by LSF Publications
by Abigail Armani
The snow-blanketed landscape beyond the window gleamed white ice, humps and hollows of the once comfortingly familiar now teased into otherworldly shapes. Huge drifts blown by the fierce west wind loomed like bizarre creatures of nightmare in this frozen land. And still the snow continued to fall from a leaden afternoon sky. Trees contorted beneath the weight, trunks twisted, icicle-hung branches breaking and cracking. Paths and roads were obliterated by several feet of snow, and the extreme cold bit bone deep.
The old man shifted in his chair by the glowing fire, his gnarled fingers grasping the comforting rug that covered his legs and feet. Age sat heavily on his frame and his old bones ached from the winter chill. The scene outside sparked a memory from his youth, and a smile curled the corners of his mouth as through half closed eyes he remembered...
They said it was the worst winter in 100 years. In all his twenty years Samuel had known nothing like it - the ice was several inches thick on the inside of the windows and the snow waist-high outside and still falling steadily. Everything was frozen, wrapped in a heavy white blanket. The biting cold was so intense no one could keep warm despite being muffled in several layers of clothing. The prospect of a bitter and miserable Yuletide loomed as the temperature plummeted even further. Despondency and discomfort were beginning to give way to panic and the villagers of Woodbridge prayed for the snow to stop and warmer weather to set in.
Help came as Lord Woodham from Woodbridge Manor sent his groundsmen and gamekeepers out to round up everyone in the village and bring them to the manor where they would remain until the weather improved. The promise of roaring fires and plentiful supplies of hot food lured the villagers from their own freezing abodes into the comforting warmth of 'the big house'. And so they came, trudging through the snow and ice and cutting winds, their belongings piled high on sledges or tied into bundles. Young and old alike ventured out into the Arctic conditions, and if they couldn't walk unaided they were carried on makeshift stretchers or on the backs of broad-shouldered men.
The manor dated back to Elizabethan times. It was an impressively elegant building with mullioned windows that blazed with the light of a hundred welcoming candles. Lord Woodham, a widower, resided there with his daughter Elizabeth and a dozen or more servants, the latter now scurrying around with great purpose, piling more logs on the fire in the great hall, heating enormous pans of soup, organising blankets and rugs, retrieving all the spare china and cutlery from storage. The tantalising mouth-watering smell of freshly baked bread and roasting meats emanated from the kitchens. It seemed that Woodbridge Manor had enough provisions and fuel to last for months. No one would go hungry or cold this Christmas.
While His Lordship was overseeing the additional stabling required for the cart horses and ensuring the livestock were secure in their pens in the hay-filled barns adjoining the stable block, Elizabeth was busy indoors. The manor was usually such a quiet place, and she enjoyed the welcome break from routine attributed to the influx of visitors.
"Everyone - come into the great hall. There's plenty of room. Ellen - we need more blankets," she said to one of the maids. "Mary - help Constance with the makeshift beds along the back wall there. Josephine, go and ask cook when the soup will be ready - oh, and ask George to bring in more seating." In between giving instructions she smiled and welcomed everyone, helping divest them of wet garments and sodden footwear, seating people in rows before the huge fireplace.
As a wonderful warmth crept gradually into iced fingers and toes, and icicles melted from eyelashes, there were smiles on many faces of those assembled in the great hall, and the atmosphere became a heady mix of convivial excitement, for this was an adventure without a doubt and would make a fine tale to tell years from now on a winter’s night before a glowing fire in the hearth.
Agnes the cook and her kitchen maids soon began ladling bowls of steaming hot and nourishing soup, serving it with platters of crusty bread still warm from the ovens. Three dozen villagers tucked in and ate their fill, washing the broth down with hot sweet tea or warm milk.
Samuel ate appreciatively, wiping the sides of his bowl with a hunk of crusty bread, but all the while he was darting surreptitious glances at Lady Elizabeth. Although not beautiful in the conventional sense, her lovely copper-gold curls gleamed in the candle light. Her wide eyes, fringed with dark lashes, were a deep forest-green. She had a trim figure - high pert breasts, and a narrow waist that flared into a tantalisingly round bottom. When she smiled, her seemingly plain features were illuminated and her laughter was reflected in her eyes. Such sharp and vibrant eyes, they missed nothing. She noticed when platters were empty and bowls needed refilling, and she ensured that all ate and drank their fill, and after the meal was cleared away, that the guests were all warm and dry and comfortable.
Huge logs were added to the roaring fire. The enormous fireplace was the focal point of the great hall, and as the logs crackled and blazed bright, long tongues of flame darted, illuminating a sea of contented faces.
Lord Woodham entered the manor, stamping the snow from his boots. He strode into the great hall and eyed the assembled guests. "It's as well you are all here safe, the weather is getting worse by the minute."
"Aye. There's a fierce blizzard raging out there," added old Tom the gamekeeper. "It's so thick you can't see more than a few inches in front of your nose, and the wind is so wild it almost blew me over."
"Then you must have a tankard of ale, Tom, to steady your legs," said His Lordship with a wry smile and a twinkle in his eye. "Have a barrel brought up from the cellars. I'm sure it will be appreciated."
It was, and his Lordship's generosity was lauded by one and all. Indeed, his generosity of spirit and obvious concern for the well-being of the village and its occupants ensured that he was both liked and respected - even the strange and unusual taste he had for delivering a good whipping on a whim was tolerated. Given that he possessed so many fine qualities, a blind eye was turned to the less tolerable ones ... except of course by those unfortunate enough to find themselves on the receiving end of that devilishly stingy rattan cane of his, or the riding crop or leather strap that hung on a nail behind the stable door. Those chosen to receive his attentions could often be heard screeching and wailing as he delivered a good dozen stinging blows to their bared hindquarters. Still, tears dried and pain faded, particularly when his Lordship sent them on their way afterwards with a coin or two or a pie from the larder or a mutton bone for the pot. And it was rumoured that there were those who actually derived some salacious enjoyment from his Lordship’s ministrations and did their utmost to ensure they were available to assuage any additional needs ... for His Lordship was still a fine figure of a man who could set female hearts a-fluttering.
Molly Hartley was the one who caught his eye on this particular afternoon. She was a comely dark-haired woman with a buxom figure. Feeling his gaze upon her, she looked up and instantly recognised the familiar gleam in his eyes.
"Molly, you will join me in my study immediately," said Lord Woodham.
"Yes sir. Of course, sir," replied Molly, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment and excitement. As she scuttled after him, there were nods and winks from some of the villagers.
"Lord - he's at it again," said one.
"Molly won't mind. She likes it," said another.
"Hussy," snorted Mrs. Smith the blacksmith's wife.
"Less of that, wife," chided the blacksmith. "Or Molly won't be the only one eating her supper standing," he said meaningfully, flexing the fingers of his huge right hand.
His remark caused a few smiles and calls of encouragement, which gave way to general chatter and good natured banter.
As Lady Elizabeth returned to the great hall, one of the house maids addressed her. "Four days to Christmas Eve, My Lady. Should we begin to decorate the hall?"
"Of course Mary. Get the villagers involved in making Christmas wreaths and garlands ... and mistletoe balls," she added as a fleeting image of the handsome young farmer Samuel appeared in her mind, his blue eyes staring oh so meaningfully into her own green-eyed gaze. "Yes. Do that. It will give them something to do. Deck the walls and windows. The tree has already been cut - have it brought in and decorated."
"Oh yes, My Lady." Mary clapped her hands and her eyes shone bright as buttons. "It will be a Christmas to remember."
"And better tell cook to make more Christmas puddings too, and we shall need two more turkeys and another goose. Heavens - I had better make a list of what we're going to need to feed all these people at the Christmas feast. There is much work to be done, Mary."
"Indeed, my Lady, but we have many willing hands to help."
Intent on discussing provisions with Agnes the cook, Lady Elizabeth left the hall. But instead of going down to the kitchens, her feet trod a different path. Along the corridor she walked past the drawing room, to stand outside her father's study as he disciplined Molly Hartley. It wasn't as though she were eavesdropping. No, for if she were seen, it would be assumed she was gathering extra supplies of linen from the small room opposite the study. To give weight to her assertion, she went inside and gathered up a pile of white linen sheets which she held with trembling fingers as she listened to the series of mewls and yelps emanating from the partially closed study door.
"Oh my Lord," she whispered as father's cane did its work. She closed her eyes, visualising the rattan as it arced and swooped down with a rush of air to land on bare buttocks. She had seen Molly's bare trembling buttocks before when she had been spying. It was an activity she had continued with, since it resulted in such deliciously wanton feelings in the pit of her stomach. To see the white lines turn red, searing the skin with a slash of fire, was an inexplicable delight. How she wished she could be the one to experience the kiss of the cane. But father had never disciplined her. Never. And so she was reduced to hiding in the laundry room or peeping through cracks in the barn when her father took it upon himself to use his crop or cane or thick leather strap.
The noises in the study continued. Father was breathing heavily, grunting in satisfaction with each carefully aimed blow. Molly would be thrusting her upturned buttocks wantonly, eager for more.
"Lucky Molly," murmured Lady Elizabeth. She leaned against the linen cupboard, and clutching the linen to her chest with her left hand, she let her right hand stray, fingers creeping slowly down from her waist to her belly and below. The soft fabric of her velvet gown felt wonderfully lush, and as her fingers lingered over her secret place her breath came in little gasps as she allowed herself to be caught up in the lust-filled moment, and -
"Lady Elizabeth?" Samuel stood by the doorway.
"Oh!! Samuel!" she gasped, straightened up, and in her haste dropped the armful of linen.
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