Usually Diana enjoyed the winter storms, loving the solitude and peace of the high moors when the weather was too harsh for trips to the village. It made her feel safe, for if the inhabitants of the cottage could not get out, surely no dangers could get in. Security was a fair compensation for the lonely simplicity of life in this remote corner of Yorkshire.
Diana brewed herself a cup of tea and sat down to savor the solitude. The third member of the household, Edith Brown, was suffering from a heavy winter cold and Diana had packed her off to bed for a rest before supper.
Edith was officially housekeeper, but she was equally friend and teacher. The women shared all the tasks of the household, from cooking and milking to child-rearing.
There was no need for Diana to rush to the milking. Apart from that and a little mending, there were no other chores and she would be free to spend the evening reading or quietly playing the piano.
The prospect should have pleased her, but tonight she felt restless without understanding why. The solid gray stone walls had stood firm against the wind for over two hundred years, and there was food and fuel enough for weeks if need be.
Yet still she found herself crossing to the window to gaze out, seeing only whirling snowflakes. Absently brushing strands of dark chestnut hair from her face, she tried to analyze her deep sense of unease. Over the years she had learned that such feelings could be ignored only at her peril. The last time she had felt a warning this strong, Geoffrey had been two years old. Diana had thought he was napping, and then blind panic had driven her frantically from the house barely in time to pull her son from the stream where he had crept out to play, and where he had slipped into a drowning pool.
Just remembering the incident made her heart beat more quickly, and she made herself sit down again in her Windsor chair by the fire. Closing her eyes and relaxing, she tried to analyze what she felt, patiently sorting out the threads of concern for Edith and Geoffrey and the other minor worries of daily life. What was left was a hazy, unfamiliar perception that she was hard-pressed to name. It wasn’t danger that approached; she was sure nothing threatened her small household.
But she felt in her bones that something, or someone, was coming with the storm. Diana’s fingers tightened around each other, and she forced herself once more to relax. In a flash of intuition she realized that what approached was something she both feared and welcomed: change.
* * *
Madeline Gainford had been born and bred here on the rooftop of England, but she’d forgotten how bitterly the wind blew. She had been only seventeen when she left, and her blood had pulsed with the fires of youth.
Now she was past forty, and when the carter had set her down on the small village common of Cleveden, her home village looked strange to her. Yet Cleveden itself had changed very little. The differences were all in her.
The cart had been nearly full and the driver allowed her to bring only the small soft bag now slung over her shoulder. She had left her trunk at an inn in Leyburn, not wanting to wait for different transport because the coming storm might have trapped her for days among strangers. And more than anything else on earth, Madeline had wanted to die among friends.
She pulled her fur-lined cloak tightly around her as if she could blot out the aching unpleasantness of the interview she had just had with her widowed sister. They had been friends once, until Madeline had left home in disgrace. The occasional letters the two women exchanged had been terse and to the point, but Madeline thought she had sent back enough money over the years to buy a welcome back into her family home. Isabel had been widowed early, and had it not been for the funds Madeline sent, it would have been hard times for her and her four children.
When Isabel opened the door, her body had stiffened at the sight of her younger sister, her expression of surprise quickly followed by anger and disgust. In a few vicious sentences, Isabel Wolfe had made it clear that while she had graciously accepted her sister’s conscience money, she would not let her children be corrupted by having a whore under her own roof.
Her last bitter words still rang in Madeline’s ears:You made your own bed, and a whole legion of men have lain in it.
Madeline would not have thought words could hurt so much, but then, she had never been called a whore by her own sister. Only now that the hope was gone did she realize how much she had counted on finding refuge here. Her despair and pain were so great that she might have crumpled to the ground where she stood if the impulse to escape had not been stronger.
Shelter could be bought in one of the other cottages, but there was no point to it, no point at all. Why buy a few more months of increasingly painful life surrounded by disapproving strangers?
Slinging the strap of her bag across her shoulder, Madeline continued walking uphill along the rough track that followed the stream to the top of the dale. As a child she had followed this path when she could escape her chores, finding empty dells where she could dream of a world beyond Cleveden. It was only fitting that she escape along this track for the last time.
The wind sharpened outside the shelter of the cottages, and icy snowflakes bit her face before whirling down to whiten the ground. Though it was almost dark, the meager available light diffused through the snow to lend a soft glow to her progress. In spite of the years that had passed, Madeline recognized the moist heaviness of air that heralded a major blizzard, the kind that could cut off the high country for days or weeks.
Madeline had heard that freezing was a painless way to die, though she wondered who had come back from the grave to recommend it. The thought produced a faint smile and she was glad that a ghost of humor was left to her. It had been foolish to hope Isabel would be different than she was, and Madeline had no strength left for recriminations.
It was surprising how far she was able to walk before fatigue finally stopped her in the protection of one of the few stubby trees, her tired body slowly sinking to the ground. She could have chosen a tree nearer the village, but she had always preferred action to waiting, and even now that was true.
The snow was beginning to drift, and its silence was as pure as she remembered from childhood. The warm, heavy folds of her cloak cushioned the hard earth. She had missed the snow. There was little in London, and it never stayed clean for long. And of course London was never quiet.
Resting her back against the tree trunk, Madeline closed her eyes against the night and wondered how long it would be until she fell into the final sleep. One was supposed to see scenes from one’s life when dying, but mostly she thought of Nicholas. In her mind she could see the hurt and the anger that would have been etched on his thin face when he discovered that she was gone.
He would attempt to find her, but apart from her lawyer, no one knew where she had gone, or even where she had come from in the beginning. A courtesan never burdened her protector with the mundane details of childhood.
For the first time she felt tears on her face, icy in the bitter wind. There had been more than business between her and Nicholas or she would not have gone away. But if she had stayed in London, he would never let her dismiss him, and she had her pride. The thought of him watching her waste away, losing what remnants of beauty she had, was unbearable.
Nicholas might have abandoned her, which would have hurt dreadfully. Much more likely, he would have remained with her to the end. The agony on his face would have multiplied her own hurt. Far worse would be knowing the intolerably high price he would be paying to watch his mistress die. Loving him, she could not ask that he pay it.
Her breath escaped in a sob and Madeline pressed a hand to her breast, uncertain whether the pain there was physical or emotional. The lump was hard under her fingers and she dropped her hand, unwilling to feel the alien growth that was eating her life away. Soon it would no longer matter whether the pain was in her body or in her spirit.
Only the soughing wind broke the silence, and there was all the peace one could wish for. Her dark blue cloak was now frosted with white and she wondered absently if anyone would find the pouch of jewels and gold slung under her dress, or whether animals would scatter her bones first.
Better that a needy person find her treasure trove and use it than have it go to Isabel. After all, Madeline thought with dry amusement, she didn’t want to corrupt her sister any more than she already had.
There was a certain poetry in the image of the ravaged beauty dying peacefully alone in the snow. It was one of life’s anticlimaxes, that as the long minutes passed and strength returned, Madeline found she wasn’t ready to die just yet. Had she been the sort to give up easily, she would have died in a workhouse before she was twenty. Waiting for death turned out to be a bloody boring business, and she had never welcomed boredom.
