A Mischief in the Snow - By Margaret Miles Page 0,9

a man of your own choosing, my dear? For love?”

Charlotte had been momentarily distracted. Again, the mirror showed movement; this time, she could not account for it at all. She began to wonder if the shock of the icy water had affected her eyes—perhaps it even portended the beginning of a fever? At any rate, the rosy glass now contained numerous flecks of light, as if the room held many candles, and over these, colors that seemed to swirl.

“Mrs. Willett!” Catherine chided her. “Pay attention, please! I asked if you were wed for love.”

A sudden flood of memories from the brief days of her marriage gave Charlotte new resolve. Pushing away her new concern, and her misgivings at being so oddly entertained, she confirmed the old woman's suspicion. She then helped herself to another slice of cake, and continued with her answer.

“My husband came from a large family of Friends who live in Philadelphia. We met in Boston, and Aaron visited my own family in Bracebridge. He stayed, and with our parents’ approval—”

Catherine Knowles interrupted her with a sharp look. “Philadelphia, you say. My husband recently died there, among his own family. We may have more in common than I had assumed. But are these Willetts wealthy?”

“They have more than enough.”

“More than enough? A strange answer, madam. Can they not count? You say your husband chose to stay in your village out of love for you. Well, without a fortune of your own, I suppose you would not have been welcome in his home…”

Though this was far from the truth, Charlotte felt it better to make no answer.

“My own husband,” Mrs. Knowles continued, “loved nothing beyond stalking about in his hunting boots and leather doublet, crop in hand. Yet both of us honored the wishes of our parents. In Hanover, I received my training for life, and Hanover sees little point in giving young people choices—especially when they are female. So, it was entirely my father's decision to move his wife and child here to the Bay Colony, after our Elector was crowned Britain's first George. He hoped for some advancement. None ever came. The move killed my mother, I'm sure—though little he cared for that! But I was introduced to gentlemen with fine titles, invited, they believed, for the hunting. They were never rich enough, or generous enough, in my father's eyes. Until I was nearly thirty, he made me wait—and then, what did I get? Fortunately I did enjoy an English tutor, a pretty fellow…”

The old woman's voice trailed away, though a smile lingered on her lips. Charlotte wondered at the freedoms such a life might have allowed, or even encouraged, despite its restrictions.

“Do what you like, Mrs. Willett! But know this. We live with what we have done. Sometimes, we find we regret our actions—though occasionally, amends may be made for our errors.”

Catherine Knowles contemplated something unspoken, while Charlotte gave further consideration to what had been hinted. It surely had some value; it came from long experience. Yet she could not help hoping that her own clothing would now be dry enough to wear.

“But you would do well, my girl, to be less sure of yourself than Magdalene—for years, she has not allowed her desires to alter a whit! Every day it is the same thing— she walks to the cliff's edge, and stands staring. Even now, you see, she watches from her seat. She hopes for a lover. But do you think such a woman should be allowed to marry, and to breed? Beyond that, would anyone have her now? It is a futile hope, and it only proves her madness.”

Again the old woman received no answer. Charlotte thought these hurtful words unnecessarily cruel. She began to wonder, too, if such harsh judgments were often made in this lonely place.

Magdalene lifted a hand to support her head, yet she attempted no more in her own defense.

“I found marriage to be a disaster, unmitigated by pleasure,” Catherine said firmly. “Magdalene, too, would have found it so. But I'll say no more. If you do not start for your village soon, Mrs. Willett, you'll be forced to stay the night. Is that something you would like? We have many sleeping chambers above, you know. However, we would have to send you to work with a broom first, to clean a few nests from a mattress. No? I thought not.”

This time the familiar cackle seemed less than pleased, perhaps because Mrs. Knowles recalled how far the standards of her