Stabbed to the heart. At least, that’s how Miss Tamworth’s words struck Adam, and he actually staggered back a step in astonishment. Where was the surge of relief he should be feeling? He ought to be thanking the stars for his fortunate escape. Unlike countless London misses whose wily schemes he constantly (well, until recently) had to anticipate and avoid, Miss Tamworth had taken no advantage when he unthinkingly had left himself vulnerable.
That she was not like other women of his experience she had already proven several times over. The fact that he admired her uniqueness made it more ironic that she deemed marriage to him “a terrible idea”. After a mere day’s acquaintance! It was lowering, to be sure. And she did not even know the half of it.
Still, could he have misread her so completely? He thought she was not indifferent to him. Yet clearly the thought of marriage had never once crossed her mind until he raised it. Ouch.
She was right, of course. That was probably why her words had such power.
He staggered back another step, clutching his chest. “Miss Tamworth! Your frankness wounds me to the quick!” He was gratified to hear her laugh lightly.
“I am so sorry, we have no doctor in the village, especially for that sort of wound.”
“Then I must heal myself, it seems.” He straightened up, finally feeling an appropriate reaction. “I confess I am relieved, and I thank you for your discretion.”
She frowned at him, and even that expression he found lovely. “I have as much, or more, to lose than you,” she said. “You are a stranger here, essentially without any reputation. As you so aptly pointed out yesterday, I am the one who must live here among everyone, and whose reputation is at stake.”
“In London many young ladies put their reputations at risk in the effort to secure a husband any way they can.”
“Well, they must be desperate indeed!”
“Ah, stabbed again!” He repeated his performance of being wounded.
This time she laughed outright. “I meant in the general sense, not those specifically who might try to attach you.”
He sobered and moved back to stand in front of her. “That removes some of the sting. But then, Miss Tamworth, can you explain your father to me? I am certainly not imagining his disapproval, or dislike, or whatever it is.”
She sighed. “No, you are not imagining it. It may sound ludicrous, but please, could you try very hard not to take it as a personal affront? It isn’t, I assure you. As you’ve said, he doesn’t know you and has hardly exchanged more than a few words with you. He is this way with everyone of your class.”
If ever a pronouncement needed explanation, that one did! Her father’s adverse attitude to people above him would explain his career stagnation despite his obvious talents. There had to be a reason for Miss Tamworth’s father to behave as he did.
But Adam had no chance to pursue it further. Lady Anne and the Squire returned. Miss Tamworth handily circled back to the topic of the Lord of Misrule’s upcoming announcement and the details he still needed to work out. As he and the Hammons took up the discussion, she excused herself and slipped away.
Adam watched her go out of the corner of his eye while pretending to listen to Lady Anne. Was Miss Tamworth truly indifferent to him? He knew he should hope so, just as he knew he shouldn’t pursue the question. Did she share her father’s dim view of his kind? If so, she did a better job at hiding it.
He ignored the little voice that was telling him, “Leave off!” How could he do that with his curiosity aroused? The day was still young. Opportunities to test her would come along. There was sledding to enjoy and dancing at the manor in the evening. Certainly Lady Anne seemed to have fixed matters so Miss Tamworth could not miss the Hammons’ Christmas Ball.
Adam greeted the assembled villagers from the steps of the Four Feathers promptly at 11 o’clock. As he looked out at them bundled against the cold, he saw honest, work-roughened faces of sturdy farmers, laborers and shopkeepers–hard-working people who had earned their holiday celebration. He very much intended to give it to them.
“Good people of Little Macclow! Pray attend your Lord of Misrule.” He waved his short staff over them as if bestowing a blessing and swept off his gaily decorated hat, jingling its bells. He then executed a dramatic bow. “Happy Christmas to you one and all.” He scanned the crowd as he continued, noting who was standing with whom, and seeking, of course, for Miss Tamworth. “It appears to be a glorious day and we have snow on the ground, so today I challenge you to a sledding competition!”
The announcement caused a very satisfactory hubbub among the villagers. He paused to fit his hat carefully back on his head, then explained the further details and charged them to exercise their creativity. He was impatient to see how many different ways they would try to solve the sledding problem. “You have a mere two hours to produce whatever you will use and bring it to the south-facing main pasture at Highfield.”
Lady Anne and the Squire had gone off to order the field prepared as he had specified. Miss Tamworth and her father slipped away before he could navigate through the crowd to reach them. Once the rest of the people had dispersed, he had nothing more to do.
Wearing his Lord of Misrule hat and carrying his jester’s stick, he walked across the street to the livery stables. Bells jingled with every step he took. The hat, a bit too large for him, had at first a tendency to slip down over his eyes until he made a serious effort to experiment with it before the mirror in his room. He had ultimately discovered the exact angle to wear it that both prevented the problem and conveyed an attitude of irreverence that pleased him very much.
“Come to check on your cattle, milord?” The liveryman, John Frigg, emerged from the tack room to greet him. “Or may I be of some service?” Behind him on a work bench Adam could see what appeared to be wooden rocking chair runners attached to some additional pieces of wood. Mr. Frigg was working on a sled for the competition.
“I’ve time to kill while waiting for the sledding,” Adam responded, showing the two winter apples he had earlier coaxed from Mrs Salsby in the Four Feathers kitchen. “Thought I’d visit my pair–they are no doubt wondering how long they will be here, as am I. No reflection on the accommodations, mind you. All is satisfactory. Any idea when your neighbor the smithy is likely to return?”
Mr. Frigg removed his woolen cap and scratched his head. “Today is Christmas Day, and tomorrow is Sunday, so he’s likely to stay over. Especially if the snow starts melting–not that mud is so much better to travel through. Perhaps Monday, if the weather holds and the roads improve? The roads must be bad or my post-boy would be back by now.”
Unless Peter Salsby was having the most memorable Christmas of his young life at Christopher’s home, Adam thought, not for the first time. However, he nodded, grateful for the man’s honesty. Each day that passed would increase the pressure on him to go home. If the smithy came back on Monday, how long would it take to repair a carriage wheel?
But the stableman wasn’t finished. “On the other hand, Zeb does like our annual street-ball race. The men’s is always on St Stephens Day. He might try to come back in time for that tomorrow, but I think it unlikely.”
“Street-ball race? What is that? As Lord of Misrule am I someway involved in it?”
Mr. Frigg laughed. “You are in charge of it! But have no worries. All you do is start the race, and declare a winning team at the end. The men in our village have been doing it for so many generations, no one has any idea when it started. But we all know how it works.”
“Well and good, but I don’t know.”
“Ah, well, you will!” The man stepped back towards the tack room. “By the way, you might want to leave that hat and scepter right there by the door before you start visiting. No sense in having all those bells make the animals jittery!”
Twenty minutes before the designated time for the sledding, Adam arrived at the appointed location, clad once again in his symbols of office. He had added a long red-and-blue striped woolen scarf retrieved from his luggage to cut the chill and add a dash of style. The crews of men and teams of horses mustered by the Hammons to prepare the field had just finished and were heading down the cart path on the east side of the hill.
Two tracks had been prepared down the hill’s south slope, pressed with boards to compact the snow and make it slick. An area of untouched soft snow had been left between them, and also on either side. The hill was indeed perfect–the slope started out somewhat steeply but gradually eased down into a flat area at the bottom. Beyond that a thorny hedgerow separated it from another field, but Adam doubted anyone’s “sled” would manage to travel as far as that.
He would wager that most would never make it to the bottom of the hill at all. Too bad there was no one with whom to make such a bet. Squire, perhaps? It was unlikely that anyone else in the village had deep enough pockets to engage in betting as a part of the entertainment. But what if they bet things other than money? Now, that could become entertaining indeed.
The Hammons were gazing out over their field as if they did not know quite what to make of it, but they turned at the sound of Adam’s bells when he approached.
“Tis utterly perfect, Lady Anne, Squire. Thank you so much for your assistance! I think I must really appoint both of you as members of my “court,” as I suspect I will be depending upon you for assistance a great deal. Is there any reason why you may not so serve?”
“I think in this unusual instance that might be a very wise idea,” the Squire said.
“Yes, I do agree!” Lady Anne said. “Have you decided yet who else you will choose?”
Adam had to admit he had not. How was he to know who to pick, when he did not know these people? “How many are usually chosen to serve the Lord of Misrule? And are the court members exempt from having to pay forfeits if they fail to participate or in some other way earn my displeasure?” The paying of “forfeits” was all part of the mischief for the week, and Adam, once he had been informed of this, had already begun a list in his head of games or tribute that might be demanded. He’d considered asking Miss Tamworth to be part of his court, but the idea she might be exempt from paying forfeits gave him pause.
“As in all other things, that is entirely up to you,” Lady Anne replied. She waved her hand to take in the landscape around them, and Adam stepped back to avoid the swinging reticule. “For twelve days you have absolute rule in order to keep our days entertaining.”
Absolute rule. Appealing, but it came with a tall responsibility, one that he somehow did not want to fail. “That is quite a challenge, my lady. Nearly two weeks of mischief instead of merely one night. We shall have to plan strategies at dinner.”
In the meantime, the first villagers were beginning to arrive at the hilltop dragging or carrying a wild assortment of found or invented devices for sliding down the slope. Adam brightened and strolled out among them. “Welcome, welcome, everyone. We shall wait until we are all assembled and then I will go over the method and the rules for this event.”
Cassie had not been certain her father would be entirely exempt from all the Lord of Misrule mischief, so she had persuaded him to come with her to watch the sledding contest, at least for the first little while. Watching should qualify as participating, should it not? He would still have the rest of his afternoon to work on preparations for the following day’s service and other duties. The two of them slowly made their way up to the hilltop among other villagers who were bringing their contest entries. She saw the Mogg family dragging what appeared to be a large metal washtub, and the Poynsers’ “sled” appeared to be the bottom of a rocking chair with a flat wooden platform set onto it.
“All right, Papa?” Cassie’s words formed clouds of breath as they reached the top of the cart path, by now well-trodden. A little winded from the climb, she noticed her father was much more so.
He nodded, then gave her a quick reassuring smile. It was only a tall hill, after all. Her nose was chilled (and probably red!) but the exertion of climbing up had warmed all the rest of her.
The entire village of Little Macclow appeared to be gathered there, with every sort of contraption. What had Lord Forthhurst wrought? Had they created a monster by appointing him the Lord of Misrule? She had noted during his announcement how clearly he seemed to have embraced his new role. Perhaps even relished it. She shook her head, wondering if any of the sled-riders would come out of the competition alive and whole.
“You are shaking your head, Miss Tamworth! Does my humble effort to entertain everyone this afternoon not meet with your approval?”
Of course Lord Forthhurst somehow had spotted her and her father immediately. Was she foolish to have thought revealing her father’s prejudice might have kept the man at a distance? He tipped his ridiculous hat to both of them in greeting.
She nodded curtly. “I was only thinking that if this were the devil’s invention, there might be a great reaping of souls in the aftermath.”
He laughed. Hard. Not exactly the reaction she had been aiming for or expecting. Then he shook his silly belled scepter at her. “So little confidence in your fellow villagers? For shame, Miss Tamworth. Where is your faith? I would like to ask if you and Dr. Tamworth would help the Hammons and myself to judge which of all the sled inventions should be chosen as the most creative? It will be easy enough to see which ones navigate the slope, which travel the farthest, and which utterly fail, but I feel the effort and imagination applied to the project also merits rewarding.”
He was clever, she had to admit. Appealing to her father for assistance and actively engaging him in the event could win Lord Forthhurst a few merit points of his own.
Her father nodded slowly. “That is a worthy idea, Lord Forthhurst. I approve, and I will help judge.” She could see her father’s eyes immediately brighten and he began to pay more attention. Coming was no longer a burden of duty. He was interested, and challenged. Perhaps she must begrudgingly allow that Lord Forthhurst was more than clever. More like inspired.
“The judging won’t be easy,” she said, waving one hand at the contestants around them. “I see a great deal of creativity.” She chuckled and pointed. “Even Sammy and Will Salsby have tried to improve upon what appears to be a large serving tray from the Four Feathers!” Leather loops had been affixed to the tray handles, and a long rope trailed from one end.
She had barely finished the observation when a small, shrieking blond-haired missile launched itself toward her and flung arms around her skirted legs. “Miss Tamworth!! Miss Tamworth!! Come and see our sled!! You simply must!”
Nearly bowled over, Cassie flung out her hands for balance, but of course Lord Forthhurst was right beside her to lend assistance, as if she had meant for him to take her hand. She snatched it back quickly and muttered her faint thanks under her breath. She turned her attention to the child.
“Hold there, Mr. Eric Burdis!” she exclaimed, halting the youngster by using his formal name in her best school-teacher voice. The six-year-old was one of Little Kate’s brothers and shared the angelic appearance of all four of the baker’s children. “I know you are excited, but truly, I shall soon see all of the sleds!”
“Ours is a giant basket! We even waxed the bottom so it will go faster!”
She couldn’t help laughing. The excitement was contagious. “I am eager to see how it will do,” she said, giving him a little pat and pointing him back in the direction of his family.
Once no more stragglers were seen still toiling up the hill, Lord Forthhurst called everyone together and explained both the judging categories and the rules. Well, that is, the rule–it seemed there was only one. (Had he really thought this activity out? Where had the idea come from?)
The so-called “sleds” could be pulled or pushed to get forward motion started, but once they were underway, they had to travel down the prepared slide entirely on their own. Any attempt to “help” by the rider (or anyone else) would disqualify that entry from the competition and would also earn the rider, or family, a forfeit to be paid at a later time in the week.
Oh, wait, there was a second rule. No walking on the prepared slide ramps. People could go around to the cart path, or flounder their way back up in the loose snow at the sides.
“Are we ready to start? Who wants to go first?”
These questions of course evoked utter pandemonium, as the children were already in a state of heightened excitement and the parents and other adults only slightly less so. Lord Forthhurst seemed to revel in causing chaos. Cassie frowned at him. He shrugged and grinned, looking as excited as the crowd around him.
He randomly selected two families to start off. At least, the choice seemed random, but Cassie wondered. She was learning not to take Lord Forthhurst at face value. The Whitlatch family positioned their “sled” at the top of the left sled-way, while the Garveys set up on the right.
Cassie saw him eyeing both sleds. Was he assessing them for safety? She hoped so. The slope of the hill looked steep and a bit frightening to her. Both chosen families had sturdy-looking inventions and either adults or older children ready at the helm. Perhaps the Lord of Misrule was not quite as cavalier as she had thought.
Jamie and Jonas Whitlatch appeared to be arguing over which of them would make the ride down the hill, while the Garvey family’s eldest boy calmly lay down full-length on the flat surface of their contender. The Whitlatch sled was a large wooden box attached to rocker-shaped runners made from wood, while the Garvey sled was made from wooden boards attached to long wood runners shaped more like those of a sleigh. Cassie had to admit she was curious to see how the two would compare.
Somehow Jamie and Jonas resolved their dispute, and Jonas lowered himself into the box of their sled, grasping the sides. But then, with the first two competitors poised to begin, Lord Forthhurst held up a finger and made them wait while he spoke softly with the families and then with other villagers who were crowding nearby. What was he doing now? She saw him nod his head several times, and then finally it appeared he was ready.
Raising his hand and his voice to match, he announced, “When I drop my hand on count of three, that is your signal to go.” The Whitlatch and Garvey family members prepared to push off their entries. “One, two, THREE!”
Amid cheers and shouts of encouragement from the crowd, both families started their sleds down the slope and let go. Nothing like this had ever been done in Little Macclow before. Whatever the outcome of today’s event, Cassie knew this would be remembered for a long time to come. She couldn’t help wondering what other ideas were brewing in Lord Forthhurst’s mind.
Both sleds started their descent reasonably well, picking up speed as they went. Whoops of excitement came from the young men riding them, and Jonas Whitlatch even let go of his with one hand long enough to wave, eliciting whistles from the crowd. But then his sled hit a bump that pitched it perilously up and forward. He valiantly tried to throw his weight against the back of the box he sat in to compensate, but the front tip of one runner caught in the snow, pulling the sled abruptly off course. In the next moment both sled and rider were upended into the softer snow at the side of the sled-way, throwing up a huge spray of white crystals.
The Garveys’ sled fared better, with the curved front of their runners protecting against such an accident, but steering began to be a problem as the occasional bumps and dips in the sled-way began to toss the sled a bit. The eager crowd called all sorts of advice to the poor Garvey lad on the sled, who could do nothing but hold on tight as he plummeted down the slope. Before he reached the bottom he and the sled finally careened off to one side sending up another fluffy plume of snow. Snow-covered but grinning, both young men gathered up their contraptions and gamely started to make their way back up to the hilltop.
Lord Forthhurst appeared to be in consultation with the same various people he had spoken with before the first run. Nodding, he was making notes with a pencil in a small notebook he had taken from his greatcoat pocket. Cassie’s heart sank. He would not be taking wagers, would he? Could he not tell that people in this village scrambled to make a living? She balled her fists, her growing approval evaporated in an instant. How dare he? Oh, this was a mistake after all!
The question was, should she confront him now, or wait? Or ask one of the Hammons to do it? Was it her place? And wasn’t it too late to stop him, anyway? She hated to spoil the fun, but how was she to contain her angry indignation? It wasn’t right for him to prey on the villagers. Why did no one else seem to be noticing or upset? She bit her lower lip and turned away, not willing to watch.
Moments later, she heard him call for the next volunteers to try the sled-runs, and more happy chaos as various families all eagerly stepped up. When she heard him shout, “We have our next contenders!” curiosity forced her to look.
Apparently after witnessing the Whitlatch short-runner accident, those who’d chosen no runners were now emboldened to try their luck. The Moggs with their rounded metal tub and the Burdis family with their “giant” basket were setting up at the top of the runs.
Cassie watched Lord Forthhurst go through the same motions as before, speaking with the families and with other villagers who seemed eager to engage with him. Perhaps she was wrong about the wagering? She wouldn’t have expected the good village folks to be so happy to participate. She would wait and confront him later, in a more private setting.
Once again the Lord of Misrule gave the signal to start. Even with a small, young passenger, the Moggs’s metal tub proved too heavy, tending to sink rather than slide. It stalled out completely only a short way down the sled-way. The basket, light-weight and also carrying a small, young rider, flew down the ramp but tended to become airborne whenever it hit a bump. It also tended to spin with every shift in weight of its clinging, crowing passenger. Halfway down the hill, both basket and small boy landed in the soft snow between the two groomed runs. Little Eric got up and gamely waved to reassure all that he was uninjured.
The afternoon continued in this pattern, although the sledding participants began to include more adults, and more of the sleds were like the one John Frigg from the livery stable presented–hastily built platforms with runners of assorted designs. Sledders sat, crouched, lay prone, or even attempted a run standing upright holding onto a tall pole. Family members competed to see if they could improve upon failed attempts.
Cassie suspected there might not be a wooden box or crate left intact in the village, for the materials had to have come from somewhere. She did not know how they would ever choose one as the “most creative.”
A group of the children sought her out. “Miss Tamworth? Miss Tamworth? Are you going to try a slide? ‘Tis unbelievably fun!”
“You’ve never gone so fast in your life!”
“Yes, Miss Tamworth! You mustn’t miss out!”
She laughed, touched by their eagerness to share this new experience. They had no idea what behavior was appropriate for an adult woman, and apparently none questioned why none of their mothers had been flinging themselves down the hill, only the men and the children. “I’m certain it is splendid!” she said. “But no, I was not planning to try it. Do you think your teacher should go flying down the hill?”
Apparently they did, for they only clamored for her more. Unfortunately, this attracted the Lord of Misrule’s attention. Cassie knew she was in trouble the moment Lord Forthhurst approached, one eyebrow raised in question. “What, no sense of adventure, Miss Tamworth? What sort of example does that set for the children?”
“One of decorum and self-preservation?”
He just laughed. Of course he did. “Where’s the fun in that? The point of all of this is the fun, is it not?” Challenge glinted in his eyes.
He turned to the crowd. “Who thinks Miss Tamworth should indulge the children and take a turn down the slide?”
Traitors all, the villagers whooped and cheered their approval. Clearly the devil had seized all of them.
Well, if she must, she would do it on her own terms. Hadn’t she just taught the children that bravery was doing the thing one feared? She couldn’t set an example of cowardice! She tamped down the butterflies making her stomach queasy and faced Lord Forthhurst, her chin high.
“Fine. Then I reserve the right to choose which sled I will use.” She had been paying attention all afternoon; she knew the one she wanted. Then she pointed to his striped scarf. “And I will need to borrow that.” Her reputation might survive this, but her velvet bonnet never would.
She untied the bonnet and handed it off to the woman standing nearest to her, catching her breath as the cold air assaulted her ears. The puzzled look on Lord Forthhurst’s face was worth the momentary discomfort, however. Ha. She could see she’d surprised him with that request.
Gamely, he unwound the scarf from his neck and handed it over to her. Still warm, it smelled of bay rum and something else, perhaps his own pure masculine essence. As she took it and brought it near her nose, a ripple of something ran through her, fully unexpected. Desire? Did she even know what that felt like? Could something so small as a man’s scent on a warm scarf trigger an emotion like that? Caught by surprise herself, she tried not to betray any sign that she was affected.
Draping his scarf over her head, Cassie tied it under her chin to keep her ears warm and protect her hair from coming unpinned. She wrapped the long ends around her neck and into the open collar of her pelisse.
She looked around, seeking out Sally Hepston and her husband. Tom Hepston was the village carpenter and his sled was well-built indeed. He had been a seaman before coming to Little Macclow, and his invention included a steering mechanism similar to the rudder on a boat. Cassie had been most impressed with it, and his was the only “sled” that had presented any method to control its course.
The children still surged around her as she moved through the crowd, cheering and excited that their teacher would share their experience. Finally she saw Sally and Tom and waved to them. “Are you willing to loan me the use of your sled, Tom Hepston? I cannot guarantee what may become of it.”
“Happy to help in any way we can, Miss Tamworth.”
“Explain how it works, please? Watching is not at all the same as doing.”
“Certainly!”
Riding the sled certainly would not put her in a very ladylike position. She would have to sit on the boards at the back with her knees bent up and her feet set forward on the long flat runners. Fortunately, a dowel thoughtfully fastened across the runners gave her feet a solid purchase to rest against. The steering rudder which ran beneath the boards was attached to a long piece of wood that came up through the open space between her knees, which she would grasp with both hands and use to direct her course.
“I found the disadvantage is that you’ve naught else to hold onto,” Tom admitted. “You must try not to accidentally steer it astray when you are only trying to keep from falling off!”
She nodded. Could this end in any way but disaster?
“And remember, push or pull it to the side that’s the opposite of the direction you want to go. Don’t keep it there for long! The sled-way isn’t very wide.”
Cassie had lost track of Lord Forthhurst while she took her instructions from Tom Hepston. Was the Lord of Misrule collecting wagers on her performance? To her own annoyance, she had to admit to a tiny twinge of curiosity over what those wagers might be.
The cheers of the crowd sounded louder to her than any issued all day as she took her place at the top of the sled-way. Did it mean so much to people? Or was she just being over-sensitive? She was quite certain her heart was so nearly in her throat that she might choke on it. Tom set the sled in place and helped her to sit down on it. She tucked the skirts of her pelisse around and under her legs as best she could. But the steering lever between her knees meant part of her skirts had to be tucked creatively high enough to allow space between her legs. Thank God she was wearing the clothing she had chosen–the fullness of those skirts helped her to preserve her modesty!
Eventually settled to her satisfaction, she nodded to Lord Forthhurst, who had taken great interest in watching the whole process. Most likely all the men had. He had goaded her into this. Since she had not died from embarrassment, would she have to wait until Twelfth Night was over before she killed the Lord of Misrule?
As he had done for all the other contestants, Lord Forthhurst gave the signal, and on his count, Tom Hepston and another man gave a mighty push to start Cassie’s sled over the edge and down the slope.
Her heart dropped into her stomach. She clung to the steering lever with all her strength, until she suddenly feared what would happen if it broke. Where was her courage? Schooling her grip into something less death-like, she began to appreciate the sense of hurtling down the slope at an amazing speed. The cold air stung her cheeks and whistled past her scarf-covered ears, but the children were right! She had never experienced, nor even imagined, anything like this.
At the first bump, the sled rose off the round and she had no control. It quickly settled again and continued racing toward the lower, gentler part of the hill, but now it was at an angle and she needed to correct it or her ride would end in an explosion of soft snow like so many before her. Tentatively at first, then a little harder, she pulled the steering lever to the right. When the sled responded, something like euphoria began to take hold of her. Her pulse was galloping like a mad racehorse. Her heart felt as though it might burst from sheer joy. Utterly unable to stop herself, she let out a huge whoop of rapture that was most unlady-like. She had never felt more alive.
The sled hit another bump and was briefly airborne again. She could feel it trying to twist beneath her. She could do nothing until it landed again, and this time it bounced, jolting her and throwing her weight to one side. With nothing to grip but the steering lever, she inadvertently pulled it, exactly what Tom had warned her against. Quickly she pulled it back the other way. Too late? The sled brushed against the softer snow at the side of the run, throwing up a shower of sparkles that covered her like magic dust, but continued to race down the hill. She whooped again.
Watching Miss Tamworth fly down the hill on Tom Hepston’s sled filled Adam with the most amazing array of emotions. Admiration that she had the pluck to meet his challenge had come first, but then as he watched her tuck her skirts around her, the hot rush of attraction assailed him. God help him! How was he going to resist this desire to tangle with her? Then as he watched her gain control of the sled and relax into the experience, something like pride on her behalf pricked at him. Her first whoop of ecstasy made him laugh out loud with joy himself, only to have worry overlay that feeling as the second bump nearly dumped her and the sled off the run at what was still a very fast speed. Her second whoop seemed to resound within his chest, stirring the mix of joy and desire there to a new level. What a truly magnificent woman!
Her ride continued, and it began to look as though she might make it farther down the slope than any other contenders all day, including Tom Hepston on his original run. How ironic if Miss Tamworth won the contest! Adam couldn’t stop the grin spreading over his face. He had bet against her, but he would be happy to pay up. He rather felt like whooping himself, but he was aware that as the Lord of Misrule, he should not show partiality. The crowd was crazy with excitement.
Miss Tamworth averted another near disaster after hitting another bump. She was approaching the section where the slope gentled and she would begin to lose some of her speed. Adam’s elation took a hit as he looked ahead of her, and realized that if she made it all the way down, there was a chance her momentum might take her right into the hedgerow at the foot of the hill. Damn! She could steer but she could not control her speed. Who would think to put brakes on a sled? What if she could not turn the sled enough at the end to avoid a collision? Partiality be damned!
Adam dropped his notebook into the snow and began to run. “She may hit the hedge!” he called as he went, urging those around him into action. Several more men began to follow him at a run down the slope.
Cold air seared Adam’s lungs as he ran, slipped, slid, and ran some more down the sled-way he had expressly said could not be walked upon. He didn’t care. This is my fault. I underestimated these simple good folks, and now I have put Miss Tamworth in danger. His heart felt as if it would burst out of his chest.
He tried yelling to get her attention. “Turn, curse it! Miss Tamworth! Turn your sled!!”
In his frustration, it seemed that half the volume and urgency in his words floated off in the clouds of his breath. He had no way to know if she didn’t hear or was simply ignoring him. He shouldn’t be surprised to learn it was the latter. But truly, could she not see the danger for herself? Women!
Twin prods of guilt and fear drove Adam down the slope. If only he hadn’t challenged Miss Tamworth! She could have declined the children’s request, but once he had made an issue of her participation, and then appealed to the crowd, he hadn’t left her any choice. He had never expected anyone would make it all the way down the sled-run. Was his mischief doomed to end in disaster? If she was hurt he would never forgive himself.
He slipped again and made some more headway sliding on his backside. None of the villagers had opted for that basic method, although most of the run had become slick enough for it. One family had brought a sheet of cardboard salvaged from a box and they along with Sammy and Will Salsby with their serving tray had been the closest to trying nature alone. The Salsby boys had managed to put a large dent in their tray and he had overheard the innkeeper soothing his wife Edith, reassuring her he could “hammer out the dent to look as good as new.”
He regained his feet as he began to slow. Back to ungainly running, more like making a series of leaps through the snow. Really, he should have grabbed someone’s sled–it would have been faster. He called again. “Turn! Turn your sled, Miss Tamworth!!” The men following behind him were yelling also. How could she not notice the commotion? What if the sled’s steering mechanism had failed?
Finally, he could see her sled was losing some of its speed. Thank you, God. And then, at the very last possible moment, she turned it. The sled started to make an arc, but momentum was still carrying it and it still slid sideways towards the hedge. She might be thrown off right into the sharp branches–worse than if she’d hit straight-on! Adam tasted despair, and it surprised him. He never wished harm to anyone, but how had he developed such a depth of feeling over a woman he’d only met yesterday?
He just could not get there in time. None of them could.