A Yuletide Treasure Read Free

the certainty that the task would not be satisfactorily accomplished without her presence. However, to take Camilla—young, unblemished, and innocent—into that situation passed the bounds of the permissible.
    Mrs. Twainsbury had chosen the lesser of two evils and sent Camilla to the very reliable if elderly Nanny Mallow.
    Since kissing her mother farewell this morning, however, Camilla had broken other rules all by herself. She’d spoken to a strange man, entered an inn quite on her own, had given the strange, if charming, man her name, and had set off on a walk entirely unaccompanied. Camilla did not know if she felt exhilarated or frightened by her temerity. Perhaps a little of both, she thought.
    If at times in her life she’d felt trammeled in by her mother’s rules and restrictions, she had at least always acknowledged not only Mrs. Twainsbury’s right to be thus, but also the good sense of many of her dictums. What defenses did she, young and hardly intimidating physically, have except good sense, determination, and hygiene?
    She breathed a deep sigh of the sharp, cold air, relishing now the metallic tang in the back of her throat. Maybe that’s what freedom tasted like, she thought wickedly. She found herself gazing with approval at a snarling lion holding a shield, one side of a long stone wall that ran off at an angle. Between the lion on one side and the lamb on the other stretched an imposing wrought-iron gate, a padlock as large as Camilla’s head hanging, sprung, from one of the bars. Curious, for the maid hadn’t mentioned any local great house, Camilla peered down the somewhat neglected drive. H there was some manor down there, it was hiding behind a grove of trees. No doubt Nanny Mallow would be able to tell her all about the house and its inhabitants since the Year Dot.
    Camilla marched on, passing the worn stone cross that the maid had mentioned, the once-deep carving all eroded away into a blur of half-glimpsed animals and men. The landscape, fields and wooded copses alike, waited under the deep silence of winter. What snow had already fallen this season had lost its pristine whiteness in the last half-thaw, like a threadbare blanket washed too many times. A few ravens perched in a dry-leaved oak tree made hoarse comments as she passed, reminding her of the deaf old women talking about the neighbors on the porch of her village church.
    After the cross, the road gradually sank down between banks of trees, offering some shelter from the wind. Without that constant buffeting, she could increase her pace.
    Her muscles soon began to protest. Her mother didn’t believe in vigorous exercise for young ladies. A gentle amble around the village green in clement weather was quite enough to bring roses into her girls’ cheeks. Camilla never worried about her figure. Her mother also didn’t believe in large meals for young ladies.
    No sooner had the wind ceased to blow than fat white flakes began to swirl down like hunks of greasy lamb’s wool thrown off by a mad sheep-shearer. It was a smothering snow, a thick, floundering snow that came down in a blinding fog, withdrew and returned, bringing greater confusion. Being hit by one flake was like being struck in the face with a wet pillow. Pushing her way through many of them was as if she were being attacked by enraged mattresses.
    If Camilla had not reached where the road dipped before the snow hit, she might have gone wandering off across a field and become lost. As it was, she blundered to the left, tripped over a tree root, shied, and staggered back onto the crown of the road. She stopped, catching her breath. A wild sort of fear seized her. Camilla fought off the panic, knowing she was close to her destination. “It’s foolish to be frightened of a little snow,” she muttered.
    But in just that moment, her skirt had become entirely white. Camilla beat her hands against her thighs, shaking the caked snow loose, leaving damp and dusted fabric behind