Amid the Winter's Snow

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  For Donna, who sparked the idea

  See, amid the winter’s snow,

  Born for us on Earth below,

  See, the tender Lamb appears,

  Promised from eternal years.

  ONE

  December, 1900

  There is no exercise more futile than arguing that anywhere in England is prettier than Derbyshire in the winter. Nothing can compete with the breathtaking beauty of the Peaks capped with snow, hoar frost clinging to the trees on the moors, and, on a clear night, the moon bathing it all in shimmering silver. Like the rest of Society, my husband and I, with our three young boys in tow, retreat from London to the country in August. Unlike the rest of Society, this is not to mark the beginning of grouse season, but, rather, to enjoy the vistas at our estate, Anglemore Park, as warm summer days give way to cool autumn nights. Neither Colin nor I have the slightest interest in gunning down birds in the quantities fashionable at the moment, preferring instead to row on the lake or picnic in the picturesque ruins of the medieval abbey that became part of the family’s land during the Protestant Reformation. But even as I relish the crisp air and the leaves changing to golden and red, I am only biding time, impatient for the serenity that comes when the ground freezes and snow begins to fall.

  Serenity, however, was not to be found on this December night. My husband, Colin Hargreaves, agent of the Crown and favorite of the queen’s, had only just returned that morning from an assignment in Vienna, about which he could reveal no details. Exhaustion was writ on his handsome face and a spattering of bruises colored his arms and the well-developed muscles of his chest. I knew better than to press for an explanation he was not at liberty to give. Our three boys, Henry, Richard, and Tom, who would all turn five in the spring, had pounced on him the moment he entered the house, and, as soon as he changed out of his traveling clothes, Colin had played with them in the nursery until Nanny insisted he relinquish them to her care for their supper and baths.

  That sorted, we retreated to the library, where he lowered himself more carefully than usual into his favorite chair—large, overstuffed, and covered in chocolate-brown leather that had softened like butter over decades of use. “I don’t know when I’ve been so grateful to return home,” he said, closing his eyes, “nor so thankful for a respite from work. There’s nothing I want more than an endless supply of mince pies, mulled wine, and to hear the boys chattering on about Father Christmas’s impending arrival.”

  “Is that all?” I asked, teasing.

  His dark eyes met mine. “I shall also require a disgraceful amount of time alone with you, my dear. I have missed you so very much.” He motioned for me to come to him, pulled me onto his lap, and had just started to kiss me when we heard a sharp knock on the door. An instant later, Davis, our butler, entered the room. While some may consider it gauche for servants to knock, we, for reasons obvious to anyone with the slightest bit of sense, insisted otherwise.

  “Sir, madam, there is a group of villagers to see you. I have left them outside as they are carrying torches.”

  “Torches?” I rose from my husband’s lap and brushed my skirts to smooth them.

  “Torches,” Davis repeated. “I do hope we are not about to be plunged into the midst of some dreadful Gothic drama.”

  “So long as they’re not carrying sharpened stakes as well, there’s no need for worry on that count, Davis,” Colin said.

  Richard, one of our twins, burst into the room. “Papa, are they here about the wolf?”

  “The wolf?” I asked.

  “Surely you heard it howling, didn’t you?” Richard’s dark eyes widened.

  Colin scooped the little boy into his arms. “There are no wolves in England, old chap. Haven’t been for centuries.”

  “We heard one.” Now Henry had joined his twin, and our ward, Tom, followed close on his heels. “That’s why they’ve come. To tell you about the wolf.”

  “I promise you, there is no wolf,” Colin said. After directing the boys to stay in the library, we proceeded to the front door, where we faced more than a dozen residents of Dunsford Vale, one of Anglemore Park’s estate villages. It took a few moments to settle them down, but eventually, Colin persuaded them to extinguish their torches and come in from the cold. Davis made no attempt to hide his disapproval as my husband led them into the cinnamon drawing room, decorated with an eastern flair by some Hargreaves ancestor upon returning from a trip to India.

  I invited our visitors to sit, but none of them made a move to the Chippendale chairs upholstered in cream silk, embroidered with delicate golden flowers. “You’re all half-frozen and I won’t have you uncomfortable in this house,” I insisted. “Sit.” They did as instructed, casting nervous glances at one another.

  “What brings you to Anglemore tonight?” Colin asked.

  “Sir, it’s like this, you see.” John Wibberley, one of our tenant farmers, rose from his seat. “There’s no peace in Dunsford Vale. We’re being besieged by some sort of terrible creature—”

  “It’s a barghest, sir,” one of the others added. “No point hiding the facts. We’ve all seen it, or at least seen enough to know that’s what we’re dealing with.”

  “A barghest?” I asked.

  “You’re not from these parts, Lady Emily,” Mr. Wibberley said, “so it’s likely you’ve not before faced this particular beast. He’s a demonic dog, with long, sharp fangs and claws big enough to tear you to shreds—”

  “No need to frighten the lady like that,” a large man in coarse clothing said. His kind face would reassure a person even in the direst of circumstances. “He won’t trouble you, I’m sure, Lady Emily, but we do need your husband’s assistance. Wibberley’s had two sheep stolen by the beast and half the children in the village are afraid to leave their houses.”

  “We had six meat pies taken from our kitchen,” another man said. “And just after we noticed they were gone, my boy saw the beast’s red eyes through the window and then it vanished in a burst of flames.”

  My husband raised his eyebrows. “A burst of flames? Did anyone else see this?”

  “No, Mr. Hargreaves, sir, but when we went outside the next morning, the ground was scorched and all the snow melted away.”

  “No barghest has ever plagued this estate before,” Colin said. “Why would one start now?”

  Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow. I might not hail from Derbyshire, but the tales of these mythological black dogs had reached me in Kent, courtesy of my twin brothers, who liked to frighten their little sister. A barghest’s appearance heralded the death of whoever saw him, although some claimed that if one caught only a glimpse, one might be lucky enough to enjoy another month or so of life. The beast could change shape and often returned to a place generation after generation, announcing the imminent demise of the next family member.

  “Well, sir, of that we’re not certain. This one is not behaving as anyone would expect,” Mr. Wibberley said. “Stealing food is unusual, isn’t it? And no one’s died,
even after seeing him.”

  “Perhaps, then, we are not dealing with a barghest?” Colin suggested.

  “Too many have seen him, sir,” the farmer said. “There’s no doubt about it. He’s a real monster.”

  My husband crossed his arms. “And what would you have me do?”

  “We’re your tenants, sir, we’d have you protect us.”

  Colin nodded. “I shall come to the village first thing tomorrow morning and see what can be done. In the meantime, there’s mulled wine for you all. Warm yourselves before you head home.”

  Before the maid came with the hot drinks, I heard a click from the door hidden in the silk-covered wall. The boys must have been hiding in the servants’ passage, eavesdropping. Nanny would have her hands full tonight, if dreams of the barghest plagued her charges.

  * * *

  “I feel rather like a feudal lord,” Colin said, as we set off for the village after breakfast the next morning. “It’s absurd, really, in this day and age.”

  Dunsford Vale, named for the fifteenth-century cleric who first ran the parish at Anglemore, was one of three estate villages on the land Henry V had bestowed upon a Hargreaves ancestor in recognition of his bravery at Agincourt. The priest, Father Dunsford, had been fond of walking, and his favorite route took him through the picturesque valley that now housed his namesake settlement. Like his father before him, Colin ensured that his tenants’ homes were well-maintained and encouraged the famers to adopt modern principles of agriculture and animal husbandry. The village was small, only the parish church—built after Henry VIII’s reformation, it drew in parishioners from the rest of the estate—one cluttered shop that sold a bit of everything, a smithy, a pub, and a collection of charming stone cottages.

  The pub was our destination, and when Colin ducked through its door after me, what seemed like the entire population of Dunsford Vale was gathered, waiting for us. My husband stood before them, gave a brief but reassuring speech promising his tenants he had the matter well in hand, and then asked for everyone to disperse, leaving us to speak individually to those who had seen the mysterious creature.

  It had all started when a group of boys was out on the moor, marauding and playing. “I saw it first,” the oldest of the group—he couldn’t have been more than eleven—explained. “We were making our way home, and it was already mostly dark, so it was hard to make out details, but we saw him, crouched by a tree, like he was waiting to pounce on us. His face was hideous and his red eyes glowed.”

  “What did you do then?” Colin asked.

  “We ran away, didn’t we, as fast as we could,” the boy said. “Screaming and shouting to scare him away, but that obviously didn’t work. He keeps coming back.”

  “And you’re quite certain it was a dog?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, Lady Emily,” he said. “I saw his tail clear as day.”

  “But you said it was dark,” I said.

  “Yes, but I could make out the tail. And his eyes. They were blazing red.”

  The other boys who had been with him offered up similar stories, each more fantastic than the last. They’d seen his fangs—sharp and long—and his claws—more like talons, really—and the sound of his terrifying howls had followed them across the moor as they ran home.

  After we’d spoken to each boy in turn, we interviewed the adults who had encountered the spectral beast. Their experiences proved somewhat less colorful. Yes, Mr. Wibberley had lost two sheep, but he admitted to the possibility that they had wandered off, rather than falling victim to a brutal attack. When pressed, three of the other men who claimed to have seen the creature acknowledged not having got more than a passing glimpse of a dark form, and two women who claimed it leered at them through their windows couldn’t give an accurate description of the form it took. Yet there was no denying some simple facts: something—or, rather, someone—had stolen food from five families. Two men reported blankets disappearing from their stables, and a boy of eighteen reported that his warmest wool jumper, which he had left in his father’s barn, had vanished. He insisted he had spotted the barghest following him that evening when he’d gone to check on the cows inside.

  The church bells tolled noon before we had finished our interviews. Colin proved himself a model landlord, listening carefully to each of his tenants’ concerns, not mocking them or rejecting outright their fanciful stories. Neither of us believed a creature plucked out of legend was tormenting them, but something was afoot, and we were both confident in our ability to get to the bottom of it. We pulled on our coats and stepped back outside, where we found the vicar, Reverend Blount, striding toward us.

  “Mr. Hargreaves, Lady Emily, I am so pleased that you have come,” he said. “It’s a dreadful business, this. Would you be so kind as to allow me to accompany you to Miss Barker’s? She didn’t feel up to leaving her house, but she has a story you ought to hear.”

  Miss Barker, who was eighty years old if she was a day, always had a story one ought to hear; she made it her business. She had been born in Dunsford Vale, and so far as anyone knew, had never left its confines. In her youth, she was reputed to have been a great beauty, and although she now stood stooped and frail, her silver hair shined and her flashing emerald eyes offered a glimpse into her past appearance. Engaged to be married at sixteen, her fiancé, a farmer’s son, had died the day before their wedding in a brutal accident, the details of which were never discussed. Her hopes destroyed, Miss Barker never married, but neither did she turn into a wretched Miss Havisham sort. Instead, she threw herself wholeheartedly into village life, making it her business to know everyone else’s business. She played matchmaker, arbitrated disagreements between neighbors, led the parish choir, and crocheted layette sets for every baby born in Dunsford Vale. She also named every sheep, cow, and goat owned by the local farmers and insisted that she could recognize each animal’s individual personality. No one dared brook argument with any of her claims.

  The reverend rapped on her cottage door—painted bright red—and called out as he opened it. “I’ve got Mr. Hargreaves with me, and Lady Emily as well. I do hope you’re ready to receive us.”

  “When have you known me not to be ready, Reverend Blount?” Miss Barker’s voice, sharp and strong, belied her age. “Sit, sit, all of you, but if you want tea, you’ll have to make it yourself. Julia won’t come again until four o’clock, and I’m too old to have to do it.”

  Miss Barker’s front room was a picture of perfection: tidy and comfortable, exactly as it had been when her mother ran the house and her grandmother before. Julia Fletcher, a young woman whose father had passed away less than a month ago, assisted her with cleaning and made sure she always had a hot meal.

  “You know I don’t want your tea,” Colin said, his tone jovial.

  “But you never refuse my excellent whisky, Mr. Hargreaves,” Miss Barker said. “There’s some on the sideboard should you desire it.”

  “I fear it’s too early in the day for that, but I thank you for the offer,” he replied. “The reverend tells me you have a story for us, something to do with this barghest I keep hearing about?”

  Miss Barker laughed. “You do not dismiss the claims out of hand, I see. What a fine gentleman you are. It sounds ludicrous, does it not? What educated person could give credence to such a thing? Yet those of us born and bred in Derbyshire know better than to doubt the existence of the barghest. Both my parents’ deaths were foretold by the appearance of the beast.” She looked at me and pinched her lips together. “You, Lady Emily, may not believe me, but in the North we know there is much truth to be found in legends.”

  “Such things are not unheard of in Kent, either, Miss Barker.”

  “Yet I can see in your eyes you are not convinced,” she said. “It is of no consequence. You will come around to our ideas eventually. It can’t be more than eight years or so since you first came to Anglemore; you’re still a newcomer.”

  So far as I could tell, fifty years in Derbyshire would not make me
any less of a newcomer. “You’re quite right,” I said. “But, please, do tell us your story.”

  She sat forward in her wooden rocking chair. “I have seen this barghest twice. First, on the night that the boys spotted it. It must have followed them all the way from the moor. I heard its claws on the snow and went to my window, from whence I could clearly see its red eyes. It bared its fangs at me before running away and I cursed it as it went.”

  “Now, now, Miss Barker, there’s no need for such things,” Reverend Blount said. “The Lord will—”

  “The Lord is all well and good, Reverend, but a good curse never hurts in the face of such evil. One must take reasonable precautions. As I was saying, I saw every awful detail of the beast. His black fur, his sharp teeth, his glowing eyes. A horrible sight. I fully expected I would fall dead without delay. Imagine my shock when I woke up the next morning, quite alive. But when I saw him last night, it was even worse.”

  “What happened then?” Colin asked.

  “Something so awful that I had no choice but to send for the men of the village and beg them to go to Anglemore and fetch you. I knew that you, like your excellent father, would never disregard the concerns of his tenants. The Hargreaveses have always been the best lords and the best masters.”

  I gave my husband—who had more than once refused the honor of a title—a pointed look. His eyes were dancing with amusement. “You are too kind, Miss Barker,” he said. “But you are quite correct that I would never fail my tenants. Please do tell us what happened when you saw the barghest the second time.”

  She had leaned as far forward as she could without causing the rocker to tip over, and now rested her back against its cushion. “Again, I heard it before I saw it, but this time it was a howl, so eerie and so full of pain that it could only have come from the mouth of hell itself.” Reverend Blount shifted uncomfortably. “I did not want to see it, but something compelled me to the window, and there it stood, in all its horrible glory, watching me.”