Page 62 of The Mistletoe Countess
“I think that should be one of the first gardens we recover then.”
He nodded and turned with her back to the scene. The snow had increased in thickness, blanketing the world in white and giving a heavenly sheen to the gray stone of Havensbrooke. A good reminder of redemption and hope. “I would wall myself up to read when I was younger. Find nooks, often in my grandparents’ garden, because it made me feel closer to them.”
“You were not much different than me, it seems.” Her statement came with a sadness, a hint of understanding.
“In many ways I wasn’t.”
Her gaze asked for more information, but her lips did not. That would be for another time. The longer story. But not for today. Today was for making happy memories.
A flash of red in the distance caught his attention among the snow. A red Ford Touring, perhaps? He couldn’t quite make it out, but it was leaving from the direction of the old ruins. He didn’t know anyone with such a car. Why would someone be near the ruins? Especially someone with such a fine car? A chill settled over his skin.
A rush of protection shot through him as the car turned a bend and disappeared from view. It was likely a driver who’d lost his way among the country lanes. Or some tourist out to discover a grand house open for exploration. He shrugged away the concern, just as a low rumble sounded in the distance.
Grace’s head turned toward the sound. “Does the train run near Havensbrooke?”
“Not near enough to hear it.”
Another rumble resounded with a bit more clarity. Her back straightened with tension. “Then…then what was that?”
“Nothing but thunder.”
“Thunder?” She spun around, her eyes wide. “But it’s snowing!”
He placed his hands on her arms and searched her face. “Thunder snow is rare, but nothing untoward. I’m sure it will pass soon enough.”
“Thundersnow?”She flinched back from him and then dashed toward the footpath. “Why on earth would England have something as horrible as thunder snow?”
Another round of thunder sounded, this time even closer. She took off at a faster pace, Zeus at her heels.
“What is wrong?”
She didn’t appear to hear him, for she had taken off down the path, skirt flying.
“Grace!” He followed in pursuit.
“I’m sorry, my dear Frederick, but I cannot stop,” she called behind her. “I’m rather terrified of storms. It’s a ridiculous, childhood panic, but there’s nothing to be done for it. I’d thought I’d escaped them in winter.”
He chased after her down the path, her speed impressive. “What inspired such a fear?”
She flinched as another rumble echoed closer. “Daffodils.”
Daffodils?
“It’s a rather novel-worthy explanation, actually.” She forged ahead, her words coming in broken breaths. “My mother died giving birth to my baby brother when I was seven years old. Lillias was away with Father—and the baby came early. Too early, the doctor said, but I didn’t know those facts at seven, of course. All I knew was something was wrong and the terrible storm outside the house seemed to link to the conflict inside the house.”
He rushed ahead to help her over a fallen log. “Thank you.” She offered a brief smile before taking off again, but he kept hold of her hand. “Icicles in sunlight.”
He squinted over at her, but she didn’t seem aware of her off-topic words.
“Over the crushing thunder and flashes of lightning, I heard my mother’s screams of pain…until they stopped forever.”
He squeezed her fingers. “Dear Grace.”
“As silly as it sounds, even now, I…I can still hear her screams in the thunder.”
“What did you do to find comfort when you were at home?”
She shrugged, keeping her hand in his as she pulled him through the forest, Zeus leading the way far ahead. “When I was younger, Father said I would crawl into the cupboard and bury myself beneath pillows, but as I grew older, I’d sing very loudly to offset the volume of the storm—or I’d crawl into my sister’s bed and have her talk me through it.”
