With his head beneath the sleigh, the driver’s words were muffled. “One of the stanchions is cracked, Lady Eleanor. Rotten luck, that. Had them checked before the season and there was not a hint of rot on ‘em.” He sat back on his heels, and doffed his hat. “I am terribly sorry, but I cannot see it making it back to Sweetbriar in this state. If it cracks clean through…” He let the thought hang. “I am sorry, Milady.”
“It is not your fault in the slightest,” Eleanor said. “You could not have seen that rock, buried under all this snow, and it is just a lucky thing old Mouse here did not stumble over it and hurt himself.” She rubbed the horse’s shaggy nose and he lipped at her glove, looking for treats. She edged closer to the horse, borrowing his heat in the cold wind.
Arthur got to his feet and brushed snow from his trousers. He rolled his hat in his hands. “I might walk back to the Albemarles’ residence and secure a means of repair, but that does not solve anything, as I cannot be leaving you out in this weather with naught but a horse for protection.”
The weather was nothing more than a snow flurry at present, but to Arthur any amount of risk was too much for Eleanor. She peered up the road the other way. It was difficult to see through the haze of falling snow in the low, failing light, but there was a hazy golden glow upon the hilltop, less than half a mile’s distance.
“What of that house?” Eleanor asked. She gestured towards it.
Arthur shook his head and yanked his cap back on over his head. His ears were rimmed a bright red. “I could not go there, Milady. That is the Firthley House, as you well know.”
Lady Eleanor sighed and stamped her boots, trying to bring some life back to her frozen feet. She slipped slightly in the wet snow and clutched onto the horse’s mane to steady herself. The big gelding turned his head to look past his blinkers at her, and then stood stoically in the cold.
Eleanor’s boots, like her clothing was quite fashionable, but the boots lacked the fur lining to make them warm enough for the weather and the new leather soles were treacherously slippery. What had begun as a pleasant day of shopping in town had turned rather difficult. Her packages sat neatly boxed in the back of the sleigh, covered by canvas. She, however, was becoming quickly covered by snow.
“Yes, I do know it is Firthley Manor,” Eleanor said, “but I think under these exceptional circumstances, it may be reasonable to disregard the absurd feud of our families and ask for some assistance. I am certain they would lend a hand to a lady stranded in the snow. We are practically neighbors, after all,” said Eleanor.
She was referring; of course, to the feud between the Hawthornes and the Firthleys that had existed since before she was born. The original cause for the argument had never been adequately explained to her.
Eleanor suspected the reason for that was because neither of her parents actually remembered what had begun the whole affair, but were too stubborn to admit their ignorance. The feud had caused the odd tension in the local circles. Hawthornes would not attend, nor be invited to, events hosted by the Firthleys, and vice versa, and they did their best to avoid meeting at the social gatherings hosted by other members of society when they could.
From everything Eleanor had heard, and she had asked about, the Firthleys were a perfectly ordinary family much like her own, and no one she asked had the faintest clue what had started all of the nonsense; or if they did, they would not tell her.
“If your parents found out I asked at the Firthley house for aid…” Arthur tutted. He was clearly torn between finding help for Eleanor as swiftly as possible and earning the ire of her parents.
Eleanor, with sudden inspiration, proposed a compromise. “Well then, you shall not ask at the Firthley house. I will. Here,” she said, gesturing toward Mouse and passing Arthur the reins. “You take over this job and I shall find us some help.”
This caused Arthur to turn as red as his ears. The loose, wrinkled skin at his neck trembled, but he came up beside her and took her spot at the horse’s head.
“I do not think this is the best course of action, Milady” said Arthur, in a wavering voice. “Your parents will be livid.”
“We shall not tell them, then. After all, they never speak to the Firthleys. How will they ever find out I went to their door? I shall be back as soon as possible, Arthur. Perhaps you should climb beneath the blanket and try your best to keep warm. I do believe the temperature is dropping with the sun, and all this slush will turn to ice.” Before he could come up with any more arguments against the idea, Eleanor hurried off in the direction of the Firthley house.
Hurried was too generous a word. Even with the aisles of snow smoothed down by the passages of other sleighs, it was treacherous going in the middle of the road, and her boots were not equipped for such travel. The snow was deep enough at the side of the road that her boots sunk in, breaking through the top layer of frozen snow. That gave her an awkward gait, but at least the snowfall was not high enough to cover her boots, and the deeper snow actually gave her some footing in the slippery slush. However, the drifts along the side of the road were large enough to wet the hem of her dress and cloak.
By the time Eleanor reached the drive of Firthley Manor, she was warm from her exertion, and sweating in her layers of fur and wool, although her feet were still cold and the hem of her dress was sodden. She took a moment to straighten her clothing. Eleanor smoothed her hair back beneath her cap and brushed the snow from her shoulders with the back of her glove. It was the first time a Hawthorne would stand on the Firthleys’ doorstep, in who knew how long, and she did not want to be the cause of a bad impression. Somewhat decent, but hardly looking like the lady of quality she was, Lady Eleanor Hawthorne marched up the drive and knocked at the door.
Eleanor waited. The sweat from her exertion began to dry, leaving her chilled and shivering. Just like that, all her warmth was gone. Her toes felt like hailstones in her boots. Eleanor knocked again. She could see a light in the entrance hall. Peering up at the house, one of the rooms above was also lit by what appeared to be a cheery fire, but there was no answer at the door. She huffed and knocked again. Briefly, she had the foolish notion that those within could somehow tell she was of the Hawthorne line, and were refusing to answer on principle. Of course that was absurd, she was so heavily bundled in winter clothing that it would be impossible to tell who she was unless they stood just in front of her. Still, no one answered.
Thinking of poor old Arthur, waiting and freezing at the sleigh, Eleanor turned to go. Arthur would say it was all for the best that they had not answered her and would they would be forced to walk back the way they had come; to the Albemarles’ house, over a mile away. Eleanor shot a last, sullen look over her shoulder at the house, and picked her way down the front stair. The steps were treacherous with snow and ice and she clung to the railing.
“Oh, hello there,” a voice called from somewhere off to the left. The sudden voice caught Eleanor by surprise, so that she did not see a patch of ice on the final step, directly beneath her foot. Her boot slipped and her feet shot out from under her. Eleanor lost her grip on the railing and landed quite indignantly on her bottom in the snow.
Continue reading….
The Forbidden Valentine ~ Lady Eleanor Hawthorne
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The Countess and The Baron: Lady Prudence Baggington (The Nettlefold Chronicles Book 3) Page 14
