Home > Under a Winter Sky(8)

Under a Winter Sky(8)
Author: Kelley Armstrong

I’m not a monster, though. I won’t let Mary be married to a middle-aged man who only wants free childcare and housekeeping. Nor will I let her be shipped off to Whitby, away from her family, her seamstress talents wasted doing backbreaking physical labor. I will find another solution to this problem, and so I tell her I’ll think on it, and she tries not to let me see her disappointment at that.


By the time William bundles me into the sleigh, I’m ready to fall asleep against his shoulder. I’m stuffed with plum pudding and pie, and my brain is buzzing with all the things I saw and heard, cataloguing them for Freya. I’m also making mental notes of names and occupations and the spiderweb of relationships that is at the heart of an English village. I want to be like William, able to put names to faces and ask people how their sheep are faring or whether their newly wed daughter is settling in well.

Of course, thoughts of married daughters remind me of Mary. The obvious answer is to discuss this with William. He at least needs to know she asked about employment. But when it comes to my butterfly-effect concerns, he has decided not to interfere. I must work this out for myself. His opinion would be that I shouldn’t worry about it, and he realizes that could sound as if he’s belittling my concerns. So he’s keeping mum on the subject, and I agree that’s best in general. Still, I would like to know whether I’m overreacting here.

“I spoke to Mary,” I say, raising my voice to be heard over the swish of snow beneath the runners.

“I thought I saw you two together,” he says. “Did she say when she’ll be up tomorrow for the fitting?”

I pause. “She asked about speaking to me when she came to the house, presumably for a fitting, but we didn’t set a time. Had she already arranged an appointment with you?”

“I discussed it with her yesterday, when I knew you were on your way home early. The Festival of the Penitent Rapscallions isn’t the only thing that you arrived just in time for. There’s also the Yuletide Ball at Courtenay Hall.”

“What?”

He smiles over at me. “August’s family holds a holiday party every year. You finally get to see Courtenay Hall and attend your first ball.”

His smile widens to a grin, setting his blue eyes twinkling. The first time I met Mary, he’d hired her to play ladies maid for me, as I prepared to attend a ball—a private ball for just William and myself. That was our first night together as a couple, and it’d been the most perfect, magical night ever, meant to fulfill my teenage fantasy of having William sneak me into a Victorian gala.

Now he’s giving me a proper ball, at the summer home of one of my favorite people on this side of the stitch: William’s best friend, August Courtenay. I’ll get to see August and his three-year-old son, Edmund, plus visit their estate and attend my first ball. Even better, I don’t need to sneak in. I am Lady Bronwyn Thorne, an invited guest. A thrill darts through me, and I find myself grinning back at him.

“I thought you might like that,” he says, his arm going around me in a quick squeeze.

“When is it?” I ask.

“Tomorrow night.”

My smile falters as I inwardly collapse into a puddle of exhaustion. I recover in a blink and deliver a quick kick to my mental backside. None of that. This is the opportunity of a lifetime, and I’m damn well going to seize it. It’s only mid-afternoon. I can nap as soon as I get home, and if I’m still tired after that, I’ll extend my nap into an all-night sleep so I’m fully refreshed and ready for tomorrow.

I have a holiday ball to attend, and I cannot wait.


So, that plan to crawl into bed when I get home? It starts to fall apart as soon as we get back to Thorne Manor. William wants to escort me inside and then stable the horses, but I insist on accompanying him into the barn. Horses may be his passion, but they are an old love of mine, one I’m rekindling as fast as I can.

First, I must greet all the horses while trying very hard not to lavish undue attention on my personal favorite, Epona, named after the Celtic patron goddess of horses. The two-year-old gray filly is Balois’s offspring, and she’s promised to a London buyer once she’s old enough to be trained. I don’t have a horse of my own yet—I usually ride the gelding William uses for pulling the sleigh, who is a fine horse but more trained for carts than riders.

We’re still trying to decide whether I should claim a future foal or buy a young horse of proper riding age. While I would love a horse from William’s stock, he has buyers for two years’ worth of colts and fillies, and I’m not sure I care to wait that long for a horse to call my own.

An hour passes between feeding treats to the horses and discussing whether or not riding is safe in my condition. The doctor says it is, but William would prefer we didn’t take the chance, and I’ll grant him that.

When William finally shuffles me into the house, I’m ready for bed. Instead, he steers me to the time stitch, because apparently we have a tea date with Freya and Del, and just enough time to go back to the modern world, change and then drive over to their place.

Sleep. Someday I will sleep. Just not today.


“There,” Freya says, closing the door behind William as he heads outside with Del. “They’re gone. Now get your dead-beat self onto Del’s chair for a nap.”

She points at the recliner by the window. It’s old and ratty, clearly his contribution to the marital home, and yet it looks like the most comfortable chair I have ever seen. My knees wobble just seeing it.

Freya puts a hand against my back and steers me toward it. When I dig in my heels, she walks where I can see her and crosses her arms.

I lift one eyebrow at her stern expression. “Is that the look you gave your students when they misbehaved? If so, may I tell you why it didn’t work?”

“Oh, it always worked. I might have been the softest touch at the academy, but that only meant my pupils hated to disappoint me.” She looks up into my face. “You are disappointing me, Ms. Dale.”

I sputter a laugh. But I do lower myself into Del’s chair with an audible sigh of contentment.

“So,” she says. “Are you going to tell William how exhausted you are—having flown across the world, six months pregnant, right after exams—or am I going to need to have a word with our Lord Thorne?”

I sigh. “It’s not his fault.”

“Nope, it’s yours.” She catches my look and arches her white brows. “Well, it is. He’s like a child who just devoured an entire bowl of sugar. His new bride is home, at the holidays no less, and he’s too excited to pause long enough to see that the only place you want to visit is your bed.”

I sigh again. Deeper. Then I straighten. “Oh, I haven’t told you where we went this afternoon.”

“Don’t change the subject. We’re—”

“The Festival of the Penitent Rapscallions.”

That stops her. She blinks. “The what?”

I smile. “You mean you haven’t heard of it? Aren’t you the local historian and folklorist?” I lean back in my seat. “Well, I suppose it’s not that important. Just a forgotten local tradition that I attended personally and could tell you all about . . . if only you wouldn’t rather discuss my need for sleep.”

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