by Mary Balogh
But I wish they did not have to meet quite so publicly.
Keep them safe.
Where are they?
When the axle on the carriage broke, they were only three or four miles from Hammond Park. She was sure it could not be much farther than that. The landscape was beginning to look familiar.
Fortunately, they had been traveling up a slight incline and so at no great a pace. There was a sharp jolt and the carriage tipped to a precarious and unnatural angle and came to an abrupt halt. But no bodily harm was done despite the fact that Mollie screamed with ear-piercing terror and the coachman’s exasperated and shockingly profane comments were clearly audible from within the carriage as soon as Mollie paused to draw breath.
June Nichols, Viscountess Garrett, shushed her maid, adjusted her position so that she could maintain her balance, shifted her bonnet so that it was straight on her head again, and waited for the coachman to leave off his swearing and come to their rescue. What rotten luck, she thought, when they were so close to their destination. But at least no one was hurt. She could hear the horses snorting. None of them sounded injured.
Five minutes later she was standing in the middle of the roadway, a sniveling Mollie and a glum coachman on either side of her. There was not a carriage or a person or a dwelling within sight. The only thing for it, the coachman said, was for him to ride back to the village they had passed through some time ago and bring help. He would be maybe an hour or two. He looked doubtfully at the viscountess and up at the sky. At least it was a mild and clear day, he said. The sun had even been breaking through the light cloud cover at times.
“I do believe we are closer to Hammond Park than to that village, Ben,” her ladyship said. “Why do we not all walk there?”
Mollie sniveled audibly and Ben ventured respectfully to disagree with her ladyship. Hammond in the forward direction was much farther away than the village in the backward direction. And either distance was too far for ladies to walk. Riding bareback was out of the question for them.
June clucked her tongue. “It is early afternoon, the weather is delightful, Hammond is only a few miles away, and a walk is just the thing,” she said. “Do you ride back to the village, Ben, if that is what you feel you must do. Mollie can wait here. I am for Hammond Park, on foot. If it is farther than I think, Ben, you may take me up as you pass me later, if there is a sound carriage for hire in the village. But I daresay someone else will come along before then. The Duke and Duchess of Dunsford are doubtless expecting the usual army of guests for Christmas.”
No dire warnings of peril from Ben or tearful pleadings from Mollie would dissuade her. She pulled her cloak more warmly about her, thrust her hands deep inside her fur muff, and strode off in the direction of Hammond Park. She took with her only her money and her valuables, which were inside the reticule she carried over her arm. Mollie, she noticed when she stopped to look back after a couple of minutes, was riding up in front of Ben on one of the horses while he led the others. They were going in the opposite direction. Well, those two had fancied each other for some time now. They would probably welcome this disaster and her own absence from their company. It was a good thing she had brought her valuables with her.
Someone else would come along within minutes, she predicted confidently, though she almost wished no one would. The walk and the brisk, cool air felt good. And the delayed arrival at Hammond was no hardship to her. She hated Christmas, especially the Christmases she spent at Hammond. They were a mockery with their emphasis on love and peace and family harmony. A mockery of her own lone state and of the essential emptiness of her existence.
At every other time of the year she could mask both facts about herself. She had her own small house in the country, a home in which she took great pride, and she led a busy social life, doing the rounds of house parties during the summer and winter, taking in some of the pleasures of the Season in London during the spring whenever she could be assured that Elliott would not be there.
She had not set eyes on her husband in over five years.
Her jaw set harder for a moment and her stride lengthened. He did not matter to her any longer. She did not know why she so assiduously avoided him. She had been considering—for one and a half years, ever since her twenty-first birthday—taking a lover, filling the emptiness in her life as other women in her situation did. There were several candidates who would be only too ready to oblige her at the slightest encouragement. But she had still not solved in her own mind the problem of possible conception. She had not given Elliott a son. It was an unwritten law of Society that a married lady did not take a lover until she had presented her husband with a legitimate heir.
But this year, she decided, this spring, she was going to break that law regardless of the consequences. She was twenty-two years old. She was lonely. She had needs. She was bound by a marriage that had been arranged for her when she was barely seventeen—although at the time she had acquiesced in it gladly enough since Elliott had always been her hero, especially after he had gone off to fight in the Peninsula Wars and at Waterloo. Foolish girl—as if childhood memories and a dashing military uniform and the will of her father and stepmother had been a firm enough basis for a marriage.
This spring she was going to go to London and she was going to take a lover. She was going to be happy. She was going to be young again.
But she had loved him—Elliott. Once upon a time. A long, long time ago.
Her footsteps lagged and she looked up sharply suddenly, feeling disoriented. Where was she? She was at the top of the rise at last and could see for what seemed miles about in all directions. Hammond Park was nowhere in sight. It must be farther away than she had thought. Not that she was worried. There were hours of daylight left and anyway, someone was bound to come along soon.
But she frowned as her attention returned fully from the thoughts that had been directed deep inward. When had the sky clouded over so thickly? The clouds hung heavy and low. They looked for all the world like snow clouds. And although she had just reassured herself about the daylight, the afternoon had grown gray and gloomy. Even as she looked upward, a flake of what was unmistakably snow landed on her nose, and then she could see it on her muff and on her cloak and on the roadway ahead of her.
Bother, she thought crossly. This was all she needed. But where had it come from? The weather all day and until just a few minutes ago had been unseasonably fair and mild. And it had looked settled. She had noticed no buildup of clouds on the horizon even though she had looked for them before deciding to walk away from the carriage.
Well, she thought, striding onward, it was too late now to turn back. And to what would she go? A tipped up and cold carriage? Someone would be along soon. And yet the road behind her was almost ominously empty.
She walked for perhaps half an hour after that. The snow fell thicker and faster until she was wading in it and it was becoming increasingly difficult to see where exactly the road was. There were no hedgerows to help her keep her bearings. And she could not see far. At first she thought she could see a few yards ahead. Then she was sure it was only a few feet. The world all about her was frighteningly white and all of a sameness.
Oh, yes, she grew gradually more and more frightened. What was she to do? There seemed nothing to do except keep moving onward and hope she was still on the road. She could not remember snow that had come so quickly and with so little warning. Or snow that had settled quite so fast or quite so thickly.
And then, just when fright was beginning to escalate into terror, she saw a light. Or what seemed for a moment to be a light, glowing through the blinding whiteness of the snow and the gloomy grayness of the afternoon. She lost it and thought in a panic of desert mirages—where had she even heard of such things?
And then there it was again. Though it was not a light, she realized, but a human figure—a bulky figure all bundled up inside a gray cloak and a gray bonnet. How on earth had a figure so entirely gray appeared almost like lamplight f
or a moment? But she did not ask herself the question until much later. At that moment she only sobbed with relief though she had no evidence that the woman was not as lost and as frightened as she.
At least she was human. At least the terrifying sense of aloneness was gone.
“I thought there was someone there,” the woman said in a voice that sounded reassuringly unlost and un-frightened. She clucked her tongue. “You had better come inside, dearie, where it is warm. There is a kettle boiling. I shall make you a nice cup of tea.”
June could see behind her suddenly the darker gray bulk of a building—a small thatched cottage. The other woman took her by the arm and led her firmly toward it. The grandest mansion she had ever visited had never looked more welcome to June’s eyes.
“Oh,” she said as they stepped inside and the woman in gray shut the door firmly behind them. “Oh, thank you. However did you know I was out there? I might so easily have gone on by. I might not have seen your cottage at all. I dread to think what might have happened.”
It looked cozier than any other building she had ever seen though the whole thing would have fit inside the bedchamber that was awaiting her at Hammond Park. The main part of the cottage was all one kitchen and living room. There was one room leading off it, probably a bedroom. A fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth and a kettle hummed merrily over it.
It was cozy and warm and somehow made June want to weep—with joy. She found herself doing just that, much to her embarrassment.
“There, dearie,” the gray lady said, and she came in front of June to unfasten the strings of her bonnet and the buttons of her cloak just as if June were a child and could not do those things for herself. “You are safe now. All will be well now. Your wandering is at an end.”
She felt safe. She felt happy despite distant and vague worries about Ben and Mollie and about what the family at Hammond would be thinking.
The gray lady had taken off her own cloak and bonnet to reveal a neat, unfashionable dress of gray wool and golden gray hair worn in a neat bun at the back of her head. She was plump and plain and of any possible age between forty and sixty, though her face was unlined. June, newly released from the terror of a near-death experience, thought that it was perhaps the most beautiful face she had ever seen.
“Thank you,” she said again foolishly. And then she found herself seated beside the fire in a chair that felt more comfortable than any other she had ever sat on, a cup of tea in her hand and a slice of bread and butter on a plate at her elbow.
“Oh,” she said, closing her eyes briefly, “tea has never tasted so good.”
The plump lady, standing before the fire, beamed at her.
“I am June Nichols,” the viscountess said. “I was on my way to Hammond Park for Christmas when the axle of my carriage broke. And then the snow came. And now I have burdened you with my company and my family will be worrying. And my coachman and maid will have been caught in this too.”
Her rescuer leaned forward and patted her shoulder. “Elsie Parkes,” she said, introducing herself. “There is nothing to be anxious about, dearie. Those two will be safe. And no one will worry. All will be well.”
They were meaningless words, of course. How could Mrs. Parkes know that Ben and Mollie would not go astray in the snow? And how could she know that everyone would not worry when they saw the storm and she did not arrive? And yet June found herself reassured. She relaxed. Totally.
This was such a peaceful place. The most peaceful place on earth. She lifted her cup to her lips again and smiled.
“Thank you,” she said once more.
He found himself wondering where June spent her Christmases on alternate years, when he came to Hammond. She had no family beyond her father—and all of his family, of course, which had adopted her as one of their own when her father had married his aunt.
Where was she spending Christmas this year? It was her turn to come to Hammond, but she had plans, his grandmother had written, and he must come to Hammond himself. She had not said what June’s plans were.
She had friends. He heard about her occasionally though he had not seen her for more than five years. He had expected when she had requested, through his man of business who handled her affairs, that he finance a small home of her own, that she would live there quietly alone. He had worried about it. She had been barely twenty years old at the time. But it had not happened.
He was glad she had friends. He was glad that she had a life.
He wondered if she had lovers. There had never been any hint of scandal.
She was only two-and-twenty now. The age he had been when he married her. She had been just a child, a beautiful, innocent child—just what he had thought he needed after the horrors of the wars. He had longed for youth and innocence and beauty and peace. And so he had taken them when they were offered and had unwittingly destroyed them in less than three months. Oh, yes, less. She had stayed for three months before fleeing back to her father, but everything had been spoiled long before that.
He had not gone to fetch her back even though her father and stepmother, his uncle and aunt, had dutifully informed him that she was with them.
He had not seen her since.
And had no wish to see her, he told himself firmly. He wished he could set her free somehow, but there was no way. There was no cause for annulment and divorce was out of the question even if he had proof that she had been unfaithful to him. His own infidelities were no grounds.
The best he could do for her was to stay out of her sight. Out of her life. And the best for himself too. He felt a troubling guilt every time he thought about June. Sometimes he felt a certain hatred for her too—and that made him feel even more guilty.
He was driving his curricle to Hammond Park, even though it was winter. He disliked being cooped up inside a carriage and the weather had been unseasonably mild and settled for almost a week. He had left his carriage to come along after him, bringing his luggage and his valet.
And yet suddenly, jolted from his gloomy thoughts about the sorry state of his marriage, he was aware of something cold and wet landing on his face, beneath his beaver hat and above the multiple capes of his greatcoat, and he realized in some surprise that it was snow. He could see it speckled white on his coat and on the chestnut backs of his horses.
Snow?
He looked upward and all about him and noticed in some amazement that the sky had clouded over heavily without his having noticed it and that the world had grayed despite the fact that it was still just early afternoon.
Where the devil had such weather come from in such a hurry?
He was still six or seven miles from Hammond, he estimated. He had better quicken his pace if he wished to arrive there before snow made travel hazardous and the road difficult to see. He hoped that the rest of the family and guests had come even earlier than he.
But good fortune—and the unexpected weather—were against him, it seemed. Half an hour later his horses were wallowing almost knee deep in snow and he had got down from his high perch to lead them, afraid that they would slip and injure themselves. Snow fell all about him like a white blanket, obscuring everything that was farther than a few feet from his eyes. The road was obscured so that he could no longer be sure that he was on it. He was no longer even sure of the direction he took.
Damn and blast, he thought. He was lost within a few miles at the most of his grandparents’ house. For all he knew he might be going about in circles. But he had to keep moving on, of course. One could not stand still and give up. The very thought sent a quick shaft of fear through him.
He had never seen anything like this. Where the devil had it come from?
And then, just as he had finished clucking a reassurance he did not feel to his horses—for surely the dozenth time—he thought he saw a light. A light in the middle of the afternoon? He strained his eyes to see it again. Well, why not? Anyone who had a lamp would be sensible to light it on such a day. But it was gone. He felt something ver
y close to panic for a moment.
And then he saw a shape, a small gray shape that was nothing like a light. But the relief he felt was as strong as if the sun had been on the ground before him, because the shape was human. A moment ago the world had seemed vast and strangely empty of humankind. It was a boy he saw, a slight lad, dressed in warm and serviceable gray clothes, his hair and face half hidden beneath an enormous cap. It struck Elliott Nichols, Viscount Garrett, as strange that he had spotted such an insignificant little figure in such weather. Much later it struck him as even stranger that he had at first thought it was a light he had seen.
“Ho, boy,” he called. “Are you lost?”
Somehow it would be reassuring to have someone else’s safety to look to beyond his own.
But the boy looked up at him, tipping his head back so that he could see beneath the absurd cap, and grinned at him with a cheeky and cheerful face.
“No,” he called back. “But you are, mate. No longer, though. You are found. Follow me.”
Elliott became aware then of the larger and grayer shadow of a building behind the boy. A thatched cottage, he saw as he led his snorting horses in its direction. But the lad took him first to a shed beside the house, a shed just large enough to house the horses. It was well supplied with fresh straw and hay though there was no sign of other animals. It was a relief to get inside out of the snow. An enormous relief. It was only as he tended the horses, with the boy’s help, that he realized how close to death he might have been in another hour or so if no one had found him.
“What were you doing outside in weather like this?” he asked. “Did you hear me coming?”
The boy grinned cheekily and sweetly at him. He must be about eight years old, Elliott judged, with carrot red hair and the freckles that went along with it. His ears stood out like cup handles at either side of his head. All these features had been revealed when he took off his cap and hung it on a nail inside the shed.