Carols and Chaos

by Cindy Anstey

  Kate did not hear the snap of broken bones—there was too much noise—but she saw Rolland’s face contort with pain. He released Matt’s coat to cradle his hand, and in doing so, the current caught him, dragged Roland out to the middle of the stream, and bounced him through the rushing current. He screamed as the water slammed him into and through a cluster of rocks. He grabbed at a fallen branch wedged between them. Catching it with his unbroken hand, Rolland held on, buffeted by the water but no longer tumbling; the roaring current rushed past him.

  Wading, fighting his way to the bank, to Kate, Matt slipped. His head disappeared under the torrent. Horrified, Kate rushed forward, bound arms outstretched, an anchor should he need one. There to her right; Kate swung her arms. She felt a touch, but just a touch. Like a scythe, she cut her arms through the water back and forth, searching for his hand, fingers, hair, anything—and then his head came out of the water and he gasped for air and flung his arm forward, latched on to the red wool around Kate’s wrists.

  The jolt nearly knocked Kate off her feet, but she dug in her heels and hung on. Stayed upright and slowly backed up … pulling, towing Matt until he could find his footing again. And when he finally could stand, he splashed to the side of the bank. He flopped onto the ground, his chest heaving; his face was beet red from the cold.

  “You’re shivering,” Kate said, squatting beside him. “You’re freezing.” She lifted her hands to his cheek. They, too, were burning red from the cold—her sleeves were soaked almost to her shoulders; her cloak and gown were sopping wet from the waist down.

  “So are you, Kate dear,” he said as his whole body started to shake.

  “Use my cloak.” Looping her arms over his head, Kate straddled Matt’s legs and sat down. There was no other way to get close with her wrists bound as they were. “Stop complaining. I will not desist. Wrap my cloak around your shoulders. Yes, there. Isn’t that cozy? We are both using it—a modicum of warmth.” She laughed weakly. “It’s all relative.”

  And though they could in no way, shape, or form call themselves comfortable, Matt’s violent shaking did subside. He started to breathe easier, and when he rested his chin on her shoulder, his occasional shudders were fewer. Kate did not comment on the fact that the damp was now seeping through her bodice. And then Matt lifted his head, staring behind her. He swallowed audibly. “We can’t leave him there.”

  Kate twisted around to see, her arms and cloak still draped over Matt’s shoulders.

  Rolland was still in the middle of the stream—for while it seemed that an inordinate amount of time had passed, it had, in fact, been but a few moments. And during that time, Rolland had begun to tire. His hold was faltering; his grip slipped farther down the branch twice, even as they watched.

  “If he lets go, his life will be forfeit,” Matt said, shaking his head.

  Kate stared, thought, and then nodded. In an awkward maneuver that involved great balance and the significant use of her lower limbs, Kate disentangled from Matt’s warmth and stood. “If he lets go, he’ll be swept toward the log … if I can get there first, I can grab him and pull him up—out of the water.”

  Matt rolled onto his knees and then struggled to his feet, still shaking, though not as violently. “I’ll try to hold him until you get there.” He glanced downstream, likely trying to estimate the distance to the overturned log.

  “You’ve only just stopped shuddering,” Kate said with her eyes still on the figure in the cold water. About to argue for Matt’s safety, she watched as Rolland slipped again, nearing the end of his branch.

  Without another word, she turned to the streambank. Climbing quickly, grabbing at roots and saplings with her hands still bound, she was atop in a trice and running through the bracken. She ignored the branches as they whipped against her and snatched at her cloak, looking for a path, hole, opening … anything that she could race through. She stayed next to the stream; to veer away would add too much time. She had to be across, be at the ready when Rolland let go. With that thought, she pushed harder, added a burst of speed, and, at last, spied the log up ahead looking unnaturally sedate, surrounded as it was by swirling, violent water.

  Chancing a glance back, Kate gulped. Matt was knee-deep in the stream, reaching toward Rolland with a long branch. She could see his mouth move, knew him to be yelling, but she could not hear anything above the roar of the water. Could Rolland hear? It was impossible to tell. Turning back, Kate raced to the log, slipped as she stepped on, righted herself, and slowed. It would do no good to fall now.

  Two deliberate paces later, a strange movement caught Kate’s attention; her eyes shot upstream. Rolland was tumbling toward her. His head was above the water one moment, gone the next. The stream was not deep, but the current was too strong for him to put his feet down, too strong to find a foothold among the rocks, too strong to do anything but sporadically gasp for air.

  Watching the water for a moment, Kate dove to where the current funneled beneath the log, throwing herself down, lying across its length. She barely fit in a prone position, but that was not the worst of it; she had nothing to cling to, nothing to brace herself, nothing to prevent her from tumbling into the water when she caught—

  Oh no, there he was, feetfirst—but right where she thought he would be.

  Kate reached into the water, grabbing and coming up empty over and over. His feet passed, his legs, and then his torso. She was going to lose him!

  He flailed, and Kate grabbed his arm. She hooked it over the log and then grabbed the other, doing the same. Kate reached into the water again, closing her hands around the front of his coat, and she tried to lift. She had unconsciously placed her boots on either side of the log, but with every heave, they slipped—slipped until her grip on the log was as tenuous as that of Rolland.

  “I won’t let go,” Kate promised, finally meeting Rolland’s gaze—finally taking account of his appearance. He looked battered, exhausted, and surprised. “I won’t,” she repeated louder, as much to convince herself as to convince Rolland.

  And then a heavy weight bumped into her leg, almost knocking her off the log, but a hand came up righting her legs. “Hold on just a moment longer, Kate. I’ll grab him from the other side.”

  The sound of Matt’s voice and his proximity gave Kate hope, and hope gave her strength, and she held on. No longer required to heave, Kate could cling and wait and concentrate on not losing her grip, not allowing her numb fingers to release the material that she could no longer feel. Kate was aware that Matt had climbed over her, over to the other side of the log, and yet when he placed his hand on Rolland’s coat next to hers, she gasped in surprise. It had seemed fast and slow … but it mattered not; they could lift him together.

  And so they did. They lifted and dragged … well, Kate dragged, Matt pushed. Until, finally, all three were gasping on the side of the streambank. Kate yanked off her cloak and flung it over Rolland while he lay spent, his red hair plastered to his head—looking anything but villainous.

  Dropping her arms over Matt’s head, she tried to ease his shudders with her own body heat, but it, too, was nearly depleted. And yet they did not move; they sat thus, trying to fight the cold and offering comfort to each other as best they could, until the searchers, their dogs, and their wonderfully dry coats reached them a very long five minutes later.

  chapter 19

  In which an earth-shattering truth is realized

  They descended on her mother’s cottage en masse. While the dogs had been sent home with their handlers and another two men rushed to call off the other search, the group still arrived with enough souls to fill the cottage’s living space and most of the yard. By the time they had carried Kate in and deposited her, Matt, and Rolland in front of the fire, her mother was bustling around, trying not to look pleased with all the company.

  Had Kate still been bound and shaking, she was fairly certain, her mother would have been upset and slightly more concerned with her daughter’s health. But Kate had a dry coa
t over her shoulders, the red wool bindings had been cut, and the nasty gouges and abrasions on her wrists were hidden … well, Kate hid them as best she could within the folds of her skirts.

  And if Kate’s mam was glad of the company, Johnny was doubly so, laughing and joking with the men until their numbers started to dwindle. A few were sent to Shackleford Park for a wagon or cart to transport those returning to the manor, another few ran for instructions from the squire regarding Rolland, and still more were sent for medical men: the apothecary and the surgeon.

  Within a quarter hour, Kate began to relax. She glared at Rolland—sitting across from her, nursing his hand on his lap—and then turned to gesture Matt closer to her. Strange, he did not argue. His hair was drying, and he appeared less bedraggled; his color was no longer cadaverous. All very good developments. Though there was more than a hint of exhaustion in his expression. Kate smiled wanly, dropped her head onto his shoulder, and there—cuddled together for the world to see—she fell asleep.

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1817—CHRISTMAS EVE

  MATT AWOKE THE next morning in his narrow Shackleford Park bed with the well-banked coals in the fireplace still glowing orange. He was surprised that he had slept; his mind had been such a whirl that he had envisioned tossing and turning all night. He snorted, realizing that it had taken him mere minutes to nod off. Struggling to sit up, Matt pushed against two heavy counterpanes and shifted to the side of the bed.

  It was not surprising that his first thoughts were of Kate. How was she? How had she dealt with the emotional and physical turmoil of the day before? And when would he see her again?

  Kate had not returned to the manor with Johnny and him. Mrs. Darby had finally recognized the sorry state of her daughter when the apothecary had arrived to prescribe restoratives. Though not usually his job, the man had bandaged Kate’s wrists as well, all the while exclaiming with great indignity about the way Kate had been treated.

  Mrs. Darby, seeing the damage and then learning the cause, had ordered Rolland from her house. She would not have the monster what hurt her child under her roof. There were not many to disagree—actually, none had disagreed. A blanket was thrown over the villain’s shoulders, and he was shunted outside to sit under guard with the chickens. Mrs. Darby cared not a whit about his broken hand—thought it just desserts. Rolland was lucky that Mrs. Darby had no pigsty.

  And then, when the wagon from Shackleford Park had pulled into Vyse-on-Hill, Mrs. Darby had refused to allow her daughter to be taken away. Kate was instead transferred to the lumpy bed on the other side of the fireplace and covered in blankets.

  It was good to see her cossetted, at last.

  Matt was treated to a hero’s welcome upon his return to Shackleford, though it paled in comparison to Johnny’s greeting. Almost the entire staff streamed out of the door as if they had been waiting, watching, and anticipating their arrival. Camille was at the head of the line and surprised everyone, including Johnny, when she ran to him, ensured that he was steady on his makeshift crutches, and then threw her arms around his neck. She kissed him—long and hard. The staff were laughing and clapping when Camille came up for air; the look of happy astonishment on Johnny’s face was priceless.

  Matt had spent the rest of the day restoring his dignity with a bath, a change of clothes, and playing honored guest in Mrs. Lundy’s warm drawing room. The staff took turns bringing him foodstuffs, dropping by for a chat, or asking questions about the ordeal. Marie was concerned about Kate, not certain that Dame Darby would be able to nurse her good friend through her worst hurts … but allowed that there was nothing she could do about it. Though the staff tried to be diplomatic, curiosity was rampant. And yet he had not been expected to work in any way, shape, or form.

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 25, 1817—CHRISTMAS DAY

  CHRISTMAS AT SHACKLEFORD was, as usual, an irregular day. The family saw to themselves after church while the staff was busy pursuing fun and frolic most of the afternoon. The weather had cooperated, snowing, rather heavily at times. Big, fat flakes drifted onto leafless branches, collected across the roof ridge of the manor, and quickly covered the grounds. It was a true white Christmas, and the sense of celebration filled the air with laughter.

  Mr. Ernest and Mr. Ben refused Matt’s service beyond the rudimentary basics of laying out their clothes for the morning. Charles was asked to bring up the washing water, and Mr. Mowat shaved the young gentlemen before he was required to lather up Sir Andrew.

  While Matt appreciated the attempt of all to provide him with another day to recover from his ordeal, it also provided too much time to think. It might have been better had Kate returned to the manor with him—no, it would definitely have been better if she had returned … although, since he was constantly thinking of her … oh bother, he didn’t know whether he was coming or going.

  Matt was in a quandary, a great quandary of such a large degree that he was nearly beside himself with indecision. There was no doubt of what he wanted to do—a vision of racing to Vyse and pulling Kate into his embrace and staying entwined until the end of time came to mind. But what he wanted, what could happen, and what Kate wanted were not necessarily the same thing.

  Through the course of the morning, Matt had come to realize a profound and somewhat earth-shattering truth. He was deeply in love with Kate Darby. It was of the forever-more variety, he was certain. He could envision no happy future without Kate at his side.

  There were, however, great obstacles in his way … in their way. First and foremost was the question of how Kate felt. And even if she thought highly of him—which had seemed rather evident the day before—did that mean she wished to continue their … flirtation, increase their flirtation, or rearrange their lives in light of this … flirtation? All very complex questions when taking into account that Kate worked for a family hours distant from where he worked. Would the Beeswangers and Steeples visit more than once or twice a year? Not likely. Would Matt be content seeing Kate only once or twice a year? Not likely. Could he look forward to occasional holidays in the general vicinity of Tishdale? Not likely.

  There were other possibilities, too. Less appealing possibilities: Would Kate think it better to step away, away from these heady but overwhelming emotions? For it would not be an easy courtship—if that was the path they chose. They would spend years apart, saving for the future: Matt for his tailor shop, Kate for her dress shop with her mother. Could they feed and sustain a closeness when they were, in fact, not close? It was all very confusing, and there was only one certainty.

  Matt needed to talk to Kate.

  And so it was that Mr. Ernest offered little comment when Matt informed him that he was going for a walk out of doors, possibly to ice-skate or take a meander toward Vyse.

  “Heading west?” Mr. Ernest asked with studied nonchalance before nodding and returning to his book.

  Matt donned his cap and, having no inclination to follow the path through the woods, took the road to Vyse-on-Hill—which, oddly enough, was west of Shackleford as Mr. Ernest had suggested. Despite beginning with a staid and steady pace, Matt was near to running as he approached the turnoff toward the hamlet. His need to see Kate became desperate, to see that she had truly fared well, that her recovery was as profound as his.

  And then, the Fates produced a miracle. Coming toward him, looking hale, hearty, and lithe, was none other than the love of his life.

  * * *

  KATE ALMOST TRIPPED when she recognized the figure up ahead. A smudge lost in the curtain of falling snow on the horizon of the road at first, the shape soon formed into a tall, broad-shouldered young man with entrancing eyes … though she could not see his eyes as yet. The basket of linens that she was carrying became lighter, her steps faster, and the cold snap of the wind felt positively balmy.

  As they rushed toward each other, Kate could think of nothing she wanted more than to wrap her arms around his neck and feel his lips on hers. It was all she could think about, to the extent that she disregarde
d all else around her … including Matt’s sudden hesitance. His expression was that of a young man not entirely sure of his reception, but Kate had every intention of making it clear. And so, when they were finally at touching distance, Kate dropped her basket on the ground and threw himself in his arms.

  Matt was not hesitant then. She felt his arms go around her, heard his sharp intake of breath, smelled his musky, manly scent, but she could not see him … because her eyes were closed. Closed so that she could wallow in this glorious moment to its fullest, revel in the sensations as Matt kissed her until her toes curled and then trailed his lips down her neck, back up to her mouth, and started all over again.

  In heaven, yes, most certainly. There was no other way to describe a place of such delightful emotion and sensation. Her entire body thrummed, and she forgot to breathe—momentarily. The weather, where they were, who might see them, all aspects of anything not Matt, dwindled into the background until Kate was lost. A future of moments such as these would be nothing short of paradise—and then Matt ruined it all.

  “We should probably stop,” he said, leaning back a full inch, though they were still blissfully entangled.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Kate argued. Her hand slid up to the back of his head, and she pulled it forward to where her lips were waiting, welcoming, anticipating …

  “We need to talk,” he said, breaking her concentration yet again.

  “I’m somewhat occupied, Matt. Could we talk later?” It was a rhetorical question, for her lips were already on his.

  The proceedings proceeded in a great procedure—that of a tighter clasp and lips wandering past the collar of her cloak until he pulled away again, this time a full two inches. He was in earnest, frustratingly so.