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Dedication

For Donna, who sparked the idea

Epigraph

See, amid the winter’s snow,

Born for us on Earth below,

See, the tender Lamb appears,

Promised from eternal years.

ONE

December, 1900

There is no exercise more futile than arguing that anywhere in England is prettier than Derbyshire in the winter. Nothing can compete with the breathtaking beauty of the Peaks capped with snow, hoar frost clinging to the trees on the moors, and, on a clear night, the moon bathing it all in shimmering silver. Like the rest of Society, my husband and I, with our three young boys in tow, retreat from London to the country in August. Unlike the rest of Society, this is not to mark the beginning of grouse season, but, rather, to enjoy the vistas at our estate, Anglemore Park, as warm summer days give way to cool autumn nights. Neither Colin nor I have the slightest interest in gunning down birds in the quantities fashionable at the moment, preferring instead to row on the lake or picnic in the picturesque ruins of the medieval abbey that became part of the family’s land during the Protestant Reformation. But even as I relish the crisp air and the leaves changing to golden and red, I am only biding time, impatient for the serenity that comes when the ground freezes and snow begins to fall.

Serenity, however, was not to be found on this December night. My husband, Colin Hargreaves, agent of the Crown and favorite of the queen’s, had only just returned that morning from an assignment in Vienna, about which he could reveal no details. Exhaustion was writ on his handsome face and a spattering of bruises colored his arms and the well-developed muscles of his chest. I knew better than to press for an explanation he was not at liberty to give. Our three boys, Henry, Richard, and Tom, who would all turn five in the spring, had pounced on him the moment he entered the house, and, as soon as he changed out of his traveling clothes, Colin had played with them in the nursery until Nanny insisted he relinquish them to her care for their supper and baths.

That sorted, we retreated to the library, where he lowered himself more carefully than usual into his favorite chair—large, overstuffed, and covered in chocolate-brown leather that had softened like butter over decades of use. “I don’t know when I’ve been so grateful to return home,” he said, closing his eyes, “nor so thankful for a respite from work. There’s nothing I want more than an endless supply of mince pies, mulled wine, and to hear the boys chattering on about Father Christmas’s impending arrival.”

“Is that all?” I asked, teasing.

His dark eyes met mine. “I shall also require a disgraceful amount of time alone with you, my dear. I have missed you so very much.” He motioned for me to come to him, pulled me onto his lap, and had just started to kiss me when we heard a sharp knock on the door. An instant later, Davis, our butler, entered the room. While some may consider it gauche for servants to knock, we, for reasons obvious to anyone with the slightest bit of sense, insisted otherwise.

“Sir, madam, there is a group of villagers to see you. I have left them outside as they are carrying torches.”

“Torches?” I rose from my husband’s lap and brushed my skirts to smooth them.

“Torches,” Davis repeated. “I do hope we are not about to be plunged into the midst of some dreadful Gothic drama.”

“So long as they’re not carrying sharpened stakes as well, there’s no need for worry on that count, Davis,” Colin said.

Richard, one of our twins, burst into the room. “Papa, are they here about the wolf?”

“The wolf?” I asked.

“Surely you heard it howling, didn’t you?” Richard’s dark eyes widened.

Colin scooped the little boy into his arms. “There are no wolves in England, old chap. Haven’t been for centuries.”

“We heard one.” Now Henry had joined his twin, and our ward, Tom, followed close on his heels. “That’s why they’ve come. To tell you about the wolf.”

“I promise you, there is no wolf,” Colin said. After directing the boys to stay in the library, we proceeded to the front door, where we faced more than a dozen residents of Dunsford Vale, one of Anglemore Park’s estate villages. It took a few moments to settle them down, but eventually, Colin persuaded them to extinguish their torches and come in from the cold. Davis made no attempt to hide his disapproval as my husband led them into the cinnamon drawing room, decorated with an eastern flair by some Hargreaves ancestor upon returning from a trip to India.

I invited our visitors to sit, but none of them made a move to the Chippendale chairs upholstered in cream silk, embroidered with delicate golden flowers. “You’re all half-frozen and I won’t have you uncomfortable in this house,” I insisted. “Sit.” They did as instructed, casting nervous glances at one another.

“What brings you to Anglemore tonight?” Colin asked.

“Sir, it’s like this, you see.” John Wibberley, one of our tenant farmers, rose from his seat. “There’s no peace in Dunsford Vale. We’re being besieged by some sort of terrible creature—”

“It’s a barghest, sir,” one of the others added. “No point hiding the facts. We’ve all seen it, or at least seen enough to know that’s what we’re dealing with.”

“A barghest?” I asked.

“You’re not from these parts, Lady Emily,” Mr. Wibberley said, “so it’s likely you’ve not before faced this particular beast. He’s a demonic dog, with long, sharp fangs and claws big enough to tear you to shreds—”

“No need to frighten the lady like that,” a large man in coarse clothing said. His kind face would reassure a person even in the direst of circumstances. “He won’t trouble you, I’m sure, Lady Emily, but we do need your husband’s assistance. Wibberley’s had two sheep stolen by the beast and half the children in the village are afraid to leave their houses.”

“We had six meat pies taken from our kitchen,” another man said. “And just after we noticed they were gone, my boy saw the beast’s red eyes through the window and then it vanished in a burst of flames.”

My husband raised his eyebrows. “A burst of flames? Did anyone else see this?”

“No, Mr. Hargreaves, sir, but when we went outside the next morning, the ground was scorched and all the snow melted away.”

“No barghest has ever plagued this estate before,” Colin said. “Why would one start now?”

Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow. I might not hail from Derbyshire, but the tales of these mythological black dogs had reached me in Kent, courtesy of my twin brothers, who liked to frighten their little sister. A barghest’s appearance heralded the death of whoever saw him, although some claimed that if one caught only a glimpse, one might be lucky enough to enjoy another month or so of life. The beast could change shape and often returned to a place generation after generation, announcing the imminent demise of the next family member.

“Well, sir, of that we’re not certain. This one is not behaving as anyone would expect,” Mr. Wibberley said. “Stealing food is unusual, isn’t it? And no one’s died, even after seeing him.”

“Perhaps, then, we are not dealing with a barghest?” Colin suggested.

“Too many have seen him, sir,” the farmer said. “There’s no doubt about it. He’s a real monster.”

My husband crossed his arms. “And what would you have me do?”

“We’re your tenants, sir, we’d have you protect us.”

Colin nodded. “I shall come to the village first thing tomorrow morning and see what can be done. In the meantime, there’s mulled wine for you all. Warm yourselves before you head home.”

Before the maid came with the hot drinks, I heard a click from the door hidden in the silk-covered wall. The boys must have been hiding in the servants’ passage, eavesdropping. Nanny would have her hands full tonight, if dreams of the barghest plagued her charges.

* * *

“I feel rather like a feudal lord,” Colin said, as we set off for the village after breakfast the next morning. “It’s absurd, really, in this day and age.”

Dunsford Vale, named for the fifteenth-century cleric who first ran the parish at Anglemore, was one of three estate villages on the land Henry V had bestowed upon a Hargreaves ancestor in recognition of his bravery at Agincourt. The priest, Father Dunsford, had been fond of walking, and his favorite route took him through the picturesque valley that now housed his namesake settlement. Like his father before him, Colin ensured that his tenants’ homes were well-maintained and encouraged the famers to adopt modern principles of agriculture and animal husbandry. The village was small, only the parish church—built after Henry VIII’s reformation, it drew in parishioners from the rest of the estate—one cluttered shop that sold a bit of everything, a smithy, a pub, and a collection of charming stone cottages.

The pub was our destination, and when Colin ducked through its door after me, what seemed like the entire population of Dunsford Vale was gathered, waiting for us. My husband stood before them, gave a brief but reassuring speech promising his tenants he had the matter well in hand, and then asked for everyone to disperse, leaving us to speak individually to those who had seen the mysterious creature.

It had all started when a group of boys was out on the moor, marauding and playing. “I saw it first,” the oldest of the group—he couldn’t have been more than eleven—explained. “We were making our way home, and it was already mostly dark, so it was hard to make out details, but we saw him, crouched by a tree, like he was waiting to pounce on us. His face was hideous and his red eyes glowed.”

“What did you do then?” Colin asked.

“We ran away, didn’t we, as fast as we could,” the boy said. “Screaming and shouting to scare him away, but that obviously didn’t work. He keeps coming back.”

“And you’re quite certain it was a dog?” I asked.

“Oh yes, Lady Emily,” he said. “I saw his tail clear as day.”

“But you said it was dark,” I said.

“Yes, but I could make out the tail. And his eyes. They were blazing red.”

The other boys who had been with him offered up similar stories, each more fantastic than the last. They’d seen his fangs—sharp and long—and his claws—more like talons, really—and the sound of his terrifying howls had followed them across the moor as they ran home.

After we’d spoken to each boy in turn, we interviewed the adults who had encountered the spectral beast. Their experiences proved somewhat less colorful. Yes, Mr. Wibberley had lost two sheep, but he admitted to the possibility that they had wandered off, rather than falling victim to a brutal attack. When pressed, three of the other men who claimed to have seen the creature acknowledged not having got more than a passing glimpse of a dark form, and two women who claimed it leered at them through their windows couldn’t give an accurate description of the form it took. Yet there was no denying some simple facts: something—or, rather, someone—had stolen food from five families. Two men reported blankets disappearing from their stables, and a boy of eighteen reported that his warmest wool jumper, which he had left in his father’s barn, had vanished. He insisted he had spotted the barghest following him that evening when he’d gone to check on the cows inside.

The church bells tolled noon before we had finished our interviews. Colin proved himself a model landlord, listening carefully to each of his tenants’ concerns, not mocking them or rejecting outright their fanciful stories. Neither of us believed a creature plucked out of legend was tormenting them, but something was afoot, and we were both confident in our ability to get to the bottom of it. We pulled on our coats and stepped back outside, where we found the vicar, Reverend Blount, striding toward us.

“Mr. Hargreaves, Lady Emily, I am so pleased that you have come,” he said. “It’s a dreadful business, this. Would you be so kind as to allow me to accompany you to Miss Barker’s? She didn’t feel up to leaving her house, but she has a story you ought to hear.”

Miss Barker, who was eighty years old if she was a day, always had a story one ought to hear; she made it her business. She had been born in Dunsford Vale, and so far as anyone knew, had never left its confines. In her youth, she was reputed to have been a great beauty, and although she now stood stooped and frail, her silver hair shined and her flashing emerald eyes offered a glimpse into her past appearance. Engaged to be married at sixteen, her fiancé, a farmer’s son, had died the day before their wedding in a brutal accident, the details of which were never discussed. Her hopes destroyed, Miss Barker never married, but neither did she turn into a wretched Miss Havisham sort. Instead, she threw herself wholeheartedly into village life, making it her business to know everyone else’s business. She played matchmaker, arbitrated disagreements between neighbors, led the parish choir, and crocheted layette sets for every baby born in Dunsford Vale. She also named every sheep, cow, and goat owned by the local farmers and insisted that she could recognize each animal’s individual personality. No one dared brook argument with any of her claims.

The reverend rapped on her cottage door—painted bright red—and called out as he opened it. “I’ve got Mr. Hargreaves with me, and Lady Emily as well. I do hope you’re ready to receive us.”

“When have you known me not to be ready, Reverend Blount?” Miss Barker’s voice, sharp and strong, belied her age. “Sit, sit, all of you, but if you want tea, you’ll have to make it yourself. Julia won’t come again until four o’clock, and I’m too old to have to do it.”

Miss Barker’s front room was a picture of perfection: tidy and comfortable, exactly as it had been when her mother ran the house and her grandmother before. Julia Fletcher, a young woman whose father had passed away less than a month ago, assisted her with cleaning and made sure she always had a hot meal.

“You know I don’t want your tea,” Colin said, his tone jovial.

“But you never refuse my excellent whisky, Mr. Hargreaves,” Miss Barker said. “There’s some on the sideboard should you desire it.”

“I fear it’s too early in the day for that, but I thank you for the offer,” he replied. “The reverend tells me you have a story for us, something to do with this barghest I keep hearing about?”

Miss Barker laughed. “You do not dismiss the claims out of hand, I see. What a fine gentleman you are. It sounds ludicrous, does it not? What educated person could give credence to such a thing? Yet those of us born and bred in Derbyshire know better than to doubt the existence of the barghest. Both my parents’ deaths were foretold by the appearance of the beast.” She looked at me and pinched her lips together. “You, Lady Emily, may not believe me, but in the North we know there is much truth to be found in legends.”

“Such things are not unheard of in Kent, either, Miss Barker.”

“Yet I can see in your eyes you are not convinced,” she said. “It is of no consequence. You will come around to our ideas eventually. It can’t be more than eight years or so since you first came to Anglemore; you’re still a newcomer.”

So far as I could tell, fifty years in Derbyshire would not make me any less of a newcomer. “You’re quite right,” I said. “But, please, do tell us your story.”

She sat forward in her wooden rocking chair. “I have seen this barghest twice. First, on the night that the boys spotted it. It must have followed them all the way from the moor. I heard its claws on the snow and went to my window, from whence I could clearly see its red eyes. It bared its fangs at me before running away and I cursed it as it went.”

“Now, now, Miss Barker, there’s no need for such things,” Reverend Blount said. “The Lord will—”

“The Lord is all well and good, Reverend, but a good curse never hurts in the face of such evil. One must take reasonable precautions. As I was saying, I saw every awful detail of the beast. His black fur, his sharp teeth, his glowing eyes. A horrible sight. I fully expected I would fall dead without delay. Imagine my shock when I woke up the next morning, quite alive. But when I saw him last night, it was even worse.”

“What happened then?” Colin asked.

“Something so awful that I had no choice but to send for the men of the village and beg them to go to Anglemore and fetch you. I knew that you, like your excellent father, would never disregard the concerns of his tenants. The Hargreaveses have always been the best lords and the best masters.”

I gave my husband—who had more than once refused the honor of a title—a pointed look. His eyes were dancing with amusement. “You are too kind, Miss Barker,” he said. “But you are quite correct that I would never fail my tenants. Please do tell us what happened when you saw the barghest the second time.”

She had leaned as far forward as she could without causing the rocker to tip over, and now rested her back against its cushion. “Again, I heard it before I saw it, but this time it was a howl, so eerie and so full of pain that it could only have come from the mouth of hell itself.” Reverend Blount shifted uncomfortably. “I did not want to see it, but something compelled me to the window, and there it stood, in all its horrible glory, watching me.”

“It stood, you say?” I asked. “Was it on its hind legs or all four?”

“Its hind legs,” she said, “and it was as tall as a man. But no man has a face like that or a tail, a tail that could flay the life right out of a person.”

“While I am most disconcerted, Miss Barker, I am comforted as well,” Colin said. “For although you have twice laid eyes on the barghest, you are still here, healthy as a horse. I can only conclude the barghest has at last met his match.”

“You flatter me, Mr. Hargreaves, and it does my old soul good. But make no mistake—this demon is after something, and he won’t stop until he gets it. You must protect the village. Free us from him, sir, or who knows what evil will befall Dunsford Vale.”

“I give you my word, Miss Barker,” my husband said. “No barghest will get the better of me.”

After taking our leave, we stopped to see the scorched earth beneath the window of the kitchen from which the barghest was purported to have stolen the meat pies, brushing away the newly fallen snow. The ground was indeed burnt, but nothing could make me believe a spectral dog was responsible. When we returned home, the boys were waiting for us in the entrance hall, brandishing sticks they explained would offer protection in the face of any supernatural enemy. Nanny shook her head.

“Extra prayers for all you little heathens tonight,” she said, and ushered them back up to the nursery. Colin and I retired to the library, where Mrs. Elliott, our housekeeper, sent up mince pies to tide us over until dinner. She knew my husband well; there was nothing he liked better at Christmastime than mince pies.

“You do make an excellent lord of the manor,” I said, watching him as he popped one into his mouth. “Perhaps you should have accepted the queen’s offer to make you a peer. It’s the next obvious step, after all.”

“That, my dear girl, would go quite against family tradition. I’m the third Hargreaves to refuse the honor.”

“Yet everything about you screams to the manner born,” I said, a smile creeping onto my face. “Your tenants certainly adore you.”

“I treat them well and never take advantage,” he said.

“Nor do you make them feel ridiculous when they come to you looking for relief in the face of a legendary demon dog. Truly, Colin, I don’t think most gentlemen could have handled the situation so well. But what is your plan? Obviously some very human miscreant is behind it all. He’s stealing pies and blankets and possibly sheep—but he’s an ordinary thief, not a barghest.”

“My dear, I am shocked that you would deny the existence of Derbyshire’s finest mythological beast. What will the villagers say if they detect your cynicism? I’d best lock you away the next time they come to the house bearing torches, lest they tear you to pieces.” His eyes flashed, the way they always did when he teased me, and his smile warmed me to my toes.

“You’ll not convince me that on the cusp of the twentieth century I need to fear a medieval mob,” I said. “However, I would never object to being locked away if I have you with me. Perhaps we should tell Cook we mean to dine early—”

“So that we can retire early.” He reached for the bell pull.

TWO

Hours later, our plan successfully enacted, we were sprawled in our room, firelight dancing across the down-filled duvet on the bed, an empty bottle of champagne discarded on the floor. Heavenly bliss. At least until Davis knocked on the door. Colin pulled on his dressing gown and called for the butler to enter.

“Apologies, sir,” Davis said. “A Miss Julia Fletcher has arrived from the village, accompanied by four rather large individuals and the vicar. I am told that she fainted after being attacked by a vicious dog of some sort. I would be remiss if I did not inform you that the story sounds more than a little suspect. There is no obvious sign of an attack by a beast of any description. Mrs. Elliott has put her upstairs in a vacant servant’s room. Would you like me to send for the doctor?”

“Do you think medical attention is warranted, Davis?” Colin asked.

“No, sir, I do not. I should think a stiff brandy is all the young lady needs, after smelling salts.”

“Please see to the brandy,” Colin said. “Lady Emily can manage the smelling salts. We shall be up shortly.”

I pulled on a dress, but my husband did not bother with a coat, tie, or collar, only trousers and the now-rumpled shirt he had discarded earlier. Not wanting to take the time to find his cufflinks, he rolled up the sleeves as we made our way to the servants’ quarters.

I did not know Julia Fletcher well, but had called on her nearly a year ago, soon after she had received the news that her fiancé, Frank Spencer, a corporal in the Northumberland fusiliers, had been killed at the Battle of Stormberg, a disastrous blunder in the Second Boer War. A shy girl with sleek black hair, an alabaster complexion, and striking dark blue eyes, Julia held her grief close, refusing to stop the work she did for Miss Barker, the only other person in the village who could fully understand the pain of losing one’s betrothed to a violent death.

Miss Fletcher would never be described as a beauty—all of her features, with the exception of her thin lips, were slightly too large for her narrow face—but she made a pretty enough picture on the narrow bed in the maid’s room, surrounded by four men clasping caps in their hands. Reverend Blount met us at the open door.

“She fainted, Mr. Hargreaves, after seeing the barghest through the window. We couldn’t bring her around, no matter what we tried.”

“Who was with her when it happened?” Colin asked.

“No one, sir,” the reverend said. “She screamed and Miss Barker heard her—their cottages are next to each other, you know. The front door was unlocked, so she went inside and found the girl in the kitchen, prostrate, and called for help. That’s when we all came.”

Miss Fletcher was still unconscious. I went to her, bent over the bed, and waved smelling salts under her nose. Her eyes fluttered, but did not open, so I gave her another whiff. This time, she woke up and looked at all of us gathered around her, her forehead scrunching. “Where am I? What happened?”

“You are at Anglemore Park,” Colin said, his voice low and serious. “I was hoping you could tell us what happened.”

“I saw something—so horrible and distressing—out the window,” she said. “But I don’t recall the details, only that it made my skin crawl.”

“It was the barghest,” one of the men who had accompanied her added. “Miss Barker said so.”

“Please, do let Miss Fletcher tell her story,” I said. “Can you remember anything more about what you saw?”

Miss Fletcher squeezed her eyes shut and crinkled her forehead even more. Then she shook her head. “Only that it was dark, so very dark. Black like an abyss. But his eyes glowed. I’m sure of that.”

“So it was a man?” Colin asked.

“No, Mr. Hargreaves, no. But it was not a dog, either,” she said. “It was an apparition, spectral, inexplicable, but decidedly not human.”

My husband looked at me and held my gaze. So now we were dealing not only with a spectral dog, but a ghost as well? “You all did the right thing, bringing her here,” I told the gentlemen. “I thank you for that. If you go downstairs, Cook will give you something to eat before you head back to Dunsford Vale. I shall see to it personally that Miss Fletcher is well looked after.”

The men shuffled off, only the reverend remaining behind. “You can’t send her home, Lady Emily,” he said. “Someone was there, outside her window. I saw the footprints myself and they were fresh. The snow only started falling a half an hour before she screamed. She can’t stay in that cottage by herself. I’m most concerned this visitor may mean her harm.”

* * *

Unfortunately, Miss Fletcher could offer no further information about the incident beyond what she initially shared with us. She thought, perhaps, she had seen the ghost of her father. “Or Frank,” she said, her voice a whisper. “But he didn’t look like him at all. It must have been Father.”

“If so, I’m certain he meant only to reassure you,” Colin said. “You took such excellent care of him when he was alive, he wouldn’t want anything to disturb you now that he has departed this world.” I knew my husband well enough to be certain that he would never, ever believe in ghosts, but he was too kind to disabuse Miss Fletcher of the notion while she was in her current state.

“I believe you’re right, Mr. Hargreaves,” she said, nodding. “It’s only that he startled me, that’s all. I ought not to have been afraid.”

“Indeed,” Colin said. “To set your mind at ease, I will go to your cottage right now and make sure nothing is out of place. You’ll stay here tonight. Tell me—what’s your favorite breakfast? I shall have Cook send it up to you in the morning.”

His calm voice and easy manner helped her relax, and once we were certain she would soon drift off to sleep, we left her in the capable hands of Mrs. Elliott. “You’ll come to Dunsford Vale with me, won’t you, Emily?” he asked. “There was no ghost outside her window; the reverend is correct on that count.”

He drove the sledge himself, not wanting to disturb Waters, our driver, so late at night. Despite the fur blankets he tucked around me before we set off, I was half-frozen by the time we reached the village, but that was nothing compared to the chill in Miss Fletcher’s empty cottage, in front of which a crowd of her neighbors was standing, torches in hand but eerily quiet. Inside, the fire had gone out, leaving not a single glowing ember, but the cold permeating the snug home could not be explained by that alone. After examining the spot in the kitchen where Miss Fletcher had fainted—the shattered remains of a tea cup marked the location—we looked through the rest of the rooms. Nothing appeared to be out of place or disturbed, so we went outside, carrying lanterns, and inspected the snow beneath the kitchen window. Reverend Blount had told us a pattern of footprints was visible there, but they were now covered with fresh snow, making it impossible to determine from where whoever made the initial set had either come or gone.

And then, as we stood there, our flickering lanterns illuminating the snow, I heard it, soft at first, then stronger and louder: a howl that sent shivers along my spine. Goose bumps prickled on my arms and the hair on my neck stood on end. I turned, my eyes wide, to my husband.

“The barghest?” I could hardly voice the word.

“Unlikely in the extreme, my dear,” he said. His voice was calm as ever, and he gave my hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Might the boys have been correct?” I asked. “Could there be a wolf in Derbyshire?”

“Not a chance,” he said. “I shall see what I can find. Go back inside before you catch your death of cold.”

I did as he said, latching the door behind me, and watched from the kitchen window as he headed for the woods behind the cottage, the direction from which the howl had come, until he disappeared in the dark. Then I lit every lamp in the cottage and stoked the fire, but could coax no life back into it. I struck a match and held it to the coals just as someone banged on the cottage’s front door.

“Lady Emily, it is I, Wibberley. Mr. Hargreaves said we could find you here.” He was with two of the men who had brought Julia to us, the rest of the crowd of villagers hanging back. “I came as soon as I could—these two mates of mine stopped at my farm on the way back from Anglemore Park. They were telling me what happened when we heard a hideous sound. It was one of my sheep, being murdered by that beast. By the time we got to the field, it was dead, torn right to shreds, nothing left but its bones.”

“Did you see any sign of what had done it?” I asked.

“Nothing, Lady Emily, nothing.”

“Were there footprints?”

“Not a single one,” Mr. Wibberley said. “Just a mess of wool and blood and bones.”

“It’s the barghest, Lady Emily,” one of the other men said. “No question. It doesn’t leave footprints.”

The snow had stopped falling, and the wind howling across the moors could have erased any footprints, but it was unlikely to have completely removed all evidence of someone carrying the bloody carcass of a sheep. I pulled one of the blankets from the sledge and wrapped it around my coat. “Whatever it is, we won’t find it by standing around here. Return to your homes before you freeze, and in the morning, we will conduct a methodical search of the area. The storm would make it too dangerous tonight, and if, as is likely, some animal attacked Mr. Wibberley’s sheep, it’s no doubt long since returned to its lair.”

“What sort of animal would that be other than a barghest? There’s no fox that could take down a sheep that size, Lady Emily,” Mr. Wibberley said. “Lambs are vulnerable to them, but I’ve got none now, not at this time of year. And a fox couldn’t have left the carcass in the state it was in. The skin was pulled straight off.”

“We will know more in the morning, after a thorough search,” I said, trying to sound confident in the face of a crowd of individuals who showed no sign of being convinced. “I promise we shall do everything in our power to get to the bottom of this.” Not a man moved. “And Mr. Hargreaves will, of course, reimburse Mr. Wibberley for his loss.” This piqued their interest.

“That’s that, then,” Mr. Wibberley said. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll meet at my place at sunrise and see if there’s any trail left to follow.” His compatriots murmured agreement and started to disperse. The vicar, whom I had not seen in the crowd, came forward and offered to stay with me until Colin returned. I accepted gladly. As we turned to go back into the cottage, the howl came again—thinner this time than it had been before, further away, perhaps, but no less terrifying.

“The sound of the devil himself,” Reverend Blount said. “Evil. Pure evil.”

THREE

Fortunately the storm was not so strong that it kept us from returning to Anglemore, for while I did not agree with the vicar that the howling was the voice of hell, neither did I relish the thought of spending the night in Julia Fletcher’s cottage. We rose early the next morning so Colin could set off before daybreak to lead the search through the moors in pursuit of whatever had dispatched with Mr. Wibberley’s unfortunate sheep. I followed some hours later with Miss Fletcher. Dunsford Vale, blanketed in fresh snow, looked like something off a Christmas card, but the serenity was superficial, hiding the terror evident in its residents. As the sledge glided over the narrow street, we could see a single candle burning in the front window of each house. Not a soul was outside. No children playing in the snow, no one bustling to the shop or chatting with neighbors.

I ordered Miss Fletcher to stay in the sledge with the driver so I could ensure that her home was undisturbed and safe before she came inside. Everything was as I had left it the night before and no one was lying in wait, so I opened the front door and she and the driver entered. Moments later, Miss Barker appeared, candle in hand. She set it on the windowsill and lit it.

“What is the meaning of these candles?” I asked.

“It’s well known that a household must leave a candle burning all night on Christmas Eve, lest the family be visited by death,” Miss Barker said. “Given our current straits, it seems wise to keep them burning all the time. Is there tea? I could do with a spot of tea.”

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Miss Fletcher said, her voice little more than a whisper. “And shall I mix up some buns as well? I believe I shall. It’s good to have something to nibble on, isn’t it?”

“The work will calm your nerves, Julia; it always does.” Miss Barker said nothing more until the girl had disappeared into the kitchen, then turned to me and said in a low voice, “She bakes when she is upset. We’ve had quite a lot of biscuits and scones and Eccles cakes since poor Frank died. And she wouldn’t let any of us make the arval bread after her father passed. Insisted on doing it herself. It’s essential here to have arval bread at a funeral, Lady Emily, though you might not know that, having come from Kent. Like Eccles cakes, it’s stuffed with currants, but it’s a spiced yeast bread, not a tea cake.”

“I’m pleased she has something to give her a little comfort in these difficult days,” I said.

“Indeed. I do worry about her. She won’t be able to stay in this cottage, you know. Her father didn’t leave enough money. Not that he was profligate, mind you, but it’d been years since he was able to work, and there was very little left in the end.”

“I’m sure Mr. Hargreaves will not turn her out.”

“She can’t stay here alone, at any rate,” Miss Barker continued, “and it’s unlikely anyone else will want to marry her. Not between the bad luck of her fiancé being killed and now this barghest business. I’m determined to have her come live with me. We can have a right cozy time, the two of us. And when I depart this mortal world, I shall leave her everything I have, little though it is.”

Miss Fletcher reappeared with a pot of tea and ginger biscuits, explaining she’d baked them the previous day and that they would tide us over until the buns were ready. “I’ve got them in the oven now, so it won’t be too terribly long.” Her cheeks had brightened; the work had done her good. “Also, I have a riddle for you, Miss Barker. Nothing better to push away the memories of a grim evening. Here goes: Without a bridle or a saddle, across a thing I ride astraddle. And those I ride, by help of me, though almost blind, are made to see. What am I?”

“Oh, my dear girl, you know I have no affinity for such things,” Miss Barker said. “Is it a horse?”

“No, no, it’s not the thing upon which something rides, but the actual thing,” Miss Fletcher said. She was sitting up straighter now and there was a charming hint of laughter in her voice. “So what do you think it could be? Any ideas? Lady Emily?”

“Ride astraddle . . . almost blind . . .” I had a fair guess, but could see that Miss Fletcher would get far more pleasure out of telling us the answer. “No idea at all, I’m afraid.”

“Spectacles!” She clapped her hands together. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Indeed it is,” I said, smiling.

“Forgive me, I must get back to the kitchen and keep an eye on our buns.” She flitted out of the room, lighter than I had ever seen her.

“She’s a good girl, that one,” Miss Barker said. “Such a pity about Frank. He saw the light in her when no one else could—she’s painfully shy, you know, hardly talks when she’s out in public or with those she doesn’t know well—but he had a gift for looking past appearances. I suspect it was because so few people did so with him. He was a handsome boy, that one. Every girl in the village was after him, but he had eyes only for Julia. She won’t have a chance for happiness like that again. I’ll never forgive those Boers for gunning him down.”

“It was a terrible tragedy,” I said. “War causes unending pain, does it not?”

“I lost my own fiancé, did you know that, Lady Emily? I imagine you do. The story is still talked about in Dunsford Vale, but it is too awful to think about now, when we have such frightening things happening. Mr. Keeton is selling coffin nails in his shop now, so there’s that to give us a bit of comfort.”

“Coffin nails?” I asked.

“They’re one of the few things capable of warding off a barghest,” Miss Barker said. “You’d do well to get a few—those boys of yours are vulnerable, you know. They’re still small.”

“Perhaps I shall do just that.” I could only imagine what my husband would say if I followed her advice. Colin had not a superstitious bone in his body.

“Of course he’s not open now, but it is good of him to have got them in. I wouldn’t have expected that from an outsider, but he’s done what he can to assimilate.”

“I didn’t realize he’s not from Dunsford Vale,” I said.

“Oh, no, Lady Emily. He’s a Londoner. Still, though, he went with the other men to search for the beast’s lair. It’s only us ladies in the village now, no one left even to ring the church bells. One or two of the men showed signs of fear at going out this morning, but they mustered their courage and did what is required. We don’t tolerate cowards here.”

The aroma of Miss Fletcher’s baking filled the cottage, and the buns, covered with melted butter, were some of the best I have ever tasted. When the sound of shouts outside announced the return of the search party, she disappeared into the kitchen again, explaining that she had put another batch in the oven, so that the men could have something to fill them up after their long trek through the moors.

Snow swirled around Colin when he came through the door and great piles of it fell off his overcoat and boots. The other men had headed straight for their own houses, where their wives waited to hear the news, such as it was. Miss Fletcher did not come out of the kitchen, but cracked the door enough that she might listen without being seen. Colin stood near the fire, but did not remove his coat.

“I can tell you with confidence that we are dealing with a man, not a beast,” he said. “There was very little left of his trail—no footprints in the snow, only splashes of blood from the sheep, and we found the latter only near Wibberley’s farm. Three of the boys who came with us admitted to having heard strange sounds coming from a cave near one of the peaks. They led us to it and inside we found the remains of what appears to have been a camp, recently abandoned. Most likely, some unfortunate soul sought shelter there and stole food from the village to keep from starving. He’s not there anymore, and has probably moved on to another place.”

“But who is he, Mr. Hargreaves?” Miss Barker asked. “We don’t like strangers wandering around. He murdered a sheep! What might he do next?”

“No doubt he will continue to search for food. I don’t believe him to be a real threat to the safety of Dunsford Vale.”

“But the howling, Mr. Hargreaves, the howling! No man could be responsible for that,” she pressed. “And let us not forget the hideous creature that I myself—and Julia—have seen. That was no man.”

“Barghests are heralds of death, my dear Miss Barker,” Colin said. “I believe this one was telling the villagers that this thief would not be with them much longer.”

“So you think he is dead?”

My husband shrugged. “What else does a barghest announce?”

The elderly woman narrowed her eyes, but nodded her head. “Wise words, Mr. Hargreaves, wise words. We will remain vigilant, though, in case he makes another appearance.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Colin said. “I want to be kept abreast of further developments, should there be any. In the meantime, though, it is nearly Christmas, and you should all be focused on celebrations, not the barghest.”

He helped me into my coat. As we were about to take our leave, Miss Fletcher stepped into the room so quietly we didn’t notice until she spoke. “Would you take these to Mr. Keeton’s shop?” she asked, holding out a basket filled with fresh buns. “The men will know to find them there.”

* * *

Before we left the village, Colin leapt out of the sledge to deliver the buns to the shopkeeper, who, according to Miss Barker, frequently distributed—at no charge—Miss Fletcher’s baked goods to all those who wanted them. When my husband returned, I asked him about Mr. Keeton. “I didn’t realize he is a Londoner. How long has he called Derbyshire his home?”

“His parents moved here no more than three months after he was born. His father opened the shop and Keeton took it over when the old man started to ail.”

“Yet Miss Barker considers him a Londoner?”

“Yes, my dear, so you may abandon any hopes you have of her ever considering you a local.”

“I know better than to hold such futile aspirations,” I said, snuggling up against him under the blankets in the sledge. “It appears that you have appeased the maddening crowd about the barghest, to some degree, at least, but what do you really believe is going on?”

“I spoke nothing but the truth to Miss Barker,” my husband said. “It is clear that someone has been living in that cave, and it is reasonable to conclude that he was unable, at this time of year, to gather much food beyond that which he could steal from the village.”

“What about Mr. Wibberley’s sheep? Surely no man was responsible for that.”

Colin sighed. “I agree. I shouldn’t be surprised if he had stolen sheep—there were bones in his cave that suggested just that—but he wouldn’t have brutalized the corpse in such a manner. He would have killed it and carried it away to butcher it. Taking any more time at the farm would likely have got him caught.”

“So you’re letting everyone believe it was the barghest?”

“I shan’t be able to convince them otherwise, and there’s no harm in it.”

“What do you think really happened?”

“I don’t know. I’ve heard tales of similar occurrences in the Scottish highlands—sheep brutalized by some unknown predator. Perhaps there are similar animals marauding through the moors of Derbyshire, heretofore undetected.”

“Not a satisfying answer,” I said.

“Perhaps I can find a way to leave you better sated after we get home. One that has nothing to do with sheep or barghests.”

“I’m counting on it.”

* * *

Alas, no satiation of any sort was in store for us back at Anglemore. To start, the boys were in a state. Richard had found a book of English legends in the library and had read a tale of the barghest to his brothers. All three of them were sitting on the floor in the entrance hall, sticks in hand, when Davis opened the door for us. To say that his nerves were strained does not adequately communicate just how flustered he was. He very nearly batted an eyelash, which, for a man of Davis’s imperturbability, was quite extraordinary.

Colin gathered the boys onto his knees and produced a handful of coffin nails, which he distributed to them, explaining this would keep the barghest at bay. This appeased them, and soon they were following Nanny back up to the nursery.

“I did not expect you to hold stock in superstition,” I said, after they’d gone. “Coffin nails?”

“Every Derbyshire man knows their efficacy in the face of a barghest, my dear. I bought them from Keeton.”

“Sir.” Davis was still standing by the door. “Much of the staff is out of sorts, shall we say, as a result of the commotion in the village. I don’t suppose you have any more of those nails?”

With a grin, my husband pulled an entire box of them out of his overcoat pocket and handed them to the butler. “Nothing can beat a coffin nail, Davis.”

FOUR

I might have dismissed the matter entirely at that point, chalking it up to hysteria caused by rural legend, had Julia Fletcher not turned up half-frozen on our doorstep the next morning, on Christmas Eve, with tears staining her pale face. “I didn’t know where else to turn,” she told us once Davis had shown her into the library. She had walked all the way from the village, not wanting to draw the attention of any of her neighbors. “I found this sitting on the floor just inside my front door. I am absolutely certain it was not there when I went to sleep last night and I checked that the door was locked before retiring to bed.” She passed Colin a wooden box, fashioned from perfectly polished cherry and fastened with metal clips along its bottom edge. He put it on the library table and opened the clips. The top and sides of the box formed a lid and lifted away to reveal a bouquet of flowers, delicately carved from wood, approximately six inches high, each petal and leaf carefully painted, all displayed in a little wooden vase. It was a riot of color: deep purplish blue, pink, red poppy, bright purple, white, orange, and delicate cream.

“It’s exquisitely rendered,” I said. “Whoever made it is an expert carver. Are there any such individuals in Dunsford Vale?”

“No, no, Lady Emily,” Miss Fletcher said. “This could not have been made by any of the villagers. Mr. Keeton carries decorative bits and bobs, but I’ve never seen anything of this quality in his shop.”

“Does anyone have a copy of the key to your cottage other than my steward?” Colin asked.

“No, not even Miss Barker.”

“Did you notice anything about the door?” I asked. “Something to suggest someone forced it open?”

“No, nothing like that at all,” Miss Fletcher said. She was trembling, and not from the cold.

“Perhaps a cup of tea would do us some good,” I suggested.

“No, thank you, Lady Emily, I don’t think I could swallow a drop.”

“Did you see—or hear—anything unusual last night?” Colin asked.

“Nothing, and I assure you I was on alert. I have been ever since I saw that creature outside my window. Do you think he might have left it?”

“I do not doubt that you saw something that night, but it was stormy, remember, and the swirling snow may have played tricks on your eyes,” Colin said. “Regardless, no legendary creature—barghest or otherwise—is known to leave offerings of flowers. Whoever brought these to you is a living, breathing human. I shall go to Dunsford Vale right now and question every person there. Someone must have seen something.”

“They will only think me more foolish than they already do.”

“Foolish would be finding something like this inside a locked door and not saying anything about it,” I said.

“Ought I to go with you, Mr. Hargreaves?” The girl’s skin was deadly pale.

“No, Miss Fletcher, there is no need. I’ll get the key from my steward and be back almost before you know I’m gone.” She nodded but did not reply. After he left, she sat, quiet, hardly responding to my attempts at conversation.

“You would do me a great kindness, Miss Fletcher, if you would share your bun recipe with my cook,” I said, after more than half an hour had passed. “If I took you to the kitchen now, do you think you could show her how you make them?”

“Buns? Of course.” She perked up at once. “You must want a spot of tea yourself, Lady Emily. If you’ll point me to the kitchen, I can take care of everything.”

I took her downstairs myself, and, after giving Cook a brief—and discreet—explanation, left the girl in more than capable hands. Her tension started to melt away the moment she dipped a measure into a canister of flour. Baking undeniably eased her stress. That settled, I returned to the library to further study the mysterious gift.

First, I looked on the bottom of the wooden vase, hoping to find some sort of maker’s mark or monogram, but there was nothing. With gentle hands, I removed each of the blossoms and placed them on the leather-topped library table and then searched the bookcases for an illustrated botanical volume I could use to find the name of each of the plants. Armed with that and our copy of Floral Poetry and the Language of Flowers, I set to work.

The single red poppy that had made the center of the bouquet was the simplest to identify, and I knew its meaning without consulting a book. Consolation. Just the sort of message one might send to a girl who had lost her sweetheart and her father. Next came a profusion of white flowers on a single branch. They looked to me like lilacs, and after searching through the botanical, I could name them: Carolina syringa. Their meaning, according to Floral Poetry and the Language of Flowers? Disappointment. I quickly made my way through the rest of the bouquet. The royal blue convolvulus major signified extinguished hopes, the purple Michaelmas daisy farewell, the blue-bells sorrowful regrets, and silver-green rosemary for remembrance. All appropriate for a young lady in mourning.

But the rest cut closer in ways that surprised me. A pink begonia that meant deformity. Orange butterfly weed, whose message was let me go. And, finally, cream-colored wild licorice blossoms. Your presence softens my pain.

I had listed out each flower and its meaning on a piece of paper and as I wrote that last line, your presence softens my pain, a sickening feeling started to build inside me and I hoped Colin would return from the village quickly. It had started to snow again, smaller flakes than usual in Derbyshire. The temperature must have fallen and the wind was kicking up. If my suspicions were correct . . .

But, no. I could not let myself get carried away by a flight of fancy.

Just then, Richard came into the library. “Mama, I’ve been reading about the barghest and have come to the conclusion that he is not the beast currently plaguing Dunsford Vale.” All of the boys were precocious, but Richard was the best reader of the three, and had been speaking like an adult almost from the moment he first started to talk. “We may be witness to the first pack of Yeth Hounds in this part of the country. Ordinarily, one would expect to find them in Dartmoor.”

He looked so very serious, his dark hair, as always, neatly combed, and his lips in a firm line. I didn’t have the heart to question his conclusions. “Is that so? I had no idea they could come this far north.”

“They are the mad souls of stillborn and unbaptized children,” he said, as if imparting this bit of knowledge would explain away any geographical issues. “Their primary feature is their howls, and they travel in packs. We all keep hearing howls, but no one has dropped dead, as one would expect in the presence of a barghest. So I’m quite certain it’s Yeth Hounds.”

“And what would you suggest we do?” I asked.

“Well, I shouldn’t let Henry out of the house if I were you,” he said. “There have been many times I myself would have liked to drag him off to faraway lands given half the chance, and I haven’t got anywhere near the power of a Yeth Hound. They’d get him in no time flat.”

“I shall follow your excellent advice,” I said, giving him a little hug. “Are he and Tom in the nursery now?”

“Yes. Tom’s playing with his soldiers and Henry is in disgrace.”

Business as usual in the Hargreaves family nursery. I was about to send him back upstairs when Miss Fletcher entered, carrying a tray of hot, buttery buns.

“Who is this fine little gentleman?” she asked. “I do hope I’m not interrupting.”

“No, you are not,” Richard said. “I’m Master Richard Hargreaves and you must be Miss Julia Fletcher. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance and to inform you that you need not fear the barghest any longer. I have determined we are dealing with Yeth Hounds instead.”

I opened my mouth to intervene, not wanting Miss Fletcher—who looked composed after her time in the kitchen—to go into a decline, but she showed no sign of upset at my son’s words. If anything, he had all but melted away her shyness. “Is that so, Master Richard? I’m afraid I am wholly inexperienced when it comes to Yeth Hounds. Would you be so kind as to join me for a little nibble and tell me what I ought to expect? It is Christmas Eve, after all, and I shouldn’t think they’d want to get up to much trouble on such a day.”

She blossomed in the presence of the little boy, and I felt a pang in my heart. She gave him a riddle: I am within as white as snow, without as green as herbs that grow; I am higher than a house, and yet am lesser than a mouse, and clapped her hands when he figured out the answer: a walnut on a tree. She would make an excellent mother. While they chatted over the fresh buns (Richard had far better manners than Henry, who would have devoured the entire plateful without giving anyone else a chance), I returned the wooden blossoms to their vase, folded the paper on which I had recorded their meanings, and excused myself. They hardly registered my exit.

I found Davis downstairs in his sitting room—he was horrified that I hadn’t rung for him, but I explained the situation and he immediately saw the wisdom in not wanting to let Miss Fletcher hear of my plans. In short order, he had organized for me flasks of hot tea, gathered everything he could find that would help keep me warm, and had the sledge waiting to take me to Dunsford Vale. Colin was still there when I arrived, making his way from house to house, interviewing each of the villagers. He grinned when he spotted me, and clutched at his stomach.

“I’m afraid I shall explode if I so much as see one more mince pie, yet I remain incapable of refusing them when offered.” He gave me a quick kiss. “What brings you here? I hope whatever you’ve been pursuing proved more fruitful than my own inquiries, for I’ve turned up nothing of use.”

“I think, my dear, that Frank Spencer is not dead.” I could read the skepticism in my husband’s dark eyes and covered his lips with a gloved finger so that he couldn’t interrupt. “I think he’s very much alive and desperate to catch a glimpse of the girl he adores.”

“I was the one who received the notification of his death and informed both his parents and Miss Fletcher of the terrible news. There is no reason to think—” He stopped. “Although. The army can make mistakes and Stormberg was an utter disaster. When the order to retreat came, the soldiers who were up the side of a mountain did not receive it, and hundreds of them were left behind and captured by the Boers. It is possible, I suppose, that Spencer was among them.”

“I agree. Do, please, hear me out, although I realize it is hard to believe.” With nowhere else to go, we stood on the pavement and I told him what each of the flowers in the wooden bouquet indicated. “You found a cave where someone had made camp. It could be Corporal Spencer—he’s familiar with the area and could easily have known about the cave.”

“If it were him, why would he have taken refuge in a freezing cold cave instead of going home? Everyone would be delighted to see him—to welcome him.”

“You are forgetting the begonia, my dear man,” I said. “Deformity.”

Several inches of snow had settled since I’d left Anglemore, and it was falling even harder now. “If you’re right and he’s lurking out there somewhere, he’s in a great deal of danger,” Colin said.

“Davis sent flasks of tea and heated stones that he insists we should put in our pockets. I did as he asked, and I must say, they do keep one’s hands warm. We can’t ask anyone in the village for assistance. Miss Barker is watching us even now, and if they get wind of what we suspect, they’ll all insist on coming.”

“Which, if Spencer is alive and doesn’t want to be seen, would only have the effect of driving him further away.”

“Where do we start?”

“I’ll go on my own. I don’t want you freezing.”

“And I won’t have you off in a storm by yourself,” I said. “We’ll go together.”

“Into the sledge, then. If we don’t wish to draw attention to what we are doing, we should make it look as if we’re headed home.” Colin knew every inch of the estate as if it had been imprinted on his heart, which, I suppose, in a way, it was. He had explored it endlessly as a boy, and loved the land with the passion of a newly converted zealot. He ordered Waters, our driver, to head in the opposite direction of Mr. Wibberley’s farm, toward a bleak moor. “There is little that could offer him shelter here, but he grew up in Dunsford Vale, so he’ll know the land well. There are four or five spots semi-suitable for temporary shelter that spring to mind. The cave where we found the abandoned campsite would have been an easy hiding place for anyone familiar with the area. It should have occurred to me that we may have been dealing with a local.”

“At the time, we had no reason to believe we were dealing with a local,” I said, “and, despite what you Derbyshire boys might like to think, there are others among us Britons capable of finding a cave. Now, though, we must focus on the places a boy who grew up here would consider safe harbor.”

He thought for a moment. “The remains of a shack constructed by a sheepherder at least two centuries ago stand a considerable distance from here. It would be the most obvious choice for shelter—perhaps too obvious, but if it is Spencer who’s hiding, he would have no reason to think anyone in the village would be looking for him in particular.” The sledge traversed an enormous distance, gliding over the snow, before we reached the spot. Or rather, we reached the general vicinity of the spot. My husband indicated a snow-covered bump at the top of the hill beneath which we had stopped. “It’s too steep for the sledge. I’d like to spare you and Waters the climb, but it’s too cold to sit here immobile without getting frostbite.”

So the three of us trudged up the frozen slope, cold wind lashing our faces. By the time we reached the sad remains of the shack, I would happily have sheltered there myself. It was small and the roof was littered with holes, leaving snow to pile up inside, but it at least provided some respite from the wind. A person could have built a fire in it and hoped for a little warmth. But it was evident at a glance that no one had sheltered there recently.

“I suppose it was too much to hope for,” Colin said. “Onward, then. I’m afraid the other spots I have in mind are a bit more remote, but we shall have to soldier on.”

More remote than this? I wrapped my muffler more tightly around my neck and tucked my chin under it. Going down the hill proved more difficult than climbing it. We slipped and slid most of the way. Waters shook the snow from the blankets in the sledge and we set off again across the windswept ground. Our next two stops proved equally futile to our first. The storm battered us, its snowflakes tiny knives of ice. We were careful to leave as little skin as possible exposed, but we did need to keep our eyes uncovered. Colin took the reins from Waters. He knew the moors better than anyone, and we could not risk getting lost in the blowing snow.

“There are two more places we’re likely to find him, but one would be impossible to reach in this weather,” he said. “The other will require some walking, I’m afraid. If he is there, he won’t be in good shape. It provides some shelter, but not much.”

After he stopped the sledge, we tumbled out of it, pulled our hats lower over our ears, and crammed our hands back into our pockets, where the stones Davis had insisted we take still held a bit of heat. We crossed a frozen stream and a wind-battered hedge before descending a steep slope, strewn with large boulders that looked like the discarded toys of long-gone giants, scattered when they grew tired of the game. Twice my husband stopped, trying to get his bearings in the midst of the swirling snow, but eventually, we came to the place he sought, where three enormous rocks were stacked one on top of the other. We circled around this formation and then I saw it: a dark crevice, almost invisible, half-filled with snow. It was just wide enough for a slim man to pass through, if he turned sideways, as my husband was doing now.

“You’ll never fit,” I said. “Not with that coat on. It’s too bulky. Let me.”

“There’s a passage about six feet long,” he said. “At the end, to your right, you’ll find a small hollow in the bottom of the boulder wide enough to use as a makeshift shelter. To enter it, you’ll have to crouch down or you’ll smash your head.”

“Very good,” I said and gave him a jaunty little salute.

“Emily, do be careful. I couldn’t stand—”

“Nothing to fear, my dear, nothing to fear.” My tone was confident, but I admit my nerves were ever-so-slightly on edge. If I did find Corporal Spencer, I had no reason to think he would lash out at me, but only a fool would feel no apprehension when cramming herself into a narrow crack cut into a rock by centuries of relentless wind. I could see well enough, as the crevice was open to the sky and the rocks kept out a certain amount of the falling snow, but I proceeded with caution, feeling my way with my hands in front of me. When I reached the end, I dropped to my knees and lit a candle to illuminate the hollow in the rock. The space was a scarce three-feet high, and not more than a foot wider than it was tall. Someone was inside, huddled beneath a horse blanket, his face buried in his arms.

His voice rasped, weak and shaking. “Please, please go away. There’s nothing for you here.”

“It’s you, isn’t it, Corporal Spencer?” I asked. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to find you.”

“You’re the mistress of Anglemore, aren’t you?” he asked. “I recognize your voice. Leave me alone, please, please, I beg you. I have made such a dreadful mistake, coming back. No one in the village can know what I’ve done, that I’m here.”

“Not even Julia?” I asked gently.

“Especially not Julia. She can’t see me like this. It was careless of me to return. I wanted to make sure she was all right and give her one last Christmas gift. What a fool I’ve been, thinking I could do any of it undetected.”

If he had wanted to remain undiscovered, he had not taken adequate measures, at least not when it came to his gift. He had left the flowers for his beloved in her house, coming through a locked door. Even if he had put them in a public place, Julia, with her love of riddles, would have easily decoded their meaning, and what could she think then, other than that her fiancé had not died in the war? Who else would have presented her with such a thing? She would never have been able to rest until she found him. Surely he must know that. And, if that were the case, at least some small part of him longed to be reunited with her.

Now, though, all that mattered was getting him out of this hole in the rocks before he froze. But how? Despite the blanket enveloping him, I could tell he was painfully thin, yet not thin enough that I could bodily force him from his haven. I would have to appeal to his sense of duty.

“I understand that you would prefer to keep away from the village, and respect the sentiment, but I am lost, you see, and in dire need of your assistance,” I told him. “You may be capable of hiding out here on the moor indefinitely, but I’m not from Derbyshire and don’t know this land so well as you, especially in a storm. The snow is blinding. Please help me find my way back to Anglemore. I shan’t force you to go anywhere near Dunsford Vale.” No honorable Englishman could deny such a plea. He pulled the blanket over his head so that I could not see his face and crawled toward me.

“Anglemore is too far. If I take you all the way, I’d never make it back here walking through this storm. I will lead you to a place where you can see the village, but no further,” he said. “Someone can help you from there.”

“You could stay with us at Anglemore,” I said. “We don’t have to tell anyone you’re back. I give you my word.”

“No, I will not go to Anglemore. That is not possible.”

I had expected as much. “If you can get me to where I can find the village, that will suffice. I shall owe you more than thanks.” I shuffled back into the passage, where I could stand upright. He followed, and I felt for his hand. He recoiled from my touch. “I shouldn’t have come out in the storm, but the snow was so beautiful . . .”

“You’ll come to no permanent harm. Keep walking, we’re very nearly out of the rocks now,” he said. “Brace yourself for the wind; it’s fierce on this part of the moor.”

I felt a pang of guilt at having to trick him, but what else could I do? Certainly not leave him there to freeze to death in the crevice of a boulder. He was weak, that much was obvious, so even if he tried to flee, Colin would easily be able to catch him. I just hoped Corporal Spencer wouldn’t spot my husband or Waters before he came all the way out of the rocks. If he retreated within again, it would be all but impossible to force him out. Fortunately, he kept his head down and covered with the blanket, which kept him from realizing that we were not alone until it was too late. Colin, who had been standing with his back pressed against the rock, just to the side of the opening, gripped him with strong arms the instant the young man emerged.

I have never heard a more heart-wrenching sound than that which escaped Corporal Spencer’s lips as he realized he was caught, and by whom. It was worse than the howls of the so-called barghest, worse than the cries of a banshee. It was the sound of a pain whose depths were all but incomprehensible. Colin held onto him as he struggled, until, at last, his emaciated form went slack.

“He’s fainted. We need to get him to Anglemore,” Colin said.

It was only as he lifted the unconscious man into the sledge that we saw his terrible secret. Half of his face was covered in hideous scars, the result of some diabolical battlefield injury I could hardly bear to imagine. The eye on that side had been sewn shut, the eyebrow gone, and his nose misshapen. The other half remained intact, a cruel reminder of the good-looking boy he used to be.

I swallowed hard and met my husband’s eyes. “I understand his desire to hide.”

Colin did not speak again until we reached Anglemore Park.

FIVE

Davis showed no reaction when he opened the door to admit us to the house. Colin carried the ailing man upstairs while I instructed our butler to bring up chicken broth, have a maid run a hot bath, and send one of the footmen for the nearest doctor. Efficient as ever, he nodded, assured me he had it all in hand, and informed me that Miss Fletcher was in the nursery with the boys.

“Good,” I said. “Can you find a way to keep her there? I don’t want her to know what’s going on. Not yet.”

The doctor was some time coming through the storm. By the time he arrived, Colin had long since brought Corporal Spencer around, applying the same smelling salts we’d used on his fiancée. The bath had warmed him, and the broth began to bolster his strength, but it was no surprise when the physician told us that his recovery would hinge more on his mental well-being than the physical.

“He’s quite insistent that he wants no one else to know he is alive,” he said. “The nature of his injuries are such that . . . well, to be frank, Mr. Hargreaves, he will always look like a monster.”

“But physically, he will make a full recovery?” Colin asked.

“His war wounds have long since healed. Other than lack of food and some minor frostbite, he’s already physically as recovered as he ever will be. As for the rest, it is impossible to say what will happen. Difficult though it may be, soldiers have an idea how to cope with the loss of a limb. This sort of disfigurement, however . . .”

“I understand.” My husband shook the doctor’s hand, thanked him, and then watched the man descend the stairs. “We can’t force him to see Miss Fletcher or anyone else. He has suffered enough.”

“He can’t let her go on thinking he is dead,” I said.

“He believes he is doing her a kindness.”

“Well, he’s wrong. Does he have so little faith in her love that he thinks she would prefer him dead to scarred?”

“The scars are horrific, Emily. He’s a shade of his former self. It’s wholly understandable that he would not want to subject her to a life with him.”

“Shouldn’t that be for her to decide?” I asked, my hands on my hips. “Would you do the same to me?”

“I hope I would have the strength not to, but will not deny the temptation of disappearing rather than standing before you so deformed. And does not he have a choice in the matter? Perhaps, given his current state, he would prefer not to have a wife.”

“Of course he has a choice, but if his decision is to abandon her, he ought to be man enough to tell her.”

“Would it not be easier for her to believe he is dead?” Colin asked. “She will mourn, she will move on. And forever, in her memory, he will be the boy she loved, not some monster.”

“Forever he will be a liar and a coward, who did not believe in the strength of her love,” I argued. “Ignorance can never be bliss.”

Colin raked his hand through his curls, still matted down from his hat. “I do not mean to defend his position, only to say that I understand it.”

I stood directly in front of him and took his perfectly handsome face into my hands. “No matter what your scars, no matter what your physical condition, I would always choose to have you at my side rather than be left to think you were dead. If we had to spend the rest of our lives contending with worse instead of better and sickness instead of health, I would never lose even one tiny bit of my love for you.” I smiled at him. “I did not marry you because you look like Adonis sculpted by Praxiteles. I wanted you—all of you—because of the man you are inside.”

He reached for my hands and held them in his. “But what if the man inside cannot help but change? Spencer’s injuries are such that—”

“They are such that it may take a great many years for him to adjust,” I said. “And no good woman would abandon the man she loves for so flimsy a reason. If he will not have her, that is his choice, but she must be allowed to choose, too.”

“I admire your conviction, my dear.” He pulled me close and rested his head on the top of mine. “Your words mean more than I can ever make you see, but this is not our marriage or our love. It is theirs. We cannot force Spencer to do anything against his will.”

“We could bring Miss Fletcher to him right now.”

“Yes, but at what cost?” Colin asked. “He’ll reject her. He doesn’t want her to see him.”

I blew out a long sigh. “You’re right. Yet . . .”

“What?”

“He wanted her to have the wooden bouquet and he deliberately chose the flowers in it to send a specific message. If all he’d wanted was for her to have a last Christmas gift from him, he could have composed it in a way that expressed love and even loss without including the sentiment your presence softens my pain. He’s afraid of being rejected—and that is to be expected, given his condition.”

“Did it not also contain butterfly weed, which means let me go? That is an undeniably strong message.”

“Love is not always straightforward, my dear man,” I said. “He’s being contradictory, yes, but he did communicate that she can ease his torment. He gave her the flowers knowing she would figure out what they meant. You’re quite correct that we ought not force the situation, but that does not mean we’re obligated to stand in the way of what he’s already set in motion.”

“What do you mean to do?”

“I’m going to see whether Miss Fletcher has decoded the message of her bouquet.” I gave him a quick kiss and headed for the nursery. Detaching the young woman from my sons was no easy prospect, as she was currently playing the part of damsel in distress. Tom and Richard were on the floor in front of her, howling like Yeth Hounds, while Henry, his barghest-fighting stick now repurposed as a sword, moved to defend her with the valor of a medieval knight.

“They haven’t argued amongst themselves once since Miss Fletcher came up with Richard,” Nanny said. “It’s a sight to behold.”

Miss Fletcher showed genuine regret at being pulled from the game and promised the boys to return as soon as she could.

“Will you make us tea cakes?” Richard asked. “Like the ones you told me about?”

“If not today, soon,” she said. “I can think of nothing I would better enjoy.”

“We’ll let you be the knight with the sword if you do it today,” Henry said. “I’ll be the one in need of rescue.”

I raised an eyebrow. Henry was not one to voluntarily relinquish a sword under any circumstances. But, then, he was awfully fond of tea cakes. Miss Fletcher gave them each a kiss on the forehead before we descended to the library, where the botany book and Floral Poetry and the Language of Flowers still rested on the table, alongside her wooden bouquet.

“Who do you think might have sent it to you?” I asked. “I don’t believe there is any malice intended by the gesture. It’s just a Christmas present for someone who has had a difficult year and then some.” I didn’t want to directly prod her to find the flowers’ meanings, only place her in a situation where she would choose to do so herself.

“I cannot think of anyone at all, Lady Emily,” she said, her voice quiet again, lacking all the joy and energy instilled in it when she’d been playing with the boys. She put her palms flat on the table and rested her weight on them. “It’s the sort of gesture Frank would have made, but none of my neighbors could be accused of having such romantic tendencies. Most of the men in Dunsford Vale spend more time thinking about their livestock and fields than their wives. I don’t mean that to sound accusatory or critical. They work hard and have little time for anything else.”

“It would have taken a great deal of time to carve.” I leaned forward, across the table from her, so that I could better see the vase and its contents. “I can’t imagine any of the men in the village could have done it, given how busy they are. If only we knew the sender’s intentions, we would have a better shot at identifying him.”

“Did you not figure it out?” she asked. “I couldn’t help but notice the books.”

“The message is intended for you, not anyone else,” I said, not wanting to lie.

She picked up Floral Poetry and the Language of Flowers and thumbed through it, biting her lower lip. “I don’t need a dictionary. I learned the language of flowers when I was a girl. I used to pick wildflowers on the moors. Once I made a whole story out of them, pressing them into a book in the proper order to tell the tale of a young maiden who won the love of a handsome prince. When Frank started to court me—” She stopped and closed her eyes. “I should have known that such happiness would never be possible for someone like me.”

“We all deserve happiness, Miss Fletcher.”

She pulled the rosemary from the vase and laid it in front of her on the table. “It’s as if Frank is telling our story, one that starts with remembrance, of happy days, picnics under an oak tree, a blanket dappled with sunlight, food that tastes better when eaten outside. But then came farewell.” She reached for the Michaelmas daisy and then the red poppy. “He should know there could be no consolation for that. Extinguished hopes and sorrowful regret, I know all too well.” She removed the convolvulus major and the blue-bells from the vase and placed them next to the others on the table, her eyes filling with tears.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching for her hand. She pulled it away and brushed a tear from her cheek.

“I understand the meaning of the begonia all too well, but could he really believe that any deformity would turn me away from him? Does he think my love so feeble?” She left the pink blossom in the vase, but picked up the butterfly weed and the wild licorice. “He tells me my presence softens his pain, yet begs me to let him go? I had already let him go, Lady Emily. He would know that. It’s been a year. If he hadn’t included the licorice, I’d take him at his word, but as he did . . .” She looked up at me. “Is he here? Is that who Mr. Hargreaves carried upstairs?”

“You saw that?” I asked.

“No, Henry reported on it. There’s nothing in this house that escapes his notice,” she said. “Frank isn’t dead, is he?”

“No, Miss Fletcher, he isn’t.”

“I never dared hope, but these flowers . . . Frank had always wanted to learn woodcarving, but soldiering left no time for the pursuit. I assume he was wounded, badly enough that lengthy recuperation allowed him to study a handicraft.” She paused and looked at me. “Will you take me to him?”

Her dark blue eyes were so clear, devoid of all doubt. Truly, it was a wonder to behold. It was as if the bond between them allowed her to understand what he had suffered and how it was possible that he was still alive without the slightest question.

“He is here,” I said, “but he is in terrible condition and cannot bear the thought of anyone seeing him, even you.”

“He always was a stubborn fool,” she replied. She smiled and her eyes flashed. “Set in his ways, always convinced he knows what’s best for everyone around him. It’s time I set him straight on that count. Where is he?”

“I promised him I wouldn’t tell.”

“Did you promise to physically restrain anyone who tried to find him?”

I was taken aback by the strength she now exhibited. Gone was the shy girl who spoke in whispers. “No, I did not promise that.” I wanted to smile, wanted there to be joy in their reunion. “I must warn you, Miss Fletcher, his injuries left his face diabolically ruined. It is a difficult thing to see.”

“Beneath whatever scars he has lies the man I love, the only man who ever bothered to see beneath my homely surface. Can he think I would be so shallow as to care about anything beyond the fact that he lives?” She ran to the door, flung it open, and flew up the stairs. I followed her and nodded in the direction of the wing that contained the room in which Corporal Spencer lay. From there, she could plainly see a tray on the carpet outside one of the doors. It had still been in the room when I left, its bowl long empty of broth. Colin, who had gone back to sit with the young man when I went in search of Miss Fletcher, must have placed it there, a makeshift beacon to help her find the man she loved.

She threw open the door with such force that it crashed against the wall. “You dreadful fool,” she said, storming toward the bed. Her fiancé dove under the blankets, but she pulled them away, not flinching one bit as she gazed upon his ruined face. “I am mortally offended that you would think any injury would keep me from wanting to be your wife. I am no vapid girl, unaware of the dangers of war, caught up in the romance of winning a soldier’s heart. I love you, Frank Spencer, and if your regard for me is not strong enough to see that, I shall gladly return your ring and forever wonder how I could have been so deceived regarding your character. You alone, of all the people I know, could always see the essence of those around him. Appearance never mattered to you. Perhaps because you were so handsome.”

“I’m not now.” His voice trembled and he would not meet her eyes.

“That will make a nice change, won’t it? I won’t have to keep hearing whispers about how I’m not pretty enough for you. No more idle gossip about what I must have done to ensnare you.”

“No one ever doubted my devotion to you, Julia.”

“Until now, and I’m the one doubting it,” she said. “I know that none of this can be easy for you, and I vow that I will stand by your side and help you find your way in the world again, but not before you apologize for hurting me so deeply by not having faith in my love for you.”

“How can you bear to look at me? No one can. I tried, I did, to come back to you. After I was wounded, I was left for dead on the battlefield, but a local family rescued me. Their daughter had fallen in love with a British soldier, so they were not wholly unsympathetic to our cause. They nursed me until they could get me to a doctor and when I was recovered enough, I made my way back to England. The army did not know I had survived and it was easier to travel on my own than find the remains of my unit,” Spencer explained. “I learned the art of woodcarving during my infirmity and made you the flowers. I wanted to give them to you myself on Christmas morning, even though I was terrified at how you might react to the sight of my scars. I had nearly reached Dunsford Vale, coming by foot from the railway station at Melton Carbury, when I stopped for a rest. I sat against a tree and was half-asleep when a group of boys from the village stumbled upon me. It was twilight, and they were exposed to the bad side of my face, which must have looked even worse in the half-dark. They started screaming and ran. I knew then that I could not encumber you with my presence. I left the main road and took shelter in a cave—you know the one, Mr. Hargreaves, you were there after I fled from it. I watched from the shadows while you and the others searched for me.”

“Did you steal sheep from Wibberley?” Colin asked.

“Only one, and I have every intention of paying him for it. I was desperate for food. For a few days I had managed with what I could get by slipping into my old friend’s cottages, but I stopped when I overheard them talking about the barghest. I realized then that I could stay longer—just a little longer—if I could make everyone believe in the creature. It’s not difficult to capitalize on people’s fears. After I stole some meat pies, I heard the children in the house shrieking. After they’d gone, I lit a fire to burn the ground, knowing that would lend credence to the story of the barghest, and doing so made it possible for me to see you, Julia, just a few more times. I only wanted to know for myself that you were all right. I had heard about your father and was desperately worried about you.”

“Then you should have knocked on my door, married me, and taken care of me, as you promised you would when I accepted your proposal,” Miss Fletcher said. Her tone was not so severe as it had been before. “Was it you I saw outside my window?”

“That was the final blow,” he said. “It was dark, so I could see you better than you could see me, but the terror on your face when you beheld mine . . .”

“You were bathed in shadow. I didn’t see your scars, only a dark figure where one shouldn’t have been. Of course I was terrified, you foolish man.”

“Can you forgive me?” He still had not looked her in the eyes.

“Probably.” She took his hand. He pulled it away. “But not if you won’t let me touch you. And not if you won’t look at me.”

Slowly, very slowly, he reached for her hand and held it. He raised his good eye to her face. “Can you still love me?”

She bent over and kissed him on his scarred cheek. “Forever.”

“That’s our cue to retreat,” Colin said.

“How can I ever thank you both?” Corporal Spencer asked. “I was ready to die, cold and alone, and would have done so if you and your husband had not come for me.”

“All part of the service,” Colin replied. “Any decent landlord would have done the same.”

“Would you do us one more kindness?” Miss Fletcher asked, not taking her eyes off her fiancé. “I want to be married tomorrow, on Christmas Day. Do you think Reverend Blount would object?”

“I shall move heaven and earth to get you a special license,” Colin said. “If you’re sure that’s what you both desire.”

“I won’t pretend it’s an easy road we have before us,” Corporal Spencer said, “but I will not let my Julia down again. If you are certain, my dear girl, that you still want to be my wife, nothing could bring me greater happiness.”

“Then there’s nothing more to discuss,” Miss Fletcher replied.

SIX

They were married the next morning in the chapel at Anglemore Park. Reverend Blount delighted to preside, and all the residents of Dunsford Vale attended. Yes, they all stared at the groom, but once they got past their initial horror, it became clear that, eventually, his battered face would give none of them pause. More important, though, was that they showed Corporal Spencer they did not pity him. That was evident after the ceremony, when the newlyweds entered the Great Hall, which was decorated for Christmas with a tree and countless candles and prepared by our staff for a makeshift wedding party.

“Spencer, you rascal, you always did know how to come out on top,” Mr. Wibberley said. “Even with a face like that you get the finest lass in the village—and manage, in the process, to show us all just what a catch she is.”

“I still owe you for that sheep,” the groom replied.

“Consider it a wedding gift.” Mr. Wibberley clapped him on the back. “Looking like a monster, as you do, you need all the help you can get.” They both laughed, knowing that the more an Englishman insults you, the better he likes you.

“But what about the other sheep, the one so horribly brutalized?” Mrs. Wibberley said, clinging to her husband’s arm. “Frank swears he didn’t touch it, and I’m not one to doubt his word. If there’s no barghest in Dunsford Vale, there’s something even more sinister, taking down our livestock.”

Richard, the book of English legends tucked under his arm, approached the farmer’s wife and gave her a little bow. “I have several theories, Mrs. Wibberley, and would very much like to discuss them with you. Barghests are not the only mysterious creatures in Derbyshire capable of such violence. You are better acquainted with the area than I, due to the difference in our ages, and I would appreciate your wisdom and insight.” With a hearty laugh, she let the little boy lead her to a quiet corner to discuss the possibilities.

Colin and I watched from one of the arched doorways beneath the elaborate Elizabethan screen that reached almost to the ceiling of the hall. “A happy conclusion,” he said, slipping his arm around my waist and pulling me close. “And one that I would never have anticipated. Your faith in humanity is greater than mine.”

“Nonsense. It’s just that I haven’t quite managed to erase every last trace of what you were taught about the gentler sex over the course of your lifetime. We aren’t so fragile as you men are led to believe.”

“This is more than just that. It’s not about gender or society or anything so trite. It is love, Emily, love strong enough to overcome whatever is thrown in its path, so long as neither party loses faith in it.” His eyes searched mine. “Promise me you will never lose faith in ours, no matter what tribulations we face.”

“I’ve promised you before and will happily promise you again.”

“There are times in my work, when I worry—”

I silenced him with a kiss. “I worry as well, but we are here, now, together, and it’s Christmas. Today is not the time for angst and borrowed trouble.”

“My dearest love, I could not adore you more.” He kissed me back, but I pulled away.

“I assure you I return the sentiment in kind, but kissing me like that is wholly inappropriate in front of your tenants. Whatever shall they think?”

“I couldn’t care less.” He kissed me again, stopping only when he realized the villagers had started to cheer.

“There, there, Mr. Hargreaves! This isn’t your wedding,” Miss Barker said. “You’ll set tongues a-wagging if you keep that up, and poor Lady Emily doesn’t need that sort of gossip. A husband so in love with his wife, and after all these years. I never would have thought to see it.”

“Do forgive me, Miss Barker,” he said. “I never meant to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

“I shall be keeping a close eye on you, sir,” she said.

“I would expect nothing less.”

Excerpt: Uneasy Lies the Crown

Keep reading for a sneak peek of

UNEASY LIES THE CROWN

By Tasha Alexander

Coming in October 2018 from Minotaur Books

17 January 1901

17 January 1901

Osborne House, Isle of Wight

The stench of death already clung to the salmon pink walls of Queen Victoria’s bedroom; it assaulted Colin Hargreaves the moment the footman opened the massive oak doors. Not death, he corrected himself, but dying, when musty decay had not quite given way to the cloying foul rot soon to come. He hesitated for a moment, not because of shock at seeing how small Her Majesty looked, as if a child had been placed in a formidable marriage bed, but because the odor sent him reeling as he remembered the first time he had smelled it, on a snowy afternoon at Anglemore Park. He was home for Christmas during his first year at Eton and had found his grandfather in the library. The old man, sitting in his favorite high-backed leather chair, read aloud from Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur until Nanny came to fetch him for supper. Colin had noticed the odd scent, but didn’t think anything of it until the next morning, when his father delivered the news that Grandfather had died overnight. He smelled it again when he was summoned home from Cambridge to his father’s sickbed. Then, too, for just an instant, he had felt like a schoolboy stunned by his first loss.

He shook off the feeling and approached the queen. Her enormous bed faced windows with a sweeping view of the countryside, a stark contrast to the paintings on the walls, nearly all of which depicted religious subjects. She was sitting, propped up by pillows, beneath a favorite portrait of her long-dead husband and a memorial wreath. Her eyes, dull, stared ahead, and he wondered if she knew he had entered the room.

“Your Majesty,” he said, his voice low as he bowed. “You asked to see me.”

She managed a half smile and nodded. “There are things I would like to settle, but I fear I shall not be given enough time to accomplish them all.” She coughed, cleared her throat, and motioned for him to give her the glass of water sitting on her bedside table. He held it to her lips as she drank, swallowing with difficulty. “One never knows, does one, what shall happen in the end? My dear Albert . . .”

Sir James Reid, her physician, standing on the other side of the canopied bed, met Colin’s eyes and shook his head, exhaustion and worry writ on his face.

“How can I assist, ma’am?” Colin asked.

“So much, so much to be done,” she said. “And the dogs . . . I do not see them. Are they here?”

“No, ma’am, they are not,” Sir James said. “Shall I have them brought to you?”

“Why are you here?” Her voice, though weak, grated with a tone of scathing disapproval. “We are not in need of your services. I must speak to Mr. Hargreaves privately. Disperse.” Sir James shot Colin a pointed look and left the room. When she heard the doors close, the queen pushed herself up on the mountain of pillows. “It is too much to be borne. The loss of Lady Churchill . . .” Her voice faded and she stared out the windows. A lady of the bedchamber for nearly fifty years, Lady Jane had long been one of the queen’s closest confidantes. Keenly aware that learning of her death, on Christmas Day less than a month ago, would come as a tragic blow to the already ailing monarch, Sir James had done his best to deliver the news gradually, trying to shield her majesty from suffering the shock all at once.

“It was devastating to lose her,” Colin said. “I know she was a dear friend—”

“That is of no significance now,” she said. “No death matters but that of Albert.” Her eyes clouded. She raised a hand, its skin yellowing and dry. “Nothing has been right since then, and now I am left to summon you and demand a service that only you can provide.”

“Of course, ma’am, whatever you need.” He shifted on his feet, wishing he had been able to speak to the doctor before seeing the queen so that he might better understand her condition.

“Take this and do as it says.” She pulled an envelope from under her pillow and handed it to him. “All will be clear in time. We need you for this. There can be no one else. I had five others during my reign, but he will need no one save you. He’s never been so strong as I.” She dropped back onto the pillows, the effort of holding up her head too much. “I shall not see you again, Mr. Hargreaves, but I have always valued your service above all others and thank you for your devotion to the Crown.” She lifted her hand again, holding it up as if to be kissed, but lowered it almost at once. “Tell no one of this meeting, of what we have discussed. Discretion is of the upmost importance, as you shall know when you read my note. Albert would concur, and will, I am sure. Have you seen him of late? He is such a fine gentleman.”

“The finest, ma’am,” Colin said, seeing no reason to acknowledge her confusion.

“That is all,” she said, her voice so low he could hardly make out her words. “Disperse, Mr. Hargreaves, with our thanks.”

He did as ordered and found Sir James waiting in the corridor outside. “She has been struggling since December and is growing more muddled by the day,” the doctor said. “I fear she does not have long. No one but the family and the household here knows of her illness yet. I trust I can rely on you to keep what you have seen to yourself?”

“Of course.”

“Soon enough we shall have to notify the press,” he continued, “but I should like to delay that while I can.”

“Understood,” Colin said. “If I can be of any further service, you need only ask.” He took his leave from the physician and retired to an empty sitting room, where he opened the queen’s envelope, ready to follow her instructions, but the words scrawled on heavy linen paper inside did nothing to illuminate her desires:

Une sanz pluis.

Sapere aude.

One and no more.

Dare to know.

ONE

ONE

1901

The death of Queen Victoria stunned the nation, myself included, although I cannot claim to have suffered a personal blow from the loss. My mother, who had served Her Majesty as a lady-in-waiting, mourned and keened (more than strictly necessary, I suspect, but she wanted no one in doubt of her close relationship with the monarch), while I sat shocked as my husband, Colin Hargreaves, delivered the news. He had seen her at Osborne House only five days before her demise, and although I had surmised her to be ill, it had never occurred to me that she might be near death. Colin, always the sole of discretion, had revealed nothing about the meeting. The truth is, because she had been queen for so long, was such a formidable personality, and had survived eight assassination attempts, part of me believed she would never quit the mortal world.

But she did, as we all must, and I sat with my parents on a special train from London to Windsor, en route to the funeral service. Colin, who would be walking in the procession to St. George’s Chapel, was on another train altogether. My mother, her eyes red behind her crêpe veil, would accept no words of consolation, so my father, long immune to the glares of his spouse, dedicated himself to rereading Mr. Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities until we were ushered off the train into flower-filled waiting rooms at Windsor Station to await the carriages that would carry us to the castle. The crush of people in the small town was like nothing I had ever seen. Boys climbed fences and lampposts to get a glimpse of the gun carriage pulling the royal coffin, draped in a white pall, with the Imperial Crown, Orb, Sceptre, and the Collar of the Order of the Garter on top of it. Crowds, ominously silent, lined the streets, every person dressed in black, all the men wearing wide crêpe armbands. The only sounds were those of the horses’ hooves clattering and their harnesses jingling.

We reached the grounds of the castle, and hence the chapel, long before the procession, which wound slowly through town. Inside, we mourners sat, not speaking, all but afraid to move and disturb the sanctity of the place. For a while, at least. There was so little heat that before long we were all too focused on keeping our teeth from chattering to think about anything else. By the time Colin slipped into the seat next to me, I was half-frozen. It seemed that an eternity passed before the pallbearers carried the coffin to the choir and the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Winchester presided over a thankfully short service. After the final notes of Beethoven’s Funeral March rang from the organ, we joined no fewer than six hundred other guests for lunch in St. George’s Hall. The somber occasion had left everyone preternaturally quiet, but we were not dining with the royal family or those closest to the queen, and by the time the second course arrived, conversation had returned to normal. Only a handful of people in the room could remember a monarch other than Queen Victoria; all of us would have trouble getting used to King Edward VII.

I had just leaned over to my husband to ask him what he thought of the profligate Bertie now having such a grand title, when a member of the Household Cavalry approached, bent down, and whispered something to him. Colin’s face grew serious, his dark eyes flashed.

“There’s been a murder in the Tower,” he said, folding his napkin neatly and placing it next to his plate. “I must return to London at once.”

* * *

A murder in the Tower of London! I must confess the idea sent a thrilling little shiver down my spine. The Tower loomed large in the imaginations of every child growing up in England, and as the young (my own three boys included) are inexplicably drawn to hideous and ghastly tales of ghosts and violence, there was no place that could better satisfy their cravings for such things. I thought of the poor little princes, sons of Edward IV, who went into the Tower never to return. Had their uncle Richard III murdered them? Personally, I suspect not, but that is a topic for another day. When we took our boys to the Tower for the first time, Henry insisted that he could hear the ghost of Margaret de la Pole shrieking as we approached the site of the scaffold where she had been executed. And who has not heard it said that a hooded figure, missing her head, is often seen wandering in the chapel where Anne Boleyn is buried? I could not help but succumb to a touch of juvenile titillation at the thought of a new murder at the Tower. Would this incident enter into the lexicon of legend?

My husband and I are no strangers to violent crime. He, as an agent of the Crown (and a particular favorite of the late queen’s), was called upon to serve in countless investigations that, as he often said, required more than a modicum of discretion. I had proven myself a capable detective on numerous occasions, and whenever possible, we worked together. When he was acting in his official capacity, it was more difficult for me to contribute, but I am never deterred by an arduous path. And an arduous path was precisely what I faced that afternoon.

To start, Colin murmured that there was no need for me to accompany him to London, but as I knew he would never be so gauche as to argue at a funeral luncheon, I insisted on boarding the train with him. A lively discussion ensued until we reached Paddington Station, by which point he admitted defeat and abandoned all attempts to dissuade me from going to the Tower. I cannot credit my powers of persuasion for his decision; more likely it resulted from exhaustion. He hadn’t slept more than ten hours total since the queen’s death and was nodding off for much of our journey, becoming fully alert only as we alighted at the medieval fortress.

Like all the flags in the country, those at the Tower flew at half-mast. We approached the sturdy outer wall and met a yeoman warder who ushered us in through Lion Gate, devoid of its usual swarms of tourists as the site was closed due to the queen’s funeral. Once inside, he led us past the Bell Tower, with its oddly placed small white turret at the top, containing, appropriately, a bell. My attention then turned to the stark face of Traitors’ Gate and I felt the skin on my neck prickle, the sensation disappearing only as we approached Wakefield Tower. Built by Henry III in the thirteenth century, its thick stone walls—the second tallest in the fortress—were designed to safely house the king and his family. No longer a royal residence, it now held the Crown Jewels. Had the murderer’s victim been slain in an attempt to steal them?

Yes, once again, the romance of the Tower was getting the best of me. But who could resist? The timing was almost perfect for such an audacious heist; the royal funeral had distracted all of Britain. Yet an ambitious thief would be unwilling to miss the prizes of the collection, particularly the Imperial Crown, currently sitting atop the queen’s coffin. I was about to voice this to Colin when I realized we were going not to the room that held the jewels, but instead to the modest chantry chapel originally intended as a private place of worship for medieval kings.

There, on the ancient brown tiles covering the floor, knelt a man dressed in black tights, a black tunic with white trim, and a matching hat. His hands were folded as if in prayer, his legs neatly together behind him, but his position was at odds with the expression on his face. His gray eyes were open wide and his mouth gaped in what looked like a silent, terror-filled scream.

He was dead, of that there could be no question. A sword stuck in his chest, penetrating all the way through his back, but no blood pooled around his body. That he remained upright rather than sprawled on the ground seemed inconceivable until my husband revealed thin wooden posts constructed to form a sort of frame and hidden by the tunic and tights. Fishing line held his arms and hands in place.

Colin crouched to examine the sword. “It’s late fifteenth century. The sort we’re led to believe would have been used to kill Henry VI—”

“Who was stabbed to death in this very room,” I finished for him. “And our victim is dressed in an outfit nearly identical to that the king is depicted wearing in the painting at the National Portrait Gallery.”

“Yes.” He rose and paced the perimeter of the chapel. “I recall the hat in particular.”

“Do we have any idea who he is?”

“Not as yet,” Colin said. “The police are checking missing person reports.”

I nodded. How awful that his family had no idea that their loved one was lying here, dead. “There’s too little blood for the crime to have been committed here,” I said.

“And we’ve found none elsewhere,” the yeoman warder said. “Madam, I must warn you that when Scotland Yard arrive they’ll insist you leave. I shouldn’t have allowed you to enter in the first place. The inspector is rather touchy.”

“I am all too aware of the limitations of Scotland Yard,” I said, “but thank you for the warning.” I smiled at him. One never knows when an individual may prove helpful in an investigation, particularly in those from which one is—theoretically—banned from participating.

Colin glanced at me, raised an eyebrow, and then turned back to the guard, inquiring as to whether he or his colleagues had noticed anything unusual during the course of the day. The yeoman warder admitted that they had all been affected by the queen’s death, but was adamant that no one had been derelict in his duties. The warden had increased surveillance of Wakefield Tower as a precaution against anyone viewing the occasion of the funeral as an opportunity to make off with the Crown Jewels.

We combed every inch of the structure but unearthed nothing we could consider a clue. I was about to suggest interviewing the wives and children of the guards who lived in the Tower—they might have noticed something out of the ordinary their husbands had not considered significant, like an unfamiliar tradesman delivering goods—but was stopped by the arrival of a humorless man from Scotland Yard. He introduced himself as Inspector Gale and ordered me from the room with little ceremony, explaining in cursory fashion that the interference of a lady would not be welcomed by His Majesty.

Rather than engage in a fruitless argument, I retreated with uncharacteristic silence; I saw no sense in antagonizing Inspector Gale. At least not yet. Outside of the fortress, I marched to the banks of the Thames. Obviously, the crime had not taken place in the chapel, and I suspected the murderer had brought his victim’s body from outside the Tower. Unless he was one of the guards—a possibility I could not eliminate—but as I could not investigate inside, I was forced to explore other options. I followed the river until I found a man, rather scruffy, with a rowboat and offered him a not quite princely sum to take me for a little excursion on the river. He hesitated at first when I told him my destination, but, as I had hoped, the money was too good to ignore.

The boat bobbed as I stepped off the dingy pier to which he had tied it, but I managed to steady myself and avoid falling into the filthy-looking water. Our journey was a short one, to the most notorious of all entrances to the Tower, Traitors’ Gate, through which had passed countless prisoners on their way to execution at Tower Green. I thought of Thomas More and Anne Boleyn coming this way, beneath London Bridge with its severed heads on pikes serving as reminders of what lay in store for them. I considered the tragic story of Lady Jane Grey, the sixteen-year-old queen, whose reign lasted a mere nine days, and whose execution led many to consider her a martyr.

But once again, the Tower was leading me astray. I could not allow myself to become mired in history, however tempting it might be. Today another man had died, and I suspected that he, too, had entered the Tower through Traitors’ Gate. The boat churned in the water, fighting the rising tide. I asked the man to row closer, until I realized my mistake. Although the words “Entry to the Traitors’ Gate” were painted clearly above the arch marking the space, the gate itself had been bricked up, probably in the middle of the previous century during the construction of the Thames Embankment. It was a blow. I had never noticed the alteration during previous visits to the Tower, where Beefeater tour guides always pointed out the notorious place. From the inside, it was not so easy to tell there was no access to the river.

A voice cut through the cold air and I looked up to see Inspector Gale standing on the rampart above. “Lady Emily, I must insist that you stop meddling. This investigation will be treated with the utmost sensitivity and I shall not tolerate any interference. Return home at once or the king will have words with your husband.”

Frowning, I ignored him, continuing my study of the brickwork near the top of the arch. Traitors’ Gate might no longer be an easy way into the Tower, but the fortress held many secrets, not to mention many entrances. Some might now be sealed, but were there any, long forgotten, that might provide a vicious criminal with a path into this place that once protected kings?

Author photograph courtesy of Charles Osgood

TASHA ALEXANDER is the bestselling author of the Lady Emily mystery series. The daughter of two philosophy professors, she studied English Literature and Medieval History at the University of Notre Dame. She and her husband, novelist Andrew Grant, live on a ranch in southeastern Wyoming.

Visit her website at www.tashaalexander.com.

You can sign up for email updates here.

Also by Tasha Alexander

Death in St. Petersburg

A Terrible Beauty

The Adventuress

The Counterfeit Heiress

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Death in the Floating City

A Crimson Warning

Dangerous to Know

Tears of Pearl

A Fatal Waltz

A Poisoned Season

And Only to Deceive

Elizabeth: The Golden Age

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Copyright Page

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

AMID THE WINTER’S SNOW. Copyright © 2018 by Tasha Alexander. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

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Cover photograph: Victoria Drive/Towner Art Gallery, Eastbourne, East Sussex, UK/Bridgeman Images

ISBN 978-1-250-21300-6 (ebook)

First Edition: October 2018

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