When he returned to Brockwell Court, weary but content, Richard found himself filled with an unusual emotion—the satisfaction of a job well done.
A letter was waiting for him on the hall table—forwarded from London. Looking at the postal markings, he saw that it had been posted to the townhouse just after he’d left London. His housekeeper must have forwarded it on to him before closing up the house for a few days at Christmas.
He opened it and saw it was from the third publisher he’d approached about his novel.
Dear Mr. Brockwell,
I regret to inform you . . .
Another rejection letter.
Another punch to his gut.
That’s what he got for trying to do something worthwhile with his life.
He shook off the petty thought, inwardly apologizing to God.
After all, it wasn’t God’s fault his book was not good enough. That he was not good enough. . . .
The words that had gone through his mind so many times over the years ran through again like a familiar refrain. The refrain of his life. He knew he had many sins to atone for, far more than one or two good deeds could overcome. He was beyond redemption.
But then the words Mrs. Reeves had spoken whispered themselves over the old familiar words, like a line of harmony. “My dear boy, none of us deserves forgiveness. None of us can do enough good deeds to atone for our own failings. If we could, God would not have had to send the Son He loved into the world to die for us. But He did, because He loves us.”
The knowledge that he was not good enough was old news. But that the Son of God had died to save him? That the Father of all loved him? He’d heard it before, growing up with the Reeves and attending church with his own family as a child, but now it struck him as new . . . and extremely difficult to fathom.
Later that afternoon, Richard walked past the drawing room window, then turned back and peered closer. Faint white flakes dotted the air, floating gently down to earth like confectioners’ sugar. A streak of boyish glee teased his stomach. Snow in the south of England was a relatively rare thing.
“Look, Justina. It’s snowing.”
His little sister squealed and hurried to join him at the window. A memory rushed into his mind of pulling Justina on a sled, the little girl bundled up head to foot, her dark eyes bright and an impish grin on face, rather like now.
“Oh!” she breathed. “How magical!”
The snow continued to fall, the flakes thickening into puffs of icing sugar.
They went to another window and looked out behind the house. There the branches of oak and lime trees stretched out their bare arms as though to catch the snow, their long limbs soon speckled white. The large topiary house was slowly being transformed into a fort of snow. It seemed a shame there were no children about the place to enjoy it. Susanna’s children came to mind. Perhaps he would invite them to come over and play.
As the day progressed, the snow formed peaks on the veranda furniture, and glazed the small red fruits of the crab apple trees, more elegant than any display of greenery that ever decked the mantelpieces of Brockwell Court.
Richard went to his room and dressed warmly in a flannel waistcoat, trousers, greatcoat, and boots, and wrapped the muffler around his neck. He dressed Wally in his warmest woolen waistcoat, his tweed hat secured by a strap tied beneath his jaw.
Together they went outside and entered an altered world. Snow collected on the rooftops, fence rails, hedges, and signposts. It covered the walks, drive, and fountain in a white cape.
The snow clung more readily to the bushy evergreens, frosting them in a layer of Devonshire cream, which sparkled in the sunlight like diamond chips. Richard had once seen a painting of a tannenbaum, a traditional German Christmas tree bedecked with candles. Now observing the green branches ornamented with twinkling white light, he could understand the appeal of bringing such a tree indoors, though his mother would never allow it.
They made their way to the High Street. There he saw ladies wearing wooden pattens to raise their feet from the wet ground and protect their shoes. A few shoppers carried umbrellas to shield their heads from the falling snow. Wally, however, bounded right through it with undisguised glee.
At The Bell Inn across the street, a stagecoach arrived, its horses’ manes white with snow. Snow also dusted the hats and shoulder capes of the coachman and the shivering outside passengers. A young man from the inn hurried out to offer the passengers mugs of warm mulled wine. Richard thought again of Murray taking Jamie’s place on the roof and felt renewed admiration for the sacrifice, and a stab of guilt for not even considering doing so himself.
Richard turned left, down the steep hill that had given Ivy Hill its name.
He saw adults pulling small children on hand sleds or sledges, while bigger children had dug out old sleds or fashioned new ones out of boards or whatever they could find. Dozens of them coasted down the snow-covered hillside between Ivy Hill and Wishford, the best sleds among them sliding almost to the turnpike at the bottom, near the Fairmont School, where its pupils threw snowballs at one another.
Richard found himself smiling, and warmth spread through his chest, despite the frigid temperature.
He turned and walked westward, past more snowy fields, glad for his tall, sturdy boots.
In a lonely place, he stopped, struck by the sight of a long stretch of freshly fallen snow. Unscathed by animal tracks, footprints, or wheel ruts. Untouched by man. Pure white, unblemished, unspoilt, beautiful—perfectly capturing and reflecting the sunlight.
What would it be like to be that new, that perfect, that pure, he wondered, when he himself felt sullied—a dark, muddy mire.
And what was it about seeing such a sight that made a man want to step foot across it, to claim the virgin territory for himself and make his mark? And too often, end up ruining it? Richard shook his head. Not this time. Not him, not anymore.
As Richard walked back, he met Nicholas, Justina, and Arabella dressed in their warmest coats, hats, and gloves, Justina’s hands tucked inside a large fur muff.
“Richard. You couldn’t resist a walk, I see,” Justina greeted him.
“No, nor you.”
“How could we? It is so beautiful,” Arabella’s gaze scanned the frosty white landscape all around them, her eyes as blue as cornflowers.
Richard asked, “May I walk with you awhile?”
“Of course.”
They started up Ebsbury Road, but Justina hesitated when they reached Thornvale. “You know. I think we ought to pop in and greet your mother, Nicholas. It would be rude to pass without stopping.”
“I agree,” he replied.
Justina said to Richard and Arabella, “You two go ahead.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, go on,” his sister urged. “We’ll catch up.”
Having no desire to see the dragon-like woman he’d heard about, Richard readily agreed, and he and Arabella walked on, Wally’s tail wagging nonstop.
The sun shone, warming the air, and the gentle snow suddenly changed into sleet.
When the ice pellets began striking their hat brims, Arabella cried, “Oh no!”
Richard picked up Wally with one arm and with his other grabbed Arabella’s hand. Pulling her along, he ran for cover under an old holly tree. They ducked beneath its branches, dislodging snow, which slipped down his collar with an icy shock.
The red berries, glazed with snow, were a lovely sight, though the zinging balls of ice pelting them were less pleasant. The spiky leaves danced with the pellets of sleet but thankfully shielded them from the worst of the onslaught.
He looked at his companion. “All right?”
She nodded. “Quick thinking.”
It was not the first time he’d taken cover under this tree with someone, but he did not say as much to her.
Snow clung to her hat and eyelashes, and her cheeks turned pink. She looked cold yet charming. The urge to kiss her, to warm her lips with his, washed over
him, but he restrained himself.
He cleared his throat. “This is what we get for walking in all weather.”
“I like to walk.”
A gust of wind blew snow down Arabella’s neck. She gasped and shivered.
“Here.” He set Wally down and stepped near, putting his arm around her shoulders, to protect her from the falling snow and sleet, he justified to himself.
Unable to resist, he drew her closer and was pleased when she did not pull away.
He quoted:
“A whirl-blast from behind the hill
Rushed o’er the wood with startling sound;
Then—all at once the air was still,
And showers of hailstones pattered round.
Where leafless oaks towered high above,
I sat within an undergrove
Of tallest hollies, tall and green;
A fairer bower was never seen. . . .”
When he’d finished, she said, “Wordsworth, right?”
He looked at her, impressed. “Very good.”
His gaze was drawn to her mouth. Again came the urge to lean down and kiss her.
She shivered again, and chivalry won out.
“Here, take my coat.”
“No, I couldn’t.”
He tugged off his outer greatcoat, the cold air biting his flesh through his wool frock coat. He settled the long garment over her shoulders, allowing his hands to linger on her arms.
Seeing the gratitude shining in her wide blue eyes, satisfaction thrummed through him. His hand reached out of its own accord and stroked her face.
“Your cheeks are like ice.”
At his touch, she flashed a look up at him from beneath her lashes. What emotion did he see there? Pleasure, wariness, alarm?
He withdrew his hand. Beyond the tree, the sleet softened into snow once more, falling gently to the ground. “Come, Miss Awdry. It has let up a little. We had better hurry back while we can.” To himself he added, Before I say or do something I’ll regret.
He pushed aside the tree branch and offered her his arm. “Shall we?”
With an uncertain smile, she put her arm through his. Wally gave a bark of encouragement, and together the three of them emerged from their shelter and hurried back to Brockwell Court.
CHAPTER
Twelve
The next morning, Richard awoke early, eagerly climbed from bed, and wrapped his dressing gown around himself against the chill of the room. He stepped to the window, folded back the shutters, and looked out.
Yes! Still white.
Icicles hung from the eaves, and he recalled sucking on them as a boy until he realized they tasted more like dirt than ices from a confectioner.
The groundsman and under gardener had cleared the walkways and drive only to have them covered again this morning. While snow itself was relatively rare in Ivy Hill, an accumulation of several inches that did not melt away quickly was rarer still.
Richard went and found his brother. “Do we still have that old sleigh?”
“Yes. At the back of the carriage house. Kept meaning to sell it to someone in the north who would get more use of it, but never did.”
“Good. Think I’ll make use of it myself, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
Richard helped the groom clean up the sleigh and then, leaving the young man to harness the horse, went inside to find Arabella.
Pausing at the archway into the drawing room, he surveyed the telling scene within. Justina and Nicholas sat over a game of draughts, talking quietly and smiling at one another at regular intervals, clearly in their own little world. Horace sat stiffly between Penelope and Arabella on the long sofa, while their mother embroidered in a chair nearby, now and again glancing surreptitiously toward the awkward trio.
Thinking quickly, Richard said, “Horace, we have two horses that need exercise, snow or not. I don’t suppose you would care to oblige?”
Horace almost leapt from the sofa. “Would I! Yes, please.”
Lady Lillian cleared her throat.
At the signal, Horace fiddled with his neckcloth and turned to the sisters. “That is . . . if one of you might like to accompany me?”
The two women looked at one another. Arabella opened her mouth to reply, but Richard interrupted her.
“I was hoping Miss Arabella would go for a sleigh ride with me.”
“I . . .” She seemed about to refuse, but then, with a look at Penelope, said, “Yes, thank you. I have never ridden in a sleigh, if one does not count a hand sledge.”
“Excellent. Dress warmly.”
While she rose to comply, Horace and Penelope went to change into riding clothes, and Richard slipped upstairs for his muffler, feeling rather proud of himself. He stopped at Murray’s room, guessing he would find the man at the desk, bent over quill and ink, editing the next issue of his magazine. But when he arrived at his open door, he was taken aback to see Susanna in the threshold, little Frederick in her arms, chatting cheerfully with his friend.
“Em, pardon me,” he said. “Just seeing how Murray is getting on.”
“Oh . . . Richard. We were just talking.”
Flushing, Susanna bobbed a curtsy and turned to go. “Better get this young man back to the nursery.”
Richard stroked his nephew’s head as they passed. When she’d left them, Murray looked up sheepishly. “I hope you don’t mind?”
Did he mind? Richard felt an odd tangle of emotions: surprise, concern, and an urge to protect.
“No. Just didn’t want to leave you on your own too long, though I see I needn’t have worried.”
“Richard, I . . .”
He raised a palm. “No criticism intended. I promise.”
His friend smiled. “Well then. Good.”
A short while later, Richard and Arabella walked out the rear door to the waiting horse and sleigh. The small equipage was of old-fashioned design, with a single seat in front, like an ornate cushioned chair. Behind this was an elevated bench where the driver would perch above his passenger, his knees near her shoulders, both facing forward. It was a strangely intimate position.
The groom had secured a festive plume to the horse’s head and hung bells from the harness. He thanked the young man sincerely.
Richard offered Arabella a hand to steady her. She stepped in and sat on the faded velvet seat. He laid warm bricks at her feet, wrapped a plush lap rug over her legs, and tucked it around her. He enjoyed doing so and lingered longer than absolutely necessary.
She looked self-conscious at his ministrations but did not protest.
“That should keep you warm,” he said, already feeling warmer himself.
He settled onto the rear bench. Positioned slightly above her, he could see the road ahead and handle the reins without impediment.
“Perhaps later we might go into Wishford and see Jamie.”
“Good idea.”
He clicked the horse into motion. “Walk on.”
The horse obeyed, then increased its pace, the sleigh bells jingling happily with each trotting step.
Uncertain how the sleigh might accelerate down steep Ivy Hill, Richard turned the horse in the opposite direction, passing behind the church and through the outskirts of the village. They waved to passersby as they went and saw a group of young men playing football in the snow.
They crossed Pudding Brook at the packhorse bridge, wide enough to allow the narrow sleigh to pass easily. Soon they were gliding along a quiet country lane through the surrounding farmland. Out here there was little worry of encountering an oncoming wagon or dray, but that also meant the snow on the road was not packed down as on the village streets. Instead, the wind blew the snow into drifts, and it wasn’t always easy to tell if they were still on the road or not.
Arabella gripped the armrests. “Richard, slow down.”
“I am trying to.”
The slippery surface clearly disquieted the mare, her ears going back, and eyes wide. The sleigh runne
rs hit a patch of ice and lurched sideways, skidding to the side of the horse. The angle and tension on the harness spooked the animal all the more.
The horse stumbled, and the sleigh slid from the road into a ditch and sank into its snow-filled snare.
They came to a sudden stop, their heads jerking forward and back again. Arabella cried out.
The horse, panicked to find itself trapped by the lodged sleigh and deep snow, whinnied and strained.
“Easy, girl. It’s all right,” Richard soothed. He looked with concern at his companion. Arabella’s hat was askew, her ostrich feather drooping in front of her face.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m afraid my foot went through the front panel when we stopped so fast.”
“Oh no. Are you injured?”
“Hurts. But probably nothing serious.”
“Thunder and turf. I need to get you out of here.”
“Are we irrevocably stuck?”
“I’m afraid so.” Richard thought of unhitching the horse and riding to find Dr. Burton, but he could not leave Miss Awdry sitting alone in the snow.
From his higher perch, Richard looked across the road and saw a house. His momentary relief instantly faded.
Bramble Cottage.
Of all the places to become stuck, why did it have to be there?
Richard hesitated. Everything in him wanted to look away. To keep his promise to his younger self that he would never step foot inside Bramble Cottage. But for all his faults, he was a gentleman and could not leave Arabella outside.
He climbed from his perch, and bent low. “Put your arms around my neck.”
“Oh. I am sure I could walk.” She extracted her half boot from the new hole in the footboard and winced. “Maybe . . .”
“Better not risk it.” Slipping an arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees, he lifted Arabella with effort. Straining, he carried her up the incline, a grunt escaping him.
“Am I too heavy?” she asked, face stricken in embarrassment. “Put me down and I’ll walk.”
“No. No problem,” he panted, forcing his feet toward Bramble Cottage. He was grateful now for all the boxing and fencing he’d done at his club or he’d be even less fit to carry damsels through snowbanks.
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