Home > Under a Winter Sky(7)

Under a Winter Sky(7)
Author: Kelley Armstrong

She giggles. “No, sir.”

“That poor tree, losing an apple, only to have a little girl snatch it up.” He eyes her. “Was it a delicious apple?”

“Very delicious, sir.”

“Did it have any worms in it?”

She makes a face. “No, sir!”

“Well, then I suppose one could say that if the tree dropped the apple, then it meant for someone to eat it, and if there were no worms inside, then you weren’t stealing their food, so . . .” He looks at the crowd. “Does anyone wish to claim the cost of this fallen apple?”

A few low chuckles drift from the audience.

“Well, then,” William says. “I pardon you, Agatha, for your misdeed.” He taps his scepter to her head. “In recognition of your brave confession, Lady Thorne has a reward for you.”

“Two rewards,” I say, taking a couple of humbugs from my basket. “One from Lord Thorne, and one from myself.”

I pass the girl the peppermint sweets. She curtseys and blushes and can’t quite make eye contact with me, but she smiles shyly before scampering back to her seat.

The procession continues. One child after another confessing to some “misdeed” from the previous year, to be “pardoned” by William. As childhood crimes go, they’re all innocent enough. I’m sure no one who actually did anything seriously wrong would confess it here. In some cases, I also suspect children concoct a “crime” to join the fun and get the candies.

This is certainly not a Victorian tradition I’ve ever heard of. William says it’s very localized and he doesn’t know the origins, only that he’d attended his first as a boy when his grandfather had done the pardoning. I cannot wait to discuss it with Freya, who’s a folklorist and has surely heard of it.

When the official pardoning is over, the festival spills into the village square to allow the hall to be prepared for the luncheon. William and I go out with the others and socialize in the square while admiring the decorations.

When we think of an old-fashioned Christmas, the Victorian model is what comes to mind, mainly because most of our traditions surfaced—or in some cases—resurfaced with Victoria’s reign, many of them borrowed from her husband’s German homeland. Here I’m witnessing what is truly the dawn of the modern British and North American Christmas, and the locals have thrown themselves into the season with typically Victorian abandon, decorating everything in sight.

We’re soon called back into the hall, where what waits is not a luncheon but a veritable feast. Everyone has cooked and baked their family holiday speciality, and as the local nobility, we must try it all to avoid giving offense. Boar’s head. Ham. Roast goose. Sage stuffing. Vegetables cooked in every possible combination. Mincemeat pie. Cranberry pie. So many pies. And, of course, plum pudding. Three plum puddings.

After we dine, it’s back into the square for more socializing. William is off talking with a group of men who farm on his land. I’m chatting with the local schoolmaster and his wife when I notice a young woman trying to catch my attention. It’s Mary, the teenaged seamstress William hires for our wardrobe.

I excuse myself from the young couple and head toward Mary. Even with the square cleared of snow, I need to haul up my long skirts and coat, and by the time I reach her, I’m very aware of exactly how tired I am, but I banish it with a bright smile of genuine warmth.

“Greetings of the season, Mary,” I call as I approach. “It’s so good to see you. Thank you for altering my outfit. You are an expert estimator.”

“I’m glad it fits, ma’am,” she says, “and I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation. I only wished to ask if we might have a word. Not now,” she adds quickly. “I know you’re busy. Perhaps we could talk tomorrow, when I come to the house?”

“Tomorrow would be fine, Mary, but if there’s something you need to speak to me about, I’m happy to hear it now.”

“It’s not worth troubling you with, ma’am. Just . . .” She casts a quick glance at my midriff, as if not wanting to be indelicate. “Lord Thorne says you’ll be staying at Thorne Manor now, at least until the fall.”

“We will. My invalid aunt is doing much better. If William and I decide to spend any time in London, it won’t be until after the summer.”

In other words, if I can’t get a local teaching position in the twenty-first century, William has insisted we’ll temporarily move closer to wherever I’m working.

Mary nods. “That’s what his lordship said. For now, though, you’ll both be living at the manor, along with the babe when it comes.”

“We will.”

“And being a lady, especially one with a new babe, you’ll need more staff at the manor. At least a maid. Perhaps even a nursemaid.”

“We . . . haven’t given it much thought.”

“But you will. You can’t stay up there with just a live-out housekeeper.” She straightens. “I would like to apply for whatever position you require, Lady Thorne. I do not have experience as a maid, but I’m a quick learner.”

“I know you are,” I murmur.

“And I do have experience with babes. I can provide references for that.”

“I thought you liked being a seamstress, Mary.”

“Yes, but it’s only part-time. Piecemeal work. Father says I need a full-time position. He’s found one for me in Whitby, working on a farm. It’s either that or I marry George Wilcox, who’s widowed with five little ones.” She lowers her voice. “I don’t know which is worse.”

I stifle a smile. “No doubt.”

The answer here is obvious. Hire her. I know Mary, perhaps better than I know anyone in the village. She’s been at the manor many times. She accepts our eccentricities without question. To her I am simply a formerly widowed American, and any oddities of my speech and behavior can be chalked up to that.

I trust Mary. There’s no one I’d rather have in the house, even if I’d still want it to be a live-out position. I don’t need a maid—or a nursemaid—but this isn’t about me. She needs a job, and I could find enough work to justify a wage that we can very easily afford. So why am I not jumping in to offer her a position?

Butterflies.

What holds me back is a little thing called the butterfly effect, which gets its name from the idea that the mere flap of a butterfly’s wings could set about a chain of reactions that cause a tornado.

For the average person, the “butterfly effect” is usually heard in terms of time travel. What if we could go back in time? What effect would our actions have on the future? Even if we actively strove to do good, couldn’t we unknowingly cause future harm? What if we traveled back in time to stop a killer, only to discover that one of his later crimes had launched a revolution in forensic science or victims’ rights, so we’ve save a few lives only to ruin thousands?

This is the dilemma I struggle with as a bona-fide time traveler. I didn’t, at first. As a child, one hardly considers such things. As a teen, quite frankly, I didn’t care. As an adult, though, I am keenly aware that I am tampering with history. Even my existence in this world could have unforeseen effects, and I cannot add to that by meddling.

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