Amid the Winter's Snow Read online

  “Will you make us tea cakes?” Richard asked. “Like the ones you told me about?”

  “If not today, soon,” she said. “I can think of nothing I would better enjoy.”

  “We’ll let you be the knight with the sword if you do it today,” Henry said. “I’ll be the one in need of rescue.”

  I raised an eyebrow. Henry was not one to voluntarily relinquish a sword under any circumstances. But, then, he was awfully fond of tea cakes. Miss Fletcher gave them each a kiss on the forehead before we descended to the library, where the botany book and Floral Poetry and the Language of Flowers still rested on the table, alongside her wooden bouquet.

  “Who do you think might have sent it to you?” I asked. “I don’t believe there is any malice intended by the gesture. It’s just a Christmas present for someone who has had a difficult year and then some.” I didn’t want to directly prod her to find the flowers’ meanings, only place her in a situation where she would choose to do so herself.

  “I cannot think of anyone at all, Lady Emily,” she said, her voice quiet again, lacking all the joy and energy instilled in it when she’d been playing with the boys. She put her palms flat on the table and rested her weight on them. “It’s the sort of gesture Frank would have made, but none of my neighbors could be accused of having such romantic tendencies. Most of the men in Dunsford Vale spend more time thinking about their livestock and fields than their wives. I don’t mean that to sound accusatory or critical. They work hard and have little time for anything else.”

  “It would have taken a great deal of time to carve.” I leaned forward, across the table from her, so that I could better see the vase and its contents. “I can’t imagine any of the men in the village could have done it, given how busy they are. If only we knew the sender’s intentions, we would have a better shot at identifying him.”

  “Did you not figure it out?” she asked. “I couldn’t help but notice the books.”

  “The message is intended for you, not anyone else,” I said, not wanting to lie.

  She picked up Floral Poetry and the Language of Flowers and thumbed through it, biting her lower lip. “I don’t need a dictionary. I learned the language of flowers when I was a girl. I used to pick wildflowers on the moors. Once I made a whole story out of them, pressing them into a book in the proper order to tell the tale of a young maiden who won the love of a handsome prince. When Frank started to court me—” She stopped and closed her eyes. “I should have known that such happiness would never be possible for someone like me.”

  “We all deserve happiness, Miss Fletcher.”

  She pulled the rosemary from the vase and laid it in front of her on the table. “It’s as if Frank is telling our story, one that starts with remembrance, of happy days, picnics under an oak tree, a blanket dappled with sunlight, food that tastes better when eaten outside. But then came farewell.” She reached for the Michaelmas daisy and then the red poppy. “He should know there could be no consolation for that. Extinguished hopes and sorrowful regret, I know all too well.” She removed the convolvulus major and the blue-bells from the vase and placed them next to the others on the table, her eyes filling with tears.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching for her hand. She pulled it away and brushed a tear from her cheek.

  “I understand the meaning of the begonia all too well, but could he really believe that any deformity would turn me away from him? Does he think my love so feeble?” She left the pink blossom in the vase, but picked up the butterfly weed and the wild licorice. “He tells me my presence softens his pain, yet begs me to let him go? I had already let him go, Lady Emily. He would know that. It’s been a year. If he hadn’t included the licorice, I’d take him at his word, but as he did . . .” She looked up at me. “Is he here? Is that who Mr. Hargreaves carried upstairs?”

  “You saw that?” I asked.

  “No, Henry reported on it. There’s nothing in this house that escapes his notice,” she said. “Frank isn’t dead, is he?”

  “No, Miss Fletcher, he isn’t.”

  “I never dared hope, but these flowers . . . Frank had always wanted to learn woodcarving, but soldiering left no time for the pursuit. I assume he was wounded, badly enough that lengthy recuperation allowed him to study a handicraft.” She paused and looked at me. “Will you take me to him?”

  Her dark blue eyes were so clear, devoid of all doubt. Truly, it was a wonder to behold. It was as if the bond between them allowed her to understand what he had suffered and how it was possible that he was still alive without the slightest question.

  “He is here,” I said, “but he is in terrible condition and cannot bear the thought of anyone seeing him, even you.”

  “He always was a stubborn fool,” she replied. She smiled and her eyes flashed. “Set in his ways, always convinced he knows what’s best for everyone around him. It’s time I set him straight on that count. Where is he?”

  “I promised him I wouldn’t tell.”

  “Did you promise to physically restrain anyone who tried to find him?”

  I was taken aback by the strength she now exhibited. Gone was the shy girl who spoke in whispers. “No, I did not promise that.” I wanted to smile, wanted there to be joy in their reunion. “I must warn you, Miss Fletcher, his injuries left his face diabolically ruined. It is a difficult thing to see.”

  “Beneath whatever scars he has lies the man I love, the only man who ever bothered to see beneath my homely surface. Can he think I would be so shallow as to care about anything beyond the fact that he lives?” She ran to the door, flung it open, and flew up the stairs. I followed her and nodded in the direction of the wing that contained the room in which Corporal Spencer lay. From there, she could plainly see a tray on the carpet outside one of the doors. It had still been in the room when I left, its bowl long empty of broth. Colin, who had gone back to sit with the young man when I went in search of Miss Fletcher, must have placed it there, a makeshift beacon to help her find the man she loved.

  She threw open the door with such force that it crashed against the wall. “You dreadful fool,” she said, storming toward the bed. Her fiancé dove under the blankets, but she pulled them away, not flinching one bit as she gazed upon his ruined face. “I am mortally offended that you would think any injury would keep me from wanting to be your wife. I am no vapid girl, unaware of the dangers of war, caught up in the romance of winning a soldier’s heart. I love you, Frank Spencer, and if your regard for me is not strong enough to see that, I shall gladly return your ring and forever wonder how I could have been so deceived regarding your character. You alone, of all the people I know, could always see the essence of those around him. Appearance never mattered to you. Perhaps because you were so handsome.”

  “I’m not now.” His voice trembled and he would not meet her eyes.

  “That will make a nice change, won’t it? I won’t have to keep hearing whispers about how I’m not pretty enough for you. No more idle gossip about what I must have done to ensnare you.”

  “No one ever doubted my devotion to you, Julia.”

  “Until now, and I’m the one doubting it,” she said. “I know that none of this can be easy for you, and I vow that I will stand by your side and help you find your way in the world again, but not before you apologize for hurting me so deeply by not having faith in my love for you.”

  “How can you bear to look at me? No one can. I tried, I did, to come back to you. After I was wounded, I was left for dead on the battlefield, but a local family rescued me. Their daughter had fallen in love with a British soldier, so they were not wholly unsympathetic to our cause. They nursed me until they could get me to a doctor and when I was recovered enough, I made my way back to England. The army did not know I had survived and it was easier to travel on my own than find the remains of my unit,” Spencer explained. “I learned the art of woodcarving during my infirmity and made you the flowers. I wanted to give them to you myself on Christmas morning, even though I was
terrified at how you might react to the sight of my scars. I had nearly reached Dunsford Vale, coming by foot from the railway station at Melton Carbury, when I stopped for a rest. I sat against a tree and was half-asleep when a group of boys from the village stumbled upon me. It was twilight, and they were exposed to the bad side of my face, which must have looked even worse in the half-dark. They started screaming and ran. I knew then that I could not encumber you with my presence. I left the main road and took shelter in a cave—you know the one, Mr. Hargreaves, you were there after I fled from it. I watched from the shadows while you and the others searched for me.”

  “Did you steal sheep from Wibberley?” Colin asked.

  “Only one, and I have every intention of paying him for it. I was desperate for food. For a few days I had managed with what I could get by slipping into my old friend’s cottages, but I stopped when I overheard them talking about the barghest. I realized then that I could stay longer—just a little longer—if I could make everyone believe in the creature. It’s not difficult to capitalize on people’s fears. After I stole some meat pies, I heard the children in the house shrieking. After they’d gone, I lit a fire to burn the ground, knowing that would lend credence to the story of the barghest, and doing so made it possible for me to see you, Julia, just a few more times. I only wanted to know for myself that you were all right. I had heard about your father and was desperately worried about you.”

  “Then you should have knocked on my door, married me, and taken care of me, as you promised you would when I accepted your proposal,” Miss Fletcher said. Her tone was not so severe as it had been before. “Was it you I saw outside my window?”

  “That was the final blow,” he said. “It was dark, so I could see you better than you could see me, but the terror on your face when you beheld mine . . .”

  “You were bathed in shadow. I didn’t see your scars, only a dark figure where one shouldn’t have been. Of course I was terrified, you foolish man.”

  “Can you forgive me?” He still had not looked her in the eyes.

  “Probably.” She took his hand. He pulled it away. “But not if you won’t let me touch you. And not if you won’t look at me.”

  Slowly, very slowly, he reached for her hand and held it. He raised his good eye to her face. “Can you still love me?”

  She bent over and kissed him on his scarred cheek. “Forever.”

  “That’s our cue to retreat,” Colin said.

  “How can I ever thank you both?” Corporal Spencer asked. “I was ready to die, cold and alone, and would have done so if you and your husband had not come for me.”

  “All part of the service,” Colin replied. “Any decent landlord would have done the same.”

  “Would you do us one more kindness?” Miss Fletcher asked, not taking her eyes off her fiancé. “I want to be married tomorrow, on Christmas Day. Do you think Reverend Blount would object?”

  “I shall move heaven and earth to get you a special license,” Colin said. “If you’re sure that’s what you both desire.”

  “I won’t pretend it’s an easy road we have before us,” Corporal Spencer said, “but I will not let my Julia down again. If you are certain, my dear girl, that you still want to be my wife, nothing could bring me greater happiness.”

  “Then there’s nothing more to discuss,” Miss Fletcher replied.

  SIX

  They were married the next morning in the chapel at Anglemore Park. Reverend Blount delighted to preside, and all the residents of Dunsford Vale attended. Yes, they all stared at the groom, but once they got past their initial horror, it became clear that, eventually, his battered face would give none of them pause. More important, though, was that they showed Corporal Spencer they did not pity him. That was evident after the ceremony, when the newlyweds entered the Great Hall, which was decorated for Christmas with a tree and countless candles and prepared by our staff for a makeshift wedding party.

  “Spencer, you rascal, you always did know how to come out on top,” Mr. Wibberley said. “Even with a face like that you get the finest lass in the village—and manage, in the process, to show us all just what a catch she is.”

  “I still owe you for that sheep,” the groom replied.

  “Consider it a wedding gift.” Mr. Wibberley clapped him on the back. “Looking like a monster, as you do, you need all the help you can get.” They both laughed, knowing that the more an Englishman insults you, the better he likes you.

  “But what about the other sheep, the one so horribly brutalized?” Mrs. Wibberley said, clinging to her husband’s arm. “Frank swears he didn’t touch it, and I’m not one to doubt his word. If there’s no barghest in Dunsford Vale, there’s something even more sinister, taking down our livestock.”

  Richard, the book of English legends tucked under his arm, approached the farmer’s wife and gave her a little bow. “I have several theories, Mrs. Wibberley, and would very much like to discuss them with you. Barghests are not the only mysterious creatures in Derbyshire capable of such violence. You are better acquainted with the area than I, due to the difference in our ages, and I would appreciate your wisdom and insight.” With a hearty laugh, she let the little boy lead her to a quiet corner to discuss the possibilities.

  Colin and I watched from one of the arched doorways beneath the elaborate Elizabethan screen that reached almost to the ceiling of the hall. “A happy conclusion,” he said, slipping his arm around my waist and pulling me close. “And one that I would never have anticipated. Your faith in humanity is greater than mine.”

  “Nonsense. It’s just that I haven’t quite managed to erase every last trace of what you were taught about the gentler sex over the course of your lifetime. We aren’t so fragile as you men are led to believe.”

  “This is more than just that. It’s not about gender or society or anything so trite. It is love, Emily, love strong enough to overcome whatever is thrown in its path, so long as neither party loses faith in it.” His eyes searched mine. “Promise me you will never lose faith in ours, no matter what tribulations we face.”

  “I’ve promised you before and will happily promise you again.”

  “There are times in my work, when I worry—”

  I silenced him with a kiss. “I worry as well, but we are here, now, together, and it’s Christmas. Today is not the time for angst and borrowed trouble.”

  “My dearest love, I could not adore you more.” He kissed me back, but I pulled away.

  “I assure you I return the sentiment in kind, but kissing me like that is wholly inappropriate in front of your tenants. Whatever shall they think?”

  “I couldn’t care less.” He kissed me again, stopping only when he realized the villagers had started to cheer.

  “There, there, Mr. Hargreaves! This isn’t your wedding,” Miss Barker said. “You’ll set tongues a-wagging if you keep that up, and poor Lady Emily doesn’t need that sort of gossip. A husband so in love with his wife, and after all these years. I never would have thought to see it.”

  “Do forgive me, Miss Barker,” he said. “I never meant to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

  “I shall be keeping a close eye on you, sir,” she said.

  “I would expect nothing less.”

  Keep reading for a sneak peek of

  UNEASY LIES THE CROWN

  By Tasha Alexander

  Coming in October 2018 from Minotaur Books

  17 January 1901

  Osborne House, Isle of Wight

  The stench of death already clung to the salmon pink walls of Queen Victoria’s bedroom; it assaulted Colin Hargreaves the moment the footman opened the massive oak doors. Not death, he corrected himself, but dying, when musty decay had not quite given way to the cloying foul rot soon to come. He hesitated for a moment, not because of shock at seeing how small Her Majesty looked, as if a child had been placed in a formidable marriage bed, but because the odor sent him reeling as he remembered the first time he had smelled it, on a snowy a
fternoon at Anglemore Park. He was home for Christmas during his first year at Eton and had found his grandfather in the library. The old man, sitting in his favorite high-backed leather chair, read aloud from Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur until Nanny came to fetch him for supper. Colin had noticed the odd scent, but didn’t think anything of it until the next morning, when his father delivered the news that Grandfather had died overnight. He smelled it again when he was summoned home from Cambridge to his father’s sickbed. Then, too, for just an instant, he had felt like a schoolboy stunned by his first loss.

  He shook off the feeling and approached the queen. Her enormous bed faced windows with a sweeping view of the countryside, a stark contrast to the paintings on the walls, nearly all of which depicted religious subjects. She was sitting, propped up by pillows, beneath a favorite portrait of her long-dead husband and a memorial wreath. Her eyes, dull, stared ahead, and he wondered if she knew he had entered the room.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, his voice low as he bowed. “You asked to see me.”

  She managed a half smile and nodded. “There are things I would like to settle, but I fear I shall not be given enough time to accomplish them all.” She coughed, cleared her throat, and motioned for him to give her the glass of water sitting on her bedside table. He held it to her lips as she drank, swallowing with difficulty. “One never knows, does one, what shall happen in the end? My dear Albert . . .”

  Sir James Reid, her physician, standing on the other side of the canopied bed, met Colin’s eyes and shook his head, exhaustion and worry writ on his face.

  “How can I assist, ma’am?” Colin asked.

  “So much, so much to be done,” she said. “And the dogs . . . I do not see them. Are they here?”

  “No, ma’am, they are not,” Sir James said. “Shall I have them brought to you?”

  “Why are you here?” Her voice, though weak, grated with a tone of scathing disapproval. “We are not in need of your services. I must speak to Mr. Hargreaves privately. Disperse.” Sir James shot Colin a pointed look and left the room. When she heard the doors close, the queen pushed herself up on the mountain of pillows. “It is too much to be borne. The loss of Lady Churchill . . .” Her voice faded and she stared out the windows. A lady of the bedchamber for nearly fifty years, Lady Jane had long been one of the queen’s closest confidantes. Keenly aware that learning of her death, on Christmas Day less than a month ago, would come as a tragic blow to the already ailing monarch, Sir James had done his best to deliver the news gradually, trying to shield her majesty from suffering the shock all at once.