Snowstorms & Sleigh Bells: A Stitch in Time holiday novella

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Snowstorms & Sleigh Bells: A Stitch in Time holiday novella Page 4

by Kelley Armstrong


  I do consider whether we ought to look for clothing better suited to the twenty-first century. I decide that would add an unnecessary complication that would only plunge us into the full dark of night. We had already found jackets and scarves and hats. Those will disguise us to anyone seeing us drive past. I don’t expect to stop anywhere, but even if we are seen? It’s the holiday season. We are attending a fancy dress ball, outfitted as a Victorian family.

  Once I have thoroughly examined the vehicle, I strap Edmund into Amelia’s car seat. He does not appreciate that—are you certain this is not for babies, Mama?—but with some adjustments, it fits. He is a small and slender child and well under the weight limit listed on the seat. Once he’s in, I check August’s seatbelt.

  “I do not believe it’s possible to mis-fasten it,” he says as I check the buckle. “It tightens automatically.”

  I ignore him, check again and then round the car, climb in and put on my own belt.

  I start driving so slowly we could walk at a quicker pace. August groans. Even Edmund makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sigh. Then I am out of the driveway and perched at the top of the hill.

  “All right,” I say. “So, you have both had your first car ride. Exciting, was it not? Let us pull back into the laneway—”

  I can’t even finish, sputtering in laughter at their expressions. “I’m teasing. I was thinking perhaps we shall drive to Whitby and back.”

  “Whitby?” Edmund says. “Is that not a very long way from Uncle William’s house?”

  I smile at him. “Not when you are driving a horseless carriage. Why do you think I was being so careful with the safety restraints? Now, again, are you ready?”

  Edmund nods.

  I glance at August. “I don’t hear anything from you.”

  “Because you are having far too much fun torturing us, and I will not give you the satisfaction.” He waves at the windshield. “Just ride already.”

  “It’s drive. You ride a horse. You drive a car.”

  “Rosie . . .”

  “I just wanted to be sure you were ready. Really and truly ready.”

  “Yes, we are quite ready. Now—”

  I hit the gas, and the engine roars, tires squealing as the car launches itself down the empty hill so fast that Edmund screeches in delight and August’s hands fly to the dashboard, his eyes bulging.

  I ease off the gas. “I did warn you, did I not?”

  “Do it again, Mama!” Edmund says, legs kicking. “Do it again!”

  “I will soon. For now, we must drive sedately through the village. Look! Do you see the lights on the trees?”

  I continue pointing out the village decorations as we ease down the last part of the hill. We pass a cottage on the outskirts that I believe is the home of Bronwyn and William’s gardener, Del, and his wife, Freya. Del is a descendant of the Shaws, and Freya is apparently a descendant of my family. Through Edmund? Through an as-yet-unborn child? Or through one of my sisters? All I know is that Freya has my old cookbook, which she inherited as a family heirloom.

  I also know that the whole situation rather makes my head hurt and that I shouldn’t ask for more details. Do I really want to discover that Freya is descended from my daughter, Millicent, whom I will give birth to in two years? Or do I want to see my “old cookbook” . . . the one I’m currently filling? Do I want to read annotations I haven’t yet written? Yes, it makes my head positively pound thinking of it. What I do know is that I should dearly love to meet Del and Freya someday. This is not that day, but if I can banish my fear of the stitch, it is yet another reward nestled in my future.

  We pass the house, and I take the first turn out of town. We can drive through it more fully later, when it is dark, the streets empty, no one to question why a strange family is out in what is clearly the vehicle of Bronwyn Dale Thorne.

  We continue on, up and down the narrow, steep roads of the North Yorkshire countryside. While there are no “highways” here, I still keep to the back roads and avoid those wide enough for two cars to pass.

  “Once you’re out of High Thornesbury,” August says, “it looks much the same as in our time. Even that is not so much changed. Cars instead of horses. A few odd-looking buildings. And light, so many lights. Also signs.” He twists to peer at one as we zip past. “Signs for street names. Signs for steep hills. Signs warning of turns.”

  “That was one of the first things I saw,” I say. “Before I realized I was in a new world. I couldn’t understand why coach drivers needed signs warning of curves and hills they could obviously see. But moving at this speed, drivers need all the help they can get. Not that they pay attention to most of them. Particularly the speed limits.”

  August grins. “Are you paying attention to the speed limits, Rosie?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “I don’t suppose I could take a turn at the wheel,” he says after a moment. “The road seems empty enough. Perhaps we could find a flat stretch where I might try it? At an excruciatingly slow rate of speed?”

  “You’d like a driving lesson?”

  “I’m not certain how Bronwyn would feel about me using her fancy car, but if I went slow enough, and only for a quarter mile or so . . . ?”

  “She would be fine with that. It’s a clear night, and as you said, these particular roads are empty. I think we just passed a road that looks like a suitable candidate. Let me turn around and go back.”

  I three-point turn the car, showing off a little as I maneuver on the narrow road. Then I return to the even narrower lane we’d passed, which seems to snake off along grazing land, open and empty fields. As we pass the sign, Edmund pipes up from the back seat, where he has been quietly enjoying the ride.

  “Did that sign say Hood’s Lane, Mama?”

  I beam at him through the rearview mirror. “It did. Very good.”

  “I knew the letters,” he says, “because Aunt Miranda read me a Robin Hood story, and then she told me about the ghost of Hood’s Lane.”

  “Did she now?” I say, only half paying attention as I peer ahead. The night has fallen fast, and I don’t want to use that as an excuse to deprive August of his lesson. I need to find a flat stretch, open enough that he can see any oncoming traffic.

  “It is a pirate ghost,” he says. “She has seen him herself.”

  “A pirate ghost, hmm?” I say as August chuckles under his breath.

  When I came back to Courtenay Hall, I discovered my husband reading a popular novel—a risqué pirate adventure, which I have since thoroughly enjoyed myself. My sister has been terribly interested in my opinion of the book, and we have begun to believe she is the author herself. I have asked, and she denies it, which is most vexing. If she has written such a delightful tale, I want to congratulate her, and I can hardly do that if she continues to pretend she has “no idea what I’m talking about.”

  “Tell me about this pirate ghost,” August says.

  He can tell I need to focus but hate to ignore Edmund, and I am grateful he takes over the conversation. I catch a little of the discussion, enough to understand that my sister has seen not a ghost but a phantom echo, the sort that usually results from a violent death, as if that death is imprinted on the world, endlessly replaying for those with the Sight.

  Fortunately, however this “pirate” died, she didn’t share that part with Edmund. She just told him the exciting bits about the man himself, who seems to have been Black, as she refers to him as “dark-skinned.” She also, naturally, gives the pirate a sympathetic backstory. Apparently, he steals from the rich at sea and gives to the poor fishermen and sailor’s widows.

  “It sounds as if your aunt has confused her pirates with her Robin Hoods,” August says.

  “Because he was Robin Hood,” Edmund says firmly. “The Robin Hood of the Bay. That’s why this road was named after him. It’s where he perished, cut down by navy knaves.”

  I swear I hear my sister’s voice in that last line, and I cough as August sputter
s a laugh. So it seems my sister didn’t skip the death scene after all. I should have known better.

  “Navy knaves,” I murmur.

  “Yes, because they were from the navy, and they were also knaves, which means a scoundrel.”

  “I see.”

  August returns to asking questions about the “pirate Robin Hood.” There’s a likely spot coming up for his lesson, where the road seems to straighten. I need to squint, even with the bright headlamps. It was overcast when we set out, but now it seems even more so, the cloud cover complete, the night ink-black above us. Still, not reason enough to deny August his lesson.

  I pull over. August undoes his seatbelt, but I shake my head.

  “Not yet,” I say. “Safety first.”

  I go on to explain the pedals and the steering wheel and point out the indicators and headlamps and windshield wipers.

  When I get to the emergency brake, August groans. “I am going a few hundred feet, Rosie. All I need to know is how to drive straight and then to stop again.”

  I ignore him and continue with the lesson until even Edmund is groaning. Then I agree it is time to switch seats. When I get out of the car, I lift my head and sniff the air. There’s a heavy weight to it. An eerie quiet, too, broken only by the wind.

  And those still aren’t good reasons to deny August his lesson. It is as if my subconscious is making excuses, which is vexing. I want to give him this lesson. So why am I hesitating?

  I shake it off and climb into the passenger seat. Then it’s onto a recap lesson, which gets Edmund groaning again, but August lifts a finger to stop me and then points to everything, naming it and its purpose.

  “I was paying attention, Rosie,” he says with only mild reproach.

  “I know,” I say. “I am just . . .” I peer out the window. “Out of sorts.”

  “Is it a ghost, Mama?” Edmund says.

  I smile back at him. “No, it is not a ghost. Not even a pirate one, though I should dearly like to see that.”

  “Aunt Miranda says he is very handsome and dashing.”

  “I am quite certain he is.”

  “Also clever and kind. She says that is even better than handsome and dashing.”

  My smile grows. “Your aunt is very wise . . . when she is not filling your head with tragic pirate death scenes.”

  I turn back to August. “All right. Let us begin the lesson. Hands on the wheel. We’re stopped on the roadway, which means you only need to drive straight. If we see oncoming cars, you’ll turn very slightly to the left and stop.”

  “We haven’t seen any cars yet, which is a good sign, considering how long we’ve been sitting here.”

  “That was my intention,” I say. “I was testing the traffic.”

  “Wise, just like your sister.”

  “I taught her everything she knows. And now I will teach you to drive.”

  I give him instructions, which he carries out, and the car rolls forward. He grins, and for a moment, I am seeing his grin for the first time, unable to look away, staring like I had risen from the dark earth to see sunlight for the first time.

  August stays at that “excruciatingly slow pace”—as he promised—while he tests the brakes and the steering wheel, getting a feel for the handling. Then, just as I am about to say he can give it a little gas, Edmund leans forward in the car seat.

  “Did you hear that, Mama?”

  August brakes, bringing the car to a halt. We both listen.

  “It sounds like a wail.” Edmund tilts his head. “It must be a ghost. Perhaps it is the pirate.”

  “Perhaps.” I put down my window. A blast of cold air rushes in, and I quickly roll it up again as I shiver.

  “Shall I stop?” August says.

  “No, it’s simply the wind on the moors.”

  I instruct him to give the car a little gas, which he does, gradually increasing the speed until we’re nearing the limit. He glances very briefly at me, and his grin stuns me again, until I realize he’s checking my response to his speed. The road is long and straight, and I see no reason why he can’t go just a little faster if he’s comfortable.

  He takes it up a notch more. Then the wind howls, shaking the convertible top. Edmund lets out a yelp of surprise. I twist to tell him it’s fine, and the world goes white. One moment, it’s pitch black, and the next, snow blasts the windshield.

  August takes his foot off the gas, the car slowing.

  “Rosie?” he says carefully. “I can’t see anything.”

  “Keep slowing,” I say. “Ease your foot down on the brake, carefully, so we don’t slide. Keep the steering wheel straight. If we stop in the middle of the road, so be it. There hasn’t been another car—”

  Lights illuminate the driving snow. A car? Impossible. No one has passed in either direction since we turned down this road.

  “Rosie?” August says. “Is that another car?”

  I open my mouth to tell him to brake fully and stop here. The oncoming car will see that we’re in distress, and it will either stop or steer around us.

  Before I can say a word, the other driver smashes their horn, the blare of it startling August as those oncoming lights fill our car. August swerves left and hits the shoulder. Edmund screams, and the other horn keeps blaring, muffled voices shouting as someone laughs. Our car slams into something, and I smack back against my seat.

  I’m out of my seatbelt in a flash. I turn to see August is struggling to get out of his seatbelt. He catches my eye and exhales in relief. Then I scramble out of the car as he twists to check on Edmund.

  I yank my seat forward and lean in through the open door.

  “I am all right, Mama,” Edmund says in a small, wavering voice. “It was scary, but I am fine.” He looks up at me. “The baby seat was a good idea.”

  I hiccup a laugh and lean in to hug him. As I do, the wind cuts through my dress and coat, and snow swirls into the car. I quickly return to my seat and shut the door, instead turning to look back at Edmund that way.

  “Everyone is all right?” I ask.

  They both agree they are. Shaken but fine. While it had seemed a hard hit, we’d barely been moving at that point.

  “Is the car broken?” Edmund asks.

  “I hope not,” I say. “Let us see what the damage is, and with any luck, we can be on our way as soon as this storm passes.”

  7

  We are not going anywhere. The car struck a sign, one warning of low visibility ahead, and I do realize the irony of that. It seems the road dips, and that is how the other vehicle appeared from nowhere. While the damage is minimal—I hope—the engine has cut out and refuses to restart.

  After inspecting the car, August and I both climb back in. We shiver as we check on Edmund, who is wide eyed with worry.

  “What are we to do?” Edmund says.

  “We wait for the storm to end,” I say. “And then we will try again to start the car. If that fails . . .” I glance at August. “We aren’t dressed to spend the night in here.”

  “I saw a farm a quarter mile back,” August says. “We could ask for help. If they have horses, they can pull out the car.” He pauses. “Or, I suppose, in this world, one doesn’t pull carriages from ditches using horses.”

  “One does not,” I say. “However, the basic principle holds. We can see whether they have a tractor to pull us out. If not, they’re bound to have a telephone, and I can call for a tow truck.”

  August pats his pockets. “I have a few pounds on me. I doubt that would be enough to pay the driver.”

  “I am hoping they’ll let us be billed,” I say. “If not, I believe I recall my credit card number, and I don’t think I asked William to close it down when he was handling my affairs here.”

  “I presume a credit card is a card that allows credit with the bank?”

  I smile. “Exactly that. One way or another, we shall get to Thorne Manor. It is Christmas, after all, and I believe we can hope for the kindness of strangers.”

  I
peer out the window. “It already seems to be letting up. A sudden and inconvenient squall.”

  “Does it mean they’ll have a white Christmas?” Edmund asks.

  “It may, and so it is a good thing, even if it has inconvenienced us. Now, I propose that you two stay in the vehicle while I walk to the farmhouse.”

  August shakes his head. “I will go.”

  “I am quite capable of it, August. Also, I am the one who knows this world and its customs . . . and how to use a phone . . . and the number of my credit card.”

  He hesitates and then says, carefully, “Agreed, but you are also a woman alone in the countryside. That is not jealousy,” he hastens to add. “It is safety.”

  “My being alone will startle no one in this world,” I say. “Is it less safe than you going in my stead? Yes, but only slightly. I will be careful and stay on the doorstep. If anything, you might alarm them more—an oddly dressed man showing up after dark.”

  “Ought we all to go?” Edmund says.

  August pauses again and then shakes his head. “No, your mother is right. It is warmer here, and you are the least well dressed. I trust your mother, and I will not insist on accompanying her.”

  “Thank you,” I say and lean over to kiss his cheek before I ready myself to leave.

  The storm had been abating when I left the car. Yet I get only a hundred feet or so before it whips up again. I pull Bronwyn’s large but very warm jacket tighter and continue trudging along the side of the road, squinting into the distance for lights, whether from a car or the house that marks the end of my journey.

  When we’d been driving in the opposite direction, the snow had been slamming into the windshield, as if the wind blew it straight at us. Now I swear that wind has maliciously changed direction so it can blow into my face instead.

  All I see is white. Snow pounds against my face and swirls about me and even manages to blow up my skirts, despite the hem dragging along in the snow. I was rather fond of this dress, too, a festive red with a lace trim that I’m certain is being ruined beyond repair.

 

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