“Shut up!” Clay yelled, and threw his glass at her head. Either he was already too drunk to aim straight or she was becoming adept at dodging, because he missed her.
He slammed out of the house, making his way past the office and toward the stables. He rarely went into his office these days; there didn’t seem to be any need. In the stables, he grabbed a jug of bourbon and headed toward the river.
He sat down slowly at the edge of the water and leaned back against a tree. From here he could see Nicole’s planted fields. The house and mill were out of sight, and he was glad for that. Just seeing the health and productivity of her fields was more than enough. He wondered if she ever thought of him, even remembered him. She lived with that little Frenchman Maggie said most of the women in Virginia drooled over. He dismissed the idea of Isaac. Bianca’s mind was sick.
Clay drank deeply of the bourbon. It took more and more of the liquid to make him forget. Sometimes, at night, he woke from a dream where his parents, Beth, and James all accused him of forgetting them, of destroying what was theirs. In the morning, he’d wake with new convictions, new hope, plans for the future. Then he’d see Bianca, the filthy house, the fallow fields. Across the river, the sound of laughter or the shout of one of the twins would reach him. Without thinking, he’d reach for the whiskey. The whiskey dulled his senses, made him forget, kept him from hearing or thinking.
He didn’t pay any attention when the clouds covered the sun. The day progressed, and the clouds grew darker. They rumbled and rolled lazily but powerfully. In the distance, a sharp flash of lightning cut across the sky. The heat of the day vanished as the wind began to rise. It blew across the fields of wheat and barley. It blew across Clay, tugging at his loose shirt. But the whiskey kept him warm. Even when the first drops fell, he didn’t move. The rain began in earnest. It pelted against Clay’s hat, collected on the wide brim, then ran down his face. He didn’t even notice the cold wetness as his shirt stuck to his skin. He just sat and drank.
Nicole looked out the window and sighed. It had been raining for two days, not letting up even for a minute. They’d had to stop the millstones because the river had risen so much that it was difficult to control the water coming over the shoot. Isaac had assured her that her crops were safe as long as the stone walls held, and it looked as if they would. The water was draining down the terraced field into the river. They were safe from the rain if they didn’t have to worry about erosion.
She jumped when a loud pounding on the door began. “Wesley!” she said, glad to see him. “You’re drenched. Come in!”
He pulled the oilcloth raincoat off and shook it. Janie took it from him and hung it up to dry.
“Why in the world did you come out in this?” Janie said. “Did you have any trouble with the river?”
“Plenty! Is there any coffee? I’m as cold as I am wet.”
Nicole handed him a large mug of coffee, which he drank as he stood before the fire. Gerard sat in a corner of the room, silent, staring, uninvolved. Wes could hear the twins upstairs, probably with Nicole’s mother, a woman he’d seen only once.
“Well, we’re waiting,” Janie demanded. “What brings you here?”
“Actually, I was on my way to Clay’s. There’s going to be a flood if this rain keeps up.”
“A flood?” Nicole asked. “Will Clay be harmed?”
Janie gave her a sharp look. “More to the point, will we be all right?”
Wes was watching Nicole. “Clay’s land’s always been susceptible to floods, at least that bottom piece is. It flooded once before when we were kids. But, of course, Mr. Armstrong had his other fields planted then.”
“I don’t understand.”
Wes knelt and, with a piece of kindling, he began to draw a diagram of Clay’s land, Nicole’s, and the river. Just below the mill, the river took a sharp bend toward Clay’s land, causing the land to fall away sharply, creating a flood plain. On Nicole’s side, the land was high, but Clay’s was bottomland with rich, fertile soil, but it was also the basin that would catch the river’s overflow.
Nicole looked up from the drawing. “Then, my land is draining into Clay’s, helping the river to rise.”
“I guess you could look at it like that, but I hardly think it’s your fault if Clay loses his crops.”
“Loses! All of them?”
Wes ran a poker through the ash map. “It’s his own fault. He knows about the floods. Every year, it was taking a chance to plant there, but the land is especially rich. He’s always protected himself by planting more crops on the higher ground. Clay’s dad used to consider it luck when he harvested those fields.”
Nicole stood. “But this year, the only crops he has are the ones in the bottomland.”
Wes stood beside her. “He knew better. He knew what could happen.”
“Isn’t there something that could be done? Does he have to lose everything?”
Wes put his arm around her shoulders. “You can’t control the rain. If you could get it to stop, then he’d be saved, but that’s the only thing that would do it.”
“I feel so helpless. I wish I could do something.”
“Wesley,” Janie said sharply, “I bet you’re hungry. Why don’t you have something to eat?”
He grinned at her. “I’d love something to eat. Tell me what’s been going on here. You think maybe I could see the twins?”
Janie went to the foot of the stairs. “The Duke of Wesley is here to see their royal highnesses.”