Elisabeth Fairchild Read Free Page A

doorknocker on Broomhill’s ancient oak door trembled
     in the wind, vibrating to a distant thudding, like a heartbeat, and a great whoosh
     of cold air howled in the chimney, sending ash shooting into the room.
    “It would appear, my lord,” Bolton said dryly as he moved to sweep up the ashes, “that
     some other spirit has already appropriated that particular mode of communication.”
    Copeland burst out laughing as Gabe raced down the drive, barking at the thunder of
     hooves.
    The coach full of musicians from Andover turned in between massive knob-fingered oaks
     that reached for the coachman’s hunched form. The sound of cheerful singing traveled
     on the wind.
    ***
    Bolton quietly closed the door behind him as he left the master’s study, but a storm
     gathered over Copeland’s brow as he broke open the seal on one of the just-delivered
     letters to read with a growing frown.
    Dearest brother,
    Deepest regrets. Gerald and Anthony have contracted the croup. We shall not come for
     Christmas.
    “Blast!” Copeland cried out, his disappointment a sharp contrast to the approaching
     song.
    “Fa-la-la-lala-lala-lah-lah!”
    “’Tis the Season to be jolly, devil take it.”
    The fire flickered. The flue moaned. He read further, Gabriel barking.
    ***
    Snow caught upon the windowsill. Lord Copeland caught his breath, heartbeat uneven.
     The letter drifted to the floor like a snowflake. Copeland sank to his knees beside
     his desk. Across the room, the carved marble mantel support, half woman, half lion,
     stared at him with stony eyes as cold as the day had turned.
    With trembling hand Lord Copeland pulled the tincture of foxglove from his inside
     coat pocket, took a drop on the tongue, then waited through a second spasm, and a
     third, less severe.
    Snow drifted past ancient glass panes in a distorted white flurry, air taking solid
     form. Daylight faded beneath the ruffled hem of a lowering skirt of clouds. Beautiful.
     So beautiful! The snow. His life. It took his breath away. Copeland stood, knees shaky,
     made it to the window. He pressed his cheek to the cool glass. He would miss this.
    “Heaven must wait a little longer,” he whispered, and tucked the bottle into his pocket,
     gazing hungrily at the view. His Christmas was coming.
    Outside, Gabriel had matched his gait to that of four bay horses with belled harness,
     barking them onward, the coach kicking up a veil of snow. The coachman’s nose was
     plum-colored, his cheeks scalded by wind that whipped his muffler. From the coach
     came singing. “Deck the halls with boughs of holly—”
    Copeland’s vision of the world shrank through a window breath-fogged. His hand rose
     instinctively to check his pulse. He could feel the heat, the heartbeat within him—ebbing—and
     nothing he could do. Nothing name, or title, or money could do.
    “’Tis the Season to be jolly—”
    Copeland’s view of the coach was distorted by a flaw in the glass, his view of the
     future distorted by the flaw in his heart.
    Too cheerful the musician’s voices, out of tune with his sudden sense of despair.
     He had vowed not to fall prey to such emotion. He pinched the bridge of his nose,
     shook away looming melancholy, and forced a laugh. He had laughed when the physician
     suggested he put his affairs in order, that he avoid taking ill. A nonsensical suggestion.
     Did not everyone try to avoid illness?
    “Fa-la-la-lala-lala-lah-lah!”
    He rubbed a clear spot on the pane, stared at his fingers. Strong. Unshaken. How precious
     the strength in his grip.
    “Sing we joyous, all together!” The song burst forth from the carriage along with
     the hired musicians: three well-bundled fat men, one thin. Out came their instrument
     cases, a clattering, wheezing set of bagpipes, an infusion of life and song—and barking.
     Gabriel dashed about, tail waving, his whole body wagging their guests welcome.
    The smiles and laughter lifted Copeland’s spirits. His heart must keep