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In gaining him as her betrothed, the hapless Anne just may have received the short end of the bargain.
A sphere of thick snow circled round his head and somehow snagged between his booted toes. A stumble. A totter. A lurch and he went down, knees landing painfully on the hard-packed sleet. Pride falling even lower.
Although… If I freeze to death, then neither of us have to go through with it.
There was that.
“You landed yourself in the suds this time, did you not?”
Anne Larchmont, whose younger sister Harriet persisted in calling Merry Anne the last two weeks—“Because ’tis almost Christmastide and you’re to be married, Anne. How can you not be inundated with joy?”—shivered in the dark night, chest aching and arms so tired it was a wonder she still held the heavy shovel between them.
“Inundated with joy, my grieving soul.” The bitter words slipped past frozen lips.
The lantern light, reflected off the recent and unexpected spate of snow, didn’t reach nearly deep enough for the unpalatable task she’d set herself, the stillborn babe of one of the Spierton tenants wrapped in her temporary death shroud brimming clearly in Anne’s mind.
The babe, awaiting a proper burial come tomorrow, still secure at the abode where the couple farmed for the miserable, distasteful father of Anne’s dearest friend, Isabella—who Anne had come to visit early that morning, well before any hint of this fierce and freezing storm alluded to its wretched arrival.
That morning? Pah.
What had, in fact, been mere hours, seemed more like weeks to the heart- and body-weary Anne… Given all she’d endured since naively setting off prior to any hint of impending snowfall…
Acknowledging the unusually warm weather this close to the end of the year, coupled with her eager anticipation of visiting her closest friend, was it any wonder Anne departed her boisterous home at first light, with a decided lift to her steps, despite the nearly eight-mile walk?
Any wonder she’d applied herself the night before, convincing her mother that she was more than capable of doing so alone? Had argued that a female so firmly on the shelf—not to mention supposedly betrothed—should be able to amble a path she’d trod hundreds of times before. In truth, she wanted the quiet. Didn’t want to spend the two-hour journey talking with her maid, no matter that she liked the girl.
With the formal announcement that decreed the end of life as she knew it looming mere days away, Anne looked forward to being alone with her thoughts. Looked forward more to visiting with Isabella, her dearest friend since childhood.
After the leisurely, if long, walk Isabella’s delighted smile greeted and welcomed.
“How you chose a fortunate time to visit.” Issybee’s cheeks flushed with joy. “Father unexpectedly left for London yesterday, so we have the whole house to ourselves, at least for a few hours more, if not longer.” Which was absolutely wonderful, because Anne had come in the hopes of spending the night.
With the cook gone to market, Isabella and Anne savored the warm embrace of the kitchen, baked goods abounding—without the Lord of the Manor to spoil the hours of stolen joy, his absence allowing the remaining household to take a collective breath now that his tyranny had eased, if only for a short while. Especially since the Spireton housekeeper, the rudesby Anne considered only a shade less unpleasant than her employer, had departed for Wales for the holidays. Leaving Anne and Isabella free to laugh and confide and talk of any manner of important or trivial things.
“Tell me, do,” Isabella encouraged after the two had gathered a smattering of biscuits, breads and cakes and settled themselves inside of the open door to enjoy both treats and a coze. Or in Issy’s case, to enjoy the slice of sunshine beaming in from the outside, Anne helping to tug one chair just so, so that the bright ray fell upon Isabella’s ankles.
“Let me know what you are wearing,” Isabella encouraged. “And then describe mine.” She stuck out one foot and lifted her skirt several inches, showing pretty pastel stockings. Anne thought the left one ecru while the other appeared pink. “I never know what I have pulled from my wardrobe these days, what with Papa being so stingy on servants, and letting Alice go.”
“He didn’t,” Anne gasped. “Did not even let you retain your lady’s maid?”
“I do not mind, truly,” Isabella said, and from the look on her face, Anne could do naught but believe her. “Her presence was pleasant enough, but it had to have been a huge bore, serving me, as all she ever did was help me dress and undress. No matter that I would have taken solace from country walks or perhaps just feeling the sun upon my face, Father insisted those were unnecessary frivolities and made her assist Mrs. Wynn during the middle hours, which we both know could not have been agreeable.” Of course it wasn’t; as youth, they had both called the termagant that presided over Spierton when its foul lord was away The Warden. “Though in some ways I can see Father’s view on this. It wasn’t as though I am oft leaving the grounds and need accompanied.”
Isabella Spier…Issybee, of the dark ringlets (when she had a lady’s maid, that was) and the pale green peepers—that didn’t see a speck. Whose rotten awful arse of a father refused her liberty to visit anywhere since her sight dwindled to naught, practically kept her chained inside Spierton no matter that, like Anne, Isabella was deep into her twenties and well able to care for herself—as long as she was familiar with her surroundings, or had an understanding companion to guide her. Anne ached for her dear friend, locked in not only the prison of her blindness, but in the prison of her wretched father’s making.
Still, impending engagement or not, she had to do something to help her friend. What if your future spouse confines you every bit as much—
Nay, that didn’t bear thinking of. Neither did Issy’s situation.
“Only because he won’t let you,” Anne said, all the venom in her heart bleeding through her tone. “It should not be said aloud, but I hate your father. Hate him.”
“Mind your tongue, dear.” Isabella’s voice, by contrast, was soothing, as was the touch of her fingers upon Anne’s clenched fist—after a short search over the table between them. “Some days, we know not who else may be listening in.”
So her friend was being spied upon now? And in her own home? “’Tis unconscionable!” Anne railed, never so frustrated with their lot in life. Alas, for someone with excellent eyesight and more freedom than many females her age and station enjoyed, some days it seemed to Anne as though her choices were almost as limited as her blind friend’s. “You should return with me posthaste. I am sure my father would—”
“Nay. My place is here.”
“Dash it, Issybee, your place is—” Anne swallowed her frustration before she choked on it. “Forgive me, dearest. ’Tis almost Christmas. Let us chatter over lighter things.”
She would bring the subject of Issy defying her father up another time.
