A Love for All Seasons by Edith Layton

Author:Edith Layton [Layton, Edith]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Regency Romance
Publisher: Untreed Reads
Published: 2018-01-16T16:00:00+00:00

SNOW BROTH

“…A man whose blood is very snow-broth; one who never feels the wanton stings and motions of the senses…”

—William Shakespeare

“A ghastly day for a funeral,” the young gentleman remarked in a whisper.

“You’d prefer a balmy day with green trees filled with joyous bird song? Curious. I think this the ideal weather for an interment,” the young gentleman he’d addressed said softly. “In fact, were it mine, I should have liked a bit more wind and snow, with perhaps a dollop of sleet thrown in for good measure. I’d want my mourners to suffer somewhat, I’d think. Actually, in my case, I believe the weather would be the only thing to make anyone unhappy.”

A “too right” and stifled laughter was his answer. As well as a sharp poke in the ribs from the parasol of the black-clad young woman on his right.

“Hush, Beau,” the lady hissed. “And you, too, Creighton. Uncle deserves a bit more respect.”

“So he did,” the fair young gentleman she’d addressed as “Beau” answered readily. “And so he had it in full measure from me while he lived, and well you know it. But no one but the minister wants it now, and he’s a prosy old bore. Even Uncle thought so.”

“Lord, yes,” the other gentleman agreed, “yet here he is, a fellow Uncle avoided at every turn, and he’s naming him everything but a saint.”

“Astonishing the virtue one accrues by passing on,” Beau mused, brushing some snow from his greatcoat shoulder as they stood by the grave site.

“He was a good man,” the young lady insisted.

“So he was,” Beau agreed, “but he didn’t make a profession of it.”

The young woman was either about to argue with him or bid him to be silent again, but a sudden blast of cold wind sweeping across the bare burial grounds literally took her breath away, and she shuddered instead.

It was a cruelly cold winter, and it had only just begun. But still the birds were dropping, frozen, from the trees, and for once, the beggars in town looked as if they really would be pleased to do the same. The Thames was freezing over, and the snowdrifts piling up. The grave diggers would have to be paid double again, for even though they wouldn’t actually drop the coffin until the ground relented somewhat, they’d toiled like oxen to dig even so far as they’d done in order to make the ceremony look respectable.

The many black coaches that stood waiting for the survivors of the burial party were so swathed in snow by the time the vicar had done saying his last prayers that they’d lost all their funereal splendor and looked as sparkling white as wedding coaches. And the cold high white domes they’d grown during the ceremony insured that the hot bricks and woolen blankets they held were tepid when the mourners were at last free to try to use them to comfort frozen fingers and toes.

“I should be pleased to help warm you,” Beau offered when the lady complained at how cool the hot brick at her feet had become as she settled back in the coach.

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