"But you're not," Guaire said.
"Well, no." She pushed back the quilt to get out of bed. Guaire had, for the last three years, been the sunshine in her life--mischievous, happy, and unfailingly lacking in seriousness. He had taught her to laugh and to smile, to let slip the self-control that her mother had so thoroughly ingrained in her. She went to him and put her arms around him, and pressed her face against his neck. His arms came around her.
"I understand your reasoning," she said after a moment.
"So you'll not cast me off your land?" he asked in a solemn voice.
Imogen shook her head, amazed that he still asked that every time they disagreed. But she owned the land and he could only stay with her consent. "Never," she whispered.
"I'll go on, now, then." He kissed her and headed for the door, but turned back, a smile quirking one corner of his mouth. "And Mary didn't wait for the town doc. Paddy delivered a nice little filly a few hours past midnight. Mary screamed the house down, but she's fine now."
Imogen flushed as Guaire closed the door behind him. She'd completely forgotten about Mary Sanders. She was relieved that crisis had resolved itself, at least, but felt guilty she'd managed to sleep through it. After saying a quick prayer for Patrick's safety and a heartfelt thanks for Mary's safe delivery, she shook herself and went into the dressing room to get ready. Half an hour later she was dressed in a dark suit and bundled into a warm coat for the buggy ride into town. She pinned on one of her felt hats, and wrapped a shawl over that for warmth.
Mother Hawkes looked as if she'd had a long night, shadows darkening the fragile skin under her bright eyes, but Imogen knew the woman was far tougher than she appeared. "Now, girl," Mother Hawkes said, "We'll go to the boarding house first, and then decide what we should do from there."
Imogen flicked the reins and got the horse started down the drive toward Lake Avenue. "Should we stop and see the police? Would they be able to help?"
Mother Hawkes tucked her jacket firmly around herself on the buggy's seat. "I doubt it, Imogen. Let's keep that option open, though, should we decided something mundane is going on here."
They'd left Paddy behind at the house to wait to see if any information showed up there, so Imogen hoped they had all their bases covered. She hoped there wasn't a magical explanation at the bottom of Patrick's disappearance, but 'mundane' seemed the least likely possibility at the moment.
PART 4
Guaire stood behind the old cottage at the far end of the farm, wondering what he was looking at. All about the back door he saw footprints in the remaining snow. He knelt on the edge of the wooden porch to get a better view. They had to have something to do with his son's disappearance. "You've never seen prints like these before?"
Jack, a grizzled hand who'd been at the farm as long as old Paddy had, shook his head. "Nope. Not this close to the house."
Guaire glanced up at him. "Dogs?"
"No, foxes," Jack said. "Middle toes are sorta separate, see? Can't imagine why a whole pack of them would come up here. They usually stay out in the fields or by the stream."
The suspected foxes had milled about the back porch, it appeared, sometime after the snow had stopped. Careful not to disturb the tracks, Guaire stepped farther away from the porch and tried to get a better perspective. Jack pointed in the direction of the stream that ran across the edge of the property, and Guaire crunched that way, finally spotting what Jack already had.
In the early light, the fresh snow clearly showed the fox prints running in two straight lines as if the creatures had decided to proceed in file. And over all those tracks, two thick slashes cut. Guaire gazed at the odd arrangement for a while, trying to figure it out. The prints and cuts looked like something he'd seen before, he simply couldn't place what. "Could you come and look at this?"
Jack stepped carefully through the snow to join him. "I keep looking at it, Mr. Guaire. I know what I'm seeing, I just can't put a name to it."
Guaire felt relieved that he hadn't imagined that odd sense of familiarity. "So our fake nursemaid brings Patrick here to wait out the snowfall, and then does what?"
"Well, there are some very faint footprints in the snow, a few feet away," Jack pointed out. "So faint that I'm not even certain. But if I'm not imagining them, then they're too big for Patrick. Smaller than a man, though. And if they're hers, she was barefoot."
Barefoot? Guaire knelt in the snow next to the spot Jack pointed out. Running parallel with the odd track of the foxes he saw a faint indentation that seemed far too light to be a real footprint. It did indeed look to be a bare foot, and likely a woman's from the shape of it. It was as if the walker had stepped lightly atop the snow.
Guaire laid a hand on one of the footprints, trying to sense if any charm or spell had been used to mask the woman's prints. Nothing came to him, adding to the puzzle. If she had used a spell to look like their nursemaid, she'd dropped it at the cottage. He stood again, and saw Jack still contemplating the odd trail left by the foxes.
Jack rubbed a hand across his unshaven chin. "You know," he said in a musing voice, "I heard that up in the Yukon, they use dogs to pull sleds."
Guaire crunched back over that direction, and stared down at the tracks slack-jawed. The ruts left by a sleigh--that was what the wide imprints resembled. He measured the distance between the two tracks with his hands, only about a foot across. "Is a dog sled this narrow?"
Standing over him, Jack shrugged. "Don't know about that, Mr. Guaire. Just what it looks like to me."
Guaire rose. "I'm going to follow these tracks, see how far I can get. Can I leave my clothes here?"
The older hands all knew the family's secrets, so the request didn't appear to surprise Jack at all. "Want me to take them back up to the house?"
"Yes. And could you let Paddy know what you found? Tell him where I've gone?"
When Jack nodded and headed back inside, Guaire tugged off his jacket. Never as sensitive to cold as humans, he didn't really need the thing. He quickly stripped off his clothes, folding them haphazardly, until he stood naked in the snow behind the cottage. Then he gathered his will about himself, feeling the weight of a horse gathering into him, the heat and the strength of the animal.
His breath steamed in the sudden chill about him, as if he'd sucked every bit of heat from the surrounding air. He stamped a hoof to test the thin layer of ice atop the snow, and crunched through easily. In this form he caught a lingering scent, a faint odor of animal above the clean tang of the snow. And moss and earthy bodies, smells that didn't remind him of foxes at all.
Guaire trotted to the place where the tracks of the sleigh could be seen and followed them down toward the stream. In horse form he could go all day without tiring, but his eyes didn't see the same, forcing him to tilt his head this way and that to get a good view of the tracks past his muzzle.
He couldn't make out the faint impression of a female foot, either--too shallow to be obvious--so he followed the ruts left by the sleigh, down along the bank of the stream and toward the edge of their property.
***
At the boarding house on Caroline Street, Imogen and Mother Hawkes went upstairs to inspect the nursemaid's room. Hunting for clues, Mother Hawkes called it.
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. O'Donnell," Moira Kennedy said in a tearful voice. "I've never missed a day of work before anywhere, I promise! I must have come down sick of a sudden to sleep like that."
"Pish-tush, girl," Mother Hawkes snapped, evidently her new favorite phrase. "We're not angry with you. Just let me look about here. I need to get a sense of whether anyone tried to poison you."
Moira's eyes went wide at the mention of poison. She grabbed up a beaded rosary off her nightstand and then flattened herself against the wall to get out of Mother Hawkes' way.
Imogen waited at the doorway. The girl's small room was tidy and clean, and she didn't get any sense of anything wrong there, but Mother Hawkes was a far better judge of that sort of thing.
Mother H
awkes ran her hands along the sides of the narrow bed, searched under the pillows, drew back the blanket, and looked under the bed. Scowling, she went to the desk in the corner which apparently served as the girl's vanity table as well and inspected the personal articles there, pausing as she handled the girl's boar-bristle hair brush. She lifted the thing to her narrow nose and sniffed. After another inspection, she put it down and turned back to Moira. "Now, girl, did you dream?"
The nursemaid turned a helpless look on Imogen, who simply gestured toward Mother Hawkes. "It's all right, Moira, just answer her."
"I did, ma'am. I dreamed of running in the snow, barefoot. It was the oddest thing, 'cause I used to do that when I was a little girl. I would pretend to be Our Lady of the Snows. Made my mother fume, I did."
"Was it a bad dream?" Mother Hawkes asked. "Did you feel scared?"
The girl shook her head vehemently. "Oh, no, ma'am. It was like I was warm and safe the whole time, even if it was snowing."
The arching white brows drew together. "And do you remember anything else from your dream? Did you see anyone or anything?"
Moira appeared to think that over. "There were little dogs. Little white dogs. But that's all I remember."
"Little white dogs," Mother Hawkes repeated slowly. "Never heard of a dream like that before. Hmmph."
The girl turned back to Imogen. "I'll never miss another day, missus. I promise I wouldn't."
Imogen had been so lost to her own worry that she'd forgotten the girl must be worried for herself. Jobs weren't easy to find. "Don't fret, Moira. We know it wasn't your fault. And thank you for answering our questions."
The girl seemed relieved to be forgiven her lapse, unaware of what had happened back at the farm. "Should I come in later this afternoon, then, Mrs. O'Donnell?"
Imogen froze, uncertain what to tell her. No one in town knew yet, save certain friends of Mother Hawkes.
"Just in case you're catching, girl," Mother Hawkes interposed smoothly, "better take another day off--with pay. Just remember to keep what we discussed here to yourself, will you?"
The girl nodded, and Mother Hawkes swept Imogen from the room before she could say anything else. They headed down the steps of the boarding house and were out in the chilly air before Imogen got a chance to ask anything.
"So what did you find?" Imogen demanded as she untied the buggy's reins. She felt guilty for keeping the horse out waiting in the cold. At least the temperature had risen once the clouds faded away. The snow was melting off, although it appeared that it hadn't carpeted the town as heavily as the farm anyway.
"Nothing," Mother Hawkes said as she climbed up into the buggy. When Imogen settled next to her, she added, "And that's rather interesting."
"What do you mean?" Imogen snapped the reins to start the horse walking.
"I mean that there wasn't any obvious sign of magic in the room, or about the girl's person. None of her hair had been taken from her brush--she really needs to clean that thing more often--so I don't think anyone used that to take on her appearance. And she didn't have bad dreams, all of which suggests that whatever was done to her wasn't dark magic."
"But you think it was magic of some sort?" Imogen asked, thankful that out on Caroline Street, no one would be likely to overhear their discussion.
"No one dreams about snow and little white dogs. Not for an entire day. That's just not natural."
Imogen wasn't sure if she was joking or not. She cast a sidelong look at her mother-in-law, and decided that Mother Hawkes was simply thinking aloud. She sighed. "So what do we do now?"
"I have an idea," Mother Hawkes said, "but I will need to go on to Albany. I can check on Wells, and find out if he's behind this."
Imogen half-hoped that Hammersly's former driver was their culprit. The racing association had vanquished him easily. "And if it's not him?"
"Then I've a couple of friends in Albany with whom I can confer, experts on folk like your father. They can give us some guidance if it's one of them."
"But I need to stay close to home, in case Patrick shows up."
"Oh, I didn't mean you, Imogen. The buggy would take too long." Mother Hawkes set one leather-gloved knuckle under her chin. "What I need is a motor car."
"Do you even know how to drive one?" Imogen didn't, nor did Guaire, and there was no likelihood of them ever possessing such a vehicle. Too much metal.
"Do you know where I could get one?" Mother Hawkes countered.
Imogen only knew of one automobile, but she knew exactly where to find it. After William Hammersly died, his Pierce Arrow Touring Car had been stored at his estate in one of the stables. Her father unknowingly purchased the contraption along with the rest of the property. He'd complained to Imogen at tea the day before about storing the motor car. He couldn't use it either. And he wasn't certain he could sell it, because the thing was apparently heavily laden with charms or spells, since Hammersly had originally hired Sebastian Wells as his driver, it hadn't particularly surprised Imogen to learn that vehicle was charmed as well.
"My father has a motor car," she told her mother-in-law, "stored under a bunch of tarpaulins in his stables somewhere."
"Excellent," Mother Hawkes said, wrapping her scarf over her hat. "That's where we should go next."
"Well, he did promise he would help," Imogen said grimly, expecting to have to wrangle it out of him. During the drive from town, her urge to strangle him had begun to resurface.
Once they'd arrived at her father's house, Imogen waited on the porch until a young girl answered the door--apparently a kitchen maid by her dress. "Is Mr. Finnegan here?"
"No, missus," the girl said. "Mr. Finnegan left early this mornin'. Don' know when he'll be back."
Imogen heaved out a frustrated sigh. "I need to get into the stables," she told the girl. "Who's in charge down there?"
"Mr. Reid, missus." The girl wiped her hands on her apron. "Is there anythin' else you're needin'?"
Imogen shook her head, and headed for the stables where Mother Hawkes already stood talking with a couple of the stable boys. The older woman knew everyone in the area--at least anyone associated with the horse trade. "He's gone," Imogen snapped.
Mother Hawkes rolled her eyes. "How like your cousin to leave when he promised we could borrow it."
Imogen kept a straight face. She'd momentarily forgotten she was passing her father off as a cousin. "Annoying of him. If Finn complains I'll remind him of his promise."
"I suppose we'll have to find that tiresome Angus Reid, then," Mother Hawkes said. "Knows his horses, but a duller young man I can't recall."
Imogen pressed her lips together. Angus Reid was probably ten years older than herself. Only Mother Hawkes would have the nerve to call him a young man, or tiresome. Privilege of age, she reckoned.
One of the stable boys, a strapping youngster with fair hair and what looked to be a twice-broken nose, shook his head. "I can show you where it is, ma'am. It's out in the old stable."
They followed the young man around the aging stable. Once they'd reached the back side of the stable where horse vans might have pulled up in the past, he opened the wide doors to show them a canvas-covered hulk. With a grin, the young man dragged off the heavy tarpaulins, revealing a shining contraption of wood and steel and rubber. Imogen stayed well back from it. The simple fact that it had belonged to Hammersly made her inclined to dislike the thing. And while the seats might be leather, too much of the rest of it was steel for her to feel comfortable around it.
Mother Hawkes had no such reservations, though. As diluted as her fairy blood was, she'd never had trouble handling iron. She walked around the motor car, running a gloved hand along the metal and wood body. She reached up to touch the seat and the wheel that steered the thing. "This is amazing. As many protective spells and charms as young Mr. Wells laid on this beauty, I expect it'll run just fine."
The stable boy's blond eyebrows rose, but he didn't dispute that claim.
"Can you drive that t
hing?" Imogen asked again.
Mother Hawkes hitched up her skirt and climbed--still managing to look regal as she did so--into the front seat. She surveyed the machine's levers and pedals for a second. "Of course, I can. Thankfully this one has a steering wheel instead of a tiller. I hate those things. Can you give it a crank, Winston?"
The stable boy went to the front of the vehicle, tugged on something with his right hand and began turning the crank with the left. After a moment, the car's motor chugged to life. Mother Hawkes fiddled with something near the steering wheel, and the motor roared. Imogen took a few more steps back.
"Wells might have been a greedy liar," Mother Hawkes yelled over the din, "but he loved this vehicle."
"Are you safe going alone?" It wasn't far to Albany, but Imogen had heard stories of motor cars breaking down. "Paddy won't like it."
Mother Hawkes scowled, and then gestured for the stable hand to come closer. "I'll need an escort, then. Winston, how would you like to make twenty dollars in one day? Without resorting to pugilism."
That explained the nose, then. Not too surprisingly, the young man agreed to accompany her mother-in-law; Mother Hawkes almost always got her way. Winston threw open the stable doors and Mother Hawkes directed the vehicle out at a slow, majestic roll, without even a hiccough from the roaring motor. The red wooden spokes of the wheels gleamed in the sunlight as though not a speck of dust had settled on them in the last three years. The young man closed the stable doors and climbed up in the front seat next to the elderly woman, a wide grin on his face.
"I'll let you know what I find out in Albany," Mother Hawkes yelled down at Imogen. "You get home and tell that husband of mine where I've gone. And tell him not to worry." She waved and turned the wheel, and the motor car began cruising through the stable yard, wavering at first, but then steadying and gaining speed.
Snow Comes to Hawk's Folly Page 4