A Mischief in the Snow (2 page)

Unfortunately, her curiosity caused her to forget her footing, and disaster then found its chance. In the next instant, Charlotte felt herself sink abruptly, even as she heard a brittle crack. At once she knew she'd skated over ice too thin to support her. Instinctively, she threw her
lynx muff far away, so that this, at least, would stay dry. While the air beneath her skirts buoyed her momentarily, she realized she would have little time to escape.

She'd encountered a deep pool, created by a wandering spring—something from which the elms might have saved her, had she heeded their warning. The subterranean water's heat had made the ice about her rotten. She drew off her mittens, then tried to kick and claw her way onto a sustaining shelf—bit by bit, the ice continued to break away under her weight.

There was no use calling for help; she knew no creature but the hawk could see her. Then the bird gave a piercing cry, flapped its wings, and lifted up. With long, regular strokes it flew away in silence, leaving Charlotte utterly alone. She began to gasp, her heart sinking further as she felt her chest tighten with the cold.

Sodden wool skirts now began to work against her, pulling her down. Her feet found no bottom. Already, her aching legs seemed unwilling to help, though she knew they must. A cry welled within her, as she imagined an inevitable end to her folly. And yet—?

Gathering her remaining strength, she forced her feet to kick vigorously, while she leaned back to clasp one knee. She tried to wrench a skate from her booted foot, bobbing under the water through three attempts, coming up to gasp for air as loose hair floated about her face. Then, by twisting, she had what she wanted. She readjusted the long leather strap and hurtled the wooden plate before her, in an arc above the ice. It landed a yard away; the pointed blade seemed to bite. She pulled, and found she'd won a small amount of purchase.

By repeating her earlier motions she made the second skate ready. This she sent out to the side of the first. It, too, bit. Pulling gently as she kicked, she gained a foot,
then another, and yet another. The shelf of ice sagged and sighed, but held. It was nearly enough. She tried to re-plant the blades, but found that now, while the slab ahead promised to bear more of her weight, it was also better able to repel the metal points. Suddenly the ice groaned, and she found herself sinking back into the freezing marsh.

Just out of reach was a thick branch, partly submerged. With a last inspiration, Charlotte knotted both of her skates together, and threw one of them. As she'd hoped, it entangled itself in the dead wood. Slowly she pulled herself forward, until at last she knelt on soft plates of fungus, and could crawl to further safety.

She was again able to stand upright, but she knew she must find some way to warm herself, and quickly. Her muscles were cramped, her legs nearly crippled. She'd skated for half an hour from the village bridge to come to her present position. It would take even longer, in her new situation, to return. Would she be able to complete the journey? Exercise promised some relief, but with wet boots, her toes might yet freeze. The thought frightened her—but at least, she told herself, she was alive! Taking another precious moment she threw back her head, and sent silent thanks toward the sky.

Someone nearby began to laugh; a moment later, she knew she had heard the sound of her own voice. Had the shock of the water affected her mind, too? Spinning about, she looked desperately for help.

Through the elms, she recognized Boar Island. She knew its house, closer than her own, sheltered two women. They would have a fire, and could surely offer her cups of hot tea, while she had the chance to dry. Neither had a friend in the village, but Charlotte recalled meeting old Catherine Knowles some years before. Even a recluse who
guarded her privacy would not refuse another in such desperate need.

There was, however, a further danger worth considering.
What of the boars?
It would be a long climb to the house, with no one to protect her from the savage creatures. But then she recalled that for a year at least, a youth had made lone visits to the island. And she'd not heard that Alexander Godwin had ever been injured.

Beggars could not be choosers, she decided at last. With slow fingers, she'd managed to re-attach both skates to her soggy boots. Regaining her feet, she imagined her friends in Bracebridge would be less likely to learn of her accident if she
did
visit Mrs. Knowles and her companion, for then she might return home in a more presentable state. What would the future hold if Lem, Richard, or even Christian Rowe, the village minister who seemed overly fond of watching her, found further cause to worry?

She might tell Hannah of her adventure, though, after swearing her to secrecy. For years her helper had repeated strange tales of things said to have occurred on Boar Island, told by those living nearby. Lately, these stories had become more frequent, so that Charlotte wondered if they might not have some basis in fact after all. But ghosts, she thought, would be the least of her problems this afternoon.

Shuddering, she skated back and circled carefully, until she'd retrieved the lynx muff. Thrusting her hands into its glossy fur, she took a final look at the spot where she'd nearly drawn a last breath of black water.

Then she forced her quaking legs to take her off in long, smooth glides, toward the dark rock that loomed ahead.

F
EELING A GOOD
deal warmer, Charlotte reached what was left of an old landing at the edge of the rocky shore. Little more than a few boards that jutted out over the ice, the silver planks still offered a place to sit comfortably while she removed her skates. These she slipped into the shadows beneath her.

She began to climb along the broad path, glad that a portion, at least, had been packed down by someone pulling a sled. She supposed the occasional footprints to one side were those of Alexander Godwin. How strange that he, and no one else, came here. Most of the village saw little of Alex, and liked what they saw even less. An over-plump, unsmiling young man of seventeen or so, he had an unfortunate face that erupted regularly; seeing him, one couldn't help but think of an unbaked bun studded with red currants. Yet his lack of friends was due not to his appearance, but to a pose of superiority—something remarked upon whenever the youth's name was mentioned.
Why was it, Charlotte wondered again, that he'd returned to Bracebridge, after all?

Once, Alex's father had supplied John Fisher, who then owned the island, with the special ales, wines, and spirits he'd required, ordered from agents across the sea. When Fisher died the trade stopped and the Godwins went off to Worcester. Alex could barely have been born. But little more than a year ago, when he was just old enough to find his own way in life, the young man had come back. Since then he'd paid rent for an extra room in Bracebridge, yet Charlotte had heard he spent many days away from it. She guessed his absences had something to do with the job he'd taken soon after the death of Alaric Jones, an ancient who'd lived along the north road. It was now up to Alex to fetch supplies, do heavy chores, and carry whatever messages Catherine Knowles might have. It was understood in the village that she would tolerate no other man on her island. Was it possible Alex enjoyed this work? Mrs. Knowles, it was widely held, had been born with a fiery temper. But she might also pay well, like her father before her, for what she wanted.

After pausing at a final terrace, Charlotte wound her way to the top of the long trail. She was then able to peer into a strip of snowy yard. Two ravens, strutting as though they might be gatekeepers, hopped off, and her eyes rose further to gaze at the startling edifice before her.

Regaining her breath, she studied its many peculiarities. Longer than the houses she knew, this one had a dozen dark windows in each of two stories; then, perhaps forty feet from the ground, a steep roof began with eaves that were studded with horrible heads, their mouths agape, each carved from stone. Above stretched decorative turrets, which she guessed concealed several chimneys. Leading up to these foreign features, gray facing stones, many
carved to suggest thick, twining vines, were well joined but ignobly stained with patches of frozen damp and lichen.

Just ahead, flanked by holly trees with tiny red eyes, a pair of doors met in a high point. On their oaken faces, appropriate brass ornaments seemed to warn as much as welcome.

Charlotte approached hesitantly, and took the tusk of a boar's head in her hand. She lifted it, and let go. A muffled boom sounded inside, followed by an echo, and silence.

She heard footsteps approaching. Hinges creaked, then one of the doors swung open to reveal a tall woman, her gown plain white linen, with a heavy gray shawl. Though her eyes were wide, her face showed no other sign of animation. Charlotte thought this more than strange, for she imagined herself to be something of a spectacle.

“I've met with an accident on the ice,” she finally managed. The woman watched her for another moment. “Come to the fire,” she then whispered. Reaching out a quivering hand, she touched Charlotte's trembling fingers with her own. Once her unexpected guest had come inside, she turned to push the groaning door shut behind them.

Charlotte looked first to the top of a vaulted central hall—it seemed to separate two halves of the house— then down one of a pair of broad staircases made entirely of stone. Behind these steps, thin windows of colored glass directed north light into the murk below, where it reflected on what appeared to be ancient weapons of war. Lining a series of alcoves were lances, swords, shields, even a wicked crossbow, all hung above empty candle sconces, each one under a thin canopy kept by attentive spiders. Charlotte quickly realized these things must have
been used in the days of John Fisher, by the visiting huntsmen she'd heard of.

Even more astounding were the immense tapestries she now saw, high on the stone walls. Fisher must have brought these, too, from Europe; they could hardly have been made in the colonies. Their colors were muted by the poor light, and possibly by time—but how alive their subjects seemed! Robust men and women, perhaps gods and goddesses—all were nearly naked, leering and blushing at one another while they stood or reclined in forest and field. Did their knowing smiles speak of past revels, or did they anticipate new ones? For now, thankfully, they only consumed glowing fruits, or fingered other delicacies.

The woman in white seemed to float to the right, into a short passage. Charlotte followed, giving a last glance above as she walked under several hanging wheels of iron, all devoid of candles.

They passed into a dark room decorated with varnished portraits, and what Charlotte guessed were scenes of Teutonic woods and peaks. In the shadows stood seats constructed largely from the intertwined horns of animals. The room had no fire, but through a low arch that led into the next, Charlotte saw a hearth blazing. A few rays of sunlight lay ahead, venturing through curtains not completely shut against the cold. Into this pocket of relative warmth she followed her silent guide.

In what might once have been a ballroom, massive old settles and sofas stood against the long walls. Before a distant ceremonial hearth, an old woman appeared to doze in one of a half-dozen walnut chairs, beautifully upholstered, their delicately curved arms and legs carved with shells. These seemed to make up most of the furniture in use; one supported a stack of books topped with
unfinished needlework, another held a plate with the remains of a candied orange. On a third, Charlotte saw to her joy, a tray bore cups and saucers, and a painted teapot.

But the obvious pride of the room hung all the way across its impressive expanse. This was a tall painting of a figure larger than life. The subject was a young woman, her face and tresses fair, who stood before a mountainous terrain, adorned in nearly regal fashion. In a dark gown and furs she seemed elegantly serene. Charlotte also supposed her smile was a little haughty. Perhaps she had reason to feel far above her audience. Youthful and confident, she must have assumed she held the future in her gloved palm.

Today, however, Catherine Knowles sat below her own image in a dirty woolen blanket of an uncertain color, draped about her like a cocoon. All that remained to suggest wealth and fashion was a cap of moss velvet edged with lace, drawn over hair now resembling foam on a stormy sea. Her back was bent, and Charlotte quickly supposed Mrs. Knowles suffered acutely from swollen joints, possibly due to long years spent in damp surroundings.

“What?” the old woman cried. She tilted her head, listening to the approaching footsteps. “It's not the boy? A woman, then! Come closer, whoever you are. With the web over both my eyes, I see very little. It's a rather simple woman, I think, by the sound of her—at least, she's not seen fit to affront me with her voice. What's this, Magdalene? Found a little friend at last, to come and drink my tea?” The old woman leaned forward with a cackle, but a fit of coughing forced her to sink back into her chair.

“Mrs. Knowles, I'm so sorry to intrude—” Charlotte began. She was stopped by a gesture of displeasure. Her
hostess tapped at the knobbed arm of her chair and then extended a wreathed limb, its exposed finger not unlike a parrot's claw.

“Sorry? So you should be, young woman, so you should! You have the advantage of me,
as you were not invited.
But what's this? Do I hear you drip, madam? Do I smell the bog?”

“If you'll allow me to approach your hearth, I'll do my best to dry.”

“Approach, then. It's been years since anyone melted before me.” Another cackle forced itself from the stooped chest, only to be allayed by a new thought. The old woman strained forward, nearly upsetting herself from her rococo perch. “But I know you after all, do I not? Charlotte Howard—or Willett, now. What other female would have the courage to come here alone? Or even in company, for that matter! You see, your sullied reputation precedes you—and I think I can guess what you've been up to…”

While the old woman's eyes, nearly white, continued to gleam in the firelight, Charlotte was surprised to observe the beginnings of a smile. Catherine Knowles went on without waiting for an explanation.

“I recall a little girl—nearly twenty years ago. It was on one of my visits to Bracebridge, and beyond, when I still made such excruciating journeys. You were walking down the road with your mother. A decent woman, I supposed, and brave enough to say a kind word when others feared me—probably for good reason! Is she dead? I thought so. Those I knew are all gone, or very nearly. You were an unusual child… obedient, with fair braids, and eyes bluer than the North Sea. And now?”

Charlotte reached up to push her loose hair away from her face, wishing she'd not lost her cap in the marsh below. The woman before her did not seem to notice.

“But I hear you've managed to lose a husband,” Mrs. Knowles continued. “As have I… as have I. Quite recently, too. You're puzzled by that, I suppose. Good! Come and sit by the fire, in Magdalene's chair. She will bring another pot of tea. And a cake from the storeroom,” the old lady ordered.

Charlotte watched as Magdalene finished adding a pair of logs to the fire and moved off without a word. Then, for several minutes, while her outer garments began to drip in earnest, Charlotte found herself answering more questions concerning her family. At Magdalene's return she was directed by her hostess to take up a cup of tea and a lap robe, and go into an adjoining room to await a change of clothing. She went at once, while old Mrs. Knowles whispered a new set of instructions, sending Magdalene off in a different direction.