Chapter 1 #3
A man filled the doorway, broad-shouldered and bearish, clad head to toe in scarred leather and coarse wool that had seen better decades. A bushy beard obscured much of his face, and his eyes, sharp as a hawk’s beneath heavy brows, flicked about the shop before settling on her with grim purpose.
“Ephraim Cutter,” he grunted by way of greeting. Without another word he seized her trunk in one massive hand and strode out into the storm.
Verity stared after him, teacup frozen halfway to her lips. They were leaving. Now. Panicked, she scrambled to her feet, nearly knocking over the tray in her haste.
“Oh bother!” She cried out, then hastily thanked Mr. Cobb, and bolted for the door while fumbling to get her gloves back on.
Outside, Ephraim Cutter had already tossed her trunk into the bed of a rough farm wagon with no more ceremony than if it had been a sack of turnips. No carriage awaited, only weathered planks open to the elements and a pair of sturdy bays stamping impatiently in their traces.
Verity’s heart sank to her frozen toes, but she gathered her skirts and climbed aboard without a word of complaint. She sat on the wooden bench and prepared herself to feel the wind whip at her like a vengeful spirit.
Mr. Cobb quickly emerged from the shop laden with parcels that should have required two men to carry.
Sacks of flour and sugar bulged upon his broad shoulders.
Tins of tea and coffee rattled together in a wooden crate balanced precariously atop the pile.
Bundles of cloth and tools were tucked beneath his arms. Yet he bore the whole with surprising ease.
He strode to the wagon and deposited the load in the back with a series of solid thuds that made the vehicle rock upon its springs.
Dusting snow from his hands, he turned to Ephraim with a cheerful grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Proper beastly weather we’re havin’, Ephraim. Wind’s sharp enough to shave a man, ain’t it?”
Ephraim grunted, a low rumble deep in his chest, and gave a single jerk of his head that might have been agreement or dismissal. He did not pause in his work, tying off the load with quick, economical movements that spoke of long practice.
When the gamekeeper leapt up, the bench creaked alarmingly beneath his weight. Verity found herself squeezed against the wagon, clutching the side for balance as they lurched into motion.
Only after a few feet did Ephraim seem to notice her presence. He glanced sideways, taking in her shivering form with a single sweeping look.
With a huff that might have been disgust or reluctant pity, he reached behind the seat and produced a thick woolen blanket smelling strongly of horse and woodsmoke. He tossed it into her lap without ceremony and turned his attention back to the horses, forgetting her presence.
Verity thanked him and wrapped the blanket gratefully about her shoulders, burrowing into its rough warmth like a small animal seeking shelter.
The wagon rolled out of the village, wheels crunching over the frozen ruts as they climbed steadily upward along a road flanked by snow-laden hedges and skeletal trees that clawed at the lowering sky.
The last cottage vanished behind a curtain of white and suddenly there was nothing but empty fields.
Verity felt the world had shrunk to the wagon and the storm, nothing but endless white stretching away beneath the iron-gray heavens.
The wind sharpened its teeth as they drove on, hitting them with a ferocity that made Verity’s ears ache despite the blanket pulled over her head like a hood.
Snowflakes stung her cheeks where they found exposed skin, and she huddled deeper into her cocoon, teeth chattering uncontrollably.
Ephraim Cutter sat beside her like a statue carved from oak, unmoved by the cold, his great hands steady on the reins as he guided the horses with subtle shifts and quiet clicks of his tongue.
She stole glances at him when she dared lift her head. His profile was stern beneath the battered brim of his hat, beard and brows crusted with frost. He had not spoken since his curt introduction, and the silence stretched between them like the vast white landscape.
The wagon tilted, and Verity clung to it while the horses strained. She gripped the wagon with one hand and held the blanket with the other, her stomach lurching with every rut and hollow.
The cold was a living thing now, clawing through every layer to sink its teeth into her very bones. She thought longingly of the warm shop, the tea and biscuits, the cheerful chatter of Mr. Cobb. How distant it seemed already, as if the village belonged to another lifetime.
They crested a rise and paused as the full force of the wind struck them. Verity gasped as the blanket whipped away from her face, snow stinging her eyes and a few flakes sneaking into her mouth. The storm blinded her completely.
For a terrifying heartbeat, she was afraid the wagon would plunge off the edge of the earth. But then the wagon lurched again, continuing forward on its unseen path, and she hoped the worst of the storm was behind her.