Chapter 15 #2
The wind was pitiless, tearing the hood from her head the second she raised it and making raindrops hit her face like pinpricks. It fought to push her backward, to send her tumbling to the wet ground and prove to her how she’d been wrong to think herself capable.
She didn’t let it. She couldn’t, not when the prosperity of the estate was at stake. This was their home, and she refused to sit back and watch it suffer another blow.
She used Benedict’s hand as a guide when the downpour obstructed her vision, and she forced her legs to power forward without relenting. They ran over gravel and grass, through the small formal garden and into the field that traveled down to the river, an ever-increasing roar pounding in her ears.
A flash of lightning broke through the sky, casting the riverbed, which had been so callously drained, into stark illumination.
It wasn’t dried up now. Turbulent water swelled and gurgled, cresting over the banks and drawing precariously close to the bridge that led across to the irrigation channels.
It was there that the hapless flock of sheep had situated themselves, bleating plaintively as farmhands hovered amongst them, everything a mixture of rain and chaos and so much mud.
Violet’s heart sank to her boots. The scene was just as the frantic groom had described it, but witnessing it firsthand made the danger that much more imminent.
She felt herself being pulled to a halt as Benedict slowed beside her, his grip on her hand tightening.
The grim set of his jaw relayed his despair, but she could sense his hesitation, too.
He didn’t want her down there, not where the ground was muddy and slippery, where thunder cracked and the river raged.
Yet she could no more turn around and abandon the flock—abandon him—than she could cease breathing.
“Come, we don’t have a moment to lose.” She squeezed his fingers, then gave a powerful push forward, twisting free of his grasp and rushing toward the imperiled bridge.
She couldn’t wait to ensure he agreed with her actions; they simply had to get to the water meadow and fix this before it was too late.
If he offered a reply, it was impossible to distinguish above the storm’s cacophony. All she knew was that he caught up to her on the bridge, grabbing her by the waist and helping her across the slick stones until they stood upon the water meadow on the other side.
Now that they were immersed in the scene, the sound of yelling amongst the four farmhands became mixed with the noises of sheep and rainwater, amplifying the dissonance.
One man circled anxiously behind the flock, while the others remained occupied with freeing two hefty ewes from their prison of mud, seemingly in disagreement over the best way to do so.
Benedict drew their attention by emitting a sharp whistle, loud enough to prove a match for the howling wind. “What in hell happened?” He freed Violet’s waist, plodding over the sodden ground toward the four dripping faces that suddenly peered back at him with alarm.
“We don’t rightly know.” The eldest of the farmhands—a wiry gentleman with graying hair plastered to his head and weathered cheeks flecked with mud—momentarily released his hold on the trapped sheep’s flanks to gesture to the tightly huddled flock.
“Seems the wind must’ve freed them from their hurdle, and the witless creatures wandered down here, where they’re used to grazing. ”
Even amidst the turmoil, Violet detected the bristling of her husband’s body beneath his drenched greatcoat.
“Where are Green and his dog?” he shouted, posing the question that plagued her, too.
Why hadn’t the shepherd noticed the flock’s escape?
Why had he—or the great shaggy dog who accompanied him in his work—done nothing to stop the situation before it reached the point of calamity?
The farmhand’s shoulders quickly rose before he resumed his attempts at liberating the ewe, his face straining with effort. “No one’s seen a trace of ’em. I sent a lad up toward his cottage, but there’s nary a sign.”
Benedict’s curse began an instant before thunder reverberated across the landscape, as if reminding them of impending doom.
With the help of a final determined push, the ewe came free of the viscous puddle, eliciting a collective groan of relief from the farmhands who’d come to her aid.
However, when the creature took a few tentative steps away, any hint of relief on Violet’s part promptly crumbled into dust. The ewe strayed toward the newly repaired irrigation channels, where more thick mud created hazards in every direction.
Invigorated by their success, the farmhands set to work on freeing the second ensnared ewe, heedless of the remaining sheep.
Violet saw them, though. Saw how hooves shifted against the wet grass.
All it would take was one agitated ewe to start running, and suddenly, the entire flock would be racing across the water meadow, farther into mud and danger.
If the sheep panicked, they had no way of herding them to safety.
Not enough power to free them if they all became entrapped.
“Wait. Stop.” The sharpness in Benedict’s command suggested the looming risk had hit him, too. “Before you do anything else, we need to construct barriers. Something so the sheep will be driven back toward the bridge rather than wandering farther onto the meadow.”
Yes, barriers … She scanned the dismal scene, the unrelenting torrent of water and muck. There was nothing here but bleakness, but hopelessness and failure—
Nothing but the spades and shovels the laborers had left behind when making repairs to the irrigation channels, still resting on the banks.
She bolted forward, ignoring how her feet slid haphazardly beneath her, until she reached the edge of the channel, pulling two of the wooden handles into her grasp.
That accomplished, she took another quick survey of the landscape before darting over to where the river curved inward toward the channel, creating a narrowing of the land. It was as good a place as any to start.
She drove a spade into the ground near the riverbank, the soaked earth yielding easily and providing a base so the tool could remain upright.
Satisfied it wasn’t in immediate danger of getting toppled by the wind, she rushed to the edge of the channel and repeated the process, fashioning another makeshift fencepost. There was no way her creation would last any length of time, not in these conditions. But if it could only last long enough.
She tore the cloak from her shoulders, shuddering as rain seeped through her silk evening dress. Yet the rest of her was already soaked; what difference did a little more rainwater make?
The evening was warm, at least, and her fingers remained nimble, making quick work of tying her cloak to each of the handles. A rickety fence rail if ever there was one, although the wet fabric flapped robustly in the wind, providing an adequate deterrent to sheep. Hopefully.
She spun away, ready to erect the next barrier in front of the footbridge leading across the channel. However, Benedict was already there, securing his greatcoat between the two remaining shovel handles he’d pitched into the ground.
We’re partners in this, she realized, blinking away raindrops so her vision clarified, putting the rigid lines of his body—each adept motion he made—into sharp relief. If determination plays any role, we will make things right.
Access to the east side of the meadow, just beyond where the flock huddled, remained unimpeded, and they had no more shovels to serve as posts.
However, water was overflowing the banks and pooling across the land, forming a large enough puddle that the sheep should avoid it. As long as they didn’t become frenzied.
She dragged her feet through the cloying mud, hurrying toward Benedict so she could share her observations. A jagged flash lit the sky, followed by another rumble that momentarily overpowered all other noise.
Even so, he turned to her, seeming to sense her approach. His face was dark, rain-streaked, severe. Yet in those harsh angles, she saw not despair but resolve.
“Will you stand here?” He reached for her hand, helping her come the final few steps until she stood before him, his body a sudden blockade against the wind. “Make sure no errant sheep attempt escape in the wrong direction.”
She nodded swiftly, meeting the intensity of his gaze, allowing herself the briefest moment to savor the shelter he provided.
And then, because they weren’t presently bound by careful words and restrained gestures but propelled by urgency and vehemence, she placed a hand on his jaw.
A motion that, for a sliver of time, shut out the chaos and grounded her.
A motion he answered by squeezing his fingers against hers for a fleeting moment before rushing away, back to the cluster of waiting farmhands and the final trapped ewe.
“Let’s continue.” His voice had an undisputable tone of authority, clear even amidst the unrelenting storm.
He positioned himself beside the eldest farmhand at the ewe’s flanks, then gestured to the other men.
“I need one of you to come take the ewe’s shoulders.
The other two stand to the side and prepare to drive the sheep back if they venture to the east.”
The farmhands scrambled into place, a duo of them keeping guard near the ever-growing puddle in the meadow, while the burliest of the men took his spot in front of the bleating, quivering ewe.
“As soon as we free ’er, sir, we’ll turn ’er,” the man shouted, his voice hefty enough to carry across the wind. “See if we can’t get ’er moving away from the river.”
Benedict dipped his chin in acknowledgment, shoving a mass of sodden curls away from his forehead. Then, in an unspoken agreement, they began pushing and pulling simultaneously, the ewe’s body jerking with the remaining strength she possessed.