“Not this week.”
Clara looked toward the nearest post.
A red mark had been painted upon the timber.
It stood considerably lower than the river's present height.
She felt a chill.
“What does that mark mean?”
“Maximum safe level, miss.”
“And if the water rises beyond it?”
The laborer looked toward the clouds.
“Then we'd best hope the old weir holds.”
Clara turned toward the stone structure farther upstream.
A dark line of water spilled over its edge.
“How old is the weir?”
“Older than my grandfather, miss.”
“Has it been repaired?”
The man laughed without humor.
“Not in years.”
Clara looked back toward the carriage.
Mrs. Porter was watching anxiously through the window.
Clara hurried to her.
“We must return to Alderwick.”
Mrs. Porter looked relieved.
“At last.”
Clara climbed inside.
“Tell the coachman to drive quickly.”
“Why?”
Clara looked toward the rising river.
“Because I believe someone has been preparing the village for a disaster.”
The carriage had scarcely reached the bridge when Clara heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats.
A horse emerged through the rain, its rider bent low against the weather.
Julian.
He drew alongside the carriage and raised a hand to the coachman.
“Stop!”
Clara lowered the window.
“Your Grace?”
Julian dismounted.
His dark coat was soaked, and water dripped from his hair.
“Clara, I have been looking for you.”
“Then you have arrived at an excellent moment.”
He looked at her.
“Are you hurt?”
“No. But I believe the river works are dangerous.”
Julian glanced toward the rising water.
Clara explained what the laborer had told her.
The blocked drainage channel.
The failing weir.
The red mark upon the timber.
As she spoke, Julian's expression grew increasingly grave.
He had served in the army long enough to recognize the consequences of poor engineering when people were depending upon it.
“Show me.”
They returned to the construction site.
The laborers were still working, though the heavy rain had driven several beneath a makeshift shelter.
Julian approached the foreman.
“Who ordered this embankment raised?”
The man removed his hat.
“Mr. Vane, Your Grace.”
“Under whose authority?”
“He said you had approved the changes.”
Julian stared at the wall of newly piled earth.
“And the drainage channel?”
“Temporarily closed.”
“Why?”
“To prepare the ground for the navigation works.”
Julian walked toward the old weir.
Water thundered over the stone.
He looked at the swollen river, the temporary bank, and the cottages beyond the bridge.
Then he turned to the foreman.
“Remove that obstruction.”
The man blinked.
“Your Grace?”
“Open the channel.”
“But Mr. Vane said—”
“I am not Mr. Vane.”
The foreman swallowed.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Julian continued.