A Mischief in the Snow Part 1

A Mischief in the Snow.

Margaret Miles.

Prologue.

IN THE COLONY of Ma.s.sachusetts, a few miles north of the village of Bracebridge, a large thrusting of rock rises up from the sighing marshes of the Musketaquid. While familiar to the village from afar, its interior remains, to most, a mystery. of Ma.s.sachusetts, a few miles north of the village of Bracebridge, a large thrusting of rock rises up from the sighing marshes of the Musketaquid. While familiar to the village from afar, its interior remains, to most, a mystery.

Little in this rugged spot shows Nature's gentler side. But between steep walls graced only by slanting hemlock, and the peeling, aerial vine of native grape, a few bowers do lie scattered here and there, secret chambers whose floors may glint with wildflowers.

Though it is a subject frequently debated, the origin of Boar Island (for so the place is called) remains unresolved. Such discussions may be heard especially during long winter evenings at the Blue Boar tavern. Some suppose the curious formation to be of weathered lava, concluding from its shape that it must once have oozed from infernal regions, as Etna continues to do. Some claim it is no more than the start of a mountain range little different from others in New England. One elder blessed with a cla.s.sical bent has stated that the great ma.s.s could well be an expired head, evidence of Demeter's savage attempt to bring forth a new Giant. A few more speculate fairies may have had something to do with it. But most agree the rock was set down by the hand of G.o.d, as was the rest of the world.

Certain things, however, are beyond all dispute. The isle boasts an impressive dwelling resembling a Rhenish fortress, set near the top of a crag, guarded by nodding firs. One Johan Fischart, of Hanover, built this structure to crown his water-bound estate... which, strangely, no one had claimed before him. His new home yet unfinished, Fischart invited many guests from across the sea, and imported fierce Harz boars to give them sport. Unhappily, such rough entertainment often turns to tragedy, and in fact blood was spilled here, on both sides of the lance. "May the next to visit you be the very Devil himself!" "May the next to visit you be the very Devil himself!" was the curse one dying gentleman aimed at his cruel host. was the curse one dying gentleman aimed at his cruel host.

Still, John Fisher, as the Teutonic lord soon came to be known, allowed his favorite creatures to tread paths between the precipices, breeding freely, feeding in the secret glens on whatever they most desired.

Gone, now, are Fisher and his huntsmen, yet the descendants of the first boars continue to roam. From the land, one can sometimes hear them screaming. Fisher, too, left a part of himself behind; his only child, a daughter, inherited his private isle. For years she remained there with an unfortunate relation, shunning the rough company of men. While their situation was considered wrong, none in Bracebridge attempted to alter it. Perhaps, it is whispered even now, this was because of the widespread belief that Boar Island is haunted.

Surely, across the faint breath of the marshes, one does occasionally seem to hear spectral shouts and laughter, the clatter of swordplay, a harpsichord's metallic chime. Then, a few may recall stories of l.u.s.ty men and women, whose amus.e.m.e.nts in the great house at one time sent forth true sounds of revelry. There are regular reports, as well, of phantom figures that come out to cavort in the mist, and lights that flare up magically, to bob along the sh.o.r.e. A few who trust in Science smile and say the basis for these occurrences is no more than marsh gas, or the cries of night birds, or the reverberating croaks of frogs. Most still have doubts sufficient to cause them to give the area a wide berth, adding to its natural isolation. Some things, it is said, no one can know for sure.

But other, recent occurrences have helped to illuminate, to some extent, the island and its inhabitants. These events took place early in the year of 1766, during days of cold and storm. These days, too, will long be remembered in Bracebridge, for they gave rise to murder.

Chapter 1.

FINISHED WITH A hearty dinner of beef stew and brown bread, Charlotte Willett sat by the fire in the low-beamed kitchen of her farmhouse. Carefully, she inserted her stockinged feet into slippers double-cut from discarded silk, stuffed with a layer of feathers. These she covered with another pair of woolen stockings. With both feet well protected, she pulled on her stoutest leather boots, and laced them tight. hearty dinner of beef stew and brown bread, Charlotte Willett sat by the fire in the low-beamed kitchen of her farmhouse. Carefully, she inserted her stockinged feet into slippers double-cut from discarded silk, stuffed with a layer of feathers. These she covered with another pair of woolen stockings. With both feet well protected, she pulled on her stoutest leather boots, and laced them tight.

At the opposite side of the hearth, Lem Wainwright had barely lifted his face from a worn volume of Gulliver's Travels. Gulliver's Travels. While he attempted to hide his concern, he could hardly imagine any other woman of the village following Mrs. Willett's lonely example that afternoon-if conditions did seem perfect for her plan. While he attempted to hide his concern, he could hardly imagine any other woman of the village following Mrs. Willett's lonely example that afternoon-if conditions did seem perfect for her plan.

"You'll take care?" he finally asked, as the dappled dog at his feet raised his head to watch.

"I will," she replied with good cheer. She clomped across the sanded pine floorboards, to find mittens in a woven basket full of winter apparel.

"How far do you mean to go?"

"Well-I don't know."

"You'll be back before dark?"

Now it was Charlotte's turn to worry, for she'd again heard a note that had lately begun to grate. Lem's new inquiries into her actions seemed to have started in August when he'd returned from Boston, where he'd been tutored for a first term at Harvard College. For a number of reasons he'd abandoned his plans to attend. Instead, he'd come home.

She knew she could hardly expect him to speak to her as he had at the age of twelve-it was then that his parents, whose house on the road to Concord was still full of children, had sent him to help in her dairy. Today her small herd and barn were largely Lem's responsibility, an arrangement that freed Charlotte to follow other pursuits. But if that gave him a new privilege to question her plans, why was it that her growing curiosity about his his affairs so often went unsatisfied? Still, young men deserved an additional degree of privacy, she'd decided, and this, she was determined to give. affairs so often went unsatisfied? Still, young men deserved an additional degree of privacy, she'd decided, and this, she was determined to give.

"Sunset must be three hours away," she said now, after taking a peek through to the large room with south-facing windows. "I suppose," she continued, moving toward the back door, "that by then I'll have had enough. If I haven't quite quite managed to freeze my toes and fingers." She bent briefly to pat Orpheus, giving him soft instructions to return to the hearth, for he could not come with her. managed to freeze my toes and fingers." She bent briefly to pat Orpheus, giving him soft instructions to return to the hearth, for he could not come with her.

Lem seemed about to give a further warning, but seeing one of her strange new looks, he reconsidered and retreated into his storybook.

Charlotte tied a linen cap over her head and ears. She drew on a hooded cloak, and picked up a long m.u.f.f of spotted lynx, something her mother had been given years before by her new husband, and had cherished. It was still as useful as it was beautiful. Yet how sad, Charlotte reflected, that none saw such beauty alive today, roaming the remaining acres of transparent winter wood near the village. It was often remarked that old ways disappeared with the trees. Yet others insisted new ideas so improved their lives that the future was bound to be a great deal better than the past. She doubted either statement was entirely true. But the world did revolve swiftly, and with that thought in mind, she set the m.u.f.f over one mittened hand. With the other she took up two joined objects made of wood, leather, and steel.

Minutes later, Charlotte accepted a ride on a neighbor's pa.s.sing sleigh. It then continued on along hard-packed snow, down the hill that led to the village. They first pa.s.sed between Richard Longfellow's impressive house and the Bracebridge Inn across the way. After a few hundred yards of open fields, the sleigh reached tree-lined lanes, and came to the closely huddled dwellings of the village proper.

At the stone bridge over the Musketaquid River, Charlotte gave the driver her thanks, and hopped down. For a moment she stood gazing at the milky surface below. What current still flowed was covered, she supposed, by several inches of ice, and two would be sufficient. For weeks she'd missed her usual walks, and was not about to spend the entire winter inside. Ice, bare and beautiful, gave her a rare chance to glide like a swallow into a part of the countryside that was usually inaccessible, to see what she could see.

By the river's edge she sat and attached two wooden plates filleted with leather straps to her boot soles-plates set with curl-fronted, sharp-backed blades. Rising, she tested her work, maneuvering away from the sh.o.r.e. Soon leaving the houses behind, she flew through the bright winter sunlight, under an azure sky. Nothing in the bleached stalks on either side of the ice distracted her; no reflection but her own came from a sparkling surface. Though numerous avenues branched off into barely glimpsed pockets, she avoided them, keeping to the good sense of the broadest path. Lulled by the singing of her skates, she let her mind, instead, wander.

She had come out hoping to relieve a sadness that had settled within her. Recalling the painful news once more, Charlotte felt a wave of sympathy. She willed it away. Diana would not be comforted by her sighs.

Grief! How much of it she'd felt in her own short life. First, her parents had gone; then illness had taken her sister Eleanor, soon to have become the wife of their new neighbor. And in the same dreadful week, six years ago, her own husband, Aaron....

Then, she and Richard Longfellow had mourned together. He, too, must now be remembering that terrible time, having learned only the week before that Diana's child had died. Two days after the letter reached them, his sister was brought to Bracebridge by a coachman, accompanied by a small coffin, without her husband, Edmund Montagu. She requested they bury the boy among Charlotte's family, atop a knoll on the Howard farm bordering her brother's own. Diana knew that Richard and Charlotte often visited the graves there. She told them Captain Montagu spoke increasingly of taking her to London. Should they go, she feared a Boston burial might mean their child would lie forgotten. And that was a thing she could not bear to imagine.

The morning after Diana's arrival, Richard, with Lem's help, had carried the coffin up the snowy slope of the knoll, as Charlotte and Diana followed. At the top they covered the small box with a layer of balsam, and then a cairn of stones. As soon as the earth could be broken in the spring, the coffin would be lowered into a permanent grave.

The child's death was tragic-yet they'd known from the first that Charles Douglas had come into the world too early, and was not strong. Dr. Warren warned them the boy might fall prey to a winter fever, a malady that gave cherubic faces a heavenly touch of blue, even while their mothers rocked them before high fires. Such women were frequently reminded new life can never be certain, and that they bore no blame. But the six weeks of life allotted to the boy had made his parents grow ever fonder, so they felt his pa.s.sing most keenly. At least, Diana a.s.sured them with marked coldness, this was true for one.

She told them, too, that Edmund refused to allow himself to share her grief, no doubt for the sake of his duties. The captain was a King's officer, of course. But could this have hardened him to the death of his firstborn son and heir? Considering his respect for his own n.o.ble family, and his love for Diana, Charlotte could not bring herself to believe it. Though she had no way of knowing the real reason for his absence, she did know that heart-lessness was not a part of Edmund Montagu's character.

At the moment, there was was a great deal in Boston to distract him. Bales of Parliament's new revenue stamps had arrived; still, they sat unopened in Castle William, out in the bay. These blank paper sheets of several denominations, their corners variously stamped with figures of red ink, were ready for sale and use, and were now required for the printing of newspapers, as well as for doc.u.ments including deeds, degrees and licenses, court writs, manifests, and port clearances. The main objection to the stamps (beyond their added cost to business) was that for generations the colonial a.s.semblies had raised royal revenues themselves. This new order given by a distant body- one that lately seemed to ignore the pleas of America's own popular houses-was not only an insult, but a threat to liberties long enjoyed in all the provinces. The people of Boston had made it clear enough that any official attempting to support or sell the stamps would be sorry for it-which was why Governor Bernard had gone to sit in his castle as well, comforted by two British men-of-war anch.o.r.ed nearby. Meanwhile, trade and legal business had come to a halt. a great deal in Boston to distract him. Bales of Parliament's new revenue stamps had arrived; still, they sat unopened in Castle William, out in the bay. These blank paper sheets of several denominations, their corners variously stamped with figures of red ink, were ready for sale and use, and were now required for the printing of newspapers, as well as for doc.u.ments including deeds, degrees and licenses, court writs, manifests, and port clearances. The main objection to the stamps (beyond their added cost to business) was that for generations the colonial a.s.semblies had raised royal revenues themselves. This new order given by a distant body- one that lately seemed to ignore the pleas of America's own popular houses-was not only an insult, but a threat to liberties long enjoyed in all the provinces. The people of Boston had made it clear enough that any official attempting to support or sell the stamps would be sorry for it-which was why Governor Bernard had gone to sit in his castle as well, comforted by two British men-of-war anch.o.r.ed nearby. Meanwhile, trade and legal business had come to a halt.

Lieutenant Governor Thomas Hutchinson had closed civil and admiralty courts, and promised he would keep them closed, as long as the stubborn colonists prevented the implimentation of the new law. While more distant counties might choose to ignore his wishes, Suffolk County could not. In Boston, without properly stamped and filed papers, it became increasingly difficult to borrow, and shipping languished; without the civil courts, merchants could no longer legally enforce the collection of debts. And with trade disrupted, the price of flour, which was usually imported from the colonies to the south, shot up like a rocket. There was good reason to fear that more riots, resembling the one that had destroyed Hutchin-son's home the previous August, were in store for the new year. This much Charlotte knew from her glances at Longfellow's weekly copies of the Boston Gazette. Boston Gazette.

But who in Boston, she wondered, could predict what might happen next? Surely not Governor Bernard, nor Mr. Hutchinson; each had incorrectly gauged the feelings of the town before. Yet did Sam Adams, John Hanc.o.c.k, or Joseph Warren know better? She imagined that this time there was likely to be a long, stubborn stand-to, before all arms were grudgingly lowered.

On the other hand, each year brought times of trouble, set between more encouraging days. In every season, she reminded herself, some would suffer under clouds of sorrow, while others celebrated the rebirth of hope and happiness. Diana and Edmund had experienced their loss as a storm that had driven them apart. But one day soon, they might begin to drift back together again-especially if they had help.

Bringing herself to a halt, Charlotte looked about the blank ice. She took a deep breath of the chill air, feeling it sear its way into her chest. Perhaps she and Richard could find some way to restore Diana's tranquillity. Then, they might recover their own.

For it seemed they, too, had grown apart. Frequently she expected to hear footsteps at her kitchen door, as before. Lately, they rarely came. Out on a solitary walk, she sometimes glimpsed her neighbor approaching; more than once, he had then turned away. Now, she hesitated to set her feet on the path between their houses.

No more did they picnic on the gra.s.s, or walk together through the fields, nor did they often spend quiet evenings before a fire. Instead, after the summer visit of his friend Signor Lahte, they seemed uneasy with one another. Lately, she even imagined a hint of suspicion in her neighbor's inquisitive gaze.

Had her admitted interest in the musico musico offended him? It had certainly done offended him? It had certainly done her her little good. But it might be that the winter's tedium, its lack of immediate employment, was to blame for Richard's inattention. She knew he tended to black moods; perhaps this was an unusually long and gray one. At least he had extended an invitation to visit this evening, so that they might cheer Diana. little good. But it might be that the winter's tedium, its lack of immediate employment, was to blame for Richard's inattention. She knew he tended to black moods; perhaps this was an unusually long and gray one. At least he had extended an invitation to visit this evening, so that they might cheer Diana.

Charlotte stamped her feet onto the ice, attempting to loosen her stiffening limbs. This caused her hood to fall. In a burst of exasperation, she pulled at her cap, freeing a pinned knot of hair to glint like clear cider.

Why bother to think about trouble? Freedom Freedom was what she'd come out to find today! And was it not all around her? Nature was an anodyne, always ready to offer comfort if one would only look around. Full of beauty and surprises, it wove life into patterns, maintained its own balances, followed observable laws. Richard often impressed the last idea upon her. Charlotte knew she had an ample sense of life's harmony, while his interests tended to be a bit more precise. was what she'd come out to find today! And was it not all around her? Nature was an anodyne, always ready to offer comfort if one would only look around. Full of beauty and surprises, it wove life into patterns, maintained its own balances, followed observable laws. Richard often impressed the last idea upon her. Charlotte knew she had an ample sense of life's harmony, while his interests tended to be a bit more precise.

For instance, he would have noted that there, surrounded by marsh, stood a group of elms resembling frozen fountains. They had lost not only their leaves, but most of their outer bark. Each had dropped several branches, too, now embedded in ice. All were dead, surely. What in the Great Design had doomed them? She skated closer to find out.

Looking up, she was surprised to see a red hawk seated on a high branch. She squinted to see it more clearly. It appeared to watch her as well. The heavy bird lowered its head and raised its tail, c.o.c.king its thick, powerful body. She wondered if they might be acquainted. She'd frequently seen one like him in the white oak of her barnyard, watching her chickens. Cap in hand, she glided on, warmed by the feeling that she was somehow welcome in the silent grove.

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 m.u.f.f 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? 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 G.o.dwin had ever been injured. 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 G.o.dwin 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 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? 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 m.u.f.f. 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.

Chapter 2.

FEELING A GOOD deal warmer, Charlotte reached what was left of an old landing at the edge of the rocky sh.o.r.e. 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. deal warmer, Charlotte reached what was left of an old landing at the edge of the rocky sh.o.r.e. 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 G.o.dwin. 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 G.o.dwins 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 ch.o.r.es, 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 ign.o.bly 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 bra.s.s 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 m.u.f.fled 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 gla.s.s 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 G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses-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 antic.i.p.ate 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 pa.s.sage. Charlotte followed, giving a last glance above as she walked under several hanging wheels of iron, all devoid of candles.

They pa.s.sed 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, ma.s.sive 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 sh.e.l.ls. 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 a.s.sumed 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 coc.o.o.n. 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 k.n.o.bbed 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. as you were not invited. But what's this? Do I hear you drip, madam? Do I smell the bog?" 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.

Chapter 3.