A Yuletide Treasure (3 page)

“Try a little toast and then we’ll see about lifting you onto the bed.”

“Don’t you try it, Miss Camilla. I was a dainty thing once, about your poundage, but that was long ago. If you try, you’ll find the both of us lying here twisted up.”

“I can’t leave you lying on the floor, Nanny.”

“I’m as comfortable as I’d be in my own bed. Better, for my mattress has a valley in it that would swallow a cart horse. Now that you’ve made me a bit more respectable, for which I’m most beholden, and a cup of tea, I don’t want for anything else. Build the fire up a bit, though. I’m chilled to the marrow.”

Camilla drew the silk quilt higher. “Then, shall I leave you while I go in search of assistance?”

“That’s the way of it. Rex will stay with me. With a dog at my back to keep the chilblains off and that fire before me, I shall have far more than I prayed for an hour ago.”

“I’ve never been the answer to a prayer before,” Camilla said, smiling. “Where do you suggest I go? Who will be of the most help in this neighborhood?”

Nanny Mallow’s face was still as wrinkled as the bark of an ancient tree, but the marks of anguish were fading. Tea seemed to be working its usual magic. When she smiled, the folds at the sides of her mouth deepened, giving her what must be her natural look, of habitual good humor and great good sense. “On your way, you must have passed the gate of a grand house.”

“Yes, I saw it.”

‘You might as well try there first before you walk all the way back to the village. They’re a handless crew at the Manor, but the oldest gel’s found a bit of sense lately. More than her own mother I’ve thought a time or two. What do they call her? Some foolish half name ... I never approved of shortened names. If you’ve a respectable name, why not use it? My own name’s Priscilla, and it would take a brave lad to call me Prissy. Though there was one that did....”

Fortunately, the cup that fell from Nanny Mallow’s nerveless fingers was empty and bounced harmlessly on the edge of the pillow. Camilla didn’t like the notion of leaving her all alone again. It was possible that Nanny had struck her head when she’d fallen. These slips in and out of awareness must have some such cause.

But when in her senses, Nanny Mallow seemed very sensible. Remaining here, though kindly comfort to the poor creature, would not serve her as well as fetching some kind of immediate aid. Even having someone to send for a doctor while she returned at once to the cottage would be a blessing. Now she wished she had accepted the gentleman’s offer of a seat in his carriage. Though frivolous, he could have at least assisted her in lifting Nanny to a more comfortable surface than a hard, cold floor.

Rex returned to the room and waked his mistress with a lick on the cheek. She patted the side of his face and pushed him aside with the same motion. “Good boy; down, boy.” She blinked at Camilla as if she’d forgotten her. ‘You’re still here?”

“Yes. I didn’t want to go while you were fainting.”

“Why not? You could have been there already.”

“I didn’t want you to think I was a dream.”

Despite everything, Nanny Mallow smiled.

“‘Twas a kindly thought, Miss Camilla. I might have at that, though Rex’s breath isn’t the sort of the thing a good Christian woman dreams of.” Camilla could have almost given her word that Rex laughed at the joke.

“He’s a very smart dog,” she said. “He led me right to you.”

“Fancy! He must have heard me fall. Poor old boy.”

Camilla finished feeding the fire. “That should keep you warm ‘til I return. Shall I leave the poker within reach?”

“Better not. If I give it a poke and a coal rolls out, I’ll have the place on fire to add to my other troubles.”

The last thing Camilla wanted was to go out into the snowstorm again. If it had been herself alone, she would have huddled in the cottage until it passed. But she gave only a brief thought to the warmth and shelter she was leaving. Nanny Mallow directed her toward a wardrobe where her own rough-napped cloak hung. A great muffling swathe of black fabric, it hung around Camilla like an Indian’s tent. But since Nanny Mallow was much shorter than Camilla, it left her feet free.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I shall await you just as I am,” Nanny Mallow said with an inclination of her head that no queen could have bettered. Then her little wrinkled apple face split in a girlish grin. “Don’t dawdle along smelling the posies, will you?”

“But it’s such a perfectly beautiful day,” Camilla said, forcing herself to answer in kind.

The wind pushed at the door so that it was hurled back all but into Camilla’s face. Closing it behind her took great strength, almost more than she had. Drawing the hood forward, Camilla set out, hardly feeling the cold in her rough cloak. The snow was much deeper now, so much so that the hem of the cloak, short though it was, dragged through the accumulated drifts. If it hadn’t been for the way the snow tumbled into the tops of her boots at every step, Camilla could have almost enjoyed herself.

The gates were still open. Camilla turned in, her heart lightening as she came closer to the house. She could see it through the bare trees that lined the drive, a foursquare building whose red bricks gave her hope that the warmth of the inside would match the cheerful appearance. Though her feet were heavy and her legs weary, she quickened her pace to bring her to warmth and light and assistance all the more swiftly.

When she fell to her knees between one step and the next, she almost laughed, her surprise was so complete. She had thought her journey over, and perhaps it was.

Grasping for her last reserves of strength, Camilla struggled to rise, floundering forward. Some stitches ripped free at her waist as she caught her knees in her skirts. On hands and knees, she stayed down, breathing deeply. If necessary, she could crawl to the house.

But she couldn’t. Something had gone wrong with her arms and her legs. One wouldn’t pull, and the other couldn’t push. Hating herself, still struggling in her mind to go on despite her traitorous body, Camilla collapsed. Strange that the snow didn’t seem cold on her face; rather, it felt like her favorite feather pillow at home, soft, cool, deep.

Ridiculous, she thought. This is England. People don’t freeze to death in England. She dragged herself forward a few more precious inches. If she had only herself to think of, perhaps she could lie here forever. But what would become of Nanny Mallow then? Goaded by this spur, she tried one last time. As her consciousness went in a flickering of dancing lights, her fingers flexed and stilled.

* * * *

Philip had taken the reins from his driver for no greater reason than he enjoyed driving in the snow. The way it sprayed up under the wheels and balled beneath the horses’ hooves and was thrown clear brought back memories of happier times. There should have been bells on the bridle to make a cheerful noise, but Merridew didn’t approve of the extra work decorations entailed.

He took the corner into the drive smartly. “Eh, now, cautiously, young sir,” Merridew the coachman croaked, gripping the brass railings on the box. Philip chuckled.

‘Windy?”

“You can’t blame me if I am. Feathering an edge in this weather....”

“I offered to let you walk.”

But he didn’t regard any answer Merridew made. He had glimpsed the widespread black form lying half-hidden by snowfall. Pulling hard on the reins, he threw them to Merridew in the same instant he leapt down from the driver’s seat.

“It’s that girl,” he said wonderingly. He looked around, trying to find some clue as to why she lay on his drive, wearing a huge cloak that he would have sworn she had not packed in either of the small bags she’d had on the coach.

“Eh? What’s that?” Merridew asked. “What’s that there?”

“It’s a girl.”

“A gypsy?”

If he’d been writing the scene, he would have answered, “No, an angel,” but that was fiction. He’d liked what he’d seen of her in the coach, though she’d seemed all too prim. He couldn’t commit himself to the idea of angels anyway.

When he rolled her over, snow crusted and clung to every inch of her front. The color he’d admired in her cheeks was all gone, her cheeks as pale as a drowned white rose. Her neat hair straggled in chunky wet strands. He’d seen a drowned girl once, somewhere in Upper Manhattan, during his travels in the former colonies. She’d been pushed into a millpond by a jilted lover. But that had been in the summer, and even she had not looked so cold.

With sudden panic, he settled Miss Twainsbury high against his chest and started running toward the house. She groaned, perhaps at the shaking she was receiving, and Philip ran faster, his feet understanding that she was still alive more quickly than even his head.

Merridew shouted after him. “Hoy! What about the horses?”

* * * *

When Camilla came back to herself, she heard singing, high and hauntingly sweet. For a moment, she lay quite still, trying to place the tune. She was certain she knew how to play it, had practiced it a hundred times on the organ at the church, but for now the name escaped her utterly. She couldn’t even grasp at the tail end of a lyric.

If she’d been fanciful, she might have imagined herself in heaven, listening to a choir of angels. However, something sharp was sticking into the calf of her left leg, and harsh fabric was scratching her cheek where it lay. Neither thing seemed to have anything to do with celestial eternity. Remembering the cool comfort of the snowbank, she couldn’t help feeling that she’d changed her situation for the worse.

Camilla didn’t think she had made any noise, but no sooner had she returned to consciousness than she heard someone shout, “She’s awake, Sir Philip! Sir Philip! She’s awake.”

Fortunately, the person seemed to be moving off. Camilla heard footsteps rattle over wooden floors, and the shouting voice lessened without losing one jot of excitement. Camilla blinked and sat up, a half-finished knitted quilt sliding off her legs onto the floor. The needles still poking up through the red and green yarn told her what had been poking into her leg.

Beneath her hand, where she’d pushed upright, a fat horsehair cushion lay against the arm of a settee covered with blue satin. As she looked around, she saw a pleasant room, the walls a mild Wedgwood blue interspersed with panels of light satinwood. Green sprigged curtains hung over long windows, looped back to show the dreary gray of a snow-laden afternoon. An errant breeze threw a handful of snow against one, and Camilla jerked with surprise. The last pin that held her hair up dropped out, letting the damp mass slide to her shoulders. The heavy touch of it against her cheek felt like vines.

Still feeling as cold as a mermaid, she stood up and walked to the fireplace, discovering some kind soul had taken off her soaked shoes. A newly kindled blaze giddily consumed small twigs, having not yet grown into a sober, well-fed glow among the larger logs. She held out her hands to it, feeling the remaining chill drop from her skin. If only the deep-bone chill that shook her every few moments would pass off, she’d feel as well as ever.

“You are awake.”

She turned to find the gentleman of the public coach and the inn smiling at her. “Yes,” she said. “Is this your house?”

He nodded and came into the room, half closing the door. As he did, Camilla saw that two or three faces, some quite young, were peering into the room behind him. She raised her hand in greeting, and for a moment, it looked as if he wouldn’t be able to keep them from swarming in. “Not yet,” he said, quite kindly. “Let me talk to her first.”

He glanced at Camilla again, then turned back, adding, “Run along, Tinarose, and tell Cook there’ll be one more to dinner—whenever that is.”

“Oh, no,” Camilla said, starting forward.

“Come, you’ll surely stay to eat with us. Then Merridew will take you wherever you want to go, though I’ve no doubt he’ll complain mightily while doing it. You mustn’t take any notice, however. It only encourages him.”

Without quite knowing how he did it, Camilla found herself sitting on the settee once more, the knitted quilt again tucked around her knees. She pushed it aside. “I’m entirely recovered, Sir Philip. I thank you for bringing me inside, but I’m afraid I must delay your dinner.”

“You can’t possibly delay it more than my cook does.”

As he was speaking, a burly young parlor maid bustled in, the ribbons on her cap a-flying, carrying a large silver tray, burdened with a fat, gleaming teapot. Cups and saucers, little serving dishes and eating utensils, rattled like castanets as she walked, her steps firm and rapid. She hooked a small table with her large foot and sent it, with a kick worthy of a rugby player, skating across the highly polished wooden floor. It stopped in front of the settee, more or less.

With an emphatic bang, she dropped the tray on the table. A few small cakes slid off their plates. “There you go,” she said cheerfully. “Cuppa’ll soon get the roses blooming in your cheeks, miss.”

She stood there, arms folded across her significant bosom. “Well, g’wan,” she said, when Camilla hesitated under this unorthodox treatment. “Set you up a treat, it will. Nobody makes a cuppa like Cook.”

“It’s very good of you,” Camilla said with a sideways glance at Sir Philip. He didn’t seem to find anything odd in his parlor maid’s behavior.

“Try one o’ them little pink cakes,” the maid urged. “They’re my favorites. She makes ‘em special for me.”

“Thank you for sharing them.” She felt that for two pins the maid would have nudged her companionably and asked her to make some room. Having been raised to show scrupulous politeness to everyone, from the highest in the land to the most lowly, Camilla allowed no trace of her amazement to appear in her expression.

“Lawks,” the maid said cheerfully, “I’ve been and forgot the milk. I’ll be back before the cat can lick her ear.” Still with resounding footsteps, the maid hurried off.

“Mavis doesn’t often forget the milk,” Sir Philip said, leaning forward to pour out a cup of the blackest tea Camilla had ever seen. “Usually it’s the sugar. She’s right, though, the little pink cakes are delicious.”

Though she tried to look attentive, all Camilla’s interest focused on the steam that coiled up from the Queensware cup. The savory scent of
the tea wafted toward her, rich, vibrant, Indian. He smiled and passed her the cup.