Winter’s Children (10 page)

Perhaps if she kept on walking Mama would be waiting, but she didn’t know the way home and tears rolled down her nose. Her heart was beating in her ears and her lips were stinging with cold. If only I can find something I recognise, but these stone walls all looked alike in the snow, she whimpered, knowing she was utterly lost and there was no one there to help her find her way home. Keep on walking, she told herself, be brave like Papa, but it was so cold and windy and her legs were getting tired. She could no longer feel them, or her toes.

The track was getting fainter and narrower and the drifts loomed like mountains. She felt so tired and sleepy. Sitting down to rest for a while to gather her strength, she felt her eyes closing.

It would be daylight soon.

The house was filthy, in need of a good scrub, what with the comings and goings, the wet clothes and the foddering of stock in the bad weather. No news of Anona was good news surely, thought Hepzi, waiting until Nate returned empty-handed once more with a report that the constable could find no trace of the child.

Who shall tell Blanche? she thought. There was no comfort, no consolation and the burden of pain grew each day.

Blanche would take little food or drink. All that was precious to her was now lost. Her mind was tormented; like a fierce creature, sniffing at the slightest scent of news, darting hither and thither like a dog with fleas, hearing sounds no longer there: the tinkling laughter of Nonie at play, singing rhymes and ditties, lullabies, her footsteps echoing down the passageway. She was weary of travelling in circles, spiralling down the hours of each day, aching for the scent of her child.

There were strange apparitions before her eyes, voices echoing around her head. ‘She is dead,’ one minute; ‘Nay, she lives,’ the next, icicles of doubt shattering inside her head like shards of broken glass.

There must be no let-up in the search, she decided. I will not abide in this house again until Nonie comes home.

Nonie woke on a straw mattress with the smell of hot gruel under her nose.

‘Take this, child, and this’ll warm yer bones,’ said a gruff voice.

‘Where am I?’ she asked, looking round at the little hut that smelled of sheep wool and warm dog.

‘Shepherd Ackroyd is my name, and the one as found you half dead on the moor. ‘Twere lucky I were out wi’t dog checking them ewes, when I come across these footprints by the high wall. I were in a gnat’s breath of missing you. I thought it were a deer stuck fast at first, and then I saw yon bit of your cloak poking out from a drift. The Lord showed His mercy on thee, lass, for I reckon another few hours and you’d have been for kingdom come. You’ve slept a whole day and night, so sit up and sup thy broth and tell me thy tale.’

She tried to sit up but the beams were spinning around, and her hand was shaking as she tried to swallow from the bowl. She was lying by the fire wrapped in sheepskins, and her clothes were drying on the hook. There were pots and pans and a smell of salve and grease.

The man was young, with red cheeks, wrapped in a leather jerkin and sheepskin. He sat on a stool listening to her story about the church and Father Michael, the black crow and the march in the snow, the cart turning over. It was all jumbled up in her head but he smiled with interest and she carried on.

‘Bankwell is many a mile down from here, lass. I reckon you was going in the wrong direction altogether. ‘Twere lucky you stopped when you did. The old wall is high and gave shelter. It has saved many o’ my ewes. You never would have made it across the moor on thy own. Where were you heading?’ he asked, and she told him about Goodwife Preston and Aunt Hepzi Snowden at Wintergill.

‘A’ve heard of them, right enough. Happen that’s the closest place to be dropping you. Yer mam’ll be fair worrit when she gets back, poor woman, and all because of a little yuletide feasting, you say,’ he sighed, sucking on his pipe, staring into the firelight.

‘If it’s clear on the morrow,’ he continued, ‘we can head across wi’ dog. I knows a shortcut to Wintergill that’ll save a deal of bog-trotting, but first you must rest and eat up until thee is stuffed with broth and oatcakes. You need some rib-sticking stuff in that little belly. Yer nowt but skin and bone,’ he laughed, picking up a wooden pipe and playing out a tune.

‘We can have a bit of a yule song now, if you like, to while away the time, and if you sup up, I’ll happen teach you how to play one yerself,’ he promised.

She lay back, warm and safe and full of excitement. Tomorrow she was going home.

‘Praise the Lord! I can’t believe you’re restored to us … You fair give us a fright, young lass,’ smiled Hepzi with relief at the sight of Anona safe and well.

They had given up hope of any good news when Shepherd Ackroyd turned up with this lost sheep. She sat him down and thanked him, filling him up with pie and sending him on his way with enough cheese and meat to see him through the next few weeks, such was their gratitude.

The child was too exhausted to walk back down to Bankwell, the sky was full of feathers, and Blanche would get the good news as soon as Nate came back from his search. Hepzi could not believe that Nonie had appeared out of nowhere.

‘The Lord hath tempered the wind to the shorn lamb, indeed! Let’s get some colour back in those cheeks, get you out of them rags and into summat warm. We don’t want your mother seeing you like a frozen statue, do we?’ She knew she was fussing but her heart was full of joy and relief. ‘All’s well that ends well, I say,’ she smiled, turning to the bairn, but she was curled by the hearth already fast asleep.

This yuletide had been a topsy-turvy ride, she reckoned, looking out at the blackness. Suddenly she wished everyone was safe under one roof where she could gather them in, feed them and let them all face the coming storm together.

Then she thought of the old parson’s death. That was something Blanche would have to tell the child herself. As she barred the door and shutters against the weather, the wind was howling around the stone walls and the draughts blew the rushes across the floor. She would have to face the storm and bring in extra peat from the store, but the force now was so great that she daren’t open the door.

Suddenly she felt a fear, alone with a child with a gale ripping at the roof and the trees and snow on the wind. This was not fair. This was not the welcome home she was planning. Nate would have the sense to take shelter in a field barn. Blanche was safe in Bankwell House. Things could be worse, but not much. The wind was whipping the snow into drifts that would cover the back door to the yard. The servants were down in the village and Nate in the fields. The animals would be trapped; the cow and calf, the chickens, the dog. There was nothing she could do, and as for the sheep on the moor, they would probably be buried for days, ripping off their own wool for something to chew. The Lord gives and the Lord takes, she sighed, not understanding the wisdom of the Almighty in sending such a trial on top of all the others.

She could hear the screaming gale and the ice scratching to come inside, whirling familiar shapes into monstrous mountains, into some strange frozen land.

She prayed for the poor shepherd on his way back to his lookout hut, frozen by some wall, and Blanche pacing the floor of her cold house. Keep busy, she said to herself, stuff the wadding under the door and around the shutters. The stone walls are thick. The Lord will protect us. The roof was her fear, the weak bit that had not been repaired. These are not the walls of Jericho, she told herself stoutly. They will stand.

Anona was snoring in her sleep and Hepzi smiled at the innocence of a child who can sleep through this battering and menace, but they must stay warm and dry and well fed. She was on her own now and this was a test of courage and resolve. She would not be found wanting. Blanche must have her bairn restored hale and hearty. That was her duty and Hepzibah Snowden was no shirker.

Blanche could not sleep, treading the stone flags in her agony, watching and waiting for news. She could not idly stand by and let others do the searching. If her child was biding in some refuge then she must be found. It was time to cross the river bridge and make her way first up by the waterfall at Gunnerside Foss and on to Wintergill. That was the safest route in this terrible wind. She would seek company with Hepzibah until there was more news. She could not stay one minute in this empty house. She would not return until she had Nonie by her side once more. She must keep searching.

The leaden clouds did not threaten her in the northwestern sky, nor the wind whipping her skirts and cloak around her. She was wrapped in her warmest fur wrap and her feet were leather-bound in servant’s boots. She held a sturdy staff to steady her. She needed to be doing something and her cousin might have more news to give her.

There was a track of prints across the icy footbridge, and she strode out at first with purpose, climbing upwards towards the narrow gill that would shelter her from the worst of the weather, leading her up to the foss where Nonie liked to pick primroses and violets in the spring. Come the warmer weather they would rise early and make a votive offering into the water, listen to its bubbling and sit awhile. That was what they would do when they were together again, and the thought gave Blanche courage as the storm rose to greet her.

As she drew closer up the side of the gill she sensed danger, for the water was frozen as it fell and the sides were a sheet of ice sculpted into strange shapes. It was too slippery now even to stand, and she must move further into the woods and the heavy branches of snow; a darkness of whirling snow, as the higher she climbed the worse it was getting.

Soon all was a whirling whiteness, particles of snow scratched her eyelids, stinging her cheeks like whips. She was blinded, breathless, imprisoned by the weight of it on her cloak, but she was not giving up in the confusion of this white world.

There was now no sun or sky, nothing but the faint outline of trees, nothing to guide her but her heart’s desire and determination. ‘Jesu, Maria, keep me safe,’ she cried out.

Then out of the whiteness she stumbled onto something hard and long: the corner end of a high stone wall, and she knew she must have reached the edge of Gunnerside, close to where Nathaniel’s land began. Here was the old boundary stone with the strange carvings made by ancient people. She knew where she was.

She was so weary that all she could do was creep slowly, feeling with her stick for the edge of the precious wall. She fingered it with frozen mittens, her arms ached with the effort, and the snow swirled over her ever faster, like a blanket suffocating in its brightness.

Only the lamp burning in her heart forced her ever onwards for she sensed that Nonie was nearby, guiding her onwards. ‘I’m coming, little one, I’m coming,’ she whispered. As Nonie had suffered so must she, for her foolishness in sending the child with a stranger. It was all her fault, her pride and disobedience, but she would not give in to weakness. There was no going backwards now. ‘I’m coming, Nonie. Mama is coming, wait for me!’

Snow came hard on the wind, blinding her from everything, so she kneeled by the wall with clenched fists and hid from its fury like a lost sheep sheltering for cover. I’m coming, she sighed.

Anona woke with a start, suddenly wide awake. ‘Mama is coming. I saw her. She’s not far away,’ she said, but Aunt Hepzibah shook her head.

‘Nay, not in this blizzard, lass. Only a mad woman would leave the hearth in such a storm. She is thinking of you,’ she answered, but Nonie knew she was coming.

‘Shall we open the door for her and put a lantern out to guide her?’ she insisted, for she had seen her mama smiling and calling out to her.

‘Are you moonstruck? We cannot shift the door for the pile of snow covering us over. ‘Tis that what keeps us warm and safe. Come away and we’ll keep the fire going. It’ll pass soon and then we can find your mother and give her the joy of seeing you in the flesh.’

They scooped up the snow that piled up under the window shutter, clean snow ready to be melted over the dwindling fire. All the fuel was gone but they burned the dried rushes and straw, anything they could find to keep the hearth warm and the air from chilling into icicles.

At first it was fun helping Aunt Hepzi make broth, lying by the hearth, until they had to burn the flock mattresses, for the fire was greedy. But the cold crept ever closer and they wore all the clothes they could find to keep warm. Then Aunt Hepzi’s mouth went in a straight line and Nonie was afraid when the stool was put on the fire to burn.

‘’Twere a pity we had no yule log to burn,’ said her aunt with a sigh, ‘but we were that obedient to the parson. Wait till I get me hands on him, man o’ the cloth or no. This is all his doing. A proper Christmas yule log would have tided us through the whole twelve days, storm or no. It would still be burning and keeping us warm. We must pray to the Lord to deliver us from temptation for I am sore tempted to dance and sing a carol or two to warm my feet and arms.’

Nonie jumped up and tried to pull up her aunt, who was quite pretty when she smiled.

‘I know a jig … I can do a jig.’ Anona hummed a tune.

‘Whisht, do you want to bring the wrath of God upon our heads? We must not weaken, but a holy dance with a bit of arm-waving might be deemed an offering of righteousness, I suppose.’ Her aunt rose and shook herself, but their clothes were frozen and stuck out, and there was smoke coming from her breath as they moved.

‘You’ve got dragon’s breath,’ Anona laughed.

‘'Tis the zeal of the Lord, Anona, that’s all. He shall warm us with His glory. We’ll sweep the room, melt more water and throw what we can to feed the fire. When our work is done happen we’ll sing a few psalms to warm our breath and spin a little wool,’ Aunt Hepzi said. But Anona shook her head. ‘But, Aunt, all the wool has gone on the fire,’ she reminded the woman.

‘Ah, well, happen a dance or two will have to do in its stead.’

I can go no more, Nonie. My eyelids close with the ice but one more footstep, one more aching finger towards the light, one more breath and I can see the lantern in the snow. The sky lifts for I can see stars in the night sky and the moon will rise soon to torch my path. This ancient wall has been my rock, my refuge and my strength. It brings me ever closer. I am so tired, Nonie, but I cannot give in to weakness now …