After the cross, the road gradually sank down between banks of trees, offering some shelter from the wind. Without that constant buffeting, she could increase her pace.
Her muscles soon began to protest. Her mother didn’t believe in vigorous exercise for young ladies. A gentle amble around the village green in clement weather was quite enough to bring roses into her girls’ cheeks. Camilla never worried about her figure. Her mother also didn’t believe in large meals for young ladies.
No sooner had the wind ceased to blow than fat white flakes began to swirl down like hunks of greasy lamb’s wool thrown off by a mad sheep-shearer. It was a smothering snow, a thick, floundering snow that came down in a blinding fog, withdrew and returned, bringing greater confusion. Being hit by one flake was like being struck in the face with a wet pillow. Pushing her way through many of them was as if she were being attacked by enraged mattresses.
If Camilla had not reached where the road dipped before the snow hit, she might have gone wandering off across a field and become lost. As it was, she blundered to the left, tripped over a tree root, shied, and staggered back onto the crown of the road. She stopped, catching her breath. A wild sort of fear seized her. Camilla fought off the panic, knowing she was close to her destination. “It’s foolish to be frightened of a little snow,” she muttered.
But in just that moment, her skirt had become entirely white. Camilla beat her hands against her thighs, shaking the caked snow loose, leaving damp and dusted fabric behind that soon became covered as before, making her skirts heavier. She realized that her feet were cramped with cold. If she did not walk on at once, she’d soon find herself cowering down in the middle of the road, covered with snow like a tree stump.
But it was hard to will herself to move on. Far easier to stand still, dazzled and mesmerized by the dancing flakes buzzing before her eyes like white bees. The cramp in her feet became a flame, driving her a few stumbling steps forward.
It seemed to take forever to walk the hundred yards of the road in the hollow. Nanny Mallow’s cottage should be just a little farther beyond this point. “It might as well be on the moon,” Camilla grumbled.
Just then, she heard a muffled howling. The sound cut through the cold fog, rising up to unearthly levels before stopping abruptly. Camilla staggered onward. She’d gone no more than a few steps before she heard the ululation again, dark with all the misery of the world.
Camilla could have no more refused to succor the maker of that cry than she could melt a path through the snow. She could only struggle on, her direction now determined by the howling cry.
Ahead, she spied the dim grayish outline of a building. She started toward it. At once, a dog began to bark, dry, weary barks that yet held something of joy in its tone. Camilla permitted herself to whistle, since there was no one to hear her.
She half tripped over a wooden bowl and, putting her hand out to balance herself, touched fur. A black and white dog, wet and shivering, stood next to a post sunk into the ground. The rope that tethered him was wound many times around the post until he could only move a few inches in any direction. She looked into bright brown eyes and thought, This is a nice dog. Why would anyone leave a dog tied out in a snowstorm?
Pulling off her gloves, she let him sniff her fingers. Despite his situation, he licked her hand, perhaps as much to taste the melted snow as to show his harmlessness. “There now,” she said. “Let me just...”
She found the knot under his jaw. The thin rope tied around his collar was wet and seemed to have fused into a solid mass. She broke a nail and was about ready to use her teeth when a loop loosened at last. Once she’d broken the back of it, the rest came undone quite easily.
“You’re free,” she exclaimed.
The dog took a few halting steps, stopping at the same distance from the post he must have learned by half strangling himself every time he tried to go farther. Camilla backed up and clapped her hands, calling the dog to her. “Come on, come on, sirrah!”
The moment the dog realized he was no longer tied, he bounded away over the crust of snow, running toward the house. “You must be thirsty,” Camilla said, picking up the wooden bowl and her gloves. She had to brush the snow away to find them. “I’ll find you some water.”
He stood outside the door, pawing restlessly at the smooth brown varnish and whining. “Stop that,” she said. “You’ll scratch it.”
The dog danced backward, whined again, and charged at the door, leaping up to claw at the knob.
Ordinarily, Camilla would have no more walked uninvited into a stranger’s house than she would have spoken to a strange man in a coach. But the freezing weather, the dog’s imploring eyes, and her own increasingly miserable condition would have to explain her being so bold. Even so, she hesitated until, the wind having died for the moment, she heard a faint human cry for help.
Chapter Two
The cottage had been built in a typical fashion, a series of small whitewashed rooms telescoping out from each other. She peered into the largest of them, an impeccably clean and tidy square room with a sloping chimney-breast. The mantel was crowded with mementos, bracketed by a pair of Staffordshire lovers, she in pink panniers, he waving a tricorne hat. Along one wall was a row of square windows, like the rear galley of a ship. All the curtains were open. The cold beat in remorselessly, as if there were no walls to shelter behind.
The dog pushed in ahead of Camilla, sure where she hesitated. With a yip, he ran away into one of the other rooms.
“Is anyone there?” Camilla called, following. She hoped that she’d only imagined that faint cry for help. She didn’t want to face whatever caused this sense of desolation in a place meant to be cheerful and cozy.
“Who’s there?” The voice, a woman’s, came like a ghost’s whisper, barely audible above the moaning of the wind.
“I’m Camilla Twainsbury. Where are you?” She followed the dog and found him sitting before a half-closed door. He looked over his shoulder at her, as if to ask what was taking her so long. Once again, as soon as she laid her hand on the door, he rocketed through it ahead of her.
“Oh, good boy, Rex. Good boy. I’m sorry... so sorry.”
“Nanny Mallow?”
An elderly lady lay on the floor, her gown twisted around her. A pillow and counterpane had been pulled from the bed beside her, leaving the sheet half-drawn to the floor. The light from the net-covered window allowed Camilla to see details but not colors. She didn’t need to see Nanny Mallow’s color to know the older woman was in a bad way.
“How long have you been here?” she asked, dropping down on her knees beside her.
“This will be the second night. The first, I think, I was out of m’head. Thank mercy m’leg doesn’t hurt the way it did before. I can hardly feel it now. But it won’t bear me. I’ve tried.”
“What’s wrong with it? “
“I believe I broke it. I was reaching to knock down the cobweb in the corner and fell off the footstool like a right fool.” She lifted her hand to pat her dog, lying shivering with delight near his mistress. “It’s poor old Rex I felt sorry for. I could hear him crying in the yard, and there was nothing I could do for him. Be a good lass, Miss Camilla, and go to the kitchen. There’s a fine fat shinbone there for him.”
Her voice faded out as her eyes rolled back in her head. She slumped down, but even as she fainted, she moaned from pain. Camilla caught her by the shoulders as she fell back and laid her gently on the pillow.
“Well,” Camilla said, sitting back on her heels. Her mother’s old saying, perhaps passed down from the very woman before her, came into her head. “First things first. But what’s the first thing?”
Her own white puffs of breath told her what to do. She found a flint and steel in the kitchen, kindled a fire there and set the kettle on, not forgetting to unwrap the butcher’s bone for Rex. He drank thirstily from the bowl of water she set down on the floor. She refilled it, and he drank again. A mop and bucket in the corner reminded her
of other duties.
Once she started a fire in the bedroom hearth, the cheerful glow heartened her for the unpleasant but necessary task of cleaning the floor. A quick search of a cedarwood chest on the far side of the bed discovered a treasure trove of warm blankets and a silken tie-quilt as warm and light as good white goose down could make it. Two fresh pillows under the woman’s heavy head and she looked as if she lay on a very low bed.
Camilla had everything ready before Nanny Mallow’s wrinkled lids fluttered. “Tea,” she moaned between cracked lips. “Two days I’ve been dreaming of tea....”
“Right here, Nanny.” Camilla slipped her arm around the frail shoulders and brought the cup near. Despite her weakened condition, after a moment, Nanny Mallow held the cup herself. “Too sweet,” she said, smacking her lips thirstily, “but a good cup, withal. I taught your mother how to make a good cup of tea.”
“And she taught me. A clean cup, a hot pot, and boiling water.” Camilla reached out to the brown-glazed teapot on a tray on the floor. “A little more? Then something to eat, perhaps? I can have this bread toasted in the twinkling of a bedpost.”
“I’ve been lying here day and night, and I can’t say I’ve seen ‘em twinkle yet,” Nanny said crisply. “But I’m most grateful to you, Miss Camilla. I’d begun to believe I’d lie here ‘til spring, and a fine moldering heap I’d be by then.”
“Try a little toast and then we’ll see about lifting you onto the bed.”
“Don’t you try it, Miss Camilla. I was a dainty thing once, about your poundage, but that was long ago. If you try, you’ll find the both of us lying here twisted up.”
“I can’t leave you lying on the floor, Nanny.”
“I’m as comfortable as I’d be in my own bed. Better, for my mattress has a valley in it that would swallow a cart horse. Now that you’ve made me a bit more respectable, for which I’m most beholden, and a cup of tea, I don’t want for anything else. Build the fire up a bit, though. I’m chilled to the marrow.”
Camilla drew the silk quilt higher. “Then, shall I leave you while I go in search of assistance?”
“That’s the way of it. Rex will stay with me. With a dog at my back to keep the chilblains off and that fire before me, I shall have far more than I prayed for an hour ago.”
“I’ve never been the answer to a prayer before,” Camilla said, smiling. “Where do you suggest I go? Who will be of the most help in this neighborhood?”
Nanny Mallow’s face was still as wrinkled as the bark of an ancient tree, but the marks of anguish were fading. Tea seemed to be working its usual magic. When she smiled, the folds at the sides of her mouth deepened, giving her what must be her natural look, of habitual good humor and great good sense. “On your way, you must have passed the gate of a grand house.”
“Yes, I saw it.”
‘You might as well try there first before you walk all the way back to the village. They’re a handless crew at the Manor, but the oldest gel’s found a bit of sense lately. More than her own mother I’ve thought a time or two. What do they call her? Some foolish half name ... I never approved of shortened names. If you’ve a respectable name, why not use it? My own name’s Priscilla, and it would take a brave lad to call me Prissy. Though there was one that did....”
Fortunately, the cup that fell from Nanny Mallow’s nerveless fingers was empty and bounced harmlessly on the edge of the pillow. Camilla didn’t like the notion of leaving her all alone again. It was possible that Nanny had struck her head when she’d fallen. These slips in and out of awareness must have some such cause.
But when in her senses, Nanny Mallow seemed very sensible. Remaining here, though kindly comfort to the poor creature, would not serve her as well as fetching some kind of immediate aid. Even having someone to send for a doctor while she returned at once to the cottage would be a blessing. Now she wished she had accepted the gentleman’s offer of a seat in his carriage. Though frivolous, he could have at least assisted her in lifting Nanny to a more comfortable surface than a hard, cold floor.
Rex returned to the room and waked his mistress with a lick on the cheek. She patted the side of his face and pushed him aside with the same motion. “Good boy; down, boy.” She blinked at Camilla as if she’d forgotten her. ‘You’re still here?”
“Yes. I didn’t want to go while you were fainting.”
“Why not? You could have been there already.”
“I didn’t want you to think I was a dream.”
Despite everything, Nanny Mallow smiled.
“‘Twas a kindly thought, Miss Camilla. I might have at that, though Rex’s breath isn’t the sort of the thing a good Christian woman dreams of.” Camilla could have almost given her word that Rex laughed at the joke.
“He’s a very smart dog,” she said. “He led me right to you.”
“Fancy! He must have heard me fall. Poor old boy.”
Camilla finished feeding the fire. “That should keep you warm ‘til I return. Shall I leave the poker within reach?”
“Better not. If I give it a poke and a coal rolls out, I’ll have the place on fire to add to my other troubles.”
The last thing Camilla wanted was to go out into the snowstorm again. If it had been herself alone, she would have huddled in the cottage until it passed. But she gave only a brief thought to the warmth and shelter she was leaving. Nanny Mallow directed her toward a wardrobe where her own rough-napped cloak hung. A great muffling swathe of black fabric, it hung around Camilla like an Indian’s tent. But since Nanny Mallow was much shorter than Camilla, it left her feet free.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“I shall await you just as I am,” Nanny Mallow said with an inclination of her head that no queen could have bettered. Then her little wrinkled apple face split in a girlish grin. “Don’t dawdle along smelling the posies, will you?”
“But it’s such a perfectly beautiful day,” Camilla said, forcing herself to answer in kind.
The wind pushed at the door so that it was hurled back all but into Camilla’s face. Closing it behind her took great strength, almost more than she had. Drawing the hood forward, Camilla set out, hardly feeling the cold in her rough cloak. The snow was much deeper now, so much so that the hem of the cloak, short though it was, dragged through the accumulated drifts. If it hadn’t been for the way the snow tumbled into the tops of her boots at every step, Camilla could have almost enjoyed herself.
The gates were still open. Camilla turned in, her heart lightening as she came closer to the house. She could see it through the bare trees that lined the drive, a foursquare building whose red bricks gave her hope that the warmth of the inside would match the cheerful appearance. Though her feet were heavy and her legs weary, she quickened her pace to bring her to warmth and light and assistance all the more swiftly.
When she fell to her knees between one step and the next, she almost laughed, her surprise was so complete. She had thought her journey over, and perhaps it was.
Grasping for her last reserves of strength, Camilla struggled to rise, floundering forward. Some stitches ripped free at her waist as she caught her knees in her skirts. On hands and knees, she stayed down, breathing deeply. If necessary, she could crawl to the house.
But she couldn’t. Something had gone wrong with her arms and her legs. One wouldn’t pull, and the other couldn’t push. Hating herself, still struggling in her mind to go on despite her traitorous body, Camilla collapsed. Strange that the snow didn’t seem cold on her face; rather, it felt like her favorite feather pillow at home, soft, cool, deep.
Ridiculous, she thought. This is England. People don’t freeze to death in England. She dragged herself forward a few more precious inches. If she had only herself to think of, perhaps she could lie here forever. But what would become of Nanny Mallow then? Goaded by this spur, she tried one last time. As her consciousness went in a flickering of dancing lights, her fingers flexed and stilled.
* * * *
Phili
p had taken the reins from his driver for no greater reason than he enjoyed driving in the snow. The way it sprayed up under the wheels and balled beneath the horses’ hooves and was thrown clear brought back memories of happier times. There should have been bells on the bridle to make a cheerful noise, but Merridew didn’t approve of the extra work decorations entailed.
He took the corner into the drive smartly. “Eh, now, cautiously, young sir,” Merridew the coachman croaked, gripping the brass railings on the box. Philip chuckled.
‘Windy?”
“You can’t blame me if I am. Feathering an edge in this weather....”
“I offered to let you walk.”
But he didn’t regard any answer Merridew made. He had glimpsed the widespread black form lying half-hidden by snowfall. Pulling hard on the reins, he threw them to Merridew in the same instant he leapt down from the driver’s seat.
“It’s that girl,” he said wonderingly. He looked around, trying to find some clue as to why she lay on his drive, wearing a huge cloak that he would have sworn she had not packed in either of the small bags she’d had on the coach.
“Eh? What’s that?” Merridew asked. “What’s that there?”
“It’s a girl.”
“A gypsy?”
If he’d been writing the scene, he would have answered, “No, an angel,” but that was fiction. He’d liked what he’d seen of her in the coach, though she’d seemed all too prim. He couldn’t commit himself to the idea of angels anyway.
When he rolled her over, snow crusted and clung to every inch of her front. The color he’d admired in her cheeks was all gone, her cheeks as pale as a drowned white rose. Her neat hair straggled in chunky wet strands. He’d seen a drowned girl once, somewhere in Upper Manhattan, during his travels in the former colonies. She’d been pushed into a millpond by a jilted lover. But that had been in the summer, and even she had not looked so cold.
A Yuletide Treasure Page 2