“An excellent observation.”
“Julian—”
“Clara, if the water rises another foot, the lower village will be lost.”
He took a crowbar from a laborer.
Then joined the men.
Clara watched them struggle against the boards.
The wood had swollen from years of damp.
Several nails refused to move.
Water pressed against the old gate with increasing force.
Mr. Grady shouted instructions.
Julian braced his shoulder against the timber.
A second man joined him.
Then a third.
The boards creaked.
Clara looked toward the bank.
Water was already beginning to spill around the edge.
“Julian!”
“I see it!”
The crowbar slipped.
Julian staggered.
Blood appeared across his palm where the iron had torn his skin.
He ignored it.
The men heaved again.
This time, one board broke free.
A narrow jet of water burst through.
The pressure increased.
“Stand clear!” Mr. Grady shouted.
Julian stepped backward.
The men pulled at the remaining timber.
Then, with a tremendous crack, the old gate gave way.
Water roared into the relief channel.
For several seconds, the ground trembled beneath their feet.
The torrent spread across Langley Meadow, racing between the apple trees and filling the old drainage course.
Clara watched the nearest tree disappear halfway beneath muddy water.
Its branches shuddered.
Then the current moved beyond it toward the open fields.
Julian stepped beside her.
His hand was bleeding.
His face was pale with exhaustion.
But his eyes remained fixed upon the river.
“Will it be enough?” she whispered.
He watched the water divide.
The main current, deprived of part of its force, began to fall.
Slowly.
Almost imperceptibly.
Then Mr. Grady shouted.
“She's dropping!”
The laborers turned.
The level beside the broken weir was falling.
Not quickly.
But steadily.
The village would suffer damage.
Some cottages would flood.
Yet the worst of the current was now being carried through the old channel, away from the houses.
Julian closed his eyes.
For a moment, he could scarcely breathe.
Then he turned toward Clara.
She stood in the rain, her skirts soaked with mud, watching the water spread through her mother's orchard.
He expected tears.
Instead, she looked at him.
“Your hand.”
Julian glanced down.
“It is nothing.”
“It is bleeding.”
“I have suffered worse.”
“I do not doubt it. But you have only two hands, and I should prefer that you preserve them.”
He laughed weakly.
She took a clean handkerchief from her pocket.
“Give it to me.”
He obeyed.
As she bound his palm, Julian watched her face.
Her hair had escaped its pins.
Rain clung to her lashes.
Mud marked the hem of her gown.
She looked nothing like the polished young woman who had descended his staircase on the night of the assembly.
Yet he had never found her more beautiful.