A Mischief in the Snow Read online

  Later, while noting that her hair had nearly dried, she saw Magdalene come in with an armful of surprisingly fine garments. Careful hands helped her to put them on. At last, both reentered the larger room. Moving slowly in a trained gown of heavy green silk, Charlotte imagined she might have gained the approval of a duchess. The long silk gloves she'd been given were welcome for their warmth, but she hardly knew what to make of their many buttons, every one a pearl. Walking toward the fire with a rustling sound, she wobbled in shoes that held her heels three inches from the floor.

  Over the mantel hung a gold-framed mirror, its silver backing speckled with dark spots that proved its age, the rest tinted to reflect a rosy world. In it, Charlotte saw enough to ensure her embarrassment. Mrs. Knowles, however, seemed satisfied, and bid her guest come close so she might touch the smooth fabric of the gown.

  “What a pleasure it is to enjoy something bright!” she said decidedly. “For color, at least, I can see. Magdalene wears dull things, as she is determined to save her best robes—though of course no one ever gave her many. But I think you're less than sure of your feet, madam. Have you perhaps found a forgotten bottle of wine? In my time, that robe did not drag so in the front. Today it would be a different story—it is why I have abandoned my own finery, of which this is a small part. The longer the life God grants you, Mrs. Willett, the shorter you, too, will become. Despite the high source, I do not find the joke amusing. But my mind has not withered, I assure you! A good thing, too. Growing old graciously demands strength of will, a quality I suspect you yourself enjoy. Without such a thing, you might well have perished this very afternoon.”

  Charlotte felt a new discomfort, as she realized the old woman had guessed at her swim. She explained the reason she'd arrived in such a disheveled state.

  “Well done!” cried Catherine Knowles, wringing her hands once she'd heard the exciting story to its end. “We've heard from young Godwin that you are a woman who makes a habit of falling into trouble. You do know Alexander?”

  “Not well, I'm afraid.”

  “Though the boy came well recommended, he is no better than most poor things others praise. At least he gives me someone to tease when I tire of trying to improve Magdalene. That is one of the few things youths are good for. How odd that so few grow to be true men— and those who do may be the worst of the lot. How they admire their own sex, and value their male spawn. This one, I think, will one day receive something of a shock…” Catherine paused to give another unpleasant chuckle before moving on.

  “But you have found a way to lead a useful life yourself, have you not? Or has Alexander exaggerated, in the same way he magnifies his own accomplishments? I see you have sense enough to admit nothing—you have no wish to tell me you make a habit of exposing the criminal acts of others. Such a rescue as you do admit to is remarkable enough! I, myself, can no longer boast of such abilities. Perhaps Magdalene, though, would have survived, as you did. Vigorous health is some compensation, I suppose, for a weak mind… and a foolish heart.”

  A small sound came from Magdalene, but she continued to stare toward an east facing window, its curtains parted. In the light beyond, Charlotte saw the small plateau where the blue shadow of a track had been trampled into the snow. This led to a rocky point. Beyond, she was sure, was a long drop to the marshes.

  Charlotte shuddered and looked back, startled anew by a feeling that they had been joined by someone else. She had glimpsed an odd movement; though perhaps it had been no more than a reflection of her borrowed splendor as she'd turned.

  “We'll have no more,” said Mrs. Knowles, “on that subject. Instead, let me tell you something of my younger days. You may be interested to learn I was once little more than a prisoner here, kept by my father. There was a strong, ruthless man! It was he who caused me to be straddled by a strutting fool of a husband. For twenty-two years, I endured those miserable men! Finally, my father died, and Peter's family agreed to a new arrangement. What a glorious day it was, when they came to cart home the heir! Magdalene stayed, for there was no reason for her to live in a fine city—and she had become useful to me here. You may not know she is my husband's sister, born much later than he, sent here twenty years ago by relations who thought her mad. Her elder brother was little better, I assure you! Such things follow the blood. Godwin tells us it's even said that the present monarch—”

  “For whose recent recovery we're all thankful?” Charlotte suggested. She had no wish to trade speculations on the King's illness. Her hostess dismissed this with a snort, and moved on.

  “My marriage was arranged solely for financial gain, Mrs. Willett, and proved to me that in the eyes of men, a woman's soul is worth nothing. At least marriage is one insult Magdalene has been spared. After all, she could hardly be left anything of value. You, too, I suppose, though for different reasons, had no worries in that respect.” Despite her proud words, the old woman's tone became almost wistful. “Were you allowed to marry a man of your own choosing, my dear? For love?”

  Charlotte had been momentarily distracted. Again, the mirror showed movement; this time, she could not account for it at all. She began to wonder if the shock of the icy water had affected her eyes—perhaps it even portended the beginning of a fever? At any rate, the rosy glass now contained numerous flecks of light, as if the room held many candles, and over these, colors that seemed to swirl.

  “Mrs. Willett!” Catherine chided her. “Pay attention, please! I asked if you were wed for love.”

  A sudden flood of memories from the brief days of her marriage gave Charlotte new resolve. Pushing away her new concern, and her misgivings at being so oddly entertained, she confirmed the old woman's suspicion. She then helped herself to another slice of cake, and continued with her answer.

  “My husband came from a large family of Friends who live in Philadelphia. We met in Boston, and Aaron visited my own family in Bracebridge. He stayed, and with our parents’ approval—”

  Catherine Knowles interrupted her with a sharp look. “Philadelphia, you say. My husband recently died there, among his own family. We may have more in common than I had assumed. But are these Willetts wealthy?”

  “They have more than enough.”

  “More than enough? A strange answer, madam. Can they not count? You say your husband chose to stay in your village out of love for you. Well, without a fortune of your own, I suppose you would not have been welcome in his home…”

  Though this was far from the truth, Charlotte felt it better to make no answer.

  “My own husband,” Mrs. Knowles continued, “loved nothing beyond stalking about in his hunting boots and leather doublet, crop in hand. Yet both of us honored the wishes of our parents. In Hanover, I received my training for life, and Hanover sees little point in giving young people choices—especially when they are female. So, it was entirely my father's decision to move his wife and child here to the Bay Colony, after our Elector was crowned Britain's first George. He hoped for some advancement. None ever came. The move killed my mother, I'm sure—though little he cared for that! But I was introduced to gentlemen with fine titles, invited, they believed, for the hunting. They were never rich enough, or generous enough, in my father's eyes. Until I was nearly thirty, he made me wait—and then, what did I get? Fortunately I did enjoy an English tutor, a pretty fellow…”

  The old woman's voice trailed away, though a smile lingered on her lips. Charlotte wondered at the freedoms such a life might have allowed, or even encouraged, despite its restrictions.

  “Do what you like, Mrs. Willett! But know this. We live with what we have done. Sometimes, we find we regret our actions—though occasionally, amends may be made for our errors.”

  Catherine Knowles contemplated something unspoken, while Charlotte gave further consideration to what had been hinted. It surely had some value; it came from long experience. Yet she could not help hoping that her own clothing would now be dry enough to wear.

  “But you would do well, my girl, to be
less sure of yourself than Magdalene—for years, she has not allowed her desires to alter a whit! Every day it is the same thing— she walks to the cliff's edge, and stands staring. Even now, you see, she watches from her seat. She hopes for a lover. But do you think such a woman should be allowed to marry, and to breed? Beyond that, would anyone have her now? It is a futile hope, and it only proves her madness.”

  Again the old woman received no answer. Charlotte thought these hurtful words unnecessarily cruel. She began to wonder, too, if such harsh judgments were often made in this lonely place.

  Magdalene lifted a hand to support her head, yet she attempted no more in her own defense.

  “I found marriage to be a disaster, unmitigated by pleasure,” Catherine said firmly. “Magdalene, too, would have found it so. But I'll say no more. If you do not start for your village soon, Mrs. Willett, you'll be forced to stay the night. Is that something you would like? We have many sleeping chambers above, you know. However, we would have to send you to work with a broom first, to clean a few nests from a mattress. No? I thought not.”

  This time the familiar cackle seemed less than pleased, perhaps because Mrs. Knowles recalled how far the standards of her house had fallen.

  As Charlotte stood, she saw a new flash in the old mirror. Her heart pounding, she remained stock-still; further perplexed, she listened to faint notes of music. Meanwhile, colors continued to swirl relentlessly in the glass, almost as if revolving skirts surrounded them.

  She tore her gaze away, and found the somber room the same, except that its fire had waned. Her hands trembling, she set down her china cup and retreated.

  A few minutes later she returned, glad to be dressed in her own simple garments.

  “I must thank you for your help… for the fire, the cake and tea,” she told her hostess, while she carefully kept her eyes from the hearth.

  “Magdalene,” Mrs. Knowles said, “her voice tells me she still shivers. Give her one of your cloaks to wear over her own.”

  Magdalene went quietly.

  “Is there something I might send back with the cloak?” Charlotte asked politely. “Something from my dairy, or the village shop?”

  “The goods Emily Bowers has to offer,” Catherine retorted, “are homespun or pinchbeck, as she is! You are a woman of more character. But I find your dead husband's name a fitting one. Even in my finery, I am afraid, you were a plain little willet, rather than a nobler swan.”

  With a grateful smile, Charlotte took the cloak Magdalene offered. “It will soon be returned,” she murmured, ignoring the foregoing comment.

  “But perhaps you know that swans are not the most reliable of birds,” Mrs. Knowles insisted. “As a child I watched one attack and drown a small dog, of which I was foolishly fond. But we mustn't keep you from your journey. May it be uneventful, for I would enjoy seeing you another time.”

  “Thank you, again,” said Charlotte. “And good day.”

  “You do possess a sense of what is amusing, Mrs. Willett! Good day to you, madam. Come back whenever you're passing. We will be here. Though what goodness will be found in our remaining days it is difficult to imagine. Now be off!”

  Dropping a curtsy for them both, Charlotte took up the lynx muff from a walnut chair, and went to the door through which she'd first entered the strange room. She turned to look back at the long portrait; it seemed to watch from across the room. She could still admire its strong-willed subject—beautifully dressed, carefully protected, with little say in the life that lay ahead.

  Charlotte traversed the entry hall alone, and let herself out. Enjoying the crisp air, she started down the path, watching the ruby remains of the winter sun. At the bank, she retrieved one of the skates slipped earlier under the landing; she pulled a clammy leather strap through its buckle, and reached for the other. Unfortunately, the action caused a splinter to enter her bare finger. She dropped the skate abruptly. It skittered, and came to rest beneath the boards. When she bent to retrieve it, she saw something else glimmer faintly, beside the blade. She retrieved this as well. And then she stopped to stare at the object she held.

  What was a spoon doing here? And it was no ordinary pewter spoon, but one of silver, perfectly cast. It also had a flower, quite possibly a tulip, chased into its bowl. Stranger still, it was untarnished. Someone must have dropped it recently, she decided. Yet why here, in the dead of winter? Surely no one had come this way looking for a place to picnic! Although perhaps poor Magdalene?…

  Charlotte smiled uncomfortably, recalling her earlier embarrassment for both women, and her pain at the treatment of the younger. She'd pitied Mrs. Knowles, hearing of her youthful difficulties. But then she'd seen her lead a merry dance at the expense of a silent partner.

  The thought of dancing caused her skin to prickle, for it reminded her of the uncanny mirror, with its strange lights and colors.

  Just then, she heard a rustling behind several fallen rocks only a few yards away. It sounded as if something large moved there. A deer? Or one of the boars, like the painted sign that hung over the door of the village tavern? That colorful representation included a pair of gruesome tusks, curling about a face whose intentions seemed plainly evil.

  Even if she hurried, she would barely be home before twilight turned to darkness. Nothing would be wrong with bringing the spoon back some other time, with the borrowed cloak. Perhaps with Lem, too, and a pair of good, long sticks. Had she not been encouraged to return? Charlotte placed the spoon in the bottom of her muff, then quickly attached her second skate. With this accomplished, she sank her bare hands into the circle of spotted fur, and set off on the long journey home.

  Chapter 4

  ONE OF THE most worthless things I've ever read,” Richard Longfellow declared, holding the floor in his candlelit study. “Claptrap, written to gain the applause of idiots,” he went on, clarifying his position. With a wry smile he raised high the volume in his hand, then gave it to Mrs. Willett for her own evaluation.

  Moments earlier Charlotte had taken off her cloak. Now she sat in an armchair and began to examine The Castle of Otranto, a lovely book whose title was pressed in gold onto an ochre calf-skin cover.

  “If that is true, then I wonder why you bought it,” she answered.

  “Bought it? Hah! The thing was sent to me from London, by an acquaintance whose character I've begun to reconsider. I suppose he may have hoped to gain some satisfaction by passing it on as an annoyance.”

  In a few healthy strides, Longfellow crossed over a Turkey carpet to examine the portrait John Copley had painted not long before; this showed his sister Diana during happier days.

  “What can be so wrong with it, I wonder?” Charlotte asked herself softly.

  “What is right, you may as well ask,” he replied as he gazed, his features set. “Mr. Walpole, it seems, has lost what little sense he once enjoyed. Unless he seeks to influence others of doubtful mental abilities. Possibly, to extend his own political influence?…” he mused.

  “I'm afraid that I don't see—”

  “Hmm?”

  “Which Walpole is it?”

  “Certainly not the former prime minister, who's been dead for twenty years, Carlotta.” Her neighbor turned back, his handsome features softening in a tolerant smile. “But since you sensibly refuse to follow the latest fashions, allow me to explain. The novel you hold was written by Horace, the son—a Parliamentary representative of the Whig party. Their claim to him proves how little that collection of traders and adventurers has left to recommend it—though lately they've managed to outwit the old Tories, that stubborn horde of country squires, who it seems have become impotent as a working body.”

  “Oh.”

  “Well. At any rate, Society knows Walpole as a scribbler, and something of a fop. An elder brother has inherited the old earl's title. But here's a detail you'll find interesting. Horace is a friend of a favorite of yours, the poet Thomas Gray. It was Walpole who first arranged to have his works published.”

>   “That, at least, shows some wisdom,” Charlotte answered, looking across the room to see if Diana might agree. Young Mrs. Montagu, wrapped in a cashmere shawl, reclined on an upholstered couch. For many minutes, she'd been staring into the starry night through a cleft in a pair of curtains—not unlike another woman she'd encountered that day, Charlotte thought uneasily.

  “They were at Eton together,” Richard continued, “where, incidentally, Walpole was a friend to a pair of Montagus. Edmund told me their early alliance then deteriorated into a feud.”

  “A feud, between Edmund and Mr. Walpole?” Charlotte immediately suspected the trouble had something to do with the captain's quiet work for the Crown, for whom he gathered information, one way or another. That, she knew, would be unlikely to please anyone with Whiggish sentiments in London or in Boston—or even in Brace-bridge. Such men resented the King's increasing power over Parliament at their party's expense—especially while he gave his particular friends opportunities to enrich themselves. Little of this, she thought, had much to do with common people on either side of the ocean. But men would take a stand, though it appeared to do little good.

  “No, no—” Longfellow corrected her shortly, “two other Montagus. The captain was well removed from the fireworks, since he belongs to a different branch of the family. But it was for his sake that I read this idiot tale of Walpole's to its conclusion, thinking that one day, as new brothers, Edmund and I might discuss it.”

  “The feud,” she returned, marginally interested as she read a few lines. “What was it about?”

  “Well—it appears that Lady Mary Wortley Montagu offended quite a few gentlemen in her time, including Walpole, with her literary prowess. And, I would imagine, the frequent tartness of her observations. Walpole once visited her abroad, then claimed she had become a slattern, or worse. Malicious gossip, no doubt, something she herself was known to enjoy. But it does seem the lady was rather reckless in allowing herself to be hoodwinked and swindled by certain Italian gentlemen she befriended, during long years of solitary travel.”