that since our ghost disapproves of everything I do, he also disapproves of you.” Garth grinned savagely. “But I think he’ll soon see the error of his ways.”

  Rand leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve spoken to him.” Garth perched one hip on his desk. “He’s coming here. We’re going to have a talk, and there’s going to be an understanding reached.”