Page 17 of The Betrothal

The food I had brought was now meticulously packed away into my duffel, which was pushing its limits, and decidedly too heavy, but I’d be drinking some of the water over the day. And it was only one day.

Dithering slightly as I locked up the property. Soph’s keys.

Do I leave them inside the cottage? Or inside the car? Thanking the Lord that she despised technology enough to have an old car which didn’t auto lock, I replaced them where I found them – in the visor.

Discomfort rolled over me at the thought of the questions Soph would be asked. I had her car, at a cottage I wasn’t meant to be at, and I was going to be in the wind, with any luck.

She’d look complicit.

But this was her suggestion.

I steeled myself. Soph was the most resilient person I knew. She knew what was happening.

Emerging from the porch, the wind hammered me and I immediately gasped, breath lost in the onslaught.

Christ, it was cold!

The hikes, while direct, still travelled over ten miles of relatively rugged terrain, and while I was fit, I worried that I wasn’t ten-miles-in-sub-zero-over-unknown-Kent-terrain fit.

Before tugging on my gloves, I slid my fingers into my inner jacket pocket, gripping the documents and some of the cash I had hidden there, and the tiny scrap of card on which I wrote the only contact number I would ever need.

I had until tomorrow morning to arrive at the hotel in Saint Margaret’s, where a parcel was waiting for me, under my new ‘husband’s’ name, ideally I would arrive there today, stay overnight, and meet Christian at midday.

But if worst came to worst, I had until tomorrow morning to cover the ten miles.

It was doable.

The wind howled, then died down as I pushed through into a thicket of woodland, the weaving hiker trails still mostly visible in the shade of the tree branches, even if they were bare.

Before long I felt the sun coming up, cutting through the sparse canopy, and warming the bitter cold of my cheeks and nose. With no real space for endless amounts of disposable daily contacts, I had opted for my transitions, and I praised that decision as the winter sun blazed, shifting the lenses to a mid-grey, while keeping my eyes more sheltered from the bitter wind.

Gradually the first mile ticked by, then the second, the sun slowly cresting in the sky, still radiating a shallow warmth, and a sheen of sweat covered my skin under the heavy jacket I wore, interrupting the slicing wind as it desperately battered against my body.

Slowly, however, the bright sun dimmed. Until I looked up and it had disappeared entirely, hidden behind thickening grey clouds.

The absence of the heat was immediately palpable, the warmth built up under my layers of clothing absorbed into my skin until it was all but gone, the clothes beginning to feel cool. I tucked my scarf tighter to my neck where the wind attempted to rip it from my body.

The feel of dampness on my cheek followed a whitening of the sky around me and I emerged from the more sheltered part of the hike, now several miles in, and pushing into early afternoon, I checked my surroundings.

The ground was a blanket of white, not frosted white, deepening, fluffy white snow.

Snowflakes twisted and spun, whirled by the endless winds, not thick enough to obstruct my view, I thanked my lucky stars, but becoming a mist between where I stood and the field beyond.

The storm was worsening.

Digging under the jacket sleeve to find my old, tattered watch strap. The one Ester had bought me when we were young. Young enough that my existence didn’t, for some unknown reason, stir her to rage.

My hope sank; it was nearly two. Using my gloved fingers, I began to dig out the printed maps, the hike had passed the thickets, the woods, into the open fields.

This was definitely past mile four, maybe. I should have been well past that by now.

I replayed the hikes. Woods, fields, one main road to cross, follow a small stream on the right, one more stretch of woodlands, then emerge towards the village and the bay would be below me.

The maps clearly showed, first fields, mile four. I needed to pick up the pace.

Trudging forwards, I found I had begun to sink into the snow and the grass underneath, the winter waterlogging the land. Fortunately, I remained dry. The hiking waterproofs over my clothes, and the boots, standing up well in the elements.

The snow was thickening, I was sure it was, the clouds a grey white, or perhaps still grey, the white now the snowfall, which was quickly turning into a blizzard.