by Quinn, Paula
“Are you doing anything special for Christmas this year, Aldous?”
He chuckled and rested his forearm against his brow. A pleasurable interlude this might be. A romantic one? Not in the least.
“No, Modesty. Nothing special.”
“Why are you laughing?”
“Because you amuse me.”
His bedmate rose up on an elbow. “I do more than that for you, darling.”
Indeed, she did. When it came to the bedchamber, there was nothing modest about Madam Modesty Bancroft. A connoisseur of her profession, she’d been instrumental in providing remedial treatment to Aldous as he’d recovered from his injury. To his delight and relief, the treatment had proved successful. Whether or not he could still father children, however, remained unanswered. Not that it mattered. Aldous had long since decided that he would never marry.
He dressed and headed back to his mother’s empty townhouse in St James Square. She’d left the previous day to spend Christmas in Yorkshire with Percival. Her efforts to convince Aldous to join them had, as usual, failed.
“I don’t understand why you constantly refuse to visit your godfather’s estate,” she’d said, brushing a speck of lint from her pelisse. “As I recall, you loved it there as a child. Percival specifically expressed a hope that you’d come this time.”
Aldous shrugged. “I’ve already made plans, Mother. I’ll see him when next he’s in London.”
“I only hope you get that opportunity and not live to regret this one.” She presented a rouged cheek for a kiss. “He’s not getting any younger, you know.”
Those words came back to Aldous later that night as he settled himself before the fire. Despite his claim, he hadn’t made plans for Christmas, which led him to realize he’d been truthful with a courtesan, yet had lied to his mother.
“Damn your eyes, Aldous,” he murmured and let a generous sip of port roll around his tongue. Regret. As if he needed any more of that. What did he have to fear by going back to Yorkshire anyway? Grace had been dead for over twenty years.
Yet the memories of those two days remained undiminished by time. Secrets that he’d never shared with anyone. Maybe it was time to put the past where it belonged. To go back to where it all began and exorcise the ghosts that had never ceased to torment him.
The next day, he secured the services of a private coach and left London, heading north.
*
Eight days later, he found himself delayed at a Posting Inn on the southern edge of the moor.
“We need to change a thorough-brace, Captain,” the driver explained. “The part should be here later this afternoon, which means we’ll likely be here for the night.”
Aldous frowned. He really didn’t want to wait.
“How long will it take me to cross the moor on horseback?” he asked.
The driver looked dubious. “Three hours, maybe. At this time of year, though, you’d be wiser to take the main road.”
“How long that way?”
The man grunted. “Four hours or thereabouts.”
Aldous secured a horse and arranged for his luggage to be sent on to Northcott as soon as possible. The skies looked clear enough, so he set out across the moor. He knew the route would take him past Highfield. The mere thought of it stirred old, unwanted memories.
He shrugged off his misgivings and pushed on, soon realizing that the moor, at this time of year, was a different beast. The saturated ground sucked at the horse’s hooves, and the wind, unhindered, had a cold voice and a nasty bite. Then, as he crested the top of a small rise, Aldous reined in, narrowing his eyes as he gazed at the way ahead. Was he seeing things? A few minutes ago, the way had been clear and uninterrupted. Now, it looked like a white curtain had been drawn across the horizon, billowing as if blown by a powerful wind.
“Good lord,” he muttered, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach.
The storm filled the width and height of his vision, bonding earth and sky as it moved toward him. Even as he watched, the first breath of icy wind brushed across his face, bringing a few errant snowflakes with it.
The horse shifted beneath him as if awaiting a decision. There were but two choices, advance or retreat. Aldous estimated he had at least two more hours of travel ahead of him and half that much again if he turned back. The storm continued its advance with startling speed. Instinct told him to turn back, but what if he couldn’t outrun it? In that case, he’d end up travelling with it, caught in its frigid grip. However, if he pressed on, he might pass through the storm and find calm on the other side.
Another gust of icy wind seemed to mock him. Make up your mind, Northcott, it said. You’ll have to fight me, either way.
He’d come this far. There’d be no going back. He pulled his hat down over his ears, stuck his heels in the horse’s belly, and charged forward, intent on covering as much ground as possible before being caught in the maelstrom.
Perhaps a mile or so later, he collided with a frigid blast that stole his breath. He tugged his scarf up over his nose and bent his head against the violent onslaught. This was no gentle tumble of flakes, but a stinging whiplash of icy pellets that bit into his face and clung to his clothes and hair. The horse let out a low rumble of displeasure and slowed his stride.
Barely able to see the road ahead, Aldous tucked his chin into his coat and kept the animal moving forward, praying the storm would soon pass. But the onslaught continued.
Still he pushed on, the bitter wind numbing his ears and bringing tears to his eyes. The cold soon penetrated his clothes and seeped into his bones. His hands, despite his leather gloves, could barely feel the reins. Becoming more disoriented by the minute, he struggled to make out the edges of a road now totally obscured by snow.
Worse, what little light the storm afforded had begun to wane. Soon, it would be dark. Chilled to the marrow, Aldous squinted left and right in a desperate, and futile, search for shelter. He wondered how far he’d come. Had he passed the turn for Highfield yet? Had he perhaps wandered onto another trail? Not that it mattered anymore. He realized he wouldn’t last much longer.
At that moment, the horse halted.
Aldous frowned and gave the animal a firm kick. “Walk on,” he said, his voice muffled behind his scarf. The horse merely lowered his head. Aldous kicked harder. “Walk on, I said!” In response, the horse backed up a step and planted his four legs firmly beneath him, his message clear. He’d had enough.
Aldous raised his crop to strike the beast, but paused, his sluggish brain coming to terms with his predicament. There was no way out of this. Even if the storm cleared, he’d never be able to navigate the moor in the dark. His family weren’t expecting him, so no one would come looking. Certainly not that night or even the next day.
“Seems as if you’re finished, Aldous,” he muttered, lowering the crop. And oh, the irony. To return after all these years, hoping to make amends somehow, only to die out here.
A bubble of hysteria formed deep in his chest, welling up till it pressed against his ribs. He tugged the scarf from his mouth, lifted his gaze to the sky, and laughed into the wind. “So, this is it?” he shouted. “This is my final reckoning? Out here, where it all began? I was just a child, for Christ’s sake. Eight years old. I didn’t think. I didn’t know.” The icy wind scalded his eyes. “I didn’t want her to die. I swear I didn’t. I just wanted her to be quiet. Now, I’d give anything to hear her cry again. Anything! If it’s my life you want, you can have it. If I could exchange it for hers, I would. Without hesitation.”
There followed another violent gust of wind, one that tore a hole in the deluge of flakes, exposing what lay ahead. And in the space of a heartbeat, before the curtain of white closed again, an image imprinted itself on Aldous’ blurred vision. He blinked, not daring to believe.
“Dear God.”
It had been a trick of the mind, surely. An illusion created by madness. But when the swirl of snow thinned once more, the image reappeared. Aldous gasped. No, it
was neither trick nor illusion. Nor could it be coincidence.
Providence? Quite possibly.
For had the horse not halted at that precise spot, and had the wind not opened a portal in the snow at that precise moment, Aldous might have ridden past, head down, unaware. He might not have seen the old stone tower with its bricked-up doorway, or the ancient oak, boughs stripped bare by autumn winds.
But he saw them now, standing as they had for centuries. To hell with logical explanations or reasoning; something in Aldous’ gut told him this was all predetermined. He looked to the left, seeing only a frantic swirl of snow in the darkness. But he knew what lay beyond it. A place he swore he’d never set foot in again.
Highfield.
Refuge from the storm. Yet more strange irony.
Gritting his teeth, he slid from the saddle, his feet so numb they could barely feel the ground. His legs buckled as they took his weight, and he steadied himself with the stirrup leather. Then he stumbled to the horse’s head and grabbed the reins.
“Move.” He looked the horse in the eye. “You beautiful, stubborn bastard.”
The horse snorted, shook the snow from his mane, and obeyed.
Never had such a short distance seemed so long. Aldous could barely see the way and gave silent thanks for the stone walls that served as a crucial guide. When he reached the shelter of the trees, the ferocity of the storm subsided a little, though the bare branches rattled and clattered as they fought the wind. He trudged beneath the gatehouse and looked ahead to where the façade of Highfield, barely visible behind the veil of snow, loomed in stoic silence. All the windows lay in darkness except one—the wheel window—which glowed with a faint light.
A solitary candle, Aldous realized. A sign of life.
Close to collapse, he dropped the reins and staggered into the stone porch, his frozen fingers fumbling as they reached for the hefty iron door-knocker. He lifted and dropped the ring three times, cursing under his breath at his frail efforts. What if they couldn’t hear him?
“Someone, please.” Closing his eyes, he rested his cheek against the wood and managed to land one more rap on the door. “Please answer.”
An eerie howl of wind echoed off the porch walls. At the same time, the sound of a metallic clunk wandered into his ear—that of a bolt being drawn back. Holding his breath, Aldous lifted his head as the door opened a crack. A man, neither old nor young and dressed in servant’s livery, peered out at him, his frown disappearing as his eyes widened.
“Good God,” the man said, opening the door wide.
“Thank God,” Aldous replied and collapsed into the man’s arms.
Chapter Four
A flickering light danced beyond Aldous’ closed lids. He lay still as warmth, both glorious and agonizing, crept through his veins. Hushed voices, that of a man and a woman, filtered through the fog in his brain.
“His color has improved a little,” the woman said. “At least, the blue has gone from his lips. I’ll have Connie prepare the abbot’s chamber, though if our visitor doesn’t wake up, I don’t know how we’ll get him up the stairs.”
“If that’s the case, he can stay where he is, for tonight at least,” the man replied. “He’s comfortable enough.”
“True. I’ll fetch another blanket, just in case.” There followed a soft swish of skirts and then the woman spoke again from further away. “I wonder who he is?”
“No doubt we’ll find out soon enough,” the man replied.
“Yes.” A sigh followed. “I’ll be back shortly.”
A door hinge groaned, a throat cleared again, and something creaked…a chair, Aldous thought. As if someone had sat down nearby.
He tried to open his eyes, flinching as light found a way in. Firelight, he realized, as his sight adjusted. He opened his eyes wider, and the chair creaked again.
“Ah, there you are,” the man said, his silhouette momentarily blocking the light—and the heat—from the fire. “Easy, now. You’re all right. You’re safe.”
“My…” Aldous swallowed over a raw throat. “My horse.”
“Has been taken care of.” The man moved away and, Aldous heard the tell-tale gurgle of liquid being poured. “Here, drink this. It’ll warm your insides.”
A small silver cup appeared beneath his nose. Aldous lifted his head to take a sip of what turned out to be brandy, which left a fiery trail as it trickled down his throat.
“Better?”
Aldous coughed, his eyes watering. “Thank you, yes.” He blinked and regarded the elderly man who stood before him, hoping to find some recognition. Was this Julian’s father? Lord Thackeray? A memory surfaced, that of a tall, dark-haired man standing at the foot of the stairs. This man was indeed tall, but thin to the point of emaciated, and with a halo of silver hair. He looked frail, Aldous thought.
“Lord Thackeray, I presume?”
The man’s brows lifted. “Yes,” he said, setting the cup on a small table nearby. “I’m Lord Thackeray. And you are?”
“My name is Aldous Northcott, my lord. Captain Aldous Northcott.”
“Northcott?” Lord Thackeray’s brows knitted together. “One of Percival’s lot?”
“He’s my uncle. I was on my way to the manor when…” Suppressing a shiver, Aldous tried, and failed, to sit up. “…when I got caught in the storm. It came out of nowhere.”
“They usually do. Here, let me help you.”
Aldous sat up and took a slow breath as he waited for a whirl of dizziness to subside. “My thanks,” he said at last and gathered the blanket around him with no little effort. It seemed his limbs had turned to water. He suppressed another shiver and fended off a desire to lie down again.
“Percival’s your uncle? You’re one of Hutton’s sons, then?”
Aldous nodded. “The youngest.”
“Hmm.” Lord Thackeray rubbed his jaw. “I seem to remember a young Northcott visiting Highfield many years ago. Julian met him out by the tower and brought him to the house. Was that you, by chance?”
“It was, yes.” Like the storm on the moor, Aldous had little choice but to confront what lay ahead of him, to meet and pass through it. So, he drew breath and asked the question that could not be avoided. “How is Julian? Is he here?”
Before he’d finished speaking, the door behind him opened and someone gasped. Lord Thackeray shifted his gaze to whoever stood on the threshold.
“No, Captain,” he replied. “I’m afraid Julian is not here.”
“You knew him?” a woman cried. “You knew Julian?”
“I…” Aldous faltered and twisted around, trying to see the owner of the voice. Knew? “I knew him briefly a long time ago.”
The woman moved into his vision, clutching a folded, woolen blanket. “How long is a long time ago?”
“Er…” Aldous gazed up into a face more pleasant than beautiful.
Small, heart-shaped, and framed with dark-brown hair that had been pulled back in a severe, unflattering fashion. A couple of rebellious strands had escaped, however, and sat in defiant curls upon the woman’s pale brow. Her dark eyes appeared too large for her face, and currently shone with what looked suspiciously like tears. Her lips, full and soft, were slightly open, and her chest heaved as if from exertion. Slender to the point of delicate, she nevertheless exuded a subtle strength in the way she held herself. And, though young, she had obviously passed the first flush of womanhood. Overall, she seemed possessed of a somber air, or perhaps her coiffure and her gray, wool gown simply offered that impression. Aldous’ curiosity stirred. Who was she?
“It’s been more than twenty years,” he replied.
“Ah.” A fleeting expression of disappointment flashed across her face. “You were but children, then.”
Lord Thackeray cleared his throat. “Which regiment are you with, Captain?”
“King’s First Dragoon Guards, my lord, though I’m no longer serving.”
“You were at Waterloo?”
“I was.”
<
br /> “So was Julian,” the woman said, hugging the blanket to her chest. “He was in the Thirty-third. Only he… he never came home.”
Shock, like another blast of frigid air, took Aldous’s breath away. Too late. Too damn late. He found his voice. “I’m deeply sorry to hear that. Though I met him only briefly, Julian made a lasting impression on me. I’ve never forgotten him. You’re his widow, I take it?”
The woman looked briefly taken aback. “Oh, bless you, sir, no. Julian never married. I’m Grace Thackeray, Julian’s sister.”
Aldous almost laughed. He regarded the woman for a moment longer and then tore his gaze away to look about, amazed at the detail his poor brain had obviously fabricated.
The stocked bookshelves to the left of the fireplace. The candelabra on the sideboard and the gilt mirror that reflected the flickering tapers. The tasseled, velvet curtains over the window. The threadbare Turkish rug on the floor. The faded portrait of a man that hung above the carved mantel. Even the warmth from the fire.
None of it was real, of course. Not any of it. Not the stone tower, or the naked tree, or Highfield. It was merely the final fantasy of a man freezing to death on the moor. An attempt to put things right, to make peace with himself before he passed. He’d heard of such visions occurring when death approached.
He turned his gaze back to Julian’s sister. It made sense, he supposed, that she’d be presented as an adult. A two-day old infant would not be capable of understanding his remorse. Julian’s death puzzled him, however. But then, dreams rarely made sense. “I’m truly sorry, Grace,” he said, shivering. “I didn’t know. I was only a child. Please forgive me.”
Grace frowned and exchanged a bewildered glance with Lord Thackeray. “There is nothing to forgive, Captain Northcott.” Still frowning, she shook the blanket out and settled it around his shoulders.
Aldous gazed at the pale flesh of her throat and breathed in a soft, floral scent that prodded at a vague memory. “You’ve had quite the ordeal and you’re obviously exhausted,” she continued. “I’ve had a bedchamber made ready for you and arranged for some beef broth to be prepared as well, in case you feel up to eating something.”
