A Mischief in the Snow - By Margaret Miles Page 0,56

mount was back in Boston, which they'd left hours before. It was all he could do to keep the poor beast going forward. Before long, it would be impossible.

He had the idea of simply finding the shelter of some trees, and staying where he was for the night. But as it could be no more than five o'clock, it would be a very long time before dawn. And he'd seen storms in this wretched country last for days. Only the year before, he'd been forced to walk through knee-deep snow one morning through the streets of Boston! It was difficult to believe, after one had lived through the intense heat of a Massachusetts summer; storms here could be devastating, and might quickly kill one who wandered, unprepared.

As the wind continued to howl, the horse under him began to shudder, and Edmund's feet no longer felt the stirrups. This, he knew, was the beginning of a bad end. He had only one choice more. Slowly he got down from his horse, and began to walk.

By stamping his feet against the ground, he felt, at least, a little pain. He also felt new sympathy for ordinary soldiers, who regularly found themselves in foul weather. He'd spent most of his early years in the King's service within the cities of England, helping men out of trouble. In the past he'd aided scores, allowing them to make amends to those they'd wronged, and to free themselves from ruinous situations. Not all, of course, could be saved. Some had been abandoned—young men with unusual vices, or those born with too little sense.

He heard himself laugh in spite of his growing fear. Could it be that he'd fallen at last, as they had, into a pit of his own making? Lately he'd woven together a net of men who ranged far from Boston, to inform him of what went on throughout the colony. But none of these could help him now; none could even tell him if he trod hard-packed earth, or gentler field. And that was the thing of vital importance. Without the road, he might go searching for a bed forever.

Forever? No, surely not. In fact it should not take long at all. Another hour or two at most, and a hard bed would be his—an exceedingly cold and lonely one.

If only Fate would bring him within sight of another light—a house, or an approaching horse or carriage. Otherwise he would fall and be buried, until the sun resurrected him in the spring. What would his wife do then? Worse, what would she do before, wondering how much more she'd lost?

Diana! He should have gone after her days ago. Too late he'd come running, having been given only a scrap of a reason—even though he'd been warned the weather would change for the worse. He'd supposed he knew better than the colonials who advised him. Was he not, after all, an Englishman born and bred, unlike country fellows of limited skill, imagination, intelligence, and passion?

Who would have the last laugh now? His intolerance, his own stubbornness, had gotten him into this trouble. Were they also the reason he'd not listened to Diana? Had he tried as hard as he might have, to console her? No, that had been the fault of pride, and a fear of showing weakness in his own despair, after the loss of his son. Yet even that was not entirely true. How could he ever explain the rest?

Charles, he'd been called, for his father's father. Little Charlie had cried at first. Then, nearly silent, he'd faded as swiftly as a flower.

Again, Edmund cursed the men of Boston for the pain they'd caused, for he had no one else to blame. They'd taken government into their own hands, against Royal orders. Could he in all conscience have gone off to Bracebridge earlier, leaving a dangerous mob with no check, seeking only the comfort of his wife? Governor Bernard would hardly have approved.

Yet if only he had it to do over. If only he were given another chance! A year at Diana's side had been worth more to him than all the rest. With time, he could surely make her happy again, and give her another child. At that moment, Edmund Montagu imagined the snow suddenly lessened. In the next, a ghostly line spread before him. It seemed to be a planting of trees. Stepping beneath its low branches, he found himself facing something like a hedge, which gave him a new