The Crimson Gown

Chapter Six

The sky remained clear into the next morning, a bracing expanse of silvery blue that stretched from horizon to horizon over Lydia's head. For the second time in as many days, she walked the distance from her father's inn to Mowbray Hall. The ground had transformed from a lane of squelching mud that clung to her boots and skirt, to a hard path of frozen dirt, the ruts and mounds cut into the earth suspended by the shock of cold air that had descended on the valley overnight.

She carried her bag with her left hand, while her right hand tugged at her skirts, lifting her hem as she sought for the surest footing over every rock and dip in the road. Most of her belongings were packed into the bag, and she had wondered at how small a space they filled. Her other gown, stockings, gloves, an extra shawl, various drawers and underthings of coarse, plain fabric. She owned no jewels, no fine combs for her hair. There were no ribbons, or lace, or any other bonnets than the plain one of straw she currently had fastened to her head.

It had never occurred to her to long for more than what had been duly provided. The women who came through the inn, in their furs and their silks, their hair curled and cheeks rouged and fingers hidden by gloves of fine kid...

She stretched out her own fingers, the cold seeping in through the rough, nubby weave of her knitted gloves. Her breath appeared as a cloud before her, and with each inhalation, the chill of the air burned in her lungs and caused her eyes and nose to water. It was a journey of over three miles from The Lamb's Head to the great house, a fine walk on a pleasant day, but the sun had yet to burn off the morning's chill, the frost still shimmering on the dead, flattened grass that lined the sides of the road.

As she crested the hill, the top of the house came into view. She paused then, to catch her breath and set her bag on the tops of her boots, the better to blow warm air into her hands. Before her, the lane that turned off from the road curved in a grey line away from her, flanked by tall trees, their leafless branches bleak and barren against the frozen landscape. She sniffed, refraining from the urge to wipe her nose on the back of her glove, and pointed her steps in the direction of the winding lane.

She did not need to walk. She knew this, and yet she had woken that morning, two hours before dawn, and layered two pairs of woollen stockings before slipping into her dress and donning her thick-soled boots. The exertion of the walk, along with the bitter cold, prevented her from thinking about what lay ahead. One foot in front of the other, her bag jostling into her leg, her breath puffing away from her in clouds of steam that hovered beneath the brim of her bonnet before dissipating into the air...

Her heart began to pound more heavily as she neared the house. The building loomed above her, a square block of architecture. The corners stood higher than the rest, like the castles she had imagined as a child. But no princesses resided within its walls, no kings or queens or courts of well-dressed noblemen. The corridors instead housed shadows and dust, along with a chill that no fire or lamp seemed strong enough to banish.

She walked around the side of the building, towards the low addition that branched out from the rear, out of sight from the road. Her skirts brushed over the frost-covered grass, the ice melting on the hem of her dress and soaking the soles of her shoes. She glanced up at the windows, the panes of glass shining in the morning light, lending the exterior a glow that would fail to penetrate the heavy brocades and draperies that insulated the darkened rooms from what little daylight the winter sky afforded.

The servants' entrance resided in the back of the house, and so she turned her steps that way, the gravel crunching beneath the soles of her boots. Lydia moved to grasp the knob but was forced back when the door flew open and a housemaid clutching a basket of wet, steaming linens rushed past her.

The corridor lay before her, dark and windowless, and emanating such a mixture of warmth and sounds and smells that she was overwhelmed for a long moment. But she pressed forward, the walls closing in about her as, behind her, the door settled back into its frame. She passed several other doors before she approached the low kitchen that ate up so much of the building's architecture here. The rough wooden table stood where she remembered it, bearing the remains of a breakfast that had yet to be cleared away.