CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“That new doctor is a fat-headed, filching, fribble…in my opinion. Put silk on a goat and it’s still a goat.”
Mrs Tadlow. Widow, mother and ten-year resident of Ingleford Lodge.
The three horses trudged through the snow, the slow procession led by Benedict on his sleek mount, its black, glossy coat easier to follow in the white dusk. They were moving as swiftly as they could, but with the encroaching gloom and the rapidly thickening layer on the bridle path, it was impossible to go faster, tied together as they were.
Goliath arched his neck against the snow that soaked his mane and slowed his hooves. The wind-blown flakes fell in such a way that to Rosalind’s eyes, it seemed they were not moving at all. She wanted to dig her heels in, flick the reins as Lucas had done, and make the horse gallop, but instead they continued their steady plod through the carpet of white.
Either side, the woods were silent and still and at any other time, it would have looked beautiful; now, they just felt threatening and ghostly. She tried to listen to the sounds of the forest, as she always did, but worry deadened her senses, and she could hear nothing beyond the horses: the shuffling of hooves and the heavy pants, steam puffing from their nostrils.
Rosalind buried her face into the back of Ridges, his large frame protecting her from the worst of the weather. Was it Lucas in that dream? Was anyone out here? In this weather, exposed and unprotected, no one could survive long.
Goliath slowed to a halt and Rosalind poked her head around the groom’s shoulder. They were at the oak tree. She desperately looked to the ground for signs of Lucas, but the snow was undisturbed, untainted by man or beast. Everything looked different under this blanket of white; she couldn’t even see the tree stump she’d been made to stand on for her riding lesson. She shivered.
“Each of us take a different area, but don’t stray too far into the woods,” Benedict ordered as he held out his arms for her slithered descent.
In her dream, the man had been directly under the tree, but there was nothing. Where was he? Was he even here? Lucas himself may have made it to a house or the inn. Was she leading everyone on a wild, dangerous search for nothing?
“He’s not there,” she whispered.
“Look around, Miss. He could have crawled further into the woods for protection.”
Rosalind turned to the groom open-mouthed. For some reason, he was taking her seriously and she couldn’t understand why. His black eyes blinked, snow glistened in his hair and he turned, making his way to the edge of the clearing. He peered into the dark forest beyond.
Closing her eyes, she fought to remember the direction the body lay in her dream. The feet had been beneath the prominent knot in the trunk, so if he had woken and crawled for shelter…
She crunched her way to the young trees that lined the edge of the clearing and stepped between them to the forest edge. Here, the snow had made less impact, caught on the branches and twigs of the overlapping oaks, but it was dark and getting more so. Heavy flakes that had managed to reach the forest floor weren’t melting and she knew they could only stay out here so long before it became impossible to find anything.
Scrutinising the shadows, she could see nothing strange: a fallen trunk, a tumbled stone wall, bare saplings struggling against the weight of snow on their juvenile branches, a snow-covered mound of mud-brown leaves blown up against a rotting tre–mud brown, memories of Lucas’s greatcoat invaded her mind and she ran to the heap of glistening leaves.
Brushing the cold flakes away, it wasn’t leaves. She felt…cloth – coarse and damp, and then… It was large. It was warm.
“Ben, over here!” She cried out. “I can’t move him… Ridges. Help! He’s all rolled up.”
The two men came bounding over and dropped to their knees beside her. Pulling at the huge body, it unravelled and fell back, revealing a stark, colourless face – even the scars were ashen in the cold.
He looked lifeless, and Rosalind thrust her hand between the coat buttons at his chest, feeling for…there it was, the heavy, dull thud of a heartbeat, and she let out a long, slow breath. “Thank God.”
“Old soldiers’ trick, Miss. To keep warm, you roll yourself into a tight ball, like a hedgehog. Preserves heat. Let’s get him onto the horse. Feels as if the wind’s getting up and if there’s a squall, we’ll all be in trouble.”
Ridges put his hand behind Lucas’s head to lift him. “What the devil?” he yelled, pulling his arm away: blood slid down his fingers.
“Jesus, we have to get him back quickly. We don’t know how long he’s been out here.” Benedict turned. “He’ll never stay on a horse upright; we’ll put him over the saddle. Rosalind, have you anything to bind this wound?”
Rosalind did indeed have three petticoats on and the inside one was shorter and hence drier. She yanked at her skirts and started hacking at the inner petticoat with her knife. The cold froze her legs despite the stockings.
“Ridges,” Benedict said sternly. She looked up to find the groom’s eyes fixed on her.
“Ridges,” she said as she tore at the material, “if you keep looking at my legs, I will be cutting bits off you and not my petticoat.”
The man grumbled but looked away.
Hefting Lucas over the horse’s saddle was not easy. Their hands slipped in the cold and the horse shied from the unusual cargo. They tied ropes around his form to stop him falling and Rosalind laid a blanket over as the snow gathered on his still body. It looked awfully uncomfortable but he hadn’t woken, despite the men’s loud grunts in getting him onto the horse. She remembered his strong heartbeat – hewouldrecover.
The wind, as Ridges had predicted, started to whip around them. Icy snow stung their faces and made their eyes water. Benedict’s horse refused to lead, his flanks quivering in the cold and dark.
It was Goliath who led, his unwavering steady gait slowly guiding them home.
