By Winter's Light

by Stephanie Laurens

  She and Therese carried the stepladder across the hall, then with Louisa directing, Therese—who was the taller of the pair—secured the large bunch of trailing greenery and berries in place.

  Louisa grinned. “Perfect!”

  Juliet and Annabelle had already crossed to the last archway, the one that connected the stairs from three of the upper towers to the dais. Leaving them to finish there, Therese picked up the stepladder and carried it back to the alcove while Louisa quickly placed the holly back into the log-basket, piling it up so that the loss of the mistletoe beneath didn’t appear too obvious.

  Annabelle came to help while Juliet took the other stepladder back, and then it was done.

  The four girls gathered in the center of the hall, in between the tables, and turned in a slow circle, examining the totality of their decorations.

  Then they turned to each other and grinned.

  “Yes, indeed—and you have every right to be delighted with yourselves.”

  The words—in a voice they all knew well—had them spinning around to look at the archway giving onto the dais.

  Helena stood beneath it, looking up at the dangling mistletoe, then she lowered her gaze and beamed upon them. “Very timely, my dears. For, after all, what is Christmas without mistletoe?”

  Helena used a cane; she was holding it in her hand. None of the girls could understand why they hadn’t heard her coming down the stairs…then Helena moved forward and Algaria joined her, and they realized Algaria had helped Helena down.

  Looking up at the mistletoe, Algaria audibly sniffed. “It never did anything for me, but for others, I suppose, it’s much as that other saying. Is blianach Nollaid gun sneachd.” Lowering her gaze, she looked pointedly at Annabelle.

  Annabelle screwed up her face in thought, then offered, “Christmas without snow is poor fare…or what is Christmas without snow?”

  Algaria nodded approvingly. “Good enough.”

  Helena tipped her head as if listening to noises above, then she looked at the four girls. “If you wish to play the role of secret mistletoe fairies, then you might not want to be the only ones here when others arrive.”

  Louisa blinked. “Good point.”

  With her cane, Helena waved toward the far archway. “The library should be a useful place to retreat to for now, so that you can emerge later and be as amazed as everyone else.”

  Louisa grinned. “Thank you, Grandmama!”

  Annabelle echoed the sentiment, while the other two chorused, “Thank you, Grand-aunt Helena!”

  Helena shooed them off, and they went, giggling as they hurried out of the hall toward the library.

  Slowly making her way to her place at the far end of the high table, Algaria said, “I find it comforting that they are still at the giggling girl stage, and so still find delight in such minor events. Heaven help us all when that lot grows up.”

  Looking after the four, Helena thought it very likely she would be in Heaven by that time. But instead of acknowledging the inevitable turning of time’s wheel, she tilted her head and, focusing on the ball of mistletoe hanging beneath the arch through which the four had gone, murmured, “Still, I feel it is a very good thing—a very necessary thing—that they have done.”

  * * *

  By the time Prudence, Marcus, Sebastian, and Michael came in through the door from Jeb’s stable-barn, Lucilla, with Jeb’s help, had strung the rope he’d found across the width of the cottage between nails sunk into the log walls, then draped old blankets over the rope and placed logs on the ends trailing on the floor to create a wall screening Lottie and the pallet from the rest of the cottage.

  Sadly, that was only the beginning of their making do. The others came in, stamping their feet and rubbing warmth back into their hands. They crowded around the deal table, setting the saddlebags they’d carried in on the empty board.

  Coming out from behind the curtain of blankets, Lucilla saw them—saw them all turn to look at the front of the cottage just as she, alerted by some visceral sense, did the same.

  Abruptly, the wind shrieked and struck the cottage’s exposed front face. The force of the blow was an elemental slap that rattled the structure and left it moaning and groaning.

  All five cousins looked up and around at the timbers surrounding them, the creaking beams holding up the roof, the walls with their gaps too numerous to count, and the rickety shutters covering the glassless windows.

  “Sounds like the storm’s arrived,” Michael said.

  Lucilla looked at Marcus and met her twin’s eyes. It was Marcus who, somewhat diffidently, said, “Actually, no. That was just the precursor—a harbinger, if you like. The winds come first. The storm itself is still an hour or more away.”

  Turning from studying the less-than-sturdy shutter over the window to the left of the front door, Sebastian bent a richly unimpressed look on Marcus. “So it’s going to get a lot worse.”

  Marcus nodded.

  Sebastian looked back at the shutter and sighed. “In that case, we’d better use that hour to see what we can do to shore this place up.”

  “I saw timber and sheeting at the back of the barn, and there must be tools somewhere.” Michael looked at Marcus and Lucilla; Jeb was behind the curtain with Lottie. “Is it all right if we use whatever we can find to make this place more sound?”

  Marcus glanced at Lucilla.

  “I’ll ask,” she said.

  When applied to, Jeb blinked at her in incomprehension. With Lottie clinging to his hand, gritting her teeth as she waited out another painful pang, Jeb couldn’t seem to gather his wits enough to focus on anything else.

  It was Lottie who, as the pang eased, drew in a deeper breath and gasped, “There’s all sorts o’ bits and bobs left over from when they built the stable-barn last summer. Jeb was hoping to use the stuff here and there for repairs.”

  “Good.” Lucilla patted Lottie’s hand and squeezed Jeb’s shoulder. Rising, she said, “You stay here with Lottie, Jeb, and we’ll get busy and do some of those repairs for you.” To Lottie, she said, “If you need me, just call.”

  Lucilla went out past the curtain to discover that Sebastian, Michael, and Marcus, having heard the exchange, had already gone back into the stable-barn to see what they could find.

  In the end, Prudence went, too; she was more comfortable doing things in barns than in kitchens.

  While the others found and ferried timbers, boards, and bits of shingle, as well as a plethora of tools, into the cottage, Lucilla built the insipid fire into a respectable blaze. Satisfied, she turned her attention to searching the cupboards.

  And found next to nothing.

  A meagre hoard of flour, not enough to make even one decent-sized loaf. Some turnips. A few chestnuts. And a cooking pot containing a small portion of leftover rabbit stew.

  Looking into the pot, Lucilla pulled a face.

  Setting down the tools she’d ferried in, Prudence saw and came to peer into the pot. She considered the evidence, then met Lucilla’s gaze and whispered, “Is that all there is?”

  Lucilla nodded and whispered back, “And that will have to go to Lottie.” Setting the lid back on the pot, she returned it to the side of the hearth. “I’ll add water and make it into a broth. Whether she eats it now or later, she’ll need the sustenance.”

  Prudence shrugged. “It’s not as if going hungry for one night is going to hurt us.”

  “No.” Lucilla shut her lips on the question of what might occur if they were snowed in; both she and Prudence knew how their menfolk ate, but they would deal with that if it happened.

  The ferocity of the wind had increased; it howled about the cottage like some savage animal hell-bent on tearing and rending. Every now and then, a more severe buffet sent snow and sleet peppering the exposed front of the cottage; the fury of the storm seemed a live thing intent on forcing its way inside through every crack and crevice.

  “Water.” Lucilla found the water jug half full. She grimaced. “We’ll n
eed a lot more than this, especially when the baby arrives.” Raising her head, she listened to the wind. “Better we get it in now.”

  Going back around the curtain, she found Jeb talking quietly to Lottie, who had closed her eyes and might have been dozing. “Jeb,” Lucilla whispered. When he looked at her, she held up the water jug. “Where’s the well?”

  The answer proved to be in the trees a little way beyond the back of the barn. Lucilla gathered all the receptacles that would hold a decent amount, and piled them into her cousins’ and brother’s arms. “Bring back as much as you can, but please don’t get frostbite.”

  Jeb had offered to get the water, but the difference in size and build between him and the Cynster males was too marked to allow any of them to even consider that.

  Having tactfully insisted that Jeb remain with Lottie, Lucilla watched her four relatives troop out into the barn. Securing the narrow door behind them, she returned to the hearth, added water to the remnants of the stew, stirred the mixture, then set it hanging over the blaze to simmer.

  In the barn, Sebastian squinted out of the main door into the trees. “I can just see the well. It’s not that far.”

  “Draw straws to see who goes,” Michael said.

  Sebastian glanced at his brother, then shook his head. “No. I’m the heaviest.” He shrugged. “And the strongest. I’ll go.”

  Neither Michael nor Marcus thought that a sound idea and said so; an argument looked set to ensue.

  They were all in hunting clothes; none of them had overcoats, or even thicker gloves. Hugging a bowl to her chest, Prudence said, “If I might make a suggestion?”

  Three pairs of male eyes swung her way.

  “What?” Michael asked.

  Inwardly sighing, Prudence outlined her idea and, of course, it made the best sense.

  Without actually admitting that, the boys accepted her suggestion of forming a short line and passing the bowls and pails back and forth. As she had pointed out, it would be the fastest way to get what they had to do done, and would also involve the least expenditure of energy for each of them.

  Sebastian—as he had stated, the heaviest and strongest—went first. It was he who reached the well, lifted the simple lid, and dropped the bucket down. He who turned the wheel to pull the filled bucket back up and tipped the water into the containers.

  Michael was next in line, receiving each filled receptacle and passing it back to Marcus before giving Sebastian the next empty vessel. Marcus carried each filled receptacle back to Prudence—forbidden by all three boys from venturing out of the barn; taking it, she set it carefully aside while Marcus picked up the next empty pot and trudged it out to Michael.

  Marcus didn’t have to trudge far, and Sebastian didn’t need to shift from the well. They worked quickly and efficiently, and in the shortest possible time, all the cousins were back in the barn and had hauled the doors shut and dropped the bar across.

  Eying the rattling doors in the light of the old storm lantern they’d earlier found and lit, Sebastian humphed. “Just as well this side of the cottage is protected by the ridge and the trees.”

  They ferried the filled containers back into the cottage. Lucilla had them place the pots and bowls in one corner, out of the way. Marcus and Prudence returned to the stable-barn to check their horses and Jeb’s sheep.

  Sebastian and Michael came to warm themselves by the fire.

  Holding his hands to the blaze, Michael murmured, “We should block the gaps in the walls where the wind is pushing in.”

  “Hmm.” Sebastian turned his back to the fire and critically surveyed the cottage. “I think the main structure is sound enough—and regardless, we haven’t got the materials to do anything about that—but those shutters, the left one especially, look far from secure. If one of them goes, the storm will be inside the cottage.”

  Straightening, Michael nodded. “You do the shutter. I’ll work on the walls.”

  Marcus and Prudence returned. After a brief discussion—to which Lucilla listened but didn’t contribute—Sebastian and Marcus went to work trying to stabilize the rickety shutter, working solely from the inside and without opening it, not a straightforward task. Michael started working his way around the walls, plugging whatever gaps he found with straw or by hammering in slivers of wood.

  Prudence turned to Lucilla and tipped her head at the blanket-screened alcove. “Is there anything that needs doing there?”

  Lucilla shook her head. “We’ll need you later, almost certainly, but as yet…”

  Prudence lowered her voice. “How’s she going?”

  Lucilla met her gaze, then whispered, “I’m not sure. Matters are progressing as they should, and yet…something’s not quite right. The baby’s position is still not as it should be.” She paused, then added, “I tried to shift it around, but that didn’t work—it’s already too late. I think it’s going to be a breech birth.”

  Prudence shrugged. “That happens with foals sometimes. As long as there’s help, it usually works.” She studied Lucilla’s face. “Have you delivered a breech before?”

  Lucilla grimaced. “I’ve seen it done twice. But seeing is different from doing.” She met Prudence’s eyes. “You?”

  Prudence pulled a face. “Same as you—seen, but not actually done.”

  Lucilla shrugged lightly. “We’ll just have to manage.”

  “Well, until you need me, I’ll help Michael.”

  “Actually,” Lucilla said, “it would help if you did the walls behind the screen. They’re just as much in need of patching as the rest.”

  Prudence saluted and turned away. “Will do.”

  After checking her stew-cum-broth, Lucilla checked on Lottie, but with Jeb beside her, the young woman was holding her own; as far as Lucilla could tell, they were still at the slow, steady, and repetitive stage.

  Prudence, a small mallet in one hand, was shifting around the walls in the narrow space, tapping softened wood plugs into gaps.

  But Lottie was a Scotswoman; the rules of hospitality were bred in her bones. Rallying in the aftermath of a birth pang, she looked at Lucilla, her expression aghast. “I just realized…Jeb didn’t get a chance to check his traps. And I haven’t baked, and there’s no flour because we didn’t expect the storm, and Jeb would have gone today—”

  “Don’t. Worry.” Lucilla’s tone brooked no argument. “While you’re bringing this child into the world, you are absolved of all other duties.” When Lottie blinked at her, Lucilla calmly continued, “None of those here are in danger of starving. We have plenty of water, and at present, that’s our only essential need.”

  Lottie didn’t look convinced. “But it’s Christmas Eve. You and”—she glanced at Prudence, then tipped her head at the screen—“the others should be sitting down to a great feast.”

  Lucilla shrugged. “But we’re not. We’re here. We chose to come here, we chose to stay, and I’m quite sure that here is where we’re supposed to be. If we miss a meal, then that, too, is part of what should be.”

  When Lottie frowned, unsure how to answer, Lucilla smiled and patted her hand. “You concentrate on what you have to do and don’t worry about the rest of us—not even Jeb. I’m going to brew you a tisane—I’ll bring it in a few minutes.”

  Lucilla went back around the screen, drew up a stool, sat at the table, and pulled her saddlebag from under the pile. She sorted through the herbs she habitually carried. Several would be useful after the birth, to help Lottie recover, and Lucilla had the makings of a tisane that would support Lottie through the next few hours by taking the sharp edge from the pangs, but there was precious little that would aid during the crucial stage of delivery.

  Inwardly shrugging, Lucilla brewed the calming and supportive tisane. She poured the concoction into a plain tin mug and set it aside to cool, then, straightening, she glanced at the others—at Michael wedging a piece of wood into a crack above the shuttered window to the right of the door, and at Sebastian and Marcus working on t
he shutter covering the other window.

  As Lucilla watched, Sebastian and Marcus stepped back and surveyed their handiwork. The shutter still rattled, but only with the worst of the gusts, and it certainly wasn’t shuddering as it had been.

  Marcus said, “That’s the best we can do.”

  Sebastian nodded and, a hammer dangling from his hand, turned away. He saw Lucilla watching and caught her eye. Sebastian glanced at the screen, then mouthed, “Food?”

  Lucilla shook her head and mouthed back, “None.”

  Sebastian grimaced, then shrugged resignedly. Both he and Marcus joined Michael in hunting out and blocking the worst of the gaps in the walls.

  Registering that, despite the drop in temperature due to the oncoming storm and the chilling effect of the icy winds, the temperature inside the cottage had actually started to rise—or, at least, was no longer precipitously falling—Lucilla returned to the fire and piled on three more logs.

  When the flames caught and flared, she straightened.

  Staring into the flames, her own words replayed in her head. We chose to come here, we chose to stay, and I’m quite sure that here is where we’re supposed to be. She knew truth when it fell from her lips, but in fact, the road that had brought them there stretched back much further than the decisions made that day.

  They’d planned to be in Scotland for Christmas, a plan they’d hatched while at Somersham Place, principal residence of the Duke of St. Ives and the family’s ancestral home, for their Summer Celebration, which lauded and revolved about one thing—family. On that August day, while strolling around the lake, they’d talked about hunting after Christmas, and the boys had, even then, spoken of the need to go riding on Christmas Eve.

  They’d started down the path that had landed them in the cottage, with a storm about to hit in full force outside and a woman about to give birth inside, a long time before.

  Feeling the increased warmth the fire was throwing into the room, Lucilla turned—just as a long, mournful, whistling howl swirled about the cottage.

  Lucilla met Marcus’s eyes. Soon.