BAKEWELL WAS MUCH LIKE Southampton in the way that it was quaint and lively. The Christmas spirit was much vibrant in this English town than it had ever been in Southampton, or perhaps it just felt that way to Jessie Churchill, for her holiday in Southampton had been plagued by many a things she could count off on both her hands one by one but they would never weaken their hold on her.
Their sledge whizzed by on the snowy carpet, through streets and turns and go rounds. A canvas of cream and brown cottages adorned with the signature green and red of the holiday— whether it be through meticulously arranged mistletoes or garlands wreathed by clumsy yet passionate fingers, passed them by. Jessie wondered what it would be like to live in one of these dream perfect houses, with chimneys so alive she could stare at the smoke dancing out of it in a trance all day. They kind of made one forget, she assumed, for their comfort was so simple and alive, that under their spell you only saw and believed in what mattered the most. But they all passed her by, leaving an emptiness in her heart.
The journey to Bakewell from Southampton had taken them a day, a night that they had spent in an inn crowded with lively music and gentry travelling to be with their loved ones for the holiday. Though Thomas Cranmer's lingering threat clung to her like a scent she would pick up whenever she breathed, Jessie was able to relax in that room at the inn. After all, Cranmer wouldn't know she was there— so for a night, she was hidden and safe.
It had made Jessie think about how Lady Embry would've lived her life since her father's death. The constant fear of an uncle plaguing her dreams and tainting her days. It made her feel sick to her stomach, and it made her realize that she had never hated someone so truly and passionately for what they had done— or intend to do— than she hated Thomas Cranmer.
After the night at the inn, they were on the road again, and before long had arrived in Bakewell. The Lady Beresford had fussed over and spoiled Jessie on the entirety of the journey. They had had, even during travel, the finest of meals, made by eager and pleasing hands for during the spirit of Christmas. They had made several stops to luxurious dining places— quaint and small town charms that Jessie wondered at the beauty of.
It had been the kind of journey she hadn't anticipated, and she was glad for the calm it brought to her. Conversation with Lady Acacia Beresford had been scarce and limited to no more than a sentence a day. After their ordeal at Wycombe, Jessie had no intention of conversing with her. It felt snobbish to admit it inside her head, for who was she to hold grudges with people much above her own station in life? But the sentiment was there anyhow, for hadn't Jessie a heart too? She could understand the place her hostess was coming from when she had accused Jessie of those things, but understanding did not mean the hurt would vanquish. It was still there.
"Thank goodness," The Lady Beresford spoke suddenly, awakening from her short nap as she peered out of the windows. "We have arrived. I dare say, I thought this journey would never end."
Lady Acacia straightened herself beside her mother-in-law, eyes flitting over to the image of Rosenfield Abbey arising over the snow covered hills. Her expression was blank, for she had been practically made to come against her will, and she clearly bore Jessie much ill will for that alone.
"Look dear," The Lady Beresford smiled, her exhausted demeanour changing entirely at the sight of her estate. She glanced at Jessie and gestured to the towering estate now fully in view as the sledge chauffeur charted the vehicle towards the entrance. "Your father used to despise Rosenfield during the winter time when he was a boy, which was much imbecilic of him of course, because look at this beauty!"
Rosenfield Abbey was a cluster of tall cream towers that reminded Jessie of medieval castles. It must date back to the Tudor times, she thought, for the Abbey was grand and mighty. It had a certain softness to it, perhaps it was the cream and the bed of snow it was nestled in— or maybe it was the thriving green vines that outlined almost every window, a stark contrast to the whites. The green of the vines was curled into brown at some points, and even from like ten feet below— because the sledge had been pulled to a halt now— Jessie could see snow drop flowers peeking in from the vines like small pearls.
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𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒
Historical Fiction(Completed) When his best friend's cousin, an heiress, is kidnapped, Lord Oscar Seymour is inclined to oblige aid in the search. In the wake of the disappearance, when appearances become essential, Lord Seymour devises a scheme to render the society...
