KATHLEEN E.
WOODIWISS
A ROSE IN WINTER
Dedicated to those readers who
have written letters of encouragement.
Thank you. You’re appreciated.
K.E.W.
A Rose in Winter
A crimson bloom in winter’s snow,
Born out of time, like a maiden’s woe,
Spawned in a season when the chill winds blow.
’Twas found in a sheltered spot,
Bright sterling gules and blemished not,
Red as a drop o’ blood from the broken heart,
Of the maid who waits and weeps atop the tor,
Left behind by yon argent knight sworn to war,
’Til ajousting and aquesting he goes no more.
Fear not, Sweet Jo, amoulderin’ on the moor.
The winter’s rose doth promise in the fading runes of yore,
That true love once found will again be restored.
Contents
Epigraph: A Rose in Winter
Chapter One
“Marriage!”
Chapter Two
The front door closed gently but with the same effect…
Chapter Three
Fodder would be anything but plentiful in the approaching months…
Chapter Four
In the eastern sky, shafts of vibrant color radiated from…
Chapter Five
If there could be such a thing as a gray…
Chapter Six
A yellowish-red glow became her sun, a light shining through…
Chapter Seven
For half an hour before the appointed time, Farrell stood…
Chapter Eight
The rickety livery from Mawbry was hired to deliver the…
Chapter Nine
Glistening bright sunlight filled the bedchamber in rich abundance as…
Chapter Ten
Lord Saxton’s insistent rap on the door of the mayor’s…
Chapter Eleven
The high, bright moon cast a silver halo around the…
Chapter Twelve
When the carriage turned up the lane leading to the…
Chapter Thirteen
The jamb of the window was cool against Erienne’s temple…
Chapter Fourteen
The night was cold and crystal clear. The stars twinkled…
Chapter Fifteen
The afternoon of the grand affair Erienne sat at her…
Chapter Sixteen
Bundy opened the carriage door, and Erienne did not wait…
Chapter Seventeen
On that following Friday, Lord Saxton’s personal landau pulled up…
Chapter Eighteen
A festival was held at Saxton Hall to lure the…
Chapter Nineteen
Morning came nigh, and Erienne bolstered her nerve with a…
Chapter Twenty
Morning came as was its habit of many a year,…
Chapter Twenty-One
A fortnight passed in heavenly peace, yet with a speed…
Chapter Twenty-Two
Regret can be a worrisome thing sometimes, especially when the…
Chapter Twenty-Three
Some people thought it was old Ben returned from the…
Chapter Twenty-Four
The ground grew barren and rocky as the coach bearing…
About the Author
By Kathleen E. Woodiwiss
Praise
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
October 23, 1792
Northern England
“MARRIAGE!”
Erienne Fleming drew back from the hearth and slammed the poker into the stand, venting a growing vexation with the still young day. Outside, the cavorting wind gleefully whipped large, splashing raindrops and stinging shards of sleet against the leaded windowpanes to mock with its carefree abandon the bondage she felt in her spirit. The rolling chaos of dark clouds churning close above the tiled roof of the mayor’s cottage mirrored the mood of this trim, dark-haired young woman whose eyes flashed with a violet fire of their own as she glared down into the flames.
“Marriage!”
The word flared afresh in her brain. Once the symbol of a girlhood dream, of late it had become more a synonym for foolery. It was not that she opposed the institution. Oh, no! Under the careful guidance of her mother, she had prepared herself to be a fitting spouse for any man. It was only that her father, that self-same mayor of Mawbry, was bent on matching her to any wealthy purse, regardless of what foppish, obese, or bone-thin caricature of a man bore it to her door. All other desirable traits, including manners, seemed unimportant to him. Indeed, not even to be considered. If the man be rich and willing to wed, then he was a likely candidate for her hand. A sorry lot they had proven to be, and yet—Erienne’s finely arched brows drew together in sudden doubt—perhaps they were the best her father could do without the enticement of even a reasonable dowry.
“Marriage! Pah!” Erienne spat the words out in renewed disgust. She was quickly losing the blissful fantasies of youth and beginning to look upon the state of wedlock as something less than pleasant. Of course, it was not altogether rare that a young lady should detest an arranged suitor, but after the sampling she had been subjected to, she held little hope that her father’s usual dogmatic nature would greatly improve his selections in the future.
Restlessly Erienne strode to the window and stared pensively through a diamond-shaped pane toward the cobbled road that meandered through the village. The trees that bordered the hamlet were little more than dark, skeletal shapes in the slashing rain. Her gaze drifted down the empty lane, and a dull ache, not unlike a mild dyspepsia, was born in her at the thought that barely an hour separated her from a meeting with an unwelcome suitor. She had not the smallest desire to put on a gracious smile for another simpering buffoon, and she dearly hoped, yea, even prayed, that the road would remain devoid of travelers. Indeed, should a rain-weakened bridge collapse beneath the conveyance bearing the man, and the whole lot fall into the foaming water never to be seen again, she would not grieve overmuch. The man was a stranger to her, a faceless entity identifiable only by a name she had very recently been given. Silas Chambers! What kind of man would he prove to be?
Erienne glanced about the modest parlor and wondered how he would view her home and if his disdain would be apparent. Though the cottage was as fine as any in the town, the spartan furnishings readily conveyed a lack of wealth. Had it not been for the fact that the dwelling was offered with the position, her father would have been hard pressed to provide such lodging.
Self-consciously she smoothed the worn velvet of her plum-hued gown, hoping its outdated style would not be noticed. Her pride had been stung too often beneath the haughty arrogance of mincing fops who saw themselves well above her and felt no compulsion to keep the fact a secret. Her lack of dowry weighed poorly against their heavy purses. She longed to demonstrate to those opinionated oafs that she was as well schooled and certainly better mannered than they, but such an attempt would have brought harsh disapproval from her father.
Avery Fleming thought it unnecessary and imprudent for any member of the fairer sex to be tutored beyond the basics of womanly duties and certainly not in ciphering and the written word. If not for her mother’s inheritance and stubborn insistence, such a luxury of schooling would not have been bestowed upon the daughter. Angela Fleming had carefully held back a part of her own wealth to see the matter done, and Avery could say naught, considering he had himself, during the course of their marriage, appropriated the major part of it to support his own widely varied indulgences. Although the same opportunity h
ad been lavishly expended upon Farrell, after less than a year at an advanced seminary, the lad had declared an intense dislike for “the pompous preaching and unjust disciplines of a bunch of stodgy old men” and resigned as a man of letters to return home and “learn the trade of his father,” whatever that might be.
Erienne’s mind prowled like a foraging hind through the long months since her mother’s death, recalling the many hours she had spent alone while her father and brother played at cards or drank with some of the local townsmen or, when they traveled to Wirkinton, with the sailors and tars who came to the port. In the absence of Angela’s careful rationing, the family’s meager wealth dwindled rapidly away, and with its loss came the ever-constant tightening of purse strings, which in turn brought an increasing pressure from her father to wed. The critical juncture in this process came after the wounding of her brother in a viciously one-sided duel that left his right arm hanging at his side with the elbow fused at an odd angle and the hand beneath it weak and nearly useless. From then on Avery appeared beset by a fever to find her a rich husband.
A sudden anger nipped at the heels of Erienne’s memory, and her thoughts quickened with its challenge.
“Now, there is one I’d like to meet,” she hissed hotly to the room at large. “Christopher Seton! Yankee! Blackguard! Gambler! Roué! Liar!” Whatever name she seized upon seemed to fit. Indeed, a few titles that dwelt upon his lineage flitted through her mind, and she savored the taste of them.
“Aye, to meet that one face to face!” She imagined close-set eyes and a thin, crooked nose, stiff, straight hair sticking out from beneath the brim of a tricorn, narrow, pinched lips twisted in a cruel leer that revealed small, yellowed teeth. A wart at the point of a receding chin completed her creation. The vision was sweet as she finished and set it atop a thin and bony frame.
Oh, if she could just meet that one! Though she might not best him in a brawl, she could certainly flay his composure to her satisfaction. He would smart for a fortnight from the tongue-lashing she would lay upon him, then perhaps he would think twice before wreaking his vengeance on a less than wise and unwary lad, or causing havoc to rain upon an elder.
“Were I a man,” she struck a fencing pose and swept her hand before her as if it held a razor-sharp rapier, “I’d fix him thus!” She stabbed once, twice, thrice, then whipped the imaginary tip across her victim’s throat. Delicately she wiped the phantom blade and restored it to an equally airy scabbard. “Were I a man,” she straightened to stare pensively through the window, “I’d assure myself that braggart knew the error of his ways and henceforth would bend to seek his fortune in some other corner of the world.”
She caught her reflection in the crystal panes and folding her hands, struck a demure pose. “Alas, a brawling lad I am not, but a mere woman.” She turned her head from side to side to inspect the carefully arranged raven tresses, then smiled wisely at her image. “Thus my weapons must be my wit and tongue.”
For a moment she cocked a dark, finely arched brow above a baleful glare which, with the chillingly beautiful smile, could have iced the heart of the fiercest opponent. Woe to the one this lass unleashed her ire upon.
A drunken bellow from outside the house broke into her musings. “Eriennie!”
Recognizing her brother’s voice, Erienne hastened into the entryhall and, with a heated admonition ready on her lips, threw open the portal to find Farrell Fleming leaning heavily against the doorjamb. His clothes were badly mussed and spotted, his tan hair like so much tangled straw beneath his tricorn. It was obvious from a mere glance that he had been drinking and carousing the whole night long and, since the hour was near the eleventh before noon, most of the morning as well.
“Eriennie, me own fair sister!” he loudly greeted. Stumbling back a pace, he managed to reverse direction and lurched into the hall, flinging wide a spray of icy water from his sodden cloak as he passed his sister.
Erienne glanced anxiously up and down the road to see who might have witnessed this debacle and was relieved that on this miserable morn no one was about except a lone rider some distance off. By the time he came over the bridge and passed the cottage, he would see nothing out of the ordinary.
Erienne closed the door and leaned against it as she frowned at Farrell. He had caught his good arm about the balustrade and was trying to steady himself while he tugged feebly at the ties of his cloak.
“Eriennie, give yer li’l Farrell a hand with ’is rebesh…uh…rebelush garment. It willn’t leave me as I bid it.” He grinned apologetically and lifted his crippled arm in helpless appeal.
“Fine time for you to be coming home,” she admonished, helping him out of the recalcitrant cloak. “Have you no shame?”
“None!” he declared, attempting a gallant bow. His efforts caused him to lose his precarious balance, and he began to totter backward.
Erienne quickly caught a handful of coat and wedged a shoulder beneath his arm to steady him, then wrinkled her nose in distaste as the stench of stale whiskey and tobacco smoke filled her nostrils. “The least you could have done was to come home while it was still dark,” she sharply suggested. “Out all night drinking and playing your games, then you sleep the day through. Have you no better pastime?”
“ ’Tis pure folly that I’ve been hindered from honest work an’ from holdin’ me own in this family. You can blame it on that Seton devil, you can. He did this to me.”
“I know what he did!” she rejoined crisply. “But that’s no excuse for the way you’re carrying on.”
“Cease yer harpin’, wensh.” His words were more than slightly slurred. “Ye’re gettin’ to sound more like an ol’ maid ev’ry day. A good thing Father has it in mind to marry ye off afore too long.”
Erienne ground her teeth in mute rage. Catching a firmer grip on his arm, she tried to direct him into the parlor but staggered as he leaned heavily against her. “A pox on the both of you!” she snapped. “One as bad as the other! Marry me off to any rich man who comes along so you can carouse your lives away. A fine pair you are!”
“So!” Farrell jerked his arm free of her and accomplished an adroit quick step for several paces into the parlor. When he regained his footing on the treacherously heaving floor, he faced his sister and timed his sway like any seasoned salt to the slowing motion of the room. “You resent my sacrifice for your honor,” he charged, trying to fasten an accusing eye on her. The task proved beyond his present capability, and he yielded to let his unruly gaze roam where it would. “Me and Father only wants to see ye fairly wed and safe from wayward rogues.”
“My honor?” Erienne scoffed. Setting arms akimbo, she regarded her brother with something between tolerance and pity. “If you’d care to remember, Farrell Fleming, ’twas Father’s honor you were defending, not mine.”
“Oh!” He was at once apologetic and humble, like a small boy caught in a prank. “Tha’s right. ’Twas Father.” He stared down at his lame arm, swinging it forward to draw her attention to it so he might elicit as much sympathy as possible.
“I suppose in a small way it was also for me, because I bear the Fleming name,” Erienne mused aloud. “And after Christopher Seton’s slander of it, ’tis hard to ignore the gossip.”
Thoughtfully she gazed once more at the rainswept landscape beyond the spattered panes, paying little heed to her brother, who was carefully weaving his way toward a whiskey decanter he had spied on a side table. Much to her disappointment, she saw the bridge was still intact, evidenced by the passing of the lone rider over its cobbled surface. The man appeared in no special hurry, but came steadily on, as if undaunted by the drizzle and assured of all the time in the world. Erienne wished it could be so with her. Heaving a sigh, she faced Farrell and immediately stamped a slender foot in vexation. He had set out a glass and was trying to work the stopper from the decanter with his good left hand.
“Farrell! Haven’t you had enough?”
“Aye, ’twas Father’s good name I was tryin’ to defen
’,” he mumbled, never pausing in his labor. His hand was shaking as he slopped the glass full. Memory of the duel haunted him. Over and over he heard the deafening roar of his own pistol firing and saw the astonishment and horror on the judge’s face as the man stood with the kerchief still in his raised hand. The sight was permanently impressed on his mind, yet at the time he had felt a strange mixture of horror and a blossoming glee when his opponent stumbled back clutching his shoulder. The blood had quickly seeped through Seton’s fingers, and Farrell had waited in frozen expectancy for him to crumple. Instead, the man steadied himself, and the surge of relief Farrell had briefly known was abruptly washed away in a tide of cold sweat. The full folly of firing before the signal was given struck him when Seton’s weapon slowly raised, for the bore of the pistol halted dead center on his chest.
“You challenged a man well beyond your experience, all because of a game of cards,” Erienne chided.
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