She punched her unscented pillow and turned her thoughts to the upcoming church fete, in which she had promised to participate, and of how Cord’s hair had looked in the candlelight that evening. She thought of the laundry inventory she must take tomorrow, and of her conversation with Cord that afternoon in Cambridge. The words had seemingly spun about them in a glistening strand. It was not until a determination to subject Uncle Henry’s library to a thorough dusting somehow phased into a contemplation of Cord’s remarkable emerald eyes that she realized the futility of trying to sleep.
She gave herself up to a thorough, albeit singularly profitless examination of her feelings for Cord. She liked him—she had already admitted that much. She had enjoyed his kiss—although perhaps “enjoyed” was not the
mot juste.
She had dissolved into a molten puddle of desire at his touch, and would probably do so again should he make another attempt on her virtue. Could she trust his promise to maintain his posture of friendship? Perhaps it was not a mere posture, she mused. She knew little of the workings of a man’s mind, particularly that of a gentleman of the
beau monde
. However, experience had taught her that once a male on the hunt had chosen his prey, he was not likely to be too nice in his methods. Cord had seemed sincere, but she could not be easy. In fact, even now she found herself listening for the sound of a door latch being softly raised. What would she do if he came to her? Could she dredge up a show of maidenly outrage and send him to the roundabout with a hearty slap across his honeyed mouth?
She rather thought so, because if Cord
were to
prove himself so importunate and so disregarding of his host’s trust in him, she would be truly angry. She hoped her wrath would enable her to drive him from her chamber with a fiery sword before he had a chance to practice his alarmingly effective blandishments on her.
No such invasion of her virginal chamber occurred, however, and after some time, when the door handle remained unturned, she finally drifted into an uneasy sleep.
The next day dawned brilliant with sunshine and bird-song, as though Nature were apologizing for her behavior of the evening before. Cord had been informed that it was the family custom to dine together at what he could only consider the impossibly early hour of seven of the clock. Emerging from his chamber a little before that hour, he unexpectedly encountered Gillian, just leaving the room next to his. He almost cried aloud, clapping his hand to his head in a “Had I but known!” gesture, but contented himself with a courteous nod and a solicitous hope that she had enjoyed a good night’s sleep.
Nodding sedately, Gillian informed him that this was the case, and the two made their way to the dining parlor. Making his way through a repast of eggs, kippers and ale. Cord assured Aunt Louisa, in response to her anxious questions about his night’s rest, that he had slept like a log. To Gillian, he spoke little, merely commenting on the beauty of the day and requesting the pleasure of her company on an early morning ride.
Thus, shortly after eight o’clock, the two, appropriately garbed and mounted, cantered from the stable yard.
“Ugh!” exclaimed Gillian, examining her boots. “What a morass! The rains last night apparently turned everything to soup.”
Cord nodded in agreement. “We’d best stick to the high ground on our ride.”
“Yes. Perhaps we could travel northward. Your estate is mostly forested in that area. We might see—or at least hear—a few grouse. I love to listen to them, thumping messages to their ladyloves.”
“Is that what it takes to get your attention? Pounding on a log with one’s feet? If that is the case . . . All right.” He flung up a hand in response to Gillian’s austere glance. “Consider that last unsaid. Although”—he continued with some might have called a foolhardy insouciance—”had I known that your chamber lay next to mine, I might have attempted a spot of wall thumping last night. Just to assure myself that you were resting comfortably,” he added hastily. His smile was of the blandest purity, but Gillian had no difficulty in detecting the mischief sparkling in the jade depths of his eyes.
“For heaven’s sake, Cord,” replied Gillian in irritation. “Is the hope of seduction never five minutes from your thoughts?” She pulled on the reins, preparatory to turning about. “If you don’t mind, I believe I should like to return home. You will want to be on your way, of course, so—”
In response. Cord placed a hand on her reins. He laughed contritely. “Please, Gillian. Do not desert me. I spoke out of force of habit, I fear.” The laughter
in
his eyes was a gentle onslaught, and Gillian felt herself weakening. “It is difficult for me to be in the company of a woman who is both beautiful and charming, without spouting gallantries—all right—meaningless gallantries. I shall desist. I promise.”
“The awareness is creeping over me, my lord Cordray, that your promises are as these mud puddles—creations of the moment that will dry up and vanish under the glaring scrutiny of the sun.”
Her tone was amused rather than angry, but Cord felt unaccountably stung. No one had ever questioned his commitment to a promise. He was a gentleman, after all, and was scrupulous where his honor was concerned. Surely Gillian must know that he had been merely amusing himself—that he was not considering a serious attempt on her virtue.
“Really, my dear—” he began, but was silenced as Gillian help up her hand.
“Listen!” she exclaimed. “What on earth is that sound?”
Cord did as she bade, and immediately became conscious of a strange, roaring noise, coming from directly ahead of them. As they quickened their pace, the roar intensified. Rounding the curve that led to a small bridge across the river, they halted abruptly, mouths open in astonishment.
Before them lay the river—not the placid stream that one could cross easily on the little bridge, but a roaring torrent that tumbled and foamed in its fury. The water had risen mightily, raging over its banks like a ravening monster, seeking to engulf the countryside. The little bridge was gone.
Chapter Twelve
“My God!” breathed Cord. “I had no idea. .” He was forced to shout above the roar of the water. “That was a terrible storm, but how could this have happened overnight?”
“I ... don’t know,” Gillian shouted back, pale and shaken. “I suppose it’s a culmination of all the recent rains. It’s been the wettest season in years, but, I’ve never seen anything like this. The bridge—it’s simply been washed away as though it had never existed.”
“I must tell Jilbert to get something temporary constructed until we can build a new one. Or, no—I suppose that will have to wait until the spate slows and the water level falls. In the meantime, we must erect some sort of warning. Anyone driving at a fast pace here—coming around that curve without notice—might well tumble into the torrent.”
He turned to ride back along the curve in the road. Dismounting, he began to gather rocks, piling them in a small caim at the side of the road. He patted his clothing, searching, then lifted his eyes to Gillian, who still sat astride Falstaff, watching him wonderingly. She had never seen Cord move so briskly and with such purpose.
I wonder, my dear, would you be willing to contribute that extremely fetching scarf to a good cause?”
Glancing down, Gillian lifted her hand to her throat. In place of the stock she usually wore with her cinnamon-colored riding habit, she had chosen a scarf of a brilliant orange-red. She removed it and handed it to him. Working quickly, Cord secured the strip of brightly colored cloth to the top of the pile with one more large rock. He stepped back.
“There. We cannot do anything for riders coming from the other side of the river, but I hope we have warned those approaching from this side.”
Once astride his horse again, he made as though to wheel about, but stopped suddenly, frowning.
“Jilbert mentioned the tenants’ cottages—and the danger of flooding.”
Gillian gasped, raising a hand to her mouth. “Dear Heaven, do you think—?”
“What I think is that I’d better get over there.” His gaze met hers. “Do you mind riding back to Rose Cottage alone?”
“Of course not, but I’m not going to do any such thing!” In response to the question in his eyes, she flushed. “I am coming with you, of course. I may not be of much help piling sandbags, but perhaps there is something else I can do.”
Cord said nothing. He merely stared at her for a moment, then nodded.
The two found it difficult going as they retraced their steps to the washed-out bridge. They turned to ride along the path that led along the river, but soon had to make their own way farther from the rushing waters. As they progressed, on a slight decline, the area of flooding grew broader. By the time the first cottage was sighted, the horses were slogging in water up to their hocks. Gillian and Cord drew up abruptly as they absorbed the scene of chaos before them.
The sandbags could still be seen, piled in rows between the river and the cottages, but they had proved completely inadequate. Indeed, it was difficult to ascertain the river’s channel, so wide had it spread beyond its banks. Water swirled in sluggish wavelets in a newly formed lake that encompassed nearly every one of the twenty or so dwellings that formed a line along the now-invisible lane. The inhabitants of the cottages could be seen splashing through the water, crying out to one another as they loaded possessions into several wagons that had been brought about. Cord, with Gillian close behind, galloped up to the nearest of these.
At his approach, a burly man turned to greet him, thus losing purchase on the wooden table he was attempting to pile into an already laden wagon. His wife, carrying a chair, screamed. Cord leaped from his horse to assist the man.
“Good God, man—Findley, isn’t it? When did all this start?”
The man lifted his head, startled. His arms full of table, he was unable to remove his cap, and instead performed a hobbled bow.
“G’morning, me lord! Wull, it was only muddy when we arose earlier. Then, the rush came. We could hear the awful noise of the river as it swoll and swoll. We could tell it wouldn’ be long before it bust its banks and we begun getting our things together, and sure enough, by seven of the clock it started flooding in earnest.”
Findley cast a worried glance toward the other houses. “Trouble is, we an’t got enough wagons fer everybody, and I’m afeared we won’t be able t’pull ‘em out when we do get them loaded.”
“Has anyone sent for Jilbert?” asked Cord, also gazing about assessingly.
“No—but we thought ‘e’d be here by now, anyways. He knows how it gets here when it rains. Howsomever, ‘e lives on t’other side of the river, and we figger ‘e must be stranded. Ee—what’re ye doin’, me lord?” Findley asked in consternation as Cord began to dismount. “Ye can’t go walkin’ about in this.”
“I’ve walked about in far worse than this,” retorted Cord. He called to a young boy, manfully attempting to haul a cupboard from a nearby home. “What’s your name, lad?”
The boy splashed over to where Cord stood with Findley.
“Jim, sir—my lord, that is. Jim Deggs.”
Cord handed him Zeus’s reins. “Jim, I want you to ride to Wildehaven. Go immediately to the stables and tell them to bring over every available conveyance—carriages, carts, wagons—and men to drive them. Get the servants from the house over here, as well. Tell them to don boots and serviceable garments. Gillian, can you—?”
But Gillian had dismounted as well. Holding up the skirts of her habit as well as she could, she approached Findley’s wife, a young, plump-cheeked matron, who was now struggling with a rocking chair. After assisting her to get the chair atop the other furnishings in the wagon, Gillian followed her back into the house. Here two young girls bundled pots and pans and other kitchen-ware to safety in the upstairs loft. From this direction could be heard the sound of a baby wailing.
“Oh, Betty,” cried Gillian, “what a dreadful mess! But you seem to be managing.”
“Yes, Miss Gillian.” Betty paused to tighten the rope she had tied about her waist to hitch up her skirts. “I can’t think why they built these places so close to the river in the first place. Almost every spring, our yards become mud holes, but this is the first time it’s flooded.” She gestured to her daughters. “We’re carrying the small things upstairs, for I don’t think the water will rise that far. The larger pieces—tables and settles and such are what’s going in the wagon—though I don’t think it will hold everything. Oh, dear, miss, just look at yer gown!”
Gillian was already aware of the state of her clothing, since her habit was already so sodden that she could scarcely move. However, she said merely, “Have you another piece of rope?”
Having wrung out her skirts to the best of her ability and secured them to a more workable level, she moved to a small cupboard. “I think we can manage this, don’t you?”
“Oh, but miss—you can’t—that is, you’re Quality!”
“I think I’d be of pretty poor quality if I couldn’t help my neighbors when they need it,” retorted Gillian, smiling. The two women pushed and hoisted until they had the cupboard safely aboard the wagon. She paused a moment to glance at Cord, again surprised at the swiftness with which he had taken charge of the situation. As she watched, he strode from the Findley environs to the next house in the row. There, he spoke to the family briefly, issuing instructions, before moving to the house beyond. Since most of the wagons were by now almost fully loaded, he brought together the strongest men in the little community to haul them to higher ground. There they were unloaded and brought back to be laden again.
Gillian returned to the task at hand. She, too, moved from house to house, helping where she could. She gathered the babies and smaller children into the upper story of the largest of the dwellings, instructing two of the older children to mind them so that their parents could devote their energies to salvaging the family belongings. Then she helped where she was most needed in dragging precious possessions aboard the wagons.
She saw Cord only intermittently during the coming hours, which passed quickly. More wagons, horses, men and women arrived within an hour from the Wildehaven manor house and from Rose Cottage. Mr. Jilbert arrived at last from his home in Great Shelford.