Page 46 of A Winter’s Romance
F ollowing the direction of the light that twinkled, then disappeared, then twinkled again, they came at length to its source. It was a metal lantern swaying above the door of a cottage that stood a little back from the road, surrounded by a wooden fence. By the light of the moon that had now risen, it looked so much like an illustration of a cottage that one might find in a children’s story book that to anyone of an imaginative turn of mind it must have been laughable. Since this was true of neither of the visitors, they saw but didn’t appreciate either the thatched roof over the old stones or the rambling rose around the front door, now leafless and brown, that in the summer showered with scented petals those going in and out. They ignored both them and the neatly cut back flower beds that had surely been a riot of color a few months earlier.
Tethering the horses to the fence, the mis-matched pair walked up the garden path. The tall gentleman, whose head would certainly have been in the roses, knocked briskly at the old oak door with the head of his cane. He waited a few minutes, and receiving no response, knocked again. This time he was rewarded by the sound of the door being opened and a female voice saying, “It must be the carolers, Papa, though they are a little early. The mince pies are only just out of the pan. They’ll be too hot to eat!”
The speaker now came fully into view. The lantern showed her to be a handsome young woman with a smudge of flour on her cheek and curls that were springing from a loose braid around her head. She was wearing a voluminous apron that she was now attempting to untie with one hand, while she held the door open with the other.
“Oh!” she said, looking up into the tall man’s face. “You aren’t the carolers!”
“No,” he said. “I’m afraid not. I’m… I’m Fortescue.” He executed a bow, almost knocking over Wilf, who was standing closely behind him. “And this is Wilf, my tiger.”
“Your what?” the young woman looked puzzled. “He doesn’t look very fierce, for a tiger. He’s very small.”
“He isn’t usually fierce, except when he thinks he has to protect me,” admitted the visitor. “But his sort of tiger is not hired for fierceness but for being good with horses and not weighing a lot. Rather like a jockey. Talking of which, we tethered our horses to your fence. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Oh, I see.” She gurgled with laughter, “Though the idea of his protecting you seems idiotic. It should be the other way round. But why are you standing on the doorstep like that? Come in, for heaven’s sake. Leave the horses, by all means, though the poor things shouldn’t be outside long in this weather. ”
“Thank you. We will only disturb you for a moment.” The visitor removed his hat and, bowing his head so as not to knock it against the lintel, stepped in, saying, “Wilf, wait with the horses.”
“By no means!” cried the young woman. “It’s freezing out there! And aren’t tigers used to warmer climates?”
She laughed again, pulled Wilf into the cottage and closed the door. Taking off the apron had revealed a worn round gown in a brown and yellow windowpane check. It was in no way modish, or even flattering. She was still holding her apron, and now, catching sight of herself in the small mirror next to the door, she used it to scrub the flour from her cheek. The tall man found himself unaccountably disappointed. He had rather liked the smudge.
They were standing in a room that was somewhat larger than the outside of the cottage would have led one to expect. It was very cozy, softly glowing in fire and candlelight. A narrow staircase led off one side, disappearing quite quickly beyond the timbered ceiling that was so low, the tall man had to duck again to avoid hitting his head on a lantern hanging just inside the door. A wide hearth took up most of the far wall. The mantle above it held a two-branch candelabrum at each end. An elderly gentleman sat reading in a rocking chair on one side, oblivious to all around him. On the other side there was an armchair whose stuffing was showing an inclination to bolt for freedom. Opposite was a wooden settle whose cushioned seat was split down the middle. Against the wall just inside the door, where they were now standing, stood a wooden table and four chairs. This one room evidently served as both dining room and parlor.
“Papa,” said their hostess, “this is Mr. Fortescue and Wilf his tiger.” The visitor made as if to demur but evidently changed his mind. He bowed and muttered something that might have been at your service , as the elderly gentleman rose and returned his bow, still gripping his book. “This sort of tiger,” continued the lady with a chuckle, “helps with the horses. He doesn’t eat them.”
She turned to the visitors and for the first time saw the tall man in the light. His many-caped coat was obviously from a very good tailor, for it fit perfectly across his broad shoulders and chest. Half open at the bottom, it revealed boots which, though now wet and soiled, were molded to a shapely calf, a far cry from the clumping footwear she was accustomed to on the feet of the local men. He was, she judged, in his early thirties and would have been very good-looking, except for a petulant expression that marred his countenance. Nevertheless, she was glad she’d removed the smudge from her cheek and self-consciously pushed at her curls as if to force them to behave.
“This is my father, Arnold Wilberforce,” she said. “And I’m Elisabeth Wilberforce.” She gave a small curtsey. “Won’t you let me take your coats while you sit down and explain why you’re here? I don’t imagine this is a social call?” She chuckled again.
“Thank you.” Mr. Fortescue shrugged off his heavy coat and handed it to her, together with his hat and cane. Wilf did the same with his gold-buttoned, blue-trimmed jacket and matching cap.
Elisabeth disappeared with the coats, saying “I’ll just take these through to the kitchen and hang them by the fire. Our maid has gone home for Christmas and won’t be back till Boxing Day, so things are even more than usually informal!”
The men sat down, Mr. Wilberforce into his rocker, Mr. Fortescue on the settle, which creaked ominously at his weight, and Wilf into one of the chairs next to the dining table. When their hostess came back minus the coats, she looked at their visitor perched a little nervously on the edge of the settle.
“Oh, Mr. Fortescue,” she said. “You’d best sit in the armchair! That old settle isn’t good for much, though I must say, it has its uses. When we have visitors we don’t want to stay long, we put them on there, knowing it makes them too nervous to get comfortable.” She laughed merrily.
“Well, I hope we won’t outstay our welcome, even if I do take advantage of your kind offer,” he replied, moving to the armchair by the fire. “The thing is, the icy road back there caused the back wheels of my phaeton to slip and end up in a ditch. One wheel is completely broken off and the other is cracked. I’m hoping you can tell me where a wheelwright may be found.”
“Well, normally he may be found about half a mile down the road in his cottage, but tonight he’s in church, ringing the bells. They always ring a full peal on Christmas Eve. It begins at about seven and takes three hours. After the midnight service they ring again, but only a quarter peal, which only takes about three-quarters of an hour. They need to get home to their beds, poor things! Listen! You can hear them starting now!”
Sure enough, the rhythmic sound of the bells ringing in descending order came clearly through the night air. They all sat and listened in silence for a few minutes. “Isn’t it lovely?” said Elisabeth with enthusiasm. “When it’s as cold and crisp as it is tonight, the sound is just wonderful.”
“Hmm,” said the visitor, who had never paid much attention to change ringing before, and was too preoccupied to think about it now. “I dare say.” His petulant expression became more marked. “But I could wish the wheelwright weren’t tied up all night. I was hoping he’d be able to fix my phaeton so I could be on my way.”
“I’m sorry to say, I don’t think that will be possible today or tomorrow. He won’t get to bed until late. And no one works on Christmas Day!”
Mr. Fortescue sighed. “Then it looks as if I’m going to be stuck here for at least two days! Is there an inn in the village?”
“There is, but since it isn’t a staging post and hardly anyone travels at this time of the year, the innkeeper Mr. Button and his wife have gone off to visit their married daughter. It’s all closed up, I’m afraid.”