A Mischief in the Snow - By Margaret Miles Page 0,6
be something of a spectacle.
“I've met with an accident on the ice,” she finally managed. The woman watched her for another moment. “Come to the fire,” she then whispered. Reaching out a quivering hand, she touched Charlotte's trembling fingers with her own. Once her unexpected guest had come inside, she turned to push the groaning door shut behind them.
Charlotte looked first to the top of a vaulted central hall—it seemed to separate two halves of the house— then down one of a pair of broad staircases made entirely of stone. Behind these steps, thin windows of colored glass directed north light into the murk below, where it reflected on what appeared to be ancient weapons of war. Lining a series of alcoves were lances, swords, shields, even a wicked crossbow, all hung above empty candle sconces, each one under a thin canopy kept by attentive spiders. Charlotte quickly realized these things must have been used in the days of John Fisher, by the visiting huntsmen she'd heard of.
Even more astounding were the immense tapestries she now saw, high on the stone walls. Fisher must have brought these, too, from Europe; they could hardly have been made in the colonies. Their colors were muted by the poor light, and possibly by time—but how alive their subjects seemed! Robust men and women, perhaps gods and goddesses—all were nearly naked, leering and blushing at one another while they stood or reclined in forest and field. Did their knowing smiles speak of past revels, or did they anticipate new ones? For now, thankfully, they only consumed glowing fruits, or fingered other delicacies.
The woman in white seemed to float to the right, into a short passage. Charlotte followed, giving a last glance above as she walked under several hanging wheels of iron, all devoid of candles.
They passed into a dark room decorated with varnished portraits, and what Charlotte guessed were scenes of Teutonic woods and peaks. In the shadows stood seats constructed largely from the intertwined horns of animals. The room had no fire, but through a low arch that led into the next, Charlotte saw a hearth blazing. A few rays of sunlight lay ahead, venturing through curtains not completely shut against the cold. Into this pocket of relative warmth she followed her silent guide.
In what might once have been a ballroom, massive old settles and sofas stood against the long walls. Before a distant ceremonial hearth, an old woman appeared to doze in one of a half-dozen walnut chairs, beautifully upholstered, their delicately curved arms and legs carved with shells. These seemed to make up most of the furniture in use; one supported a stack of books topped with unfinished needlework, another held a plate with the remains of a candied orange. On a third, Charlotte saw to her joy, a tray bore cups and saucers, and a painted teapot.
But the obvious pride of the room hung all the way across its impressive expanse. This was a tall painting of a figure larger than life. The subject was a young woman, her face and tresses fair, who stood before a mountainous terrain, adorned in nearly regal fashion. In a dark gown and furs she seemed elegantly serene. Charlotte also supposed her smile was a little haughty. Perhaps she had reason to feel far above her audience. Youthful and confident, she must have assumed she held the future in her gloved palm.
Today, however, Catherine Knowles sat below her own image in a dirty woolen blanket of an uncertain color, draped about her like a cocoon. All that remained to suggest wealth and fashion was a cap of moss velvet edged with lace, drawn over hair now resembling foam on a stormy sea. Her back was bent, and Charlotte quickly supposed Mrs. Knowles suffered acutely from swollen joints, possibly due to long years spent in damp surroundings.
“What?” the old woman cried. She tilted her head, listening to the approaching footsteps. “It's not the boy? A woman, then! Come closer, whoever you are. With the web over both my eyes, I see very little. It's a rather simple woman, I think, by the sound of her—at least, she's not seen fit to affront me with her voice. What's this, Magdalene? Found a little friend at last, to come and drink my tea?” The old woman leaned forward with a cackle, but a fit of coughing forced her to sink back into her chair.
“Mrs. Knowles, I'm so sorry to intrude—” Charlotte began. She was stopped by a