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Snowfall
December 19, 1811…or was it yet the 20th?
Deep in the woods a large wild cat sat back on its haunches and watched the snow-laden figure who’d just been dumped off his horse rearrange the two bags he’d been traveling with. A few muttered curses accompanied this effort. After more struggle than the unique cat thought the situation warranted, the grumbling man pushed to standing with only one of the valises still clutched in his grip.
The figure limped off, in the opposite direction the horse had flown, leaving the cat feeling uncharacteristically abashed.
Edward Snowden Thomas Redford, formerly of His Majesty’s 13th Light Dragoons, and a third son with no intention or expectation of ever holding the title of Viscount so recently plopped on his head, trudged through the frozen, miserable night.
“Damn clouds.” Covering the sky he’d expected to travel by.
“Blame horse.” The one he’d rented seven miles back when the goer out of London came up lame shortly before sundown.
“Blasted misbegotten devil of a horse.” The very same one that had thrown him three miles back. Startled at some strange animal cry, the beast’s front hooves leaving the ground and leaving Ed—Lord Redford, he kept having to remind himself—now hiking on numb feet through the smattering of frost and sleet that had fallen in the last hour.
Six days of freedom. That’s all that remained.
Six days before his engagement was announced and became a binding contract he could in no way break. Not without harming his family’s already tarnished reputation.
A mere seven months ago, he’d been cocooned in his own wretched world of fever and pain, loss and regret, fighting for his life in Spain. And not, at the time, having a thought to spare for grieving the loss of his arm.
Four months ago, the infection waned as his body strengthened, the amputated limb suitably “healed” but his other hand crushed, and still mostly useless when he’d arrived on English shores, mad at the world—but mostly at Napoleon.
Angry with Beresford too, the fighting at Albuera bungled indeed by the commanding officer. Casualties on both sides beyond significant. “Such a god-damned waste. Ooph! Watch it,” he told his left leg after tripping over some unseen stumbler hidden amongst leaves and snow.
’Twas coming down thicker now, the sporadic sleet turned to solid white, the cold reaching past the layers he’d donned when he was forced to leave his smaller valise behind—though some lucky soul would appreciate the two shirts, buckskins, handkerchiefs and neckcloth inside, among a few other sundry items. Not to mention the fine shoes tucked within. His ankle still did better in boots, not the dress shoes. Besides—unlike the rest of his family—footwear was easily enough replaced once he reached home.
Renewing his grip on the bag he’d kept with him, laden with important papers, a few irreplaceable possessions, money and a change of clothes, he attempted to look out, beyond the black night and glossy sheen of ice and snow covering everything, seeking some manner of landmark or hope.
Finding naught but a quick shudder through his frame as the bite of wind sunk its teeth in his weakened, sorry self. His ungloved hand too frozen to be nimble enough to work its way inside the protective leather without aid.
His booted feet moved well enough after the months of recovery but still not smoothly. Especially not with the bitter frost seeping past the layers, numbing him from the outside in. Quite a refreshing change, that. Had the last weeks finally provided the time he needed to absorb the shocking news he’d received while continuing his recovery in London?
The letters from his mother, no nonsense, straightforward and practical—to the point of abrupt—just as his capable, efficient parent had always been. His other now? Father being something of a wastrel, an entertaining one to be sure, but a man who would rather drink port than ply himself with estate details. “Is that not why we hire hirelings? To run things for us, eh?” More interested in the Devil’s brew and bouncing to London town to visit his mistress than: “Remain at home, eh? Not with your mother always going draconic on me, criticizing everything from my waistcoat to my wine choices.”
Mayhap, if his father had not slept in his waistcoats nor sought out the most expensive—smuggled, of course—wines to be had, Mama would not have issued complaint?
No matter. Not now. Not with Father gone, as well as Ed’s siblings.
Unlike Ed, his two older brothers had taken after their pater in disposition, and in recent months, first one and then the other succumbed to revelry: John perishing on the dueling field after dallying with a married trollop; Robert falling to footpads one recent night—no doubt too much opium and port to give his eldest brother a chance against the band of scourers.
That had been several months ago, during the worst of the fever. And now Ed was, regrettably, in possession of his mama’s latest two letters, the first summoning him home: Now that you have recovered—and your brothers have dispatched—Ed thought he’d detected a smear over that line. A fallen tear or two? She might sound cold on the surface, but his knowledge of her contradicted that—and with your father’s health continuing to decline, ’tis past time the three of us accept the truths inherent in our situation and set forth our next steps.
You, Ward, are now your father’s heir and will soon hold the title. (Very soon, my dear boy, given how he continues to guzzle tipple, despite Dr. Callahan’s orders to the contrary.)
Which means, along with the estates and what monies your father and brothers have not yet squandered, you have also inherited the betrothal he arranged years ago between Robert and Miss Larchmont, Lord Ballenger’s eldest. She is a tad long in the tooth by now—Robert kept postponing the marriage, you see, quite unwilling to honor it though your father pressured him so—but you can make things right.
Oh, could he now?
There is nothing wrong with her that I can tell—if his mother thought she was reassuring him on this front, she was sadly mistaken—and supposedly, money changed hands years ago, when the betrothal was first drawn up—you may ask your father about it (for I would rather ignore him of late—and him me. Would that I could. But nay. Between Dr. Callahan’s visits, laudanum dosages, and answering Redford’s demanding shouts, I am around him much more frequently than my sanity would prefer.
There had been more. But the hard crux was, along with the title he never expected, it seemed he’d now gained himself a bride.
Though John—until spilling blood on the dueling field—had been counted quite attractive to the ladies, Robert started drinking to excess early and hadn’t been in prime twig for quite some time.
Ed spared not a thought to the unknown Anne, of what she might be like. Rather he wondered what she might think of him. Of how he compared to his eldest brother, Robert. For a portly, overly pompous, selfish drunkard he was not. How would one compare that to a one-handed soldier who knew next to nothing about running estates and caring for anyone other than himself?
