Harry
Caverton, more properly His Grace the Duke of Trensom and all the other
titles that went with it, stepped out of his luxurious carriage into
snow nearly a foot deep.
The
tops of his boots barely cleared the snow, coming perilously close to
spilling over the top. But even wet, cold feet was better than sitting
in his carriage listening to the muffled curses of his coachman and the
two footmen accompanying him while they crawled along at a snail’s pace.
The
snowstorm had hit unexpectedly, following on the one a few days earlier
which had prevented him from getting to his house in time.
After
a tedious duty visit to relatives, he was keen to reach his home. A
heavy snowfall two days ago had kept him immured at an inn, seething
with frustration when he could not return in time to greet the guests
arriving for his Christmas house party.
As soon as he could, Harry had set out, forcing his coachman to brave the weather, but more snow arrived.
Although
snow had fallen for less than an hour, the countryside was left in
chaos. Overturned coaches and teams of men trying to pull them clear of
the ditches, broken wheels and the rest, left Harry glad they didn’t
have far to go. Even then, they’d taken most of the day to travel less
than ten miles. Dinnertime was approaching as they reached the gates of
Caverton House.
But now the coach was stuck in the snow, unable to go any further.
A
man stood behind the gates, scratching his head, his hat in his hand.
When Harry appeared, he blinked rapidly, as if not believing what he was
seeing. Then he bowed. Harry acknowledged his presence with a nod.
“How’s the drive, Bowford?”
His
head gardener grunted. “We’ve cleared the area near the house, your
grace, but we’ve still to do the rest. It shouldn’t take us more than a
couple of hours, but the coach won’t get through it yet.”
“Leave
the coach,” Harry told his driver and footmen. “It won’t come to any
harm. Just bring the luggage and lead the horses to the stables.”
Harry buttoned his greatcoat up to his chin, crammed his hat down to his eyes, and set off.
The
drive was easy to follow at first, but paths led off it and to the
side; not that he could see them. If he didn’t know them so well, he’d
have lost his way a thousand times.
He
stopped at a crest where the drive bent and gazed down at the house in
its sheltered hollow. His most favored house had its Jacobean origins
fully on display. It hadn’t lost its stone exterior to stucco and had a
Palladian front slapped on it. It was honest, as lovely as the day it
was made. A central block, a story higher than the wings to either side,
towered up, the huge stone-mullioned windows dominating the front. The
wings had towers at the end, as high as the central block, with the
family crest proudly engraved into the topmost stories. The
honey-colored stone would contrast well with the lush park that
surrounded it, if it wasn’t covered with a blanket of snow.
Smiling, glad to be home, he carried on down the gentle swoop of the drive.
A
few more steps and he was walking by the side of a wood, the trees
carefully thinned and pruned. Further on, the trees thickened. Something
rustled ahead and a flash of green appeared on one of the branches,
then was gone. A ladder was propped up against the trunk and a booted
foot reached down, groping for purchase. The ladder teetered, then fell
away onto the hard, snow-blanketed earth below.
A feminine shriek bounced off the wood, and the foot was swiftly withdrawn.
Who
on earth had come out in this weather? What would bring anyone out
here? Perhaps someone was planning something nefarious, or maybe a tryst
was in the offing. Whatever it was, Harry wasn’t about to miss it. He
strolled over to the great tree.
The
woman was sitting in the branches of an oak tree, about ten feet up.
Evidently, the tree had been here before the wood was planted, since
they were not as gnarled or thick as this one. He lifted his gaze.
She
was wearing plain, not to say threadbare, clothes, but respectable. A
thick, brown cloak and a plain hat topped it. She was too high up for
him to make out much of her face. “Good afternoon, ma’am.” In deference
to the weather, he didn’t doff his hat.
“Oh, th-thank God! I thought I’d be here all night! Would you restore the ladder, please, sir?”
“Certainly not. What are you doing up there, ma’am?”
She
waved a gloved hand to one side. The gleam of a sharp metal knife in
her hand, rather a large one, caught the weak sunlight.
Harry went on alert. That was no penknife. “I believe I shall go to the house and send someone to help you.”
“And leave me here? Have you no heart?”
| 
A Bunch of Mistletoe
