by Sharon Sobel
The innkeeper chuckled and Milton looked ready to protest.
“Lead us to the rooms, good sir, so we may sooner reap our reward of hot food and a soft bed.”
The innkeeper was a man of business, and reassured them on both counts, and several others, as he jingled his keys on the way up the narrow stairs. When he opened the door to a clean room with a good fire crackling in the grate, Will thought no place ever looked more elysian. Behind him, he heard another door open and Milton’s sigh of pleasure echoed his own. They were safe and—just as important—they were warm.
Will took the several steps to the large bed, where a worn quilt had been turned down for anyone foolish enough to travel through the storm. As gently as possible, he settled Lady Frost down on the mattress and pulled the rough wool blanket away from her face.
She slept on, her breathing deep and regular. He pressed the back of his hand to her cheek and was satisfied that it was neither as cold as it had been, nor flush with fever. For the first time since he pulled her out of the coach, he dared to hope she might survive her misadventure in the snow. And he realized how much it mattered to him that she do so.
He pulled his hand away from her face but allowed it to rest on her pillow, not yet willing to relinquish his claim. But she was not his, and he had no fantasies that she might ever be. He recalled his first thoughts in the frenetic moments when they came upon her, and now that his own reason had been restored, he reckoned that she could not truly be alone in the world. She belonged to someone else, a husband or a father, and might herself be a mother, an aunt, a daughter. At this very moment, while they found sanctuary from the storm, those other people might be looking for her, fearful that she had perished in the crash. For all he knew, they might be out there on the road, trying to recover her body from the downed carriage.
The innkeeper would surely know something of that. Why had he not thought to ask him if there were other travelers seeking refuge, or if someone was trying to enlist a group of men to attempt a rescue?
Within moments of feeling a sense of peace for the first time in an hour, Will was agitated anew. He quickly lifted Lady Frost from her cocoon of wool, and settled her beneath the inviting quilt, tucking the cloth around her. He took a quick look at the dressing room where he intended to spend the night, and deemed it adequate for his needs.
And then he was back in the drafty hall, locking the door behind him. No noise came from Milton’s room, and Will hoped his driver was already sleeping soundly.
He was not. As soon as Will came down the stairs and into the dining hall, he heard Milton’s voice above the others at a corner table. He might already know if there were reports of a crash or a lady missing in the storm.
“My lord!” Milton said as soon as he saw Will come towards them. The other men turned around, looking skeptical, as if they could determine a man’s rank by his jacket.
But apparently they could, for they struggled to their feet and bowed as they murmured their deferential greetings.
Will wanted none of that, at least not on this night, for he desired information more.
“May I join you, my good fellows?” he asked and didn’t wait for them to answer before pulling up a chair. The innkeeper arrived at once, with a bowl overflowing with something steamy and aromatic, and closely avoided spilling it in Will’s lap.
“Have you all eaten?” Will asked politely before dipping in his spoon. They continued to watch him as if his manners were either appalling or very fine, but there was only one thing that concerned him within this company. “Were any of you out on the road this evening?”
Milton shook his head, just perceptibly, and Will nodded. There was no news of an abandoned coach or a missing woman buried in the snow. Whoever worried for her welfare had not come this way.
Will finished his dinner in silence, while the men resumed their lively conversation. With no one to claim the lady, she remained his responsibility. He thought that sustenance was therefore more important for him than learning about the current rumors regarding the relationship between the local vicar and the blacksmith’s daughter.
JULIA OPENED HER eyes and studied a painting on the opposite wall. It took her several moments to understand what it depicted; she blinked a few times and recognized the subject as a bowl of fruit, though indifferently rendered. She did not know what the pink orbs were, but the apples were bright red, and she realized she was quite hungry.
She struggled to rise before realizing she was nearly incapable of moving any part of her body. It was not so much a consequence of the blanket tucked so closely around her that her own weight held it down, but the overwhelming sense that her limbs were incapable of heeding the call of her brain.
But she was warm, and hoped she was safe, and was reasonably sure that she had not yet reached heaven. She guessed she was in someone’s house, which seemed respectable, if not elegant. The soft blanket that brushed against her nose was probably cleaner than she was at the moment.
She preferred to imagine she was back at Gainsmeadow, where she was born and lived when she was just Julia Townshend and possibly would be still, if Lord Leighton Kingswood’s horse had not happened to throw a shoe at their garden gate. She smiled at the sweet memory and settled deeper into her cozy nest, reassured that he looked after her, wherever he was.
As she closed her eyes, she heard a snort and some rustling to her right, and knew he was near.
“Lay?” she asked in a voice so weak, she guessed he could not hear her.
But then she heard something drop and a broken-off curse and heavy footsteps treading towards her.
“You are awake, Lady Frost,” a man said, though his voice was deeper than Leighton’s.
Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. Someone she had never seen before stood over her, staring down. With his dark blond hair and pale blue eyes, he certainly looked nothing like her husband, and yet he seemed familiar.
“You are awake,” he repeated, and shook his head as if in disbelief. “You are alive.”
That settled it, then. She was neither in heaven nor wherever poor Leighton dwelled, for her mind was now clear on that memory; her husband was dead. She did not know the identity of this man who was somehow entitled to be in her bedchamber, but she was inclined to believe him.
“Yes,” she squeaked. Her throat was raw and dry, and every word she uttered required some effort. Another certainty came to her: she was to sing at a party and entertain the guests. It was an occasion of some sort, perhaps to honor the soldiers of the Peninsula? No, she recalled that event took place last summer, in the Kingswood Chapel.
She remembered she was to wear a green velvet dress with Nottingham lace on the bodice. The fabric was as soft as a baby’s blanket, and the white lace looked like fallen snow on boughs of fir.
It was Christmas.
“Have you a name?” her interrogator demanded, sounding impatient. Who was he?
“Have you?” she asked.
He caught his breath and waited before he answered. She took the moment to study him, and try to recall if they had ever met before. She was sensible enough to realize she would have remembered if they had, for even if her dear husband was alive and with her, she would have spared a good look at this man. And yet there was something familiar about him. He was large, and yet his features had a certain delicacy, revealed in his high cheekbones and thin nose. His eyes were pale, and yet full of warmth and curiosity, and were framed with lashes several shades darker than his hair. Even without the advantage of his evening grooming, his unshaved cheeks and tousled hair did nothing to diminish his good looks. Indeed, perhaps they improved upon them.
“My name is Willem Wakefield. Those who do not know me well, refer to me as Lord Willem, and those who do, call me Will.” He scratched his head and his blond hair fell over one eye. Perhaps, like her, he wondered how well they wer
e acquainted. She supposed it had to do with how he came to be in her room and where this room happened to be.
“You are Dutch,” she said, though it did not have any particular relevance to her present situation.
He leaned closer, so close she could smell the smoke on his white shirt. His hair brushed against her forehead.
“Dutch,” she repeated.
He straightened and nodded. “My mother is Dutch, but my father is Lord Edward Wakefield, of Sussex. From the time I was a child, I have been as familiar with the Nord Zee crossing from Vlissingen to Sheerness, as well as most of my countrymen who are journeying on the Great Northern Road.”
Julia was almost certain she was familiar with neither, as she was not a great traveler. And yet somehow she was in this place, which was neither Gainsmeadow nor the dowager house at Kingswood Hall where she now lived under the protection of her late husband’s very distant cousin. Nor did she imagine she was at the great estate in Rye, at which she was expected to perform on Christmas Eve. She smiled, pleased she remembered that much, at last.
“I hope I have satisfied your curiosity, Madam,” Willem Wakefield said. “There is nothing particularly exciting about my life.”
And yet, here he was with her, unshaven and undressed, introducing himself as if they had just met at a dinner party.
“But you have not satisfied mine,” he continued, and she felt a moment of fear. Whatever did he mean?
“Have you a name?” he asked again.
Relieved, she closed her eyes. She was tired and it could wait. She had not the strength to answer.
Chapter 2
WILL REMINDED HIMSELF that Lady Frost had endured a dreadful ordeal and might well have died if they had not come upon her coach when they did. That she already opened her eyes and had the sense to question him before she revealed anything of herself suggested she was not lost to reason or hope. She recognized the foreign origin of his name, a truth about him that often eluded men and women who fancied themselves somewhat worldly.
Though she looked like a lady, even swaddled in her blankets, it was possible that worldliness could be indicative of a rather adventurous life.
Therefore, for all the reasons he had for being patient and allowing her a decent time to recover, he was terribly impatient. Not only did he wish to continue on the way to Rye, but, more compelling, he wanted to know more about her.
He went back to the little alcove where he had spent the night, which reminded him of nothing so much as the cramped cabins in which he had sailed to and from the East Indies. As the cabins were scarcely larger than closets, airless and full of hazards, Will often joined the crew, sleeping in hammocks above deck or gazing up at the starry sky, counting the days until landfall.
Now he could do little more than count the hours before he and Milton might resume their journey, after ensuring the lady would be safe until someone came to claim her here.
He stood at the washstand, assembling the essentials for his ablutions. His fine friends in Rye would doubtless be amused by his somewhat rustic simplicity, though he did not think it a bad thing that a grown man was capable of shaving his own beard. As he began to lather up his rum-scented shaving soap, he started to whistle a song familiar to him from his days at sea. And then, reflecting on the season, and the abundance of snow, he somewhat shakily began the first notes of “The Darkest Midnight in December.” It had been many years since he learned it from some of the Irish lads, homesick during the week of Christmas.
But when he paused, he heard an echo of his own whistling, a voice that was both hoarse and strained. He went to the door of the bedchamber, hopeful of what he might find.
She had pulled away her blankets so that her pale throat was exposed, and one finger was pressed against the base of her neck. He thought she would be pleased to be awake and alive, but there was a look of great consternation on her face.
She stopped when she saw him, and studied him for several moments before he realized there was soap on his cheek and he had forgotten to throw on his shirt. Yet she pretended nothing was amiss. “Will, what has happened, and why am I here?”
He smiled, oddly pleased that she remembered his name, if not much else. “My driver and I found you in an overturned coach on the road, nearly buried in the snow.”
She withdrew her hand from her neck and clenched her fist. “Yes, I remember being cold and very hungry. I still am hungry.”
“We managed to get you warm, and I believe we can soon procure a hot breakfast. What say you to porridge and hot tea?”
She cleared her throat and winced. “Warm milk is much better for my voice.”
“Do not say another word. I will have it sent up at once,” he said, and started towards the door to the hall.
“I suggest you wait until you have finished your toilette,” she whispered.
She was distracting him, making him unsteady.
“Of course,” he said, and crossed the room to return to his closet, knowing she watched him.
“I must have my voice restored in time for Christmas Eve,” she explained, plaintively.
He turned back for a moment. She held out her hand to him, revealing a graceful arm marred by an angry bruise. “Fear not. I am certain you will be able to gossip with friends at a house party, when you reach your destination.”
Her arm dropped onto the quilt and she looked hurt. “But I am to sing.”
Whatever he expected, it was not this. And yet, it explained her fine garments and worldly associations, even if they only extended as far as the Netherlands. It suggested why she had been abandoned in the crash, for she might not have been traveling with servants. And it also explained why her hair and skin were groomed and well textured, for a woman who appeared before an audience must be beautiful, either by nature or artifice.
Even as she was, it was obvious she had been blessed by nature.
“You are an actress on the stage, then,” he said, and bowed as if she was great lady. “And what is your name?”
She opened her lips and closed them again. “You have asked me this before. Have I not already answered?”
He smiled. “You have not, my Lady Frost.”
She was visibly startled, and he waved off her concerns. “It is what I have come to call you, for I do not yet know your name.”
“Julia,” she whispered. “I am Julia Townshend.”
He tried to recall if he ever heard of her, if she ever performed at a dinner party he attended, or on the stage. Opera singers traveled throughout the continent, and he might well have heard her in The Hague or Amsterdam.
“Let me have our hosts send up our breakfasts, and you can tell me more, Miss Townshend. Or is it Mrs?”
Her voice had already exhausted itself, but her lips mouthed, “Mrs. Townshend.” And now, at last, he had the information he needed to locate those whom he hoped were most desperate to find her. That should have pleased him very much, but he felt as if the wind had suddenly left his sails. This beautiful married lady was not for him.
THE TAVERN’S DINING room was a good deal quieter than it had been the night before, but no less crowded. It appeared as if the guests had already exhausted their shares of gaiety, commensurate with exhausting the innkeeper’s supply of ale, and were now solemnly contemplating the fact that there were many days of celebrating ahead of them. There were several men who looked as if they had spent the night asleep in their chairs, and another who was not so lucky; Will nearly tripped over him as he lay on the floor.
A hand came out to steady him, and he was grateful to see Milton, looking like he had his well-earned good night’s sleep.
“I hope you are rested,” Will said. “For once we locate the lady’s companions, we can be on our way.”
“She is a lady, then,” Milton said, and nodded. “I am not surprised, judging b
y the quality of the coach.”
“She does have the air of a lady, but I believe she is no more than a simple gentlewoman. The coach may belong to her mistress, or may have been sent for her by her hosts.”
“She has said as much?” Milton asked. “Has she told you her name?”
“She has said almost nothing, but that she is expected to sing at Christmas festivities. She offered her name, however, and it is Mrs. Townshend. Julia Townshend.” Will looked around the room, as if someone might be holding up a sign, ready to claim her.
“I have already asked at the stables if anyone knows of an abandoned coach on the road. It is not very distant, and I do not know where else her companions might have gone if they remained on this road. But there is a crossroad about a mile from here, and it is well traveled. A small party might well have come upon another coach, and asked for help. I would think, however, they would have returned to the scene of the accident. No reasonable travelers would have refused them, under such circumstances.”
“But would they have risked opening their door to strangers on the way? They might have been highwaymen,” Will said, thinking Mrs. Townshend’s driver and other servants might have already looted everything in the abandoned coach.
Milton looked surprised. “But these are unusual circumstances, my lord. No one would turn away those left in the snow.”
“And yet, her companions already did. Whether or not they were able to find assistance, they abandoned her and left her to die. It is unforgivable.”
“Might they be forgiven if they already thought her dead?”
Will was not ready to be so generous, no matter what they thought. He shook his head, remembering all those who died while Tambora hailed rock down upon villages, burying men, women, and children in the homes in which they hoped they would be safe. Even if someone managed to survive against all odds—like Mrs. Townshend—it would be near impossible to reach her before she succumbed to injury or lack of air. He closed his eyes, recalling the cries of those buried alive, growing weaker each day.