Read A Season of Miracles Online
Authors: Heather Graham
A Season of Miracles (27 page)
Amazingly, they both slept exceptionally well that night, wrapped in each other's arms.
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On Friday morning Jillian insisted on getting the tree. Thanksgiving was over; it was officially, traditionally and totally time to set up Christmas.
For years she had gone with Griff to get a tree, but this year Robert refused to let them go alone. Since Joe and the kids were still sleeping, Connie decided to join them, as well. They sang carols in the car. Jillian told Griff it was his turn to play Santa for the kids that year. Griff said they were Joe's kids, so Joe should have to play Santa.
“That's the pointâthey'd recognize their father,” Connie said, hitting him on the shoulder.
Snow still lay heavily on the ground when they reached the tree farm, but they were bundled in coats, gloves and sweaters, and the temperature wasn't brutal. Jillian led the way through row after row of pines to find just the right tree, with Connie laughing and Griff whining all the way.
They were alone in the wilderness, so it seemed. No other shoppers were out quite so early.
Griff took the hatchet and the first swing. It went wild, causing Jillian and Connie to laugh, taunt him and hop back. Robert didn't appear so amused. He took the hatchet and whacked down the tree with so few blows that Jillian found it almost frightening. Griff didn't seem to notice, though in the car, he teased her, saying, “Ditch the macho madman, Jillian. Marry me.”
“We've discussed this before, Griff,” she teased back. “We don't want to have two-headed children.”
“We can avoid procreatingâoh, no, I forgot. We have to procreate. Keep the Llewellyn dynasty going. Oh well, two-headed children it is. We can make
Ripley's Believe It or Not,
and become rich and famous in our own right.”
Connie was giggling. “She can't marry you, Griff. She's already married.”
Griff stared at Connie, as if amazed she could be so casually cruel. “Connie, Milo's dead,” he reminded her softly.
“Yes, butâoh!” Connie gasped, seeing the way Jillian was staring at her. “Oh God, I forgot. What a mouth I've got on me. I'm so sorry.”
Too late. Griff was staring at Jillian. “You've married him.
Already?
”
“Yes, she's married me, already,” Robert said firmly, his eyes catching Griff's in the rearview mirror.
“Well⦔
“Don't say anything yet, please, Griff. I haven't told Grandfather,” she begged.
“Oh, like he won't be pleased,” Griff muttered.
“I haven't told him. I hadn't told anyone,” Jillian said.
“Connie knew,” Griff said, sounding hurt.
“By accident. She overheard something, that's all. Griff⦔
“So you stole her away and married her, just like that,” he said to Robert. Then he shrugged. “Well, congratulations.”
“Thanks, Griff. But, please⦔
“Maybe we should just tell everyone,” Robert suggested.
“Not yet,” Jillian said.
“Right. Fine.” Despite his words, he sounded angry. “You can tell people in your own good time.”
Griff started to laugh. “I think you're crazy for not saying anything. Douglas is going to be thrilled. I mean, he's an old-fashioned guy. He's spent years trying to ignore the fact that Eileen and Gary slip from room to room when they're in this house. And not even Eileen has had the balls to tell him they practically live together. He ignores my lifestyle totallyâjust mentioning now and then that a promiscuous lifestyle is dangerous in this day and age. He's down on Daniel these days, though. I wonder what the old boy has done? If it's something nice and evil, he isn't sharing with me.”
They reached the house then, where suddenly they had all kinds of help with the tree. Connie and Joe's girls were up, and they were thrilled with the prospect of decorating the tree. The entire household got involved. Eileen supervised from a sofa, while Gary and Daniel put up lights. Agatha and Henry worked together in the kitchen, making popcorn for strings to wrap around the tree. Joe helped Douglas sort through the boxes of ornaments, giving the unbreakable ones to Connie and Joe's girls, Tricia and Liza, one by one. Theo and Gracie lifted the girls when necessary to allow them to reach the higher branches. Griff called himself music management, sorting through the Christmas CDs to get them in the proper mood. Kelly Adair, Connie's mom, stood across the room and eyeballed the three, telling them where they needed more ornaments, while Connie and Jillian supervised from a closer range, rescuing ornaments when they fell from little hands.
The effort took most of the day. It was only when they stopped for a late lunch that Jillian realized she had not seen Robert for a long time.
She hesitated, deciding not to try to find him, since she meant to take the kids with her to the cottage that afternoon and start decorating there.
She tried to slip out with the least amount of fuss. Connie was coming with her. She took Crystal, her own horse, that day, while Connie rode Cream. Tricia rode in front of her, while baby Liza rode with her mother.
On the way, they sang Christmas carols. The girls were wonderful, fascinated by the deep snow, oblivious to the cold, enjoying the adventure.
They reached the cottage and began going through the many boxes of Christmas items. Jillian managed to leave the others downstairs and walk up to Milo's studio for a few moments alone. She walked around the room.
“Can you hear me?” she whispered. “It's me, Jillian. Milo, what are you doing? What are you saying to Robert? What on earth is going on here?”
She stood still, closing her eyes, expecting to hear his voice.
“I thought I heard your voice once. On that subway platform,” she said softly.
It seemed suddenly as if a breeze stirred in the room. She thought she could hear the soft rustling of curtains.
“Milo?” she whispered.
She closed her eyes. A whisper of air seemed to caress her cheek.
“Thanks for trying to help.”
“Jillian, who on earth are you talking to?”
Her eyes flew open, and she spun around. Connie had come up the stairs. Jillian shook her head. “No one. I was just talking to myself.”
“Hey, I saw Madame Zena with you, remember?”
“Yes, I remember. But I was just talking to myself.”
“Have you read that book yet?” Connie asked her seriously.
“We've started.”
“Started?” Connie said. “When we get back, you need to finish it.”
They stayed another hour or so, making instant hot chocolate loaded with little marshmallows for the girls. Finally, they rode home. It was almost dark.
Jillian headed for the library as soon as she arrived.
As she had expected, Robert was behind the desk, already reading. He looked up when she came in. He was in a teal turtleneck, dark hair curling over the collar, eyes grave. He watched her for a minute before he spoke.
“You went to the cottage?”
“Yes, I would have asked you to come, but I wasn't sure where you were.”
He set the book down. “Bull.”
“What?”
“You went to the cottage without me to see if you could drum up Milo's ghost.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Milo.”
“He told you?”
Robert smiled suddenly. “No. But I knew that's what you were doing.” He sobered. “Jillian, don't go off without me again, all right? Especially not here.”
“I was with Connie and the kids.”
“It doesn't matter.”
She sighed, sitting across from him. “Did you finish the book?”
“Yes,” he said softly.
“And?”
There was a soft tap at the door. It opened, and Connie stuck her head in. Jillian stood up quickly. “Connie⦔
“Oh, come on, you two. I was there with Madame Zena!”
“Yes, and you also opened your big mouth in the car this morning,” Robert said sternly.
“I'm sorry. Really.”
“And,” Jillian reminded her, “you're married to Joe. Daniel's right-hand man.”
“Hey,” Connie protested. “I don't tell Joe everything. I can keep a secret. Really. Besidesâ¦I've already read pieces of the book. And if I'm anyone, I'm Jane. Ye olde faithful maid.”
“You read the book?” Jillian asked.
“Well, you two left it right on the desk. It wasn't like I had to prowl around to find it or anything. And I'm serious. You heard what Shelley Millet had to say. I'm your office assistant nowâI was your maid back then. Not at all fair. I mean, I have friends who have done that whole regression thing. They were always princesses, or rich, brilliant women. I get to be office staff and domestic help.”
“Connie, you have a great job.”
“Yes, but I don't get to be the Princess Llewellyn.”
“And you didn't get burned at the stake,” Robert said sharply. He stared at Connie, then at Jillian, and began to read.
We were riding hard to the south when Garth reached us with the news; the Lady Morwenna was being held in the dungeon. Charges had been read against her; witnesses had been summoned. She was judged guilty of witchcraft and heresy against Almighty God Himself, and she was labeled a traitor against England and the English people. Come the 24th, Christmas Eve, she would be executed by the laws of her country and her God, burned at the stake until dead, her ashes scattered to the wind. Michael was outraged. He heard the news but could not believe it, could not accept it. Sir Walter would not dare commit such a deed. But looking at Garth, seeing the lines of trial and tension in his face, we knew it had to be true.
“We ride,” Michael said.
“It's a trap, you know,” Garth warned him. “He will set the lady upon the stake, then wait to seize you when you come.”
“He will die when I come,” Michael vowed. “We ride. Now. I swore that I would be there.”
And so, with Garth struggling to keep up, we rode for home. Garth told us that Sir Walter's fury came mainly from her rejection of him, that even in the fierce cold of the dungeon, she refused to give in to his demands. She told him that before God she had a husband, and that her only act of treachery could be to betray him. Sir Walter swore that she would burn, here on earth, then do so again in eternal hell. She vowed that she would come back to seek revenge, but that his words were foolish anyway, because Michael would come for her. He had promised to come for her. With her whole heart, she believed that he would do so.
Garth fell back. He could not keep up with the fierce pace of our desperate run. Michael vowed again and again that he would arrive before the appointed hour. Yet I could see the fear in his face that he would not do so. We later heard that she stood for hours upon the pile of kindling and faggots, and even when the fire was lit, she swore that he would come.
Sir Walter did not have her strangled first, as would have been kind.
They say that her screams echoed through the day and into the night, though she could not have lived near so long upon her pyre, then rang across the hills forever after.
We came upon the scene too late by only moments, and yet what those moments had wrought. Michael had great talent with a sword, with firearms, with his fists. His greatest ability, however, was his aim with a bow and arrow. And so he saw where she stood, consumed in flame yet living still, and he strung his bow and let loose his arrow, and he killed her himself, striking her heart through distance and flame.
“Oh my God!” Connie gasped, leaping to her feet. “Jillian, when you met Robert, you passed out, grasping your heart. He shot you in the heart with an arrowâ
he
killed you!”
“Connie, she was already half dead, being burned to cinders. He did her the only kindness he could,” Robert interrupted patiently. “And this is a story, a book.”
“It happened,” Jillian said.
“You actually killed her,” Connie accused him incredulously.
He shook his head in aggravation, turning back to the book.
She was gone. Our lady was gone, but her screams never seemed to die away. Michael took up the chant with a thunder of rage, and we rode through the snow, so few of us, so many of them. But there had never been such a rage as seized us then. He had failed to believe that he could best the fire, but insanity came then, and he believed in his sword arm. We cut through the guards and the crowds. Most probably the common folk had no will to stop us, and once upon a time the guards had been Lord Alfred's men, so perhaps their own guilt caused their deaths. Blood stained the snow. He hacked through every man until he came to Sir Walter. Sir Walter he slashed to ribbons, until the head was all but severed, the torso a stump, the limbs strewn, and still it was not enough.
Michael had his horse race over and over the body. But Cromwell's forces were behind us. And so we rode north.