As the cold seemed to penetrate his bones, he thought about why he had decided to go to his hunting lodge in the first place. This time of the year—a fortnight before Christmas—and with this much snow on the ground, it certainly wasn’t to hunt. No one would be meeting him there. No servants were scheduled to staff the five-room lodge.
That is where I’m supposed to die.
The thought brought him out of his stupor with a start. No longer sure he was even walking on a road—the white blanket of new-fallen snow under a black canopy created a landscape he had never seen before—he stopped his trudging and slowly turned around in a circle. Surely there must be a light other than the pinpoint diamonds that dotted the sky above. If he hadn’t felt so cold, he might have appreciated the Milky Way.
At least he could find the North Star now. He was fairly sure he was heading in a generally northern direction. Earlier, clouds had hid it, as had the falling snow. The accompanying breeze had made travel even more difficult.
As for how far he had come since leaving the coach, he had no idea. He didn’t even attempt to pull his chronometer from his waistcoat pocket, for it would require him to remove his gloves, and he would lose what little warmth they were providing.
He slowed his turning, sure he had seen something on the horizon. Squinting, he made out a light in the distance and hurried on, the deepening snow preventing him from jogging as he had been doing when he first left the burning coach.
His thoughts went once again to the poor driver. Fredericks had been with the Pendleton dukedom for half a century. To suffer as he had, his heart probably giving out as he continued to drive the horses, seemed a terrible way to die.
Dying in a burning coach would have been far worse, he supposed. An hour ago, he hadn’t welcomed the warmth of the flames. Now he wished he had brought along a piece of the burning coach, or attempted to find one of the coach lanterns. His freezing hands could use the heat, and the lantern would provide some light since the peaches and oranges that had colored the sky only the hour before had given way to an inky blackness that was both infinite and too close for comfort.
Convinced the light on the horizon was growing closer, Thomas picked up the pace, ignoring the gnawing hunger that had begun the hour before. Although he had a scarf wrapped around his neck and most of his clean-shaven face, he was sure his eyelashes sported icicles at their tips.
All at once, the light brightened, dimmed, and brightened again. He slowed his steps. A few more yards and he realized why. The light was coming from beyond a line of perfectly spaced trees.
He nearly collided with a hedgerow encased in a snow blanket, and he followed it until it stopped. From the opening beyond, he paused and stared down a tree-lined lane, the snow-covered branches forming an arch above him that led to several lights.
Lights in windows.
Lots of windows.
Behind his scarf, his face split into a grin of relief.
I’m not going to die on this night.
Given the coverage from the tree branches above, the snow wasn’t nearly as deep as on the road. He hurried along the the crushed granite drive, past a fountain covered with a layer of snow, and to the front entrance.
He was sure his pounding on the massive wooden door would wake the dead, but he didn’t care.
The house promised warmth, and right now, that’s all he wanted.
