A Mischief in the Snow - By Margaret Miles Page 0,3
to fear that more riots, resembling the one that had destroyed Hutchin-son's home the previous August, were in store for the new year. This much Charlotte knew from her glances at Longfellow's weekly copies of the Boston Gazette.
But who in Boston, she wondered, could predict what might happen next? Surely not Governor Bernard, nor Mr. Hutchinson; each had incorrectly gauged the feelings of the town before. Yet did Sam Adams, John Hancock, or Joseph Warren know better? She imagined that this time there was likely to be a long, stubborn stand-to, before all arms were grudgingly lowered.
On the other hand, each year brought times of trouble, set between more encouraging days. In every season, she reminded herself, some would suffer under clouds of sorrow, while others celebrated the rebirth of hope and happiness. Diana and Edmund had experienced their loss as a storm that had driven them apart. But one day soon, they might begin to drift back together again—especially if they had help.
Bringing herself to a halt, Charlotte looked about the blank ice. She took a deep breath of the chill air, feeling it sear its way into her chest. Perhaps she and Richard could find some way to restore Diana's tranquillity. Then, they might recover their own.
For it seemed they, too, had grown apart. Frequently she expected to hear footsteps at her kitchen door, as before. Lately, they rarely came. Out on a solitary walk, she sometimes glimpsed her neighbor approaching; more than once, he had then turned away. Now, she hesitated to set her feet on the path between their houses.
No more did they picnic on the grass, or walk together through the fields, nor did they often spend quiet evenings before a fire. Instead, after the summer visit of his friend Signor Lahte, they seemed uneasy with one another. Lately, she even imagined a hint of suspicion in her neighbor's inquisitive gaze.
Had her admitted interest in the musico offended him? It had certainly done her little good. But it might be that the winter's tedium, its lack of immediate employment, was to blame for Richard's inattention. She knew he tended to black moods; perhaps this was an unusually long and gray one. At least he had extended an invitation to visit this evening, so that they might cheer Diana.
Charlotte stamped her feet onto the ice, attempting to loosen her stiffening limbs. This caused her hood to fall. In a burst of exasperation, she pulled at her cap, freeing a pinned knot of hair to glint like clear cider.
Why bother to think about trouble? Freedom was what she'd come out to find today! And was it not all around her? Nature was an anodyne, always ready to offer comfort if one would only look around. Full of beauty and surprises, it wove life into patterns, maintained its own balances, followed observable laws. Richard often impressed the last idea upon her. Charlotte knew she had an ample sense of life's harmony, while his interests tended to be a bit more precise.
For instance, he would have noted that there, surrounded by marsh, stood a group of elms resembling frozen fountains. They had lost not only their leaves, but most of their outer bark. Each had dropped several branches, too, now embedded in ice. All were dead, surely. What in the Great Design had doomed them? She skated closer to find out.
Looking up, she was surprised to see a red hawk seated on a high branch. She squinted to see it more clearly. It appeared to watch her as well. The heavy bird lowered its head and raised its tail, cocking its thick, powerful body. She wondered if they might be acquainted. She'd frequently seen one like him in the white oak of her barnyard, watching her chickens. Cap in hand, she glided on, warmed by the feeling that she was somehow welcome in the silent grove.
Unfortunately, her curiosity caused her to forget her footing, and disaster then found its chance. In the next instant, Charlotte felt herself sink abruptly, even as she heard a brittle crack. At once she knew she'd skated over ice too thin to support her. Instinctively, she threw her lynx muff far away, so that this, at least, would stay dry. While the air beneath her skirts buoyed her momentarily, she realized she would have little time to escape.
She'd encountered a deep pool, created by a wandering spring—something from which the elms might have saved her, had she heeded their warning. The subterranean water's heat