He walked to the hearth, bent low, then nodded. “There’s ash here, and it isn’t ancient.” He peered as far up the chimney as he could, and moved the damper, backing away as he did so, just in case. “No debris stuck up there either. I think we can risk it.” He looked around. “We have to risk it. It’s getting damn cold.”
“Well, if we can build a fire, that will go a long way to warming things up.” She surveyed the room. “The curtains are old, but sturdy, and I’m happy to say I see no signs of other residents.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Mice.”
“Ah.”
A sound behind them made them both jump, and a pair of shining eyes sparked a gasp in Harriet’s throat.
“Meow.”
She heaved a breath of relief. “Well that explains that. Hullo, little one. Thank you for keeping the house clean.”
The cat disappeared, as cats are wont to do, and Paul chuckled. “Very smart to leave a cat on guard. Now. Let’s see if the kitchen works.”
They continued their investigations, pleased to discover that the basics for a comfortable evening were at hand.
There was a pump in the kitchen, and only a few steps to an attached outhouse.
Fresh water was welcome, and when a cache of candles was discovered, they happily illuminated both kitchen and parlor.
Paul made good on his promise to light fires, starting up the stove with ease, thanks to dry kindling and several large logs tucked in one corner. Then he announced he’d see to their horses, and bring in their meager baggage.
Harriet found a kettle and a little tea, so although there was no milk, they could have something warm to drink when he returned.
All things considered, it had been better than she’d expected, and as she settled onto “her” sofa and tucked her cloak snugly around her, she said as much to Paul.
“This is a lot better than it could have been, isn’t it?” She stared into the glowing fire.
“Yes, indeed. The stables are sturdy and intact, as one would expect for a hunting box, and there’s hay there. I think there may be a paddock…I’ll check in the morning to see if we can turn them out to graze for a bit. We are quite lucky,” Paul yawned. “Let’s hope it holds.”
She nodded. “We need to stock the pantry, of course. And I suppose we need to make sure our story coincides, because if the villagers of Pineneedle Drift are anywhere near as nosy as those of Ridlington Vale, they’ll be on us like a pack of hounds scenting a fox.”
“Well put,” he answered. “But I think we’ll be all right. If we just keep telling them that we’re servants, and we don’t know who our master—that’s Mr. Jonathan Inchworthy, remember—is inviting down for a hunting party, they should accept that without much question.”
Harriet nodded and pushed at the cushion beneath her head. “I hope so.”
“Best say we’re from London,” he added, his voice thoughtful. “Looking to get away from the dirt and hustle.”
“Agreed,” she said, warmth seeping through her. “Do we know anything about these guests you said might arrive soon?”
“Not a thing, I’m afraid. The whole matter was conducted by mail, and I have a horrid feeling one or two letters might have been lost on the way. All I know is that a small party wished to spend Christmas out of town, for whatever reason. They’ll be leaving after Boxing day, I believe.” He yawned. “We’ll worry about it tomorrow.”
A comfortable silence ensued, broken only by the popping of the logs on the fire. The room glowed gold, the flames flickering oddly over the carved cornices.
She jumped a little as something landed on her feet, but the ensuing tiny meow and kneading sensation on her cloak reassured her it was only the cat joining them in the warmth.
“You need a name,” she murmured.
“Paul,” muttered a sleepy voice.
“The cat, silly…”
A snore was the only response. And it was a comforting sound that lulled both Harriet and her feline bedmate into a sound sleep.
