Amid the Winter's Snow Read online

  “It stood, you say?” I asked. “Was it on its hind legs or all four?”

  “Its hind legs,” she said, “and it was as tall as a man. But no man has a face like that or a tail, a tail that could flay the life right out of a person.”

  “While I am most disconcerted, Miss Barker, I am comforted as well,” Colin said. “For although you have twice laid eyes on the barghest, you are still here, healthy as a horse. I can only conclude the barghest has at last met his match.”

  “You flatter me, Mr. Hargreaves, and it does my old soul good. But make no mistake—this demon is after something, and he won’t stop until he gets it. You must protect the village. Free us from him, sir, or who knows what evil will befall Dunsford Vale.”

  “I give you my word, Miss Barker,” my husband said. “No barghest will get the better of me.”

  After taking our leave, we stopped to see the scorched earth beneath the window of the kitchen from which the barghest was purported to have stolen the meat pies, brushing away the newly fallen snow. The ground was indeed burnt, but nothing could make me believe a spectral dog was responsible. When we returned home, the boys were waiting for us in the entrance hall, brandishing sticks they explained would offer protection in the face of any supernatural enemy. Nanny shook her head.

  “Extra prayers for all you little heathens tonight,” she said, and ushered them back up to the nursery. Colin and I retired to the library, where Mrs. Elliott, our housekeeper, sent up mince pies to tide us over until dinner. She knew my husband well; there was nothing he liked better at Christmastime than mince pies.

  “You do make an excellent lord of the manor,” I said, watching him as he popped one into his mouth. “Perhaps you should have accepted the queen’s offer to make you a peer. It’s the next obvious step, after all.”

  “That, my dear girl, would go quite against family tradition. I’m the third Hargreaves to refuse the honor.”

  “Yet everything about you screams to the manner born,” I said, a smile creeping onto my face. “Your tenants certainly adore you.”

  “I treat them well and never take advantage,” he said.

  “Nor do you make them feel ridiculous when they come to you looking for relief in the face of a legendary demon dog. Truly, Colin, I don’t think most gentlemen could have handled the situation so well. But what is your plan? Obviously some very human miscreant is behind it all. He’s stealing pies and blankets and possibly sheep—but he’s an ordinary thief, not a barghest.”

  “My dear, I am shocked that you would deny the existence of Derbyshire’s finest mythological beast. What will the villagers say if they detect your cynicism? I’d best lock you away the next time they come to the house bearing torches, lest they tear you to pieces.” His eyes flashed, the way they always did when he teased me, and his smile warmed me to my toes.

  “You’ll not convince me that on the cusp of the twentieth century I need to fear a medieval mob,” I said. “However, I would never object to being locked away if I have you with me. Perhaps we should tell Cook we mean to dine early—”

  “So that we can retire early.” He reached for the bell pull.

  TWO

  Hours later, our plan successfully enacted, we were sprawled in our room, firelight dancing across the down-filled duvet on the bed, an empty bottle of champagne discarded on the floor. Heavenly bliss. At least until Davis knocked on the door. Colin pulled on his dressing gown and called for the butler to enter.

  “Apologies, sir,” Davis said. “A Miss Julia Fletcher has arrived from the village, accompanied by four rather large individuals and the vicar. I am told that she fainted after being attacked by a vicious dog of some sort. I would be remiss if I did not inform you that the story sounds more than a little suspect. There is no obvious sign of an attack by a beast of any description. Mrs. Elliott has put her upstairs in a vacant servant’s room. Would you like me to send for the doctor?”

  “Do you think medical attention is warranted, Davis?” Colin asked.

  “No, sir, I do not. I should think a stiff brandy is all the young lady needs, after smelling salts.”

  “Please see to the brandy,” Colin said. “Lady Emily can manage the smelling salts. We shall be up shortly.”

  I pulled on a dress, but my husband did not bother with a coat, tie, or collar, only trousers and the now-rumpled shirt he had discarded earlier. Not wanting to take the time to find his cufflinks, he rolled up the sleeves as we made our way to the servants’ quarters.

  I did not know Julia Fletcher well, but had called on her nearly a year ago, soon after she had received the news that her fiancé, Frank Spencer, a corporal in the Northumberland fusiliers, had been killed at the Battle of Stormberg, a disastrous blunder in the Second Boer War. A shy girl with sleek black hair, an alabaster complexion, and striking dark blue eyes, Julia held her grief close, refusing to stop the work she did for Miss Barker, the only other person in the village who could fully understand the pain of losing one’s betrothed to a violent death.

  Miss Fletcher would never be described as a beauty—all of her features, with the exception of her thin lips, were slightly too large for her narrow face—but she made a pretty enough picture on the narrow bed in the maid’s room, surrounded by four men clasping caps in their hands. Reverend Blount met us at the open door.

  “She fainted, Mr. Hargreaves, after seeing the barghest through the window. We couldn’t bring her around, no matter what we tried.”

  “Who was with her when it happened?” Colin asked.

  “No one, sir,” the reverend said. “She screamed and Miss Barker heard her—their cottages are next to each other, you know. The front door was unlocked, so she went inside and found the girl in the kitchen, prostrate, and called for help. That’s when we all came.”

  Miss Fletcher was still unconscious. I went to her, bent over the bed, and waved smelling salts under her nose. Her eyes fluttered, but did not open, so I gave her another whiff. This time, she woke up and looked at all of us gathered around her, her forehead scrunching. “Where am I? What happened?”

  “You are at Anglemore Park,” Colin said, his voice low and serious. “I was hoping you could tell us what happened.”

  “I saw something—so horrible and distressing—out the window,” she said. “But I don’t recall the details, only that it made my skin crawl.”

  “It was the barghest,” one of the men who had accompanied her added. “Miss Barker said so.”

  “Please, do let Miss Fletcher tell her story,” I said. “Can you remember anything more about what you saw?”

  Miss Fletcher squeezed her eyes shut and crinkled her forehead even more. Then she shook her head. “Only that it was dark, so very dark. Black like an abyss. But his eyes glowed. I’m sure of that.”

  “So it was a man?” Colin asked.

  “No, Mr. Hargreaves, no. But it was not a dog, either,” she said. “It was an apparition, spectral, inexplicable, but decidedly not human.”

  My husband looked at me and held my gaze. So now we were dealing not only with a spectral dog, but a ghost as well? “You all did the right thing, bringing her here,” I told the gentlemen. “I thank you for that. If you go downstairs, Cook will give you something to eat before you head back to Dunsford Vale. I shall see to it personally that Miss Fletcher is well looked after.”

  The men shuffled off, only the reverend remaining behind. “You can’t send her home, Lady Emily,” he said. “Someone was there, outside her window. I saw the footprints myself and they were fresh. The snow only started falling a half an hour before she screamed. She can’t stay in that cottage by herself. I’m most concerned this visitor may mean her harm.”

  * * *

  Unfortunately, Miss Fletcher could offer no further information about the incident beyond what she initially shared with us. She thought, perhaps, she had seen the ghost of her father. “Or Frank,” she said, her voice a whisper. “But he didn’t look like him at all. It must have been Father.”


  “If so, I’m certain he meant only to reassure you,” Colin said. “You took such excellent care of him when he was alive, he wouldn’t want anything to disturb you now that he has departed this world.” I knew my husband well enough to be certain that he would never, ever believe in ghosts, but he was too kind to disabuse Miss Fletcher of the notion while she was in her current state.

  “I believe you’re right, Mr. Hargreaves,” she said, nodding. “It’s only that he startled me, that’s all. I ought not to have been afraid.”

  “Indeed,” Colin said. “To set your mind at ease, I will go to your cottage right now and make sure nothing is out of place. You’ll stay here tonight. Tell me—what’s your favorite breakfast? I shall have Cook send it up to you in the morning.”

  His calm voice and easy manner helped her relax, and once we were certain she would soon drift off to sleep, we left her in the capable hands of Mrs. Elliott. “You’ll come to Dunsford Vale with me, won’t you, Emily?” he asked. “There was no ghost outside her window; the reverend is correct on that count.”

  He drove the sledge himself, not wanting to disturb Waters, our driver, so late at night. Despite the fur blankets he tucked around me before we set off, I was half-frozen by the time we reached the village, but that was nothing compared to the chill in Miss Fletcher’s empty cottage, in front of which a crowd of her neighbors was standing, torches in hand but eerily quiet. Inside, the fire had gone out, leaving not a single glowing ember, but the cold permeating the snug home could not be explained by that alone. After examining the spot in the kitchen where Miss Fletcher had fainted—the shattered remains of a tea cup marked the location—we looked through the rest of the rooms. Nothing appeared to be out of place or disturbed, so we went outside, carrying lanterns, and inspected the snow beneath the kitchen window. Reverend Blount had told us a pattern of footprints was visible there, but they were now covered with fresh snow, making it impossible to determine from where whoever made the initial set had either come or gone.

  And then, as we stood there, our flickering lanterns illuminating the snow, I heard it, soft at first, then stronger and louder: a howl that sent shivers along my spine. Goose bumps prickled on my arms and the hair on my neck stood on end. I turned, my eyes wide, to my husband.

  “The barghest?” I could hardly voice the word.

  “Unlikely in the extreme, my dear,” he said. His voice was calm as ever, and he gave my hand a reassuring squeeze.

  “Might the boys have been correct?” I asked. “Could there be a wolf in Derbyshire?”

  “Not a chance,” he said. “I shall see what I can find. Go back inside before you catch your death of cold.”

  I did as he said, latching the door behind me, and watched from the kitchen window as he headed for the woods behind the cottage, the direction from which the howl had come, until he disappeared in the dark. Then I lit every lamp in the cottage and stoked the fire, but could coax no life back into it. I struck a match and held it to the coals just as someone banged on the cottage’s front door.

  “Lady Emily, it is I, Wibberley. Mr. Hargreaves said we could find you here.” He was with two of the men who had brought Julia to us, the rest of the crowd of villagers hanging back. “I came as soon as I could—these two mates of mine stopped at my farm on the way back from Anglemore Park. They were telling me what happened when we heard a hideous sound. It was one of my sheep, being murdered by that beast. By the time we got to the field, it was dead, torn right to shreds, nothing left but its bones.”

  “Did you see any sign of what had done it?” I asked.

  “Nothing, Lady Emily, nothing.”

  “Were there footprints?”

  “Not a single one,” Mr. Wibberley said. “Just a mess of wool and blood and bones.”

  “It’s the barghest, Lady Emily,” one of the other men said. “No question. It doesn’t leave footprints.”

  The snow had stopped falling, and the wind howling across the moors could have erased any footprints, but it was unlikely to have completely removed all evidence of someone carrying the bloody carcass of a sheep. I pulled one of the blankets from the sledge and wrapped it around my coat. “Whatever it is, we won’t find it by standing around here. Return to your homes before you freeze, and in the morning, we will conduct a methodical search of the area. The storm would make it too dangerous tonight, and if, as is likely, some animal attacked Mr. Wibberley’s sheep, it’s no doubt long since returned to its lair.”

  “What sort of animal would that be other than a barghest? There’s no fox that could take down a sheep that size, Lady Emily,” Mr. Wibberley said. “Lambs are vulnerable to them, but I’ve got none now, not at this time of year. And a fox couldn’t have left the carcass in the state it was in. The skin was pulled straight off.”

  “We will know more in the morning, after a thorough search,” I said, trying to sound confident in the face of a crowd of individuals who showed no sign of being convinced. “I promise we shall do everything in our power to get to the bottom of this.” Not a man moved. “And Mr. Hargreaves will, of course, reimburse Mr. Wibberley for his loss.” This piqued their interest.

  “That’s that, then,” Mr. Wibberley said. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll meet at my place at sunrise and see if there’s any trail left to follow.” His compatriots murmured agreement and started to disperse. The vicar, whom I had not seen in the crowd, came forward and offered to stay with me until Colin returned. I accepted gladly. As we turned to go back into the cottage, the howl came again—thinner this time than it had been before, further away, perhaps, but no less terrifying.

  “The sound of the devil himself,” Reverend Blount said. “Evil. Pure evil.”

  THREE

  Fortunately the storm was not so strong that it kept us from returning to Anglemore, for while I did not agree with the vicar that the howling was the voice of hell, neither did I relish the thought of spending the night in Julia Fletcher’s cottage. We rose early the next morning so Colin could set off before daybreak to lead the search through the moors in pursuit of whatever had dispatched with Mr. Wibberley’s unfortunate sheep. I followed some hours later with Miss Fletcher. Dunsford Vale, blanketed in fresh snow, looked like something off a Christmas card, but the serenity was superficial, hiding the terror evident in its residents. As the sledge glided over the narrow street, we could see a single candle burning in the front window of each house. Not a soul was outside. No children playing in the snow, no one bustling to the shop or chatting with neighbors.

  I ordered Miss Fletcher to stay in the sledge with the driver so I could ensure that her home was undisturbed and safe before she came inside. Everything was as I had left it the night before and no one was lying in wait, so I opened the front door and she and the driver entered. Moments later, Miss Barker appeared, candle in hand. She set it on the windowsill and lit it.

  “What is the meaning of these candles?” I asked.

  “It’s well known that a household must leave a candle burning all night on Christmas Eve, lest the family be visited by death,” Miss Barker said. “Given our current straits, it seems wise to keep them burning all the time. Is there tea? I could do with a spot of tea.”

  “I’ll put the kettle on,” Miss Fletcher said, her voice little more than a whisper. “And shall I mix up some buns as well? I believe I shall. It’s good to have something to nibble on, isn’t it?”

  “The work will calm your nerves, Julia; it always does.” Miss Barker said nothing more until the girl had disappeared into the kitchen, then turned to me and said in a low voice, “She bakes when she is upset. We’ve had quite a lot of biscuits and scones and Eccles cakes since poor Frank died. And she wouldn’t let any of us make the arval bread after her father passed. Insisted on doing it herself. It’s essential here to have arval bread at a funeral, Lady Emily, though you might not know that, having come from Kent. Like Eccles cakes, it’s stuffed with currants, but it’s a spiced yeast bread, not a tea cake.”

>   “I’m pleased she has something to give her a little comfort in these difficult days,” I said.

  “Indeed. I do worry about her. She won’t be able to stay in this cottage, you know. Her father didn’t leave enough money. Not that he was profligate, mind you, but it’d been years since he was able to work, and there was very little left in the end.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Hargreaves will not turn her out.”

  “She can’t stay here alone, at any rate,” Miss Barker continued, “and it’s unlikely anyone else will want to marry her. Not between the bad luck of her fiancé being killed and now this barghest business. I’m determined to have her come live with me. We can have a right cozy time, the two of us. And when I depart this mortal world, I shall leave her everything I have, little though it is.”

  Miss Fletcher reappeared with a pot of tea and ginger biscuits, explaining she’d baked them the previous day and that they would tide us over until the buns were ready. “I’ve got them in the oven now, so it won’t be too terribly long.” Her cheeks had brightened; the work had done her good. “Also, I have a riddle for you, Miss Barker. Nothing better to push away the memories of a grim evening. Here goes: Without a bridle or a saddle, across a thing I ride astraddle. And those I ride, by help of me, though almost blind, are made to see. What am I?”

  “Oh, my dear girl, you know I have no affinity for such things,” Miss Barker said. “Is it a horse?”

  “No, no, it’s not the thing upon which something rides, but the actual thing,” Miss Fletcher said. She was sitting up straighter now and there was a charming hint of laughter in her voice. “So what do you think it could be? Any ideas? Lady Emily?”

  “Ride astraddle . . . almost blind . . .” I had a fair guess, but could see that Miss Fletcher would get far more pleasure out of telling us the answer. “No idea at all, I’m afraid.”

  “Spectacles!” She clapped her hands together. “Isn’t it wonderful?”