Under a Winter Sky

by Jeffe Kennedy

  I look down the length of my naked body.

  He sputters a laugh. “Your other magic box.” He rolls over and pulls my cell phone from my discarded coat. “You have something on here for me, don’t you?”

  I take the phone, flip through photos and pull up my ultrasound picture. When I pass it over, he turns it this way and that, frowning at the screen.

  “Now you’re just teasing me,” he grumbles. “I know the difference between a baby and a topographical map.”

  I laugh. “Sorry, but that is your child. It’s a sonographic view.”

  I point out the facial profile and limbs, and as I do, his blue eyes light up. Holding the phone, he rolls onto his back to stare at the photo while I munch on candied nuts.

  After a moment, he says, “You say the doctor can tell the baby’s sex from this sonograph?”

  “She can.”

  He sits up. “And . . .”

  “Well, if you were secretly hoping for that proper Victorian heir, you’ll be disappointed.”

  “A girl?” He grins. “We’re having a girl?” He lifts the phone to gaze at the screen again. “Baby Willa.”

  “We’ll, uh, work on that.”

  He pulls me over to him. “In the interest of marital harmony, I’ll settle for Wilhelmina, but that’s as far as I’m going. Wilhelmina Hortensia Melvina Dale Thorne.”

  “Melvina,” I muse. “I like that.”

  He pauses. “I was joking.”

  “No, it’s a good one. Melvina Thorne. I think we have a winner. We’re definitely—”

  “Oh, look, is that mistletoe over our heads?”

  “I believe there’s scarcely a square foot of this house where mistletoe isn’t over our heads. We’ll need to get rid of it after Christmas. It’s poison, and little Melvina—”

  He cuts me off with a kiss and lowers me back onto the pillows as the phone slides to the floor, forgotten.

  As a historian, I specialize in the Victorian era. It has been my period of fascination since childhood, when I first crossed the stitch into William’s time. That knowledge is extremely helpful now. I know what to expect from this world. While I can still be uncertain and cautious, I feel comfortable navigating it, with few genuine moments of culture shock.

  Thus I know what I should expect on waking mid-winter in Thorne Manor. The room will be freezing cold, with no maid to slide in and light the fire before we wake. I should be nestled under layers of blankets and wearing a long, flannel nightgown—for warmth, not modesty. The windows will be open despite the sub-zero windswept moors, because a closed window invites miasma, which will lead to endless ailments. Even after the fire is going, the ambient temperature will likely not exceed sixty degrees, requiring those endless layers of undergarments.

  Instead, I wake naked in a comfortable feather bed with just the right amount of blankets, the top ones peeled back so I don’t roast. The fire is roaring, and has never been fully extinguished. William rose earlier and stoked it, and while a big stone house like this is impossible to keep toasty without central heating, the rooms will be warm enough to suit my more modern sensibilities—and my preference for modern underwear, which William fully endorses. One window is just cracked open. We’ve discussed germ theory enough for my husband to banish period-appropriate notions of miasmas, and for us, a little fresh air is simply preference.

  The room is deliciously cozy, that chilly breeze like the welcome ripples of wind on a hot day. The sharp and crisp breeze perfectly counterpoints the perfume of the roaring fire and . . . Is that tea?

  I lift up and follow my nose to a steaming cup resting on the nightstand, with two biscuits perched on the saucer.

  God, I love my husband.

  I love this bed, too, which is going to be my dearest friend for the next twenty-four hours. I’ll tell William that I need a little more sleep, and that he’s more than welcome to join me later, when we can continue our marital reunion.

  I grin and reach for a biscuit. The door swings open, William giving it a kick as he walks in, breakfast tray in hand.

  Enigma wends her way past his feet and hops onto the bed to curl up with me. Her mother—Pandora—follows at William’s heels like a loyal hound. It is a picture I have been dreaming about for two months, rising in this bed, seeing William, the cats, the fire, the smell of the moors through the window . . .

  I am home, and here I will stay.

  William sets the tray on the side table.

  “You cooked breakfast?” I say.

  “Cooked is a strong word. More like ‘warmed up.’ But I did put eggs in boiling water.”

  “Impressive.”

  “I knew you’d want to rest after your journey.”

  I sigh in deepest contentment. “Thank you.”

  As I dig into breakfast, he disappears and then returns with clothing heaped over one arm.

  “I bought a few winter frocks for you,” he says. “I hope they’ll fit. Mary estimated for me, and she’ll adjust as needed.”

  “Perfect. Thank you.”

  He sets the pile on a chair and lifts the pieces, one at a time. The first is a full rich burgundy skirt, floor length, with pleats for light crinolines. Then a blouse that’s obviously been tailored for my belly, simple and white with burgundy buttons. There’s also a long fitted jacket in hunter green and a matching winter bonnet. Together, they’ll form a simple but stunning holiday outfit.

  “Gorgeous,” I say.

  “I thought they’d be suitable for our day’s adventure.”

  “We’re . . . going out?”

  He’s lifting the gown and can’t see my expression.

  “We are,” he says as he lowers it. “The Festival of the Penitent Rapscallions. I thought you were going to miss it. But you are not.”

  “The Festival of the . . . what?”

  He waves off my confusion. “I’ll explain later. We’ve time for you to eat breakfast and dress, but then we really do need to be on our way. There are rapscallions in need of pardons, whether they are penitent or not.”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Eat. Dress. Your festival awaits, my lady.”

  Within an hour, I’m bundled into a sleigh. A proper Victorian one-horse open sleigh, complete with jingle bells. I’m nestled in a pile of furs, and then my husband is beside me, and soon we’re whipping down the hill to High Thornesbury.

  I struggle to keep my eyes open. I swear I’m more tired now than when I arrived. Which, I suppose, may have something to do with the fact that I didn’t get much sleep last night. Entirely my own fault. William had been endlessly solicitous of my “condition,” and I’d waved off all his concern, avowing that I was only six-months pregnant and there’d come a point where sex would become unwieldy, and damned if I wasn’t getting my full share before that happened.

  If I’d been more energetic than William expected, then he can be forgiven for not realizing exactly how tired I am post-journey. I could say something. I could even just yawn and lean onto his shoulder, and that would be enough to have him turning the sleigh around and bustling me back to bed.

  Two things stop me from doing that. Two things that have me sitting upright in the sleigh, bright-eyed and beatific, smiling and tipping my chin to everyone as we enter the village.

  One, I am Lady Thorne now, at a time when that really means something. William may employ minimal house staff, but he understands that it is his hereditary duty to oversee the well-being of “his” town. Many of these villagers farm on his land or tend sheep in his flocks or run shops in buildings he owns. There’s something uncomfortable about that for a twenty-first century dweller, but I still remember William’s shock when, as a child, I told him we did our own cooking and cleaning. He wasn’t aghast at the thought of hard work; he was alarmed about the disappearance of a major source of employment for the working class.

  While there are certainly cruel and overbearing—or just plain thoughtless—landowners in Victorian England, the Thornes have always been an e
xample of the way the system was supposed to work. It’s still imperfect from a modern viewpoint, but despite my discomfort with being “lady of the manor,” it’s exactly what I am.

  If I must be a lady, then I want to be the best one possible. That means joining William in village life. Playing my role. There’s a cringeworthy old saying about the wife being a reflection of her husband, but there’s truth of that here. I want to rise to William’s example. This festival is important to the village, and our role in it is important, and I’m not going to force him to make my excuses, even if he’d happily do so. How would it look if Lady Thorne only returned yesterday evening and she’s already too tired to join the “common folk”?

  The second thing that keeps me from bowing out? I’m about to participate in an archaic Victorian holiday tradition, one unique to this village. The historian in me is salivating, and the little girl who loved all things Victorian is bubbling with excitement.

  William steers the sleigh down the snow-packed roads. The sides are thronged with villagers, snaking their way toward the village hall. When a preschool-age boy darts from the crowd, shrieking at the sight of the sleigh, William pulls the horse to a stop lightning fast.

  The boy’s father runs out, calling apologies.

  “No trouble,” William calls back. “He only wanted to see if he could outrun my sleigh.” William leans over the side and waves a shiny copper coin. “Do you want to try, lad?”

  The boy nods furiously.

  “Then here is the wager. You must stick to the side of the road there. If you come out into the street, you lose the bet. We race to the village hall.”

  William shades his eyes. “Anyone else up for the challenge? Boys and girls are welcome to try their luck, but no one over the age of ten. We mustn’t make it too difficult on my horse.”

  People laugh, and a few children come out from the crowd. William asks someone to do the countdown, and then we’re off. William keeps the gelding going at a trot, leaving the children struggling. A few give up. When he nears the hall, though, he reins the horse in, and any of the children who kept at it win themselves a farthing.

  We leave the sleigh outside the hall, and we’re met by Mrs. Shaw’s sons and son-in-law who help me down and then escort us in. The hall is already packed with people, more streaming in. There’s a small stage erected at the front. On it are two rough-hewn wooden thrones, festooned with holly and ivy. We’re led in the back and to the thrones, where we’re given holly crowns and scepters.

  Once everyone’s in, the vicar says a few words, welcoming the villagers to the festival. Then he summons a little girl from a seat near the front. She’s about six years old and missing her front teeth. She wears a green dress adorned with enough bows and lace for two gowns. As she draws closer, I can see the dress is a hand-me-down, faded and repaired, but in it, she walks like a princess, her face glowing.

  The girl stops before us and curtseys.

  “Agatha, isn’t it?” William says.

  “Yes, m’lord,” she lisps.

  “Have you committed a misdeed this year, Agatha?”

  “Yes, m’lord,” she says, barely able to contain a grin.

  “Are you ready to make a full accounting of that offense?”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  “Please proceed.”

  She straightens. “Last fall, I climbed a fence and stole an apple that had fallen on the ground.”

  “And what did you do with it?”

  “I ate it, sir.”

  William frowns. “You didn’t try to put it back in the tree where it belonged?”

  She giggles. “No, sir.”

  “That poor tree, losing an apple, only to have a little girl snatch it up.” He eyes her. “Was it a delicious apple?”

  “Very delicious, sir.”

  “Did it have any worms in it?”

  She makes a face. “No, sir!”

  “Well, then I suppose one could say that if the tree dropped the apple, then it meant for someone to eat it, and if there were no worms inside, then you weren’t stealing their food, so . . .” He looks at the crowd. “Does anyone wish to claim the cost of this fallen apple?”

  A few low chuckles drift from the audience.

  “Well, then,” William says. “I pardon you, Agatha, for your misdeed.” He taps his scepter to her head. “In recognition of your brave confession, Lady Thorne has a reward for you.”

  “Two rewards,” I say, taking a couple of humbugs from my basket. “One from Lord Thorne, and one from myself.”

  I pass the girl the peppermint sweets. She curtseys and blushes and can’t quite make eye contact with me, but she smiles shyly before scampering back to her seat.

  The procession continues. One child after another confessing to some “misdeed” from the previous year, to be “pardoned” by William. As childhood crimes go, they’re all innocent enough. I’m sure no one who actually did anything seriously wrong would confess it here. In some cases, I also suspect children concoct a “crime” to join the fun and get the candies.

  This is certainly not a Victorian tradition I’ve ever heard of. William says it’s very localized and he doesn’t know the origins, only that he’d attended his first as a boy when his grandfather had done the pardoning. I cannot wait to discuss it with Freya, who’s a folklorist and has surely heard of it.

  When the official pardoning is over, the festival spills into the village square to allow the hall to be prepared for the luncheon. William and I go out with the others and socialize in the square while admiring the decorations.

  When we think of an old-fashioned Christmas, the Victorian model is what comes to mind, mainly because most of our traditions surfaced—or in some cases—resurfaced with Victoria’s reign, many of them borrowed from her husband’s German homeland. Here I’m witnessing what is truly the dawn of the modern British and North American Christmas, and the locals have thrown themselves into the season with typically Victorian abandon, decorating everything in sight.

  We’re soon called back into the hall, where what waits is not a luncheon but a veritable feast. Everyone has cooked and baked their family holiday speciality, and as the local nobility, we must try it all to avoid giving offense. Boar’s head. Ham. Roast goose. Sage stuffing. Vegetables cooked in every possible combination. Mincemeat pie. Cranberry pie. So many pies. And, of course, plum pudding. Three plum puddings.

  After we dine, it’s back into the square for more socializing. William is off talking with a group of men who farm on his land. I’m chatting with the local schoolmaster and his wife when I notice a young woman trying to catch my attention. It’s Mary, the teenaged seamstress William hires for our wardrobe.

  I excuse myself from the young couple and head toward Mary. Even with the square cleared of snow, I need to haul up my long skirts and coat, and by the time I reach her, I’m very aware of exactly how tired I am, but I banish it with a bright smile of genuine warmth.

  “Greetings of the season, Mary,” I call as I approach. “It’s so good to see you. Thank you for altering my outfit. You are an expert estimator.”

  “I’m glad it fits, ma’am,” she says, “and I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation. I only wished to ask if we might have a word. Not now,” she adds quickly. “I know you’re busy. Perhaps we could talk tomorrow, when I come to the house?”

  “Tomorrow would be fine, Mary, but if there’s something you need to speak to me about, I’m happy to hear it now.”

  “It’s not worth troubling you with, ma’am. Just . . .” She casts a quick glance at my midriff, as if not wanting to be indelicate. “Lord Thorne says you’ll be staying at Thorne Manor now, at least until the fall.”

  “We will. My invalid aunt is doing much better. If William and I decide to spend any time in London, it won’t be until after the summer.”

  In other words, if I can’t get a local teaching position in the twenty-first century, William has insisted we’ll temporarily move closer to wherever I�
��m working.

  Mary nods. “That’s what his lordship said. For now, though, you’ll both be living at the manor, along with the babe when it comes.”

  “We will.”

  “And being a lady, especially one with a new babe, you’ll need more staff at the manor. At least a maid. Perhaps even a nursemaid.”

  “We . . . haven’t given it much thought.”

  “But you will. You can’t stay up there with just a live-out housekeeper.” She straightens. “I would like to apply for whatever position you require, Lady Thorne. I do not have experience as a maid, but I’m a quick learner.”

  “I know you are,” I murmur.

  “And I do have experience with babes. I can provide references for that.”

  “I thought you liked being a seamstress, Mary.”

  “Yes, but it’s only part-time. Piecemeal work. Father says I need a full-time position. He’s found one for me in Whitby, working on a farm. It’s either that or I marry George Wilcox, who’s widowed with five little ones.” She lowers her voice. “I don’t know which is worse.”

  I stifle a smile. “No doubt.”

  The answer here is obvious. Hire her. I know Mary, perhaps better than I know anyone in the village. She’s been at the manor many times. She accepts our eccentricities without question. To her I am simply a formerly widowed American, and any oddities of my speech and behavior can be chalked up to that.

  I trust Mary. There’s no one I’d rather have in the house, even if I’d still want it to be a live-out position. I don’t need a maid—or a nursemaid—but this isn’t about me. She needs a job, and I could find enough work to justify a wage that we can very easily afford. So why am I not jumping in to offer her a position?

  Butterflies.

  What holds me back is a little thing called the butterfly effect, which gets its name from the idea that the mere flap of a butterfly’s wings could set about a chain of reactions that cause a tornado.

  For the average person, the “butterfly effect” is usually heard in terms of time travel. What if we could go back in time? What effect would our actions have on the future? Even if we actively strove to do good, couldn’t we unknowingly cause future harm? What if we traveled back in time to stop a killer, only to discover that one of his later crimes had launched a revolution in forensic science or victims’ rights, so we’ve save a few lives only to ruin thousands?