A Rose in Winter

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  In mulling over her situation, Erienne had come to the conclusion that her only hope was to plead for her freedom. Perhaps Lord Saxton was not aware of what her father planned for her and was of the opinion that he was doing the honorable thing by sending her back. If she presented the facts to him, he might take pity on her and allow her to continue her journey toward freedom. It was her most heartfelt desire that he would.

  The bath refreshed her, yet as she rubbed the wet cloth along her skin, she was haunted by a strange feeling that this had been done very recently by hands that were clawlike and gnarled. Her spine prickled at the idea. Yet the thought was so outlandish, she could make no sense of it. She dismissed the impression as being part of a nightmare she had dreamt, and she donned her chemise.

  She found her brush and comb in the armoire, and though she tired quickly and had to pause often to rest, she diligently worked the snarls out of her hair and caught the tresses into a woven knot at the nape of her neck. This done, she slipped on the blue gown that now had to be considered her best, and carefully made her way from the room.

  Beyond the bedchamber, it was readily apparent that many months or even years had passed without the care and attention of servants in the house. Cobwebs formed intricate patterns across the arched ceilings of the halls, and what furnishings she passed had been covered long ago by wide cloths that now bore a grayish accumulation of dust. She pressed on, eventually finding herself at the top of stairs that turned in broad flights around a square newel decorated with shell-arched alcoves. Her descent brought her into what appeared to be the interior of a large, round tower. To her left, a heavy wooden door with a massive lock marked the entrance to the manor. A small, crystal-paned inset overlooked the wide, curving lane that swept beside the entry.

  In the opposite direction, a short, arched passageway opened onto a great chamber or the common room of the manor. A young woman was there, busily scrubbing the stone floor. She rose as Erienne came slowly across the room and at her inquiry, bobbed a polite curtsy, holding an arm out to indicate the rear of the manse.

  Following the maid’s directions and the muted sound of voices, Erienne pushed open a heavy door to find the housekeeper and three other women busily restoring the ancient kitchen to a state of usefulness. A young lad was kneeling inside the fireplace, scraping away long-dead ashes and cakes of soot, while an older man applied his cleaning efforts to a large copper kettle. The cook had already cleared a table and was preparing venison and vegetables for the evening meal.

  “Good afternoon, mum,” the effervescent housekeeper greeted, wiping her hands on a long white apron. “ ’Tis a pleasure to see ye up and about. Be ye feelin’ a bit more chipper?”

  “Better now, thank you.” Erienne glanced about, hardly expecting to find the master in the kitchen but hoping just the same for some indication of his whereabouts. “Has Lord Saxton returned yet?”

  “Oh, no, mum.” The woman came slowly across the stone floor. “The master said he’d be gone for several days.”

  “Oh.” Erienne frowned in crushing disappointment. There would be no chance to argue her case before his servants returned her to her father.

  “Mum?”

  Erienne looked up. “What is it?”

  “Be ye needin’ anythin’?”

  She released a wavering sigh. “No, nothing at the moment. If you don’t mind, I’ll wander around the manor a bit and look around.”

  “Oh, certainly, mum,” Aggie replied. “Should ye need anythin’, ye let me know. I’ll be busy here for a while.”

  Erienne nodded in distraction and returned to the great chamber. The maid and the wooden bucket were gone, but the scrub brush had been left on the floor in a pool of water, indicating that the girl would soon return. From the state of the manor, it was easy to assess that the servants would be occupied for some time with their labors. In fact—the sudden thought struck Erienne—they were so busy, they might not even notice if she slipped away.

  It was an idea that formed out of desperation, but Erienne dismissed her weakness and the harsh reminder of her sore muscles with the thought that if she didn’t escape now, she might yet find herself espoused to Harford Newton, the gray mouse, or Smedley Goodfield, the lascivious elf. She eased open the portal, and a low, betraying squeak of hinges made her grimace. She waited with thumping heart until she was assured that no one was coming to investigate. Peering out, she saw that the stables were just in sight beyond the west end of the house. The rear of a large black carriage jutted out through the widespread doors. From where she stood, it seemed a simple enough matter to enter the stables to see if Socrates was inside.

  She was about to slip through the portal when a youth emerged from the stables carrying a wooden bucket and a long-handled brush. While she waited, he began to scrub mud and grime from the back parts of the coach. Erienne glanced around but realized there was no time to think of another course of action, for the cleaning maid was coming around the end of the manor with her wooden pail, slopping water over its brim. As the girl hurried toward the front door, Erienne stood back and quickly pushed the portal closed. Weaker than she had been a moment before, she climbed the stairs and reached the second level before the door swung open again.

  Seeking another way of escape, she roamed the halls of the upper story, opening doors and following passageways, but her search proved futile, for they only led to more chambers or halls. Her strength was ebbing, but the thought of Harford Newton urged her on until she found herself in a wide gallery. Here, as in the other rooms, the cleaning had yet to be done, and her attention was drawn to a trail of manly footprints left in the dust. A set led to the far end of the hall, where a stout door had been boarded up with planks. Other footprints returned, giving her little hope that she would find a way of escape from this passage. Still, her curiosity was piqued. She could not fathom why an inside door should be bolted in such a fashion and could determine only that something was hidden beyond it.

  Erienne seriously debated the wisdom of testing the door. If there was something behind it that needed to be kept under lock and key, then she might be foolish to open it. She had heard passing comments about Saxton Hall being haunted, and though she had never put much store in ghostly tales, she did not wish to press her luck when she was too weak to flee.

  Smedley and Harford came to mind, spurring her forward until she stood at the portal. Shaking fingers tested the planks that barred the door, and to her surprise she found them loose enough to allow easy removal. Yet she was cautious, not knowing what lay beyond the portal. She rapped lightly on the smooth surface of the door and leaned her ear against it, calling out in a low voice, “Is anyone there?”

  No mournful wail or hideous shriek answered her, but she felt only mildly reassured. She knocked louder, and again no answer came. Holding visions of the elf and the mouse in mind, she gathered what courage she could muster and pulled away the planks.

  The door itself seemed fairly new, as if it were a recent replacement for what had been there before. A large key jutted from the lock, and when she tried it, there was a slow, rusty grinding and laborious click. She twisted the latch and pulled. To her amazement sunlight spilled into the gallery, and she saw that she was standing at the opening of a balcony. It was black and charred-looking, as if it had been scorched. Moving toward the edge, Erienne gasped in shock, for there below her lay the tumbled, burned ruins of what had been a fairly sizable wing.

  Suddenly Erienne felt the stones beneath her feet start to give way, and with a grating noise begin to pull away from their mooring. Pieces of the stone rail tumbled toward the ash heap far below, and for a frightening moment Erienne thought she would follow their descent. In a panic she threw herself toward the door, gaining the safety of the interior as the stones near the edge plummeted downward. Breathless and shaken, she slammed the portal and turned the key firmly in the lock. She leaned weakly against the wall, feeling her limbs trembling beneath her. She realized now why the door had
been boarded up. The original door had no doubt been burned or warped by the heat, and when it was replaced, the planks were added to bar the passage of an unsuspecting intruder. Erienne was of the sudden and firm belief that some measure should have been taken to dissuade the curious ones, too.

  With a grist of questions grinding in the turning mill of her mind, she returned to the bedchamber. She had not the strength to continue her search even with the combined faces of Smedley and Harford haunting her. She sank wearily into bed and fully clothed, pulled the fur robe close about her. She could only hope that sometime during the night she could slip out to the stables, free Socrates, and be on her way. But for now, she had to rest and try to renew some measure of her energy.

  A tray of food was brought toward evening, and when Aggie returned later to help Erienne into her bedclothes, she carried with her a warm toddy, which she encouraged the younger woman to drink. “ ’Twill ease the aches and give ye a bit of strength. By morn’n’, mum, ye should be feelin’ more like yer old self again.”

  Erienne sampled the spiced brew, finding it flavorsome and warmly soothing. Hopefully it would do all that it was purported to do. “I suppose,” she began almost hesitantly, “that it’s absolutely out of the question that I be taken somewhere else besides Mawbry. You see,” she shrugged slightly, “my father and I have had a disagreement of sorts, and I would rather avoid being taken back.”

  “I’m sorry, mum, but Lord Saxton was most clear on that point.” Aggie’s tone was genuinely sympathetic.

  “I understand,” Erienne heaved a ragged sigh. “You must do as your master has directed.”

  “Aye, mum. I have no other choice. I’m sorry.”

  Erienne tasted from the cup again before inquiring, “Can you tell me about the east wing that burned?”

  Aggie’s face was carefully blank as she replied, “Lord Saxton would be the one to ask, mum. He bade me say nothing of it to anyone.”

  The younger woman slowly nodded. “And of course you cannot go against his wishes.”

  “No, mum,” the housekeeper murmured.

  “You seem very loyal to him,” Erienne observed wryly.

  “Aye, that I am.” It was a soft answer but firm with conviction.

  After such a reply, Erienne saw no advantage in pressing the woman further. Erienne tilted the cup to drain the last of its contents and set it aside, yawning in earnest behind a slender hand.

  Aggie chuckled and folded aside the fur robe on the bed. “Ye should have a good sleep now, mum. The toddy’ll make sure o’ that. ’Tis been known ter cure many a sleepless night and a weary body.”

  Erienne curled into the inviting softness and was amazed to find the tenseness ebbing from her aching muscles. She almost purred in contentment and vaguely wondered why she had wanted to resist the sleep that was quickly overtaking her.

  Cold, blustery winds swept fluffy clouds across the morning sky as Erienne glumly waited for the coachman to climb to his seat. No one could deny that she was traveling back to Mawbry in grand style. The large black coach was rather ancient in vintage but lacked neither comfort nor luxury. Dark green velvet lined the interior in subdued richness, and on the exterior of the doors was the same crest she had seen above the master’s bed. It all bespoke a family’s ancient heritage.

  The housekeeper’s bubbling comments at how well and fit she looked confirmed in Erienne’s mind that Aggie Kendall had only sought to be helpful when she encouraged her to drink the toddy. The cheerful woman did not seem capable of deceit, and Erienne had not the heart to crush her enthusiasm by displaying any annoyance at having been given the potion. Whether she could have escaped or not was a question that would remain unanswered.

  “Good-bye, mum,” Aggie called from the stone path that led to the tower entry. “Godspeed to ye.”

  Erienne leaned forward to wave a hand in farewell. “Thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Kendall. If I caused you any bother, I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, no bother, mum. No bother at all. Indeed, ’twas a pleasure ter serve a bright young lass such as yerself. It helped ter ease the gloom o’ this place, it bein’ empty for so long and all, I mean.”

  Erienne nodded, letting her gaze range over the face of the manor. It was a rather austere Jacobean structure built solidly behind the front tower, the peak of which rose to a height equaling the tall chimneys. The burned wing was barely visible from where she sat and was overgrown now with dry and withered weeds. Thick groves of trees covered the hillside to the side and back of the manor and were clustered close around a portion of the lane which ended at the manse. It was the same road that wandered over the rolling hills, taking one to Mawbry and beyond. To the north, the firth stretched like a narrow stream across the horizon, sometimes glistening blue beneath the sun, other times hidden beneath low-lying clouds.

  The carriage dipped as the coachman’s weight came upon it, and Erienne leaned back in the velvet cushions, heaving a sigh. Her cloak, having been dried and cleaned, warmed her against the chill of the day, but it failed miserably to lessen the coldness gripping her heart.

  The sight of Socrates trailing behind the coach brought the townspeople of Mawbry running. The carriage itself roused their curiosity, for the large, elegantly appointed conveyance with its richly wrought crest was not entirely unknown to them, though it had been a thrice of years since they had seen it.

  By the time the coach halted before the mayor’s cottage, a crowd was already gathering, and her father, hurrying from the inn, had to push his way through the gaping villagers to gain the inner circle. Farrell stepped from the house in time to receive Socrates’ reins and stood somewhat in awe when the footman opened the carriage door and Erienne emerged. Seeing his daughter, Avery Fleming planted his feet firmly apart and set his arms akimbo. He made no attempt to soften his sharp tones.

  “So! Ye wicked little twit! Ye’ve come back ter me, ye have. And I’m supposin’ ye’ve got a fine tale ter tell me ’bout where ye’ve been for a better part o’ a week.”

  Erienne’s manner was cool and distant. She resented being insulted in front of the villagers. Her father knew full well why she had left, and her answer to him was simple, almost curt. “I took Socrates out for a long ride.”

  “A long ride! Five days ye been gone, and ye tell me that! Har! Ye run off, ye did!” He peered at her suspiciously. “What I’m wonderin’ is why ye come back. I never thought to see ye again, and here ye are arrivin’ in a grand coach, as if ye were some blooded princess come ter pay us commoners a call.”

  Erienne’s ire showed a little as she made her reply. “I wouldn’t have come back at all if I had been given a choice in the matter. Lord Saxton—” A gasp from the onlookers made her pause, and glancing about, she became aware that the villagers were eagerly awaiting her next words. “Lord Saxton took matters into his own hands and had his servants bring me back.” Meeting her father’s gaze, she raised a delicately shaped brow. “No doubt a friend of yours, Father.”

  “There ain’t been a Lord Saxton since he burned ter death,” he blustered. “Ye’re lyin’, ye are!”

  “You are mistaken, Father.” She managed a wan smile. “Lord Saxton is not dead, but alive.”

  “There are those who saw him at the windows with the fire eatin’ at his back!” Avery argued. “He can’t be alive!”

  “Undoubtedly he is,” Erienne replied calmly. “He’s living at Saxton Hall with a staff of servants…”

  “Then it must be his ghost!” her father scoffed. “Or someone playin’ tricks on ye! What did he look like?”

  “I never really saw him clearly. His face was in the shadows…or was covered by something.” A quick and fleeting vision of a dark shape silhouetted against the light prompted her to add, “He seemed lame or deformed…” A murmur went through the townspeople, and some crossed themselves. Erienne hurried to explain. “I can’t be sure about what I saw. I hit my head, and it was dark. I might have imagined it.”

  “Ye tell me that fo
r the better part o’ a week ye couldn’t see the man?” Avery laughed in derision. “Ye must think me daft, girl, if ye would have me believe that.”

  “I have no reason to lie,” Erienne argued.

  The footman placed her satchel and saddle near the front portal of the cottage, then came back to close the carriage door.

  “Ye there!” Avery jabbed a forefinger at him and leered about at the villagers, thinking he would put quick death to this preposterous claim. “Can you tell us what yer…ah…master looks like?”

  “I’m not rightly sure, sir.”

  Avery was taken aback. “Eh?”

  “I haven’t seen him for three years.”