A Season of Miracles (19 page)

“Good point,” he said, rising, then helping her to her feet. Luckily the horses had wandered only a few steps ahead. They were easily caught.

“Need a hand?” he asked.

“No, thanks, I'm fine,” she said, shaking her head. She was quickly up, watching him as he mounted.

“Robert?”

“Um?”

“I'm…seriously, thank you again.”

“For?”

“Your daring rescue.”

“Well, according to your husband,” he muttered, “it wasn't enough.”

“What?” she demanded sharply.

He looked over at her, shaking his head. “Sorry. I just…” He shook his head again, embarrassed.

“What?” she demanded again. “Robert…”

“Nothing. I'm just…I'm having dreams in this house. Last night I dreamt that Milo came into my room and told me I shouldn't pat myself on the back too firmly, because I didn't do such a great job. I didn't get the license number off the truck, nor did I take so much as a look at the fence.”

She was frowning. “Why would you?”

“Well, if someone is out to hurt you…”

“Who would be out to hurt me? It was an accident.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Robert, don't start in on my family again.” She swung on him suddenly. “You don't even believe in ghosts. And if Milo
were
a ghost, he'd be coming to see me, not you.”

“Hey, sorry.”

“My family is
not
out to get me.”

She was angry, but he didn't intend to give in. “I hope you're right.”

She stared at him, then kneed her horse. Igloo took off, and Crystal followed.

With a lightning change of mood, she suddenly slowed her horse, turning back to him. “Come on, I'll show you the cottage.”

She was racing again. He rode after her. A minute later, he was thinking that she didn't need enemies, she was reckless enough with her own life. But she could ride well, and she was leading him down a trail through thick, snow-covered trees. Then they burst into a clearing in front of a small, two-story, raw wood cabin that might have come out of a children's book.

She reined in Igloo, leaping off the horse, starting for the door. He left Crystal tethered by Igloo and followed her up the steps to the small porch, then through the door.

“Hey, wait a minute,” he called. “Where are we? You can't just walk into people's houses, Jillian, no matter what last name you choose to go by.”

She was already in, shivering as she stood before a rustic stone mantel. The place was clean and neat, sparsely furnished with some old overstuffed chairs, a sofa, brass hearth tools and a few hanging copper pots. Simple stairs were built against the far wall, and the parlor stretched into a dining room furnished with nothing more than a rustic table and chairs.

“Where are we? Who owns this place?” he demanded.

“I do. It was in Milo's family—it was his studio. Come upstairs. I'll show you some of his work.”

The cottage was bitterly cold, but he was too curious about Milo's work to care. He followed her up the stairs. The second floor might have been an artist's studio anywhere. There was a daybed piled with pillows, a few chairs, another fireplace. And then there were easels, paint boxes, brushes, charcoal, all scattered in a haphazard yet still somehow organized pattern about the room. She walked over to one canvas, lifted the drape from it. The painting, done in acrylics, was arresting. It was a dining scene, with the characters done in caricature. It was Jillian's family and friends. Griff, his features slightly exaggerated, so he took on the appearance of the perfect dandy. Daniel, so serious and gruff that he looked like Pa Kettle. Theo, in the middle, his midriff bulging. Eileen, trying to be tall. Henry was in the background, looking older than Methuselah, with Aggie, barely a skeleton, by his side. Connie and Joe were in the front, playing chess, staring at one another. Two little girls holding dolls stood on the other side; Jillian was with them. More people, including a few he didn't recognize, were walking in and out of the far background. He recognized one of them as Gracie Janner, and another as Amelia. He didn't see Brad Casey, and at first he didn't see Douglas.

“Where's your grandfather?” he asked.

“Right there.”

Douglas was in the center, looking on. “Like God at the Last Supper,” Robert mused, wondering how he'd missed the man.

“Hey, I showed you this because I wanted you to see that though he teased us all, Milo painted this with a lot of love.”

She was right. Everyone was smiling at one another, as if they had learned to tolerate one another's eccentricities.

“Milo was quite the artist,” he said softly, looking around.

“A wonderful artist.”

Robert pointed to another easel. “Is that another of his works?”

She hesitated. “No, that's mine.”

“May I?” he asked. She shrugged, so he walked over to it, removed the covering. This one had been done in oil. It was Milo, wearing a loose-fitting white shirt, against a blue background. He had the appearance of one of the Romantic poets—Shelley, Byron, Keats, lost as if to art, far too young.

“It's great. You should paint more often,” he told her.

“Painting isn't my talent,” she told him. “I design jewelry, and occasionally clothing, now. I don't even really like to sketch anymore.” She shivered, and he realized how cold the cabin was. There was heat here, along with electricity, but since the place was apparently seldom used, the heat was kept very low, just enough to keep pipes from bursting.

“We should go. You're cold,” he said.

She nodded. “I think I'll have Jimmy get some people out here early this year to clean. I dress this place for Christmas, too. Differently, but it's fun. I'll turn up the heat.”

“Who comes out here with you?” he asked curiously.

“Well, Milo did, of course,” she murmured.

“Milo is gone,” he said softly.

“The girls come sometimes—Joe and Connie's girls. They love this place. I have a box of their toys downstairs, but usually I set them up with easels and crayons, or give them finger paints, and they go to it. Children are wonderful artists. They haven't gotten to where they've let others sway them yet, so they just use their imaginations. I still like to come here sometimes. I sketch out pieces here, and in the corner over there I have tools to work with gold and silver.”

“Nice.”

“Thanks. It's peaceful here. As if you're alone in the world.” She smiled, then shivered again. “I guess we
should
go.” She started walking toward the stairs.

“Do you want the lights off?”

“No, that's all right. Leave them on. A beacon in the snow.”

“Don't you worry about people breaking in?”

“You can only get here on foot, horseback or by snowmobile in the winter. And anyone that desperate is welcome to come in for warmth or rest.”

He paused for a moment at the canvas Milo Anderson had done. “I think you're wrong about the peace in this painting, though. I think Milo saw things in your family that he was afraid you didn't see.”

“That again!” She flared. “Lay off my family.”

“Jillian—”

But she had already clambered down the stairs. Outside, she leapt quickly and easily onto her horse.

He called her name again, but she ignored him, turning Igloo and taking off.

Fast.

“Jillian!” he called, teeth clenched as he rode after her. “What the hell are you doing?” he roared, nearly drawing abreast.

She turned toward him, her hair whipped back by the wind. “We're racing!”

It was then that he saw her saddle slipping, starting to slide beneath her horse.

“Jillian!” he shouted, but the wind was whirling around them, hooves were pounding, hearts were racing.

She didn't hear him.

He spurred Crystal to greater speed. He'd already pulled this stunt once; he could do it again. Crystal drew alongside Igloo. “Jillian, the saddle!”

She turned toward him, still angry, not really listening. “Leave me—”

He leapt for her, catching her by the shoulders, bringing them both down into a deep bank of snow. She sputtered furiously at him, snow in her eyes, nose, hair, everywhere.

“Damn you, enough is enough—”

“Jillian, take a look at your saddle.”

He didn't stay down with her but quickly rose. Igloo was trotting off, neighing in distress. The saddle was now all the way beneath the horse's belly.

As they watched, the girth gave completely and the saddle fell from the horse into the snow.

“All right,” she whispered at his side. “I'm sorry. You rescued me again. You're a handy man to have around in case of accidents.”

“Accidents?” he snapped. He could imagine the consequences if she'd stayed on the horse as the saddle turned. She'd have been trampled beneath Igloo's hooves.

She was staring at him stubbornly. “Yes, accidents.”

He shook his head and started walking. He was shaking, afraid, and he didn't want her to realize it.

“Robert!”

“What?” He spun back around.

“Robert, it had to be an accident. Think about it. I was riding the horse you were supposed to be riding. Crystal is my horse. Anyone in my family would have thought I'd be riding him. So it had to be an accident.”

He still didn't believe it, and he didn't answer as he kept walking through the snow to the fallen saddle.

He hunkered down, inspecting the hemp girth. He wasn't a forensics expert, and he couldn't tell if the rope had worn away or if it had been given a little help with a sharp instrument. Whichever, it wasn't going back on the horse.

“Robert.” Jillian was standing stubbornly before him. “Accidents do happen.”

“Accidents and miracles,” he muttered. “Yeah, yeah.” He stood.

“Robert?” Her arms were crossed resolutely over her chest.

“What?”

“What were you doing in the library this morning?”

“Reading.”

“You were sleeping there.”

“Well, yes, then I was sleeping.”

“But…why were you there?”

He picked up the saddle and hefted it over his shoulder. “Because I was dreaming about your husband's ghost, and he told me to go there.”

“Why?”

“To read a book.”

“What book?”

“An old book about the English Civil War.”

“Milo told you to read a book about the Civil War in England?” she enquired skeptically.

“It was a dream, Jillian, just a dream. And this thing is heavy. Let's get back.”

“Just leave it. I can ride bareback, and we can come back with a snowmobile later to get the saddle—”

“No, I think I'll keep my hands on it. But let's get going, okay?”

She walked past him, waited by the horses. He set the saddle over Igloo's back, and they walked the horses through the snow.

Silent and mistrustful.

When they finally reached the stables, she turned and quietly assured him, “If Milo could come back, he'd talk to me.”

“It was a dream, Jillian. I don't believe in ghosts, you know that.”

“I know. You don't believe in anything. Just what you see and touch and feel. And I'm telling you an accident happened. My grandfather is nervous in his old age. I love my family, Michael. And that's that.”

She started to walk away. He caught her arm, frowning. “Robert,” he said.

“What?” Her brow furrowed.

“Robert. My name is Robert.”

“I know your name is Robert.”

“You just called me Michael.”

“No, I didn't.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Oh, for God's sake, I know your name, and I didn't call you Michael. I think you're losing your mind.”

She wrenched free from his hold, left her horse for Jimmy to tend and went racing toward the house. He thought she was crying, and he gritted his teeth.

“I'm not going crazy,” he muttered. “And I wish your wretched husband
would
haunt your dreams. And you
did
call me Michael.”

Michael.

The name of the soldier in the book.

W
hen she returned from their ride, she found most of the group in the kitchen, prints spread out all over the table while comments bounced between them. Jillian had to admit that the photos they had chosen for print ads were wonderful.

“I prefer the one on the left. Jilly's eyes are a little too closed in the first one there,” Daniel said.

“There's a stray hair in that picture,” Eileen objected.

“That's easily touched up,” Brad pointed out.

Theo looked up at Jillian, grinning. “What do you think?”

“I'm amazed.”

“Good,” Eileen murmured. She exchanged pleased glances with Daniel and Theo, then looked at Brad. “Congratulations. You saw something we didn't. And it's terrific.”

Brad flushed. “Thanks. But, Eileen, you were the one who took my artwork and turned it into magic.”

“Hey, I had a hand in it, too,” Theo protested.

“You can all be proud—you all had a hand in it,” Douglas told them.

“Robert?” Eileen asked.

Jillian looked around and saw that Robert had reached the house, as well. He pulled his leather gloves from his hands as he viewed the photos.

“I think they're great. You've captured exactly what we wanted to portray.”

Douglas smiled. “Let's crack some of that champagne we ordered up for Christmas,” he suggested. “I think the occasion deserves it. And I'd like to make a toast.”

“I'll get the glasses,” Agatha said. Henry immediately went to help her. When they got back, Jillian accepted a glass, looking around the room. Gracie Janner actually looked cute—flushed, her cheeks a little fuller than usual.

Was she having an affair with Daniel?
Jillian couldn't help but wonder. Still, she could have sworn the voice had been Connie's. And only Connie and Joe were missing at the moment.

“Where are Connie and Joe?” she asked, lifting her glass for Henry to fill.

“Joe asked me if it was all right if they took off,” Daniel told her. He didn't look at her. He was studying his bubbles as the champagne settled in his glass.

“And here's the toast,” Douglas said, standing at the head of the table. “To you all, for making this come together. I have always said there's nothing in life as important as family. I sat back and watched you plunge into this together, and I have seldom been prouder, more glad of what God has allowed me to create, or more pleased with each and every one of you. Salute.”

“Salute,” they returned in unison.

“To you, sir,” Griff said, raising his glass to Douglas. “With our deepest gratitude for the richness you have brought to our lives.”

Douglas nodded, accepting the compliment. Then he looked at his glass and grinned. “Pretty good stuff. Now I'm off for a nap. Aggie, when's supper?”

“Three o'clock, and it's scrod, so be punctual,” Aggie warned.

“We certainly will be,” Eileen promised. “There's nothing so horrible as overdone fish!”

“But Aggie never overcooks the fish,” Theo said.

“The best breaded scrod in all of New England comes from this kitchen,” Eileen said quickly.

“The best,” Jillian echoed softly.

“Wouldn't miss it,” Griff said, and strode from the room.

Jillian quickly exited, as well.

She was feeling fiercely loyal at the moment, after the way Robert had torn into her family.

She found herself heading to the library, where the book he had been reading was still lying on the desk. She sat down and idly turned a few pages. How strange. He'd never met Milo, he was the world's worst skeptic, yet he was dreaming about Milo coming back as a ghost.

She sat back in the chair, suddenly chilled, hugging her legs to her chest. “If you could come back, you'd come to me, wouldn't you? I know that you would.”

It seemed as if a breeze drifted through the room. Cool, but not chilling. She hugged her knees more tightly.

She looked back to the desk. It seemed that a page had turned. Curious, she studied the book. It was very old, probably one of her grandfather's oldest volumes. It was in excellent condition for its age, though. It had been published in America and was a collection of letters from the time of the Civil War and Reformation in England. She began idly to turn the pages. The book was by a man named Justin Miller, aide-de-camp to Captain Michael Trellyn. There were a narrative, a collection of legal documents and sections of letters, as well as a chronology, and what was probably a somewhat biased look at the English Civil War.

She scanned the pages, then paused, seeing a section titled, “The Letters and Diary Entries of Lady Morwenna, with Correspondence to Her Captain, While He Was Away at War.”

She loved old letters. Douglas had dozens of books filled with correspondences from the American Civil War, World War I and World War II. They were so poignant, creating flesh-and-blood tales that conveyed the sorrow of warfare with much greater effect than any simple recitation of dates and places.

The first entry in the section was a diary selection.

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.

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…