During the hours the temperature warmed the next day, everyone in Little Macclow scurried to get their business done. The Lord of Misrule had declared it “walk backwards day,” and Cassie had already heard of a few interesting collisions in the fog.
Backing out of the Moggs’ butcher shop, Mrs. Poynser had landed in a wheelbarrow full of laundry being delivered by Mary Meadows’ husband. Mr. Shawcroft’s two hounds (who had the run of the village) didn’t know it was walk-backwards day for humans, and failed to scramble away fast enough when Claire Burdis, backing up along Church Street, fell over them.
There had been no reports of any injuries so far. But given the unpredictable and limited window of time, most people chose to forego the amusement and pay forfeits later. Cassie thought there would be ample entertainment come Twelfth Night.
She had wanted to call the children to gather at the vicarage. They had only had class on Monday, because of Christmas and St Stephen’s Day, and then the freezing fog set in. She feared if they lost the habit of coming to school some of them would never return. They also needed to rehearse for the Epiphany pageant. Given how unruly this group of children could be, numerous rehearsals were in order.
However, the drastic turn of weather had her father concerned about his parishioners. The poorest residents of the village were always at risk in winter when the weather turned bad, for they had little enough to set aside. He needed Cassie’s help to check on some of them in the shortest time possible. The children would have to wait.
“We need to finish before the fog freezes again, Cassie. Be sure you don’t stay long at any of your visits. We don’t know how long the milder temperatures will hold.”
“Yes, Father.” Cassie draped a long scarf over her head and then began to wind it around her neck. This was no weather for a bonnet. As she passed the length of wool under her chin, however, an unexpected memory of wearing Lord Forthhurst’s scarf at the sledding race assailed her. She could have sworn she caught his scent, even though this was not his scarf. Her mind was playing tricks on her.
She shook her head to disperse the illusion, and finished arranging the folds around her. Such foolishness! How had he left such an indelible imprint on her mind? Perhaps there was some merit to his claim to be a devil after all. More the fool she, first for not believing him, and then for thinking he might be redeemable even if it were true.
The fog felt like a cold, wet slap the moment she stepped out in it. At least it wasn’t ice. She walked with her father to the village bakery, where they purchased nearly all the loaves of bread Mr. Burdis had. Most were left from the previous day when the weather had kept customers away. Fresh loaves were in the oven, their heavenly scent wafting through the shop and even out of the door, but they were not yet ready.
Cassie and her father stuffed as many loaves as they could fit into the large baskets they were carrying. The baskets were already heavy from a layer of potatoes in the bottom of each one. With their baskets now filled, Cassie and her father decided to go to the farthest points on their respective routes first and work their way back.
“No walking backwards nonsense. It is too slow. Be careful, and be quick,” Cassie’s father said as they parted.
“You too, Father.”
Cassie hurried down the long lane that led to one of the outlying tenant farms, worked by the Brown family. Was it already getting colder? Please, God, let it not be so. She had three more stops on her list.
When she arrived at the farmhouse, Mr. Brown welcomed her into a warm kitchen where all of the family were gathered. She suspected that any other fireplaces in the house remained unlit in order to save fuel. The children began to clamor for her attention as soon as she stepped into the room, but their mother shushed them. Cassie greeted each of them by name, then turned to the farmer and his wife.
“My father asked me to stop in to see you,” she began. People were proud, and it was important not to rob them of their dignity. But if they were hungry or in need, her father needed to know. “How are you faring in this terrible weather? Were you able to bring all of your animals into shelter?”
“Aye, Miss Tamworth, that we did. But ’tis a worry, it is, how long this freezin’ fog will last. We’ve only so much feed stored up. The longer they are cooped up unable t’ forage, the more of a problem we’ll see.”
“It is a worry, Mr. Brown, indeed. We must pray for the Lord to make the sun shine again.” She smiled, hoping she looked braver than she felt. She politely refused his wife’s offer of warmed cider, a necessary offer of hospitality she suspected they could ill afford. “I’m sorry, I cannot stay. I’ve a few more visits to make, before the frost returns. But my father sends these with his best regards.” She unloaded two loaves of bread and a handful of small potatoes.
The scene was similar at each of the homes she visited. Within two hours, she re-entered the vicarage, only to find her father had not yet returned.
He was probably fine. If indeed he had been detained, he would have the sense to stay where he was if the freeze began again. If he were on his way home when that happened, there were plenty of houses where he could seek shelter. If she were caught in the freezing fog because she went out to look for him, how foolish that would appear! He would be right if he accused her of not trusting him to have the sense to take care of himself. The thought came, you would have to trust him if you are ever to marry and move away.
Still, she hesitated, her hand on the scarf still wrapped around her head and neck. Trust, or search? She closed her eyes, and realized she needed to have faith in her father but also in the goodness of God. And not for just this moment. How had she forgotten that?
Minutes later as she warmed herself by the fire in the parlor, she heard the sound of the front door opening. Her father came in, rubbing his gloved hands and stomping his feet. Still bundled in his cloak and scarf, he approached the fire and she made room for him. “Father, I was worried. I’m so glad to see you back safely. Did the freezing start again?”
“Just beginning. It has been becoming steadily colder every minute as I made my way home.”
He began to remove his gloves, pulling at the fingers with hands that were too chilled to function. Cassie turned and began to help him remove them and his other outerwear.
“Mrs. Hardwell is ill–she wanted me to stay and say prayers with her. She has been bedridden since Christmas Eve, and had no idea what a frightful turn the weather has taken.”
“I hope she wasn’t made ill by mince pie,” Cassie said, and unbidden, Lord Forthhurst’s image again surged into her mind, this time drawing her away from the crowd at the Hammons’ party on Christmas Eve. How had he so thoroughly invaded her mind and memory? Would she ever be able to eat mince pie again without thinking of him?
As if that memory unbarred a door she had closed, suddenly she was back at the Hammons’ Christmas Ball, circling under the mistletoe with his lips exploring hers. In her mind, the kiss went on and on as if it had never ended.
“Cassie?”
Her father’s voice brought her back. She realized her fingers were still on the frog clasp of his black cloak. Quickly she finished unfastening it and stepped back.
“Where did your thoughts go?” he asked kindly, smiling an indulgent smile.
Somewhere I can never tell you. She felt as if her heart might be breaking just a little bit.
Adam had left the inn that morning as soon as the “ice fog” thawed into a normal curtain of grayness. Armed with instructions from the innkeeper, he hoped to cover the ten miles to Little Macclow in no more than three hours. He also hoped the reprieve from the ice would last that long.
The treacherous going demanded that he and Jupiter travel at that slow pace. The tiny ice pellets shifted like sand rather than sticking together like snow. Beneath them, slush and ice had formed where melting had started to occur, and the plain fog still reduced visibility to almost nothing. Before they had traveled twenty minutes he was already looking for the first inn to stop at.
He had been given a list, but there were not enough inns and taverns on it to stop every twenty minutes. Besides, stopping that often would make the trip take longer. That thought spurred him to push on to an inn a little further along the route.
“Nasty weather for travelin’, sir,” the ostler said to Adam when he checked on Jupiter a short while later. Warmed and rested, Adam wanted to make certain the horse was also ready to travel again.
“Yes, indeed it is,” he agreed. “But some matters are urgent enough to require it.”
“Matters of business?” The man scrutinized Adam, then amended his guess. “No, I think it must be a matter of the heart.”
Adam smiled. “What makes you say so?”
“You have a certain look, young man. ’Tis unmistakable.”
“You think I’m in love? By a look?”
“Indeed, sir! And what else could drive a man to travel in this weather?”
“I’m quite certain I do not know.” He fished for a coin inside the layers of his clothing and flipped it to the man, who caught it neatly. “For your trouble. Thank you.”
Adam pondered the brief conversation as he continued on his way. Could a man fall in love in two days? That hardly seemed possible. Especially for someone like him. He liked women. Loved them. But loving women was not the same as loving a woman.
He shook his head, unbelieving. He wasn’t ready to love a particular woman. Not yet. Not this much. And by the saints, not this woman. Still, something more than just his honor was pulling him back to Little Macclow, and Miss Tamworth was certainly part of it.
The state of his mind and heart seemed as foggy and challenging as the road he was attempting to follow. He recognized that he had better pay more attention to the latter and avoid ending up in a ditch.
The hosteller at the next inn where Adam stopped gave him explicit instructions to find the turnoff for Little Macclow. “Aye and there ‘asn’t been a signpost at that road nigh on for two or three years,” the man said. “Most people that go there are from there, y’ see? An’ they already know how to go.”
Adam set off again, wondering if he would be able to see the specific farm the man said would mark the intersection. It was difficult to gauge how far he had come, or even how many minutes he’d been travelling, enveloped as he was in a sense-stealing cocoon. The cold and wet muffled sound and removed all but the nearest images from sight. He shook his head as if that might restore some of his senses. In case God was listening, he sent up a prayer of thanks that the fog had not yet reverted to ice.
Gratifyingly, the farm had a very visible wooden sign, “Oakdale,” on a tree right beside the road. From there, he just needed to watch for a turning on the left, signpost or not, and avoid deep ruts with rocks in them. At least this time he was not in a carriage, and he knew where the ruts were. He would be in Little Macclow soon. Hopefully soon enough, since there was no more shelter on the way and it certainly felt as though the temperature was dropping.
By the time he reached the livery stable in Little Macclow, his cheeks stung from the assault of invisible ice pellets and his clothing was encased in the freezing stuff. He wondered that anyone could even recognize him as a man, let alone any specific one. His hands and feet were numb.
Without dismounting he reached out to bang on the closed doors of the stable and was gratified when a stablehand opened them up to admit him. Young Peter Salsby was inside with Mr. Frigg and jumped to his feet as Adam rode in.
“Sir! Here, let us help you,” the lad said, reaching for the reins as Adam pried himself from his saddle.
“Tain’t fit weather for man nor beast,” said the liveryman, looking Adam over with something close to alarm. “Tis a lucky thing you’ve come in when you have. Spend much longer out in that and it could stop your breath. I’ve never seen the like of this in my lifetime, not lasting for days.”
Adam separated his slouch hat from the top of his head and unwound the scarf that had protected his face and neck. “I quite agree, Mr. Frigg. Nasty stuff, this freezing fog.”
“Lord Forthhurst!” Both the boy and the liveryman recognized him now. The note of joy in their voices warmed Adam as much as the welcoming heat inside the building.
“May I say how pleased everyone’ll be to see you returned?” the stableman said. “Although this weather has played havoc with the Lord of Misrule festivities. There’ll be a great many forfeits to be paid over the coming week, or on Twelfth Night.”
“Well, let us hope the forfeits will be as entertaining as the activities that spawned them were intended to be.” Adam glanced around the stables. “How are my pair faring? I have faith in your ability to care for them, of course.”
“Well enough, my lord. All of the animals are restless from keeping inside so much with this weather.”
He nodded. “We must hope the sun will return soon, or at least a lasting thaw. In the meanwhile, I am obliged to you for taking in yet a third horse from my care. Any word from the smithy about the repair of my carriage? Has he returned? I was hoping to take all of my charges home day after tomorrow.”
“So soon?” The livery man tried to hide his disappointment. “At least you’ll be seeing the New Year in with us here, then. But ‘tis just another six days until Twelfth Night.”
“The weather rules all. I may have to leave as soon as tomorrow. It can’t be helped. I am required to be at home for my parents’ annual New Year’s Ball.” He paused, thinking he should say nothing more, but some impulse prompted him to add, “This year it matters more than most, as I am expected to choose a woman to wed.”
The stable owner shook his head. “I hope you don’t mind my saying, my lord, but that seems like a deucedly odd way to go about setting up for marriage.”
“I don’t mind your saying so, Mr. Frigg. I am quite in agreement with you on that.” Adam cast a weary glance at the single window at this end of the stables. A dense curtain of gray concealed everything that might normally be seen outside. He waved a hand towards it. “Nothing for it but to go out in it again, if I want dinner and a warm bed. I don’t fancy settling in here with your staff, not that they aren’t a good group of lads.”
He re-bundled himself in scarf and hat. He headed off, holding his breath as if he were under water while dashing across the road to the Four Feathers. He wondered if he dared to go out again later. He wouldn’t ask a servant to go out in this weather, and could think of no other way to deliver his invitations except by walking to the vicarage and to Highfield Manor himself. The clock was ticking, and it could take two days again to get back to Blakehill, normally a half-day’s travel. It would be asking a lot from his intended guests to accept the invitation and be ready to travel the very next day.
The taproom at the Four Feathers was empty when he stumbled through the inn’s front door. The slam of the door behind him, the chime of the bell, and the noise of his stamping feet brought Mr. Salsby speedily from the kitchen where the family had no doubt been gathered. The man’s face showed quite clearly that he was astonished to receive a guest given the dangerous conditions outside.
As Adam peeled off his protective layers and revealed himself, the innkeeper sent up a shout that brought the other family members running. Adam could not recall his own mother, or even a nursemaid, ever fussing over him the way Mrs. Salsby did then. The entire family welcomed him as if he had been lost for years.
Tea as hot as he could drink and a steaming bowl of mutton stew direct from the kitchen kettle soon had him feeling like a live human again sitting by the kitchen hearth. When he expressed his intention of going out again to finish his urgent business, however, the Salsbys protested.
“What business could be so urgent that you must risk your health for it?” Mr. Salsby exclaimed, belatedly appending, “my lord?” onto the end of his question.
“We mustn’t lose our Lord of Misrule,” young Becky wailed. “And we’ve only just got you back again.”
The littlest two girls just stared at him with big round eyes.
“We haven’t been allowed to go out–not to school, not even to rehearse for the Epiphany pageant,” Samuel and William complained.
“Not even to practice aiming snowballs?” Adam asked them, then winked. He was fairly certain those two had been among the snowball fight participants on Sunday.
Only Mrs. Salsby looked closely at Adam and said nothing until the others finished. “I think perhaps this is a very special mission, am I right, Lord Forthhurst?”
He nodded. How could she tell? Did he truly look different, that strangers and near-strangers picked up a sense of his mind? Or his heart? “You are a wise woman, Mrs. Salsby.”
“Are you quite certain it can’t wait? What if tomorrow the cold lets up and we can go about our business again, even if there is still fog?”
“What if it doesn’t?” He shook his head. “There isn’t time, and I dare not take the chance. Besides, there is more than enough business to be done tomorrow should a thaw occur.”
She rose. “That is true enough. Well, then, we’d best make certain you are proof against the icing. Wait here a moment more.”
She left the room, only to return moments later with a long woolen scarf to add to the collection of layers he had already worn. “Two scarves are better than one,” she pronounced, “in this weather and for a special mission.” She glanced at the two boys, shaking her head at them. “This does not mean that anyone else is allowed to go outside.”
She handed him the scarf. “Tis my husband’s, and he’ll be needing it back.” She gave him a pointed look. “I hope you are not going far–perhaps only to the vicarage?”
“There, and then up to Highfield. I expect I shan’t return until tomorrow. Will you mind?”
“Good heavens, no. The less you are out in this the better! That is more than enough distance to cover without adding a return trip back here, my lord. Promise you will stop to warm yourself and catch your breath along the way if need be–any village house would be open to you in this weather, but especially to the Lord of Misrule. We’ll pray that you reach there safely.”
Cassie studied her father’s face as he pondered his next move on the chessboard. They had set up the gaming table near the fire in his study after recovering from their deliveries. The lines of concentration across his forehead were deeper than the smile lines around his mouth, but that made sense given the life he had chosen. Could she truly leave him to go teach in a girls’ academy? How would he manage without her here to look after him? Who would play chess with him when bad weather trapped everyone inside?
The weather had provided one gift, however. Mr. Pratt had been called away to Fritchley and had not undertaken the five mile walk back to Little Macclow during the short hours of thaw each day. So far, Cassie had been spared from answering his proposal, even to ask for more time.
The house was silent except for the snap and crackle of the fire on the hearth and the clocks ticking away the hours, the one on the mantel behind her and the longcase one out in the front entry hall. Her father lifted his hand as if ready to make his move, but just as he did so, hard pounding on the front door shattered the peace.
Shocked, Cassie put a hand over her racing heart. “Who could be out in this dangerous freeze?” Her eyes met her father’s. “It must be some emergency.”
Cassie flew to the entryway and wrenched open the front door, admitting a cloud of freezing fog and a male figure so bundled against the ice he was unrecognizable. Waiting for the servants to emerge from below stairs was not a choice at such a moment. “Come in, quickly. Oh dear heavens, come in.” As he advanced into the entry hall she quickly closed the door behind him.
A voice came out of the depths of oilcloth and wool. “I h-h-heartily beg your p-p-pardon for the int-t-t-terruption, Miss T-t-t-amworth.”
Incredulity, and a touch of alarm, spilled like a chill through her veins. “Lord Forthhurst? Is that you?” She should have recognized his blue and red striped scarf at once, although he appeared to have two scarves wrapped around him. And then, as he removed his hat with shaking hands and began to unwind both scarves from around his face and neck, she could see his light green eyes.
Against all sense, a twinkle danced in them. “Un-f-f-fortunately my b-b-business couldn’t w-w-wait for more c-c-clement weather.”
The man was clearly frozen–or at least his wits must have been. “Are you mad? What are you doing here?” She realized she didn’t sound welcoming or glad to see him, but in truth she couldn’t find a balance between all of the emotions tumbling through her. She hadn’t been certain he would return at all.
She shook her head. “Of course you are mad, you needn’t answer that. But the second question still stands.”
She took the scarves from his shivering gloved hands. Simply tossing them aside, she began to help him unfasten the frost-encrusted oilcloth coat that was his outermost layer.
“N-needed to s-see you.” He barely could form the words between the chattering of his teeth. Truly? He could still flirt when he was nearly frozen to death? Or was he not as frozen as he appeared to be?
“That makes no sense,” she chided.
By then her father had come into the hall, and behind him their footman and their maid-of-all-work. Wordlessly the maid picked up the discarded scarves, and the footman raised his hands, asking how he might be of help.
“Please ask Cook for hot tea, and plenty of it,” Cassie said. Twisting her head so she could see her father, she added, “Look, Papa, it is Lord Forthhurst, presenting himself as a snowman.”
Would her attempt at humor soften her father’s reception? She was already counting on his basic decency toward another human being under such extreme circumstances.
She was gratified when he smiled faintly. “I believe that the Lord of Misrule is excused from entertaining us when the weather is so treacherous, sir, but perhaps you did not know?”
Cassie handed the now-dripping oilcloth coat to the maid. “Please set Lord Forthhurst’s things to dry in front of one of the fires.” She started to work on the fastenings of his greatcoat. He simply stood like a block of ice and allowed her to work. Touching his clothing somehow felt shockingly intimate.
“What could have possessed you to venture out in this dangerous ice?” she fussed at him, partly to cover that most certainly inappropriate response to him. “The weather is not fit for man nor beast.”
Finally, perhaps thawed a bit, he spoke again–this time without his teeth chattering. “I’ve heard that.” He leaned in close to her ear and spoke in a low voice. “Fortunately, as I’ve mentioned, I am a devil.”
He was. How else could so few whispered words arrow down through her, setting off small fires everywhere? She couldn’t react, not with her father standing so nearby. Lord Forthhurst was a devil, too, for saying something outrageous when he knew very well she couldn’t respond. How could he be so impossible after he had just clearly traipsed through life-threatening ice to come there, for who knew what reason?
She stepped back and looked straight into his eyes. “Why in the name of heaven are you here?” She was beginning to suspect that his character had as many layers as he was wearing to protect him from the cold. He began to work at the fingers of his gloves, loosening them one by one.
Rather belatedly she added, “Once we extricate you from all these layers–that I am at least glad to see you wearing–you must come in and warm up in the study. Of course you are welcome. We have a lively fire in there and it is quite cozy. My father and I were working at a game of chess.”
“Thank you. I am thoroughly grateful for the chance to dry out and warm my bones. I shan’t stay any longer than necessary, for I’ve only come to deliver an invitation. But as the event happens on New Year’s Day evening, you see it is quite urgent that you receive it.”
“An invitation?” Cassie and her father both spoke at once. Cassie heard a tone of suspicion in her father’s voice, and hoped her own tone of pure surprise carried over it. Lord Forthhurst had come all the way back to Little Macclow, in frightening conditions, to deliver an invitation? Truly he was mad.
The ridiculous man turned towards her father. “Yes, sir. To a ball that my parents, the Earl and Countess of Grantsborough, are giving on Saturday.” He held out the envelope, which bore his father’s seal. “’Tis an annual event, and they felt it offered an opportunity to show their thanks for the kind hospitality I received while stranded here in Little Macclow. I must not linger here for long, as I still must make my way up to Highfield to deliver the same invitation to Lady Anne and Squire Hammon. The later the hour, the colder and more difficult it will be to go there.”
“You are right on that account,” her father said. “Still, come in and sit by the fire a few minutes. If you freeze to death out there we don’t want it to be through any fault of ours.”
Cassie laughed lightly, trying to soften her father’s words. “Papa, how begrudging your welcome sounds! The Lord of Misrule might charge you a forfeit! Come, Lord Forthhurst, please do come in and sit long enough to drink some tea. It should be here any moment and should help to warm you.”
“Thank you, I will. But I fear if I thaw out too much, the shock of the cold will feel all the worse when I go out again.”
“Perhaps something stronger added to your tea will help.”
Cassie was astonished to hear those words come out of her father’s mouth. He led the way into his study and went directly to his desk. From the cabinet on the right side he extracted a decanter half-full of amber liquid. Gazing at it he said, “Some situations require an infusion of French brandy. I imagine you may be surprised to find we have some here.” He smiled and looked at Cassie. “But how would our plum puddings be tasty without it?”
“I’m grateful for your generosity in sharing it, Reverend Tamworth.”
Cassie looked from one man to the other and back. They were both behaving with such civility. Could it last? Could her father have decided that perhaps among all the aristocrats he hated, this one man might not be so bad?
After all, he had returned. Not just returned, but promptly, and in spite of weather conditions through which no man should have traveled. Cassie had to admit she was impressed, while also truly horrified that he had undertaken such a risk.
“How long have you been back in the village?” she asked, partly just to get him to turn to her again. She found she could not stop looking at him, and did not want to. How was it possible for her to have missed him so much? “How long did your journey take?”
There it was, his amazing smile. She had doubted she would ever see it again.
“I’ve been in Little Macclow an hour or perhaps more. After seeing to my horse, I warmed myself at the Four Feathers. But I hastened here, as the weather will only get worse. As for my journey, I left Blakehill yesterday. I was only able to travel for a short window of hours on each of the two days. If the weather does not break, the same may be true for the journey back to Blakehill for the ball.”
“If the weather does not break, that alone is reason enough for guests from here to decline the invitation, young man.” Cassie’s father broke the seal on the envelope with his thumb and opened it up. “Let us see this invitation.”
The tea arrived at that moment, requiring Cassie’s attention. As she rearranged the items and poured out three cups of tea to hand around, she glanced at her father but could not decipher his expression. He would never allow her to attend a ball at Blakehill, she was quite certain. There was scarcely any point to pondering if she even would have wanted to go. She buttered two scones and placed them on plates, one for each man.
“Do you requite an immediate reply?” she heard her father say.
“Not quite immediate, sir, no,” Lord Forthhurst replied. “By tomorrow morning, however, because of the travel time, as I mentioned. It is 22 miles to Blakehill. These last two days, the window of time for traveling in fog that wasn’t freezing has been short at best, and the going very slow. To prevent an exhausted arrival on the same day as the ball, if this cold holds I should plan to depart tomorrow with whichever guests accept.”
Cassie noticed that he looked her way when he completed this speech. That was short notice indeed for any invitation, but she didn’t expect to be going. She looked down at the tea tray and pretended she was still busy.
“You would be asking your guests to travel on New Year’s Eve,” her father said.
“Yes, if we cannot avoid it.”
After waiting what she deemed a safe interval, she picked up two of the teacups and brought them over to her father’s desk for him to add the brandy. She glanced at him and saw that he, too, had his gaze fixed on her. What thoughts were going through his mind?
“We will consider it, Lord Forthhurst,” he said, uncorking the decanter and pouring the brandy. She was shocked that he didn’t refuse outright. “We’ll have a reply for you in the morning.”
All too soon Adam was wrapped in his layers again, making his way towards Highfield. At least, he hoped he was headed there. After he had passed through the row of village houses along the road that signaled the route, it became much more difficult to tell if he was even on the road. The icy fog was so thick, he could barely make out the shapes of trees and tried to follow what appeared to be the open space between them. If he made a mistake now, there would be no guests going to Blakehill, no patching up of scandals, no ball. Only a funeral–his–and maybe not until spring! With no one to blame but himself.
Had Miss Tamworth been glad to see him? Her reaction had been hard to read. He rather thought all her fussing had been a way to disguise her pleasure at seeing him, perhaps mixed with some relief that he had indeed returned. Did he think that only because he wanted it to be true? If her father had not been there, would things between them have been different? If she came to Blakehill, would there be a chance to test out her true feelings towards him? Was he a fool to want to know?
Whether she would come was enough of a question for now. He was counting on Lady Anne to persuade her, but with time so short, could that happen? A break in the weather would allow an extra day before he and his guests had to set out, and would allow them to see in the new year at home. But he doubted they could chance it.
He could barely see between the low brim of his hat and the woolen scarves pulled up over his face and nose. He had no idea how much farther he needed to go, but just kept putting one frozen foot in front of the other. Dante’s description of the lowest level of Lucifer’s realm was icy like this, with Lucifer’s bat wings fanning a freezing wind. Had he claimed to be a devil too many times? He had meant it as a half-joke when he’d said it to Miss Tamworth. Half joke, half warning. Had Lucifer decided to put his claim to a test?
As if Lucifer had heard him, suddenly his feet slid out from under him and he fell. Numb with the cold, he struggled to get up, knowing his survival depended upon it. Miss Tamworth was correct–he must be mad to have thought he could do this.
Bad and mad. Assuredly not the right man for her. Why couldn’t he let her go? But as he regained his footing on feet that felt like blocks of ice on the ends of his legs, he thought he saw a large building ahead, barely outlined in the fog. He no longer cared if it was the one he sought–at this point any building of any kind would suffice to give him shelter.
Adam stumbled the last few feet toward the building. He thought he would never again be so glad to see a pair of lantern posts as the ones that loomed up through the fog marking the location of Highfield’s walkway. He rather fell against the door, grabbing the knocker loop as he did so and managing to raise and lower it just once to rap sharply on the door. Would anyone hear it? No doubt the Highfield staff were no more expecting visitors than the Tamworths had been at the vicarage. He began to thump his fist against the door with what little strength he had left.
Miraculously, someone did hear. He wasn’t certain of how many minutes passed as he slumped there thumping away, but no doubt it was many fewer than the eternity it felt like. When the door opened he fell forward into the arms of a very astonished footman who fortunately was young and strong and did not topple over under the unexpected load. The fellow’s calls for help brought a bevy of servants along with Lady Anne and Squire Hammon.
“Oh, my heavens!” Lady Anne exclaimed. “Quickly, quickly. Bring him into the drawing room in front of the fire. Someone go for warm blankets, and someone else bring us some strong hot tea.”
Adam had the impression that everyone else swarmed into the drawing room along with his rescuer. Someone carefully removed his frozen hat, while others began to unwind the scarves from his neck and face.
“It is a miracle you are alive, sir,” Lady Anne began. “Whatever could bring you out in–oh, my word, it is Lord Forthhurst!”
He managed to nod his head, too frozen and exhausted to attempt a proper bow. “P-please–forgive–the–intrusion.” He was shivering so much he barely managed to form the words.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing out in this dreadful frost-fog?”
“Do you not know the ice could suffocate you?” Squire Hammon was more direct.
More of Adam’s layers had been removed, and he could finally feel the warmth from the fire. He closed his eyes, holding his shaking hands out closer to that warmth. “P-pressing b-business,” he murmured, beginning to feel drowsy now.
“I cannot imagine anything so pressing that it may not wait until tomorrow,” Lady Anne declared. “You need to be put into a warm bed as soon as you’ve had some hot tea and something more to restore you.”
As she said this, a servant arrived carrying a pair of thick blankets, which two of the maids removed and started to drape around Adam.
He bestirred himself, waving them off for the moment and fishing inside his clothing for the precious envelope he needed to deliver. If only his hands would hold steady! Extracting it, he said, “Th-this, Lady Anne, if you p-please.”
She took the envelope and, as Miss Tamworth’s father had done, broke his father’s wax seal by slipping her thumb beneath it. She sent a questioning glance in his direction.
He nodded. “My f-father, Lord Grantsborough.”
She quickly opened up the sheet of heavy paper and scanned the brief words of invitation. “A ball? This Saturday? Oh my, that is short notice.”
While she was reading, Adam had pointed out a wingback chair to the servants and they had brought it over to the hearth. He allowed the maids to wrap him then and sank gratefully into the chair. Finally, the shivering stopped. “You see the urgency of my errand, Lady Anne?”
Lady Anne gave him an inscrutable look. “Now, what would make a ball so important that a man would risk his life to deliver the invitations?” She steepled her fingers and then tapped them against each other. “We will talk more of this–in private and after the tea has helped to warm you.”
As if on cue the tea arrived then, wheeled in on a tea cart by another young, strong footman. Lady Anne dismissed all the servants, shooing them out like small children. “I shall ring if we need anything more, thank you all.”
She proceeded to pour the tea and distribute the cakes that had come with it. Her husband had taken a seat across the hearth from Adam, but he rose again to pull over a chair for his wife to join them.
“Now we are cozy, are we not?” Lady Anne settled into it with her own share of the refreshments. “I hope you are beginning to feel alive again, Lord Forthhurst. You appeared to be almost frozen to death when you arrived. It was quite alarming!”
Adam nodded. Projecting a somewhat stronger voice out of his cocoon of blankets he said, “I apologize for frightening everyone. Obviously, that was not my intention. This contemptible weather….”
“Of course not. I did not mean it as a criticism. I am so relieved you reached our door in time, and that you did not lose your way. How terrible that would have been! You must admit, some explanation is in order. If you feel enough restored, shall we begin now?”
Squire Hammon swallowed the bite of cake he had just taken and cleared his throat. “Ahem. Surely the poor fellow can be left in peace for now, dearest. Explanations can wait, can they not?”
Adam felt revived enough now to speak his piece. He shook his head, since his only free hand was occupied with his teacup. “Thank you, Squire. I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but I would rather explain myself now. The truth is, I need your help.”