Wintery Night in the Park

Patrick Mullins flipped up his collar and pulled it closer around his neck. There was a definite December bite to the evening air, but he was in no hurry to escape it as some others seemed to be. He stepped to the side as a pair of ladies dressed in woolen coats, attempting to escape the chill, hurried past him, clinging closely to each other. A man, moving at a steady pace – neither hurried nor relaxed – and carrying a small crate on his shoulder — passed with a cheerful “pardon me” before he continued whistling a tune, each note being made visible by the chilly air. The light from lanterns recently lit by a faithful lamplighter created pools of light here and there along the high street and chased away all the shadows that dared creep near the edge of their light-filled pools. To Patrick, it was a cheery, welcoming sight. How he had missed this! This was home, and no matter what painful memories this place might hold, it was where he belonged. He would not leave again.

When he had first received the news of his brother’s accident, he had thought he would be coming back here only to dispose of some property in such a fashion as to secure himself a life of relative ease elsewhere – anywhere but here. However, he had had ample time to consider his future during his voyage.

Ashmore Lodge called to him, and he could not deny it. It was where generations of ancestors resided in portraits and lived on in stories handed down from one generation to the next. He could not dispose of his family. He had left them four years ago, but not because he had wanted to. No, he had left them out of necessity. As a second son, his lot in life was to earn his fortune. He had written to his brother and mother faithfully. Though he had been absent when both had been called to the life beyond this one, he had never turned his back on them, and he would not now.

He thanked the lad who brought him his horse and swung himself up into the saddle. He had considered staying at the Rose and Crown tonight and making his way to Ashmore Lodge in the morning, but, he smiled to himself, he had never been a patient man. So instead, he had availed himself of a hearty meal and a stout pint of ale and was now set to make the short journey to Ashmore Lodge a day ahead of schedule.

“Mr. Mullins.”

Patrick turned toward the person who called him. “Philip!” he cried in surprise. “You are Philip Dobney, are you not?” He dismounted and stuck a hand out in greeting to his friend.

Philip Dobney laughed and shook the hand extended to him heartily. “A bit older, a little stouter, but in essentials, still me. Of course, you remember my wife, Lucy?”

Patrick tipped his hat and smiled. “I remember Miss Tolson, but I have never met Mrs. Dobney, although I had heard that Philip had been fortunate enough to secure himself a bride.”

“It is I who am the fortunate one,” Lucy replied with a smile as she leaned into Philip’s arm. “You did hear the whole story, did you not?”

While one of Lucy’s hands was tucked in the crook of her husband’s arm, the other rested on her rather round belly. It seemed his old friends were soon to become parents. A pang of jealousy shot through Patrick. Four years ago, he had hoped to be as fortunate as Philip currently was. If she had stayed true to her word, he could have been a father by now.

“I did,” Patrick replied. “Or, at least, I believe I did. My mother was an excellent correspondent, and my brother was only slightly less good. However, I am unaware if there were any bits and pieces they left out. Allow me to extend my sympathy on the passing of your father, late though it is in coming.”

His mother had told him how Lucy’s father had died, leaving his estate to his brother, a good-for-nothing sort of fellow, and how Lucy had struck a bargain with Philip to be his wife rather than endure life with her uncle. The story had not ended there. There had been much that followed that – a twisted, sorted sort of tale that he had had a hard time believing was capable of playing out in the sleepy town of Kympton.

“Philip and I would be delighted to share the whole of it with you over tea at some point if you wish,” Lucy replied. “The Lord has been good to us.”

“I can see that,” Patrick answered. The pair before him looked as happy as any couple he had ever seen.

“Good can come out of tragedy,” Lucy continued, looking at Patrick with that pointed look he remembered so well.

Lucy Tolson had often used that look when she had something to say but was too gentle to say it bluntly. She apparently expected some good to come from his current situation. He hoped she was right, for his life for the past four years had been good, but it had never been truly happy.

“Our condolences on the passing of both your mother and brother,” she added. “It is not a happy event that has returned you to us, but we are glad to have you back.”

“Indeed, we are,” Philip said eagerly. “You will find much changed around here.”

“I am certain I will.”

“But do not let us keep you from your journey,” Lucy said. “I am not certain anyone expects you to arrive at Ashmore tonight.”

There was a sparkle to her eyes as if she knew something he did not.

“I am entirely too impatient to see the place,” Patrick replied. “Is there anything I should know before I arrive at home?”

Home. He drew and released a breath at the word. It felt right to finally be at home.

The sparkle in Lucy’s eye did not fade as she shook her head. “Not a thing. I think you will find it relatively unchanged and ready to receive you.” Her lips pursed as if she was attempting to contain a smile.

There was likely some surprise waiting for him at Ashmore, and Lucy had probably had a hand in it. He would not press her for the details. He would simply ride home and enjoy whatever it was that awaited him, then tell her about his delight the next time he saw her.

“Well, then, I suppose I will be on my way.”

“Welcome home,” Philip said, giving Patrick’s hand one more firm shake before allowing him to mount his horse and ride away.

~*~*~

It was not an excessively long ride to Ashmore. The roads were good for this time of year, and the lack of clouds in the sky meant that, even though the moon was not full, there was still ample light to illuminate his way. Patrick was grateful for that. For though he was confident he could have made the journey in the dark of a new moon, it was reassuring to be able to see familiar landmarks along the way and know that he had not forgotten as much as he feared he might have over the past four years.

“Can I be of service?” a groom asked as he exited the stables at Patrick’s approach. “Master Patrick?” the man said in surprise as he lifted his lantern high to see to whom it was he spoke. “We did not expect you until tomorrow.” He leaned to the side and looked behind Patrick. “Is there a carriage?”

“No, it is just me. The rest will arrive tomorrow as planned.” Patrick slid off his horse. “It is good to see you, John.”

“We are pleased to have you returned,” the groom replied before turning and shouting, “It’s the master,” to a fellow groom just exiting the stables. “Come. Take his horse.”

“I see you still run a tight ship,” Patrick said with a chuckle. “John’s not too harsh a master, is he?” he asked as he relinquished the reins he held to the lad who had scampered at John’s barking to do as he was told.

“No, sir. He is right kind.”

“And whom might you be?”

“I be Henry, sir.”

“Have you been with us long?”

“No, sir, only two months.”

Two months. Not long enough to have been here when his brother, Fredrick, was. Henry must be one of the replacements for the men who were lost with Fredrick and his mother in the accident.

“And a good hand he is,” John said. “He’s taken up well where others left off.”

So, he was correct. This young lad, who looked to be no more than fourteen, had come to Ashmore after the accident.

“I am glad to hear it.” He gave a nod to the lad and allowed him to continue with his work instead of standing there waiting for Patrick to question him further.

“It is good to have you home, sir,” John repeated, a smile gracing his face for a moment before sobering. “Not for the reasons it was necessary, of course.”

“No one ever wishes to be called home for such a reason.” Patrick turned and looked toward the house. “I had hoped to eventually return to my family with tales of adventure.” He shook his head. “I have the tales. It is just the family I lack.”

“I’ve always got a ready ear,” John said quietly. “I know it is not the same, but until you have formed a new family, my ear is available.”

Patrick clapped the older man on the shoulder. John had been at Ashmore for at least fifteen years. He was as much part of the estate family as anyone. “You are a good man, John, and I might take you up on that offer at some point.” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together eagerly, an impish smile on his face. “Now, do you wish to go with me when I surprise Mrs. White?”

John chuckled. “No. I shall stay here where it is safe.”

“Lacking bravery, are you?” Patrick teased.

“I assure you I have courage aplenty. I just am not lacking in good sense. I like my meals without cross words and harsh glares. I’ll have no part of taking the blame for your tampering with Mrs. White’s schedule.”

Patrick laughed. “I am no stranger to her displeasure, but I see your point. Wish me well.”

When he was young, Patrick had often found many ways to torment the housekeeper. He’d move things from place to place, steal a key when it was within his reach, and stamp his boots inside the door rather than making use of the brush outside.

He had eventually nearly outgrown such impishness before he left home, and then the past four years had driven out the rest. However, now that he was home and no longer under the command of another, he felt a bit of that carefree boy returning.

Coming upon the garden, Patrick decided to take a walk through it before entering the house. As much as he was eager to be inside where it was warm, a part of him dreaded the change that would be so evident by the silence of the place when he did enter. There would be no one to greet him aside from servants.

He approached the doors that led from the library to what had been his mother’s favourite part of the garden. A light dusting of snow covered the tops of bushes and bare branches. He stood and looked at them for a few minutes, pondering how they seemed to reflect his own state of being – cold, barren, and waiting. Waiting for what? That was the question. Patrick had no idea what awaited him now. Oh, he knew he would run the estate as well as it could be run, and come next winter, he would venture to town to attempt to secure a bride, so that he could do his part to provide a son or two who could continue to care for Ashmore when he was gone. However, beyond those things, and because of those things, he felt very unsure of himself.

He looked at the house. His home. The place that was now his responsibility. He would do his best by it.

The glass panes in the library doors were painted with the intricate white designs of Jack Frost and his legion of pixies. Those designs, his mother had said, were a reminder to Patrick that even in the coldest of winter weather and at the darkest time of the year, there was still beauty to be found.

It sounded very much like what Lucy had said to him earlier about beauty being found in tragedy. Once again, he hoped that something good could be found in all of this. He sighed and walked closer to the doors where he traced one of the patterns left by the frost. As he did, the room before him lit with the soft glow of one candle and then another and another.

Every ounce of breath he had in his lungs escaped him in a great whoosh as the lighter of the candles came into view. It was her. Illuminated by the glow of the candle she held, and framed by the soft and delicate designs of the frost on the windowpanes of the library doors, was Amanda, looking every bit as beautiful as he remembered her.