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D ecember brought snow and bitter cold. The pond was frozen, the insects hidden from sight, buried under soil and leaves and logs, some paused in their life cycle as eggs or larvae.

Verity found the winter difficult. The days were short and dull.

The family stayed near the hearth. They rarely ventured from the sitting room, let alone the house, except to go to church or take baskets of bread and jars of stewing apples to the poor.

There was nothing new to paint. Sewing and music and reading were all that stood between Verity and absolute ennui . And, of course, the occasional letter.

It was a particularly dreary, drizzly day that brought a lovely, thick stack of post from the village.

Mr. Lockhart—as much affected by the lack of activity and purpose as the ladies of the house—had donned his great coat, scarf, and gloves and made the pilgrimage to the postmaster’s office.

A worthwhile endeavor, as it turned out.

While he braved the weather, his wife was inspired to catch up on her correspondence. After all, there would be friends who likewise sought relief from the mundane drudgery of winter days with a cheery bit of news from Fernbridge. It also meant Verity had work to do.

“Oh, how these quills vex me!” came the usual complaint almost immediately after Mrs. Lockhart had seated herself by the writing desk.

“Not as nimble as a needle, nor as stout as a ladle. I cannot comprehend why I should struggle so. We are living in the nineteenth century. Why is there no clever man who can improve upon its design?” she wailed.

“Perhaps it will be a clever woman,” Verity muttered under her breath. She instantly regretted it, for her mother turned at the sound and thrust the offending article at her.

“Here,” she said, evidently pleased to have found a solution to her frustration. “You will write and I will dictate.”

Verity took the quill without a word. It was pointless to argue. Besides, there was nothing else to do. Writing was as good an occupation for her listless spirit as any.

“Address it to Mrs. Fotheringhay. You know the details.”

In a careful hand, Verity complied. When she was done, she sat back, waiting in readiness for the sentences to follow.

“I hope this letter finds you well.” Mrs. Lockhart spoke.

Verity dipped the nib in ink and scratched the words upon the paper.

“I imagine you suffer in the cold as much as we do. The north has such an unforgiving clime and Fernbridge feels it. However, being in Scotland, you bear the worst of it.” Scratch, scratch .

“Mind you, last winter, the Thames froze quite solid and I recall they led an elephant upon its surface at the Frost Fair. If London and the south cannot escape such severe temperatures, I do not see how we may be spared.”

She paused a while for Verity to catch up, then resumed her dictation.

“We have recently had the pleasure of reacquaintance with Mr. William Cole, whose father, you may remember, heads the bank in our local borough. He returned from his summer in Steeples two months ago and has since visited us a number of times, which we thought most civilized of him.”

Verity’s neck grew warm as she penned her mother’s thoughts. She hoped this short reference would be news enough of Mr. Cole’s family. Instead, her mother paused and contemplated the subject for what felt like a small eternity.

“Do you know, Verity,” her mother said in that thoughtful voice that screamed brilliant idea , “I think you could add something here of your own. You express yourself far better than I do.”

It was such a barefaced lie that Verity was amazed her mother did not blush with the shame of it.

“I have nothing to say,” she insisted.

But Mrs. Lockhart waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “I’m sure you will think of something. Only, do hurry. I have more to tell Mrs. Fotheringhay and do not wish to forget my thoughts.”

Verity tapped a knuckle against her forehead, trying to coax the words from her mind. This was silly. It wasn’t as if Mrs. Fotheringhay even knew Mr. Cole. She would not care if little was said of him.

Perhaps one sentence would be sufficient. “We see less of him now that the weather has turned.” There. The end. No more need to discuss Mr. William Cole.

“Read what you have written,” her mother commanded. Verity obeyed. Mrs. Lockhart rolled her eyes and grabbed the quill. “Move aside, Verity,” she instructed, seating herself so quickly, Verity scarcely had time to vacate the chair.

Mrs. Lockhart gripped the writing tool awkwardly, her brow creasing with concentration. She wrote carefully, scowling repeatedly at the pen as though its existence offended her. Finally, she sat back, satisfied.

“There! That’s more like it.” She rose once more and indicated the empty seat. “Now you continue.”

“But, Mama,” Verity protested, “won’t Mrs. Fotheringhay wonder at the two sets of handwriting? It does look rather odd.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” came the reply. “The old dear is as blind as a bat. She will have one of her children read it to her, and you know how they struggle with their letters. They will hardly notice which hand the words are in.”

Verity perused her mother’s written additions. She groaned inwardly. “Why do you mention that he is handsome? Or that he brought me a gift? Mrs. Fotheringhay will draw all the wrong conclusions!”

“Perhaps they are not wrong,” her mother said, cocking her head in an attitude of what could only be feigned innocence. “You would not deny that Mr. Cole is pleasing to the eye.”

“No, but…”

“And he did bring you a gift.”

“Yes, I know. It’s just…”

“And if you had not been such a ninny about it, he would likely have brought you more.”

“ Mother !”

“Yes, yes, don’t fuss so. I know you want nothing to do with the helpless fellow.” She grinned. “But Mrs. Fotheringhay does not need to know that. Not yet, anyway. Maybe now she will stop asking about your prospects. At least for a while.”

Verity’s protest was silenced. It had not occurred to her that her mother was trying to protect her. She only wished she did not need protecting.

A stomping sound alerted them to the return of Mr. Lockhart.

Mrs. Lockhart darted from the room, crying, “He will shake the snow all over the floor!”

Verity allowed herself a knowing smile. Her father had a habit of dusting off his hat and coat in the foyer, shedding snowflakes that soon turned to small puddles upon the floor.

Nellie and a mop would be sent for, with Mrs. Lockhart complaining that Nellie already had enough to do, and that a more thoughtful husband would have sorted himself before coming inside.

Today, however, Mrs. Lockhart uttered a cry of delight instead.

“Post! And so much of it! Verity, look how many letters,” she called as she came back into the room, waving the stack in her hand. Mr. Lockhart followed, beaming, and took up position nearest the fire.

“Nellie!” cried his wife, to which footsteps hastily responded.

“Yes?” the maid answered, slightly out of breath.

“Bring Mr. Lockhart a hot cup of tea. And those special biscuits.”

“Certainly, ma’am. And would you like me to tend to the foyer?” She cast a glance at Mr. Lockhart, who looked decidedly drier than the foyer surely did.

“Tea first, Nellie.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

While they waited for the refreshments that Mr. Lockhart had earned, his wife sorted through the correspondence.

“Oh, look, here is something from the bishop. Pass this on to your father, Verity. Now, let’s see… What else?”

She stopped and stared at a familiar hand, twisting the letter to better catch the light and see the address.

“Who is it from, Mama?”

“Mrs. Cole.”

The letter was all but torn open, and Verity held her breath while her mother’s eyes raced across the page.

“Oh, my!” was all she said. And then, “Foolish boy!” and some tutting.

“Bad news?” inquired Mr. Lockhart.

His wife lowered the letter into her lap.

“Young William has joined the infantry. Apparently, his uncle helped him acquire a lieutenant’s commission. He left a few days ago for Munro to receive training with his new regiment.”

“He’s gone?” Verity whispered.

“Yes.” Mrs. Lockhart shook her head slowly. “His poor mother. She is beside herself with worry.”

“It seems he has found his purpose at last,” commented Mr. Lockhart.

His wife gave him a look . “You men. You break our hearts at every turn. What with England constantly at war, poor Harriet might never see her son again. Why could he not settle here in the country? He didn’t have to take on the vicarage.

There were other avenues open to him. Why did he have to throw himself in harm’s way? ”

“It is unlikely that he will be posted abroad before the spring,” her husband reassured her.

“Winter. Spring. What difference does it make? It is a soldier’s duty to fight. Without a war, he has no purpose. And with a war, he has terrible risk.”

Verity had not thought of that. She had supported Mr. Cole in his goals, believing that, like her, he nurtured dreams others did not understand.

She had imagined him, devilishly dashing in his uniform, going forth to conquer his enemies.

But in her mind, the enemies had been his parents and anyone else who held him back.

She had not considered the battlefield, with cannon fire and bayonets.

These were not topics a young woman was encouraged to ponder.

Now the image of his handsome face grew strange in her mind. Bright blood spattered his uniform while his skin paled, cold in death. An icy hand touched her spine and she shivered. The room took on a ghostly chill.

“That window still lets in a draft,” Mr. Lockhart grumbled, looking up. “I’ll ask the Jones boy to have a look at it tomorrow. He is very handy with odd jobs.”

“At least Mr. Cole will have officer’s quarters,” Mrs. Lockhart thought aloud. “I cannot think that the tents for the rank and file would offer much comfort in this weather.”

The room grew quiet.