Before the sun was up, Violet had Clive saddled even though her cold fingers fumbled with the girth strap in the weak lantern light, and snow was blowing into her eyes even under the stable awning. It calmed a bit as the sun came up, and for the first stretch of road, the going wasn’t too hard. It was two days before Christmas now, and a steady stream of wagon and horse traffic had kept the road passable through the storm.
But once they reached the fork that led toward the Beringford estate, the road got rougher. It was no problem for Clive’s long, strong draughthorse legs and broad hooves, but the snow also started up again, and soon any sense of the track ahead of them disappeared. Clive soldiered on gamely for a while, but he didn’t know the roads here, and soon even he foundered to a stop, blowing his consternation.
“There, there, boy,” she patted his neck. “It’s not your fault.” She craned her neck about and blew on her hands in their sodden mittens. Surely someone would pass soon–a livery or carriage. The Beringfords must have folks coming and going from the mansion all day this close to the holidays. But no one passed for ten minutes, fifteen. Clive stamped and nickered. “I know,” she patted him. She felt stupid for rushing into this. But still, she didn’t want to give up on her plan.
Clive didn’t give her a choice. He took the bit in his teeth and turned back the way they had come, and Violet was shivering too much to fight him. But in a half dozen paces, the horse swung to a halt again. It was snowing so hard that the track back was covered now, too. A total white-out. Violet felt a prickling up her spine as she realized that not only had her plan been stupid, it might actually be deadly, for her and her brother’s favorite horse.
“All right, Violet, stay calm. Look for shelter like Pa taught you.” She turned Clive back around; perhaps sensing her intention, he let her. They had to be close to the Beringford woods, and where there were trees, there was shelter from the storm, perhaps enough dry sticks to build a wee fire and dry out a bit until it passed. It was supposed to pass….
A few minutes later, Violet saw a dark flash ahead in the snow–that was the best way to describe it. And then she saw it again, like a man’s cloak blowing in the wind. Clive, too, had seen it, and he turned toward it instinctively. Once more the flash, and then suddenly out of nowhere loomed the edge of the forest. And standing at its verge, the largest pheasant Violet had ever seen, its cheeks bright red as a robin’s breast in the gloom. It was watching Violet and Clive, and as they grew closer, it turned and ran a ways into the wood, then stopped and turned back. Violet laughed, her teeth chattering together. Why were animals always trying to get her to follow them? And why did she do it? What if they were leading her to a sinkhole in the ground, to get revenge for all their kindred killed by the trainworkers and butchers and hunters that Violet was related to? “What else am I going to do?” she said out loud. And she nudged Clive onward.
The pheasant led them on by careful steps through a thick copse of oaks, and then quite suddenly, they came out onto a carriage road, somewhat sheltered from the snow by the surrounding wood. The pheasant ran down the road, and Clive followed, picking up his pace to a trot, as Violet was now shaking so violently she was having trouble keeping her seat. She couldn’t properly feel her arms or legs anymore. So, the Beringford mansion swam into view like a fairy castle, lights blazing out like a halo in the gloaming. Unlike other great houses Violet had seen that were set in large, well-mown parks, this one was nearly throttled with great spruces on all sides, fronted by a modest drive, which Clive trotted up at a good clip, whinnying as he came. The pheasant had disappeared. A perplexed-looking housekeeper emerged from the front door and shouted something Violet couldn’t understand. And then everything went white.
“I think she’s coming round, ma’am,” Violet heard distantly, and she blinked to find herself in a great, wood-paneled sitting room in front of.a roaring hearth, swaddled head to foot in sheepskins. Someone was holding a tea cup to her lips. She drank and was so grateful for the hot, strong liquid coursing down her throat into her belly that tears sprang to her eyes.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“Not at all,” smiled the housekeeper Violet had seen in the door, a young woman with a round face, pretty, dark eyes, and dark hair. “Can you hold it? It will bring some warmth back into your hands.” And she pressed the bone teacup into her fingers. Then, she stepped back, and Violet found herself facing the most imposing person she had seen in her life. She had to be near six feet tall, spine straight as a pitchfork, wearing a very un-Christmas-y dark brown silk gown with a crocheted shawl poised just so over her shoulders and a cameo pinned at her throat. Twists of silver hair framed a face that looked too young for it, set with piercing violet eyes and an aquiline nose. All in all, she reminded Violet of the Harris’s hawks she would see perched in the spruces at the verge of the north wood, waiting for some unfortunate rabbit to make the attempt to cross the field.
“Lady Beringford,” Violet mumbled through sluggish lips. She tried to stand and make a curtsy as her mother had taught her, but the housekeeper gently pushed her back.
“What in creation were you doing out in that storm, girl?” Lady Beringford demanded with no preamble. “You nearly killed yourself and that fine horse of yours.”
“Oh! Clive!” Violet started to push herself up out of the chair again, but the housekeeper quickly interjected:
“Never you fear: Curtis took him to our stable and gave him warm water and grain.” Violet sank back:
“Oh, thank you…. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name, ma’am.”
“Christabel,” she chuckled. “And I’m not a ma’am.”
“And *I* asked you a question,” Lady Beringford interrupted. “I’m not accustomed to being ignored, particularly by girls with the cheek to faint on my doorstep two days before Christmas.” But the corner of her mouth twitched slightly as she said it.
“I’m very sorry, Lady Beringford,” Violet began cautiously. “We got caught in the storm. I thought we’d just follow someone who knew the way to the mansion, but no one came by for the longest time.”
At that Christabel cocked her head toward her mistress with a look that came close to chiding. Lady Beringford gave a small snort: “Ridiculous holiday. So much wasted on presents no one wants and on cutting down trees that were minding their own business and on running here and there, and on cooking puddings no one can stomach. Jesus was born in the spring, anyway. I always give the staff the week off to spend with their families.”
“Most of the staff, that is,” Christabel murmured. Lady Beringford ignored her and turned a most ferocious expression on Violet, who, as if she had been punched in the stomach, thrust the letter out that she had ridden with by her heart; the envelope was a bit damp but it was otherwise no worse for the wear.
“I won a place at your veterinary college,” she blurted. “And a scholarship. And I’m ever so thankful. But I came to ask you if you would keep the money in exchange for letting the train company cut some timber in your woods. Not too much, just enough to finish the track to my village, Stane How. And not for free, just at the rate the company’s already agreed to pay Stane How and St. Vries to cut in our woods. Your woods are huge, and ours are small and very old, and if they cut them any more they’ll destroy them. There’s a squirrel already who lost her burrow, and a badger. And a falcon lost both her young. And there are two beautiful big barn owls with a nest in a spruce tree that I’ve known since I was a baby. And there’s a family of foxes, and a hedgehog….” Violet ran out of breath. The room swam in front of her eyes. Christabel took the letter from her hand gently and handed it to Lady Beringford, who received it but didn’t open it and didn’t take her eyes, which were burning now, off Violet.
“So, you’re giving up your place at college. To save a handful of forest animals.”
“No, your Ladyship, not at all! I’ll keep my place. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. I’ll just take in extra mending to pay for the tuition and books.”
“Do you have any idea how much a year’s tuition at the college costs, Miss…” and here the Lady looked at the letter’s address, “Cooper?”
Violet looked down for the first time. She didn’t. The letter hadn’t given the number, and she had never asked. She didn’t want to know because she knew it would be too much. She had the feeling that if she ever saw it, that would be the moment her dream would come to an end.
“Ma’am,” Christabel said quietly, and whatever response she received caused the housekeeper to gently take Violet by the shoulders. “Let’s get you into a hot bath and some dry clothes. And then a nice, steaming bowl of Cook’s pea soup. You’ll stay the night, and Curtis will drive you and your horse home to Stane How in the morning when the storm clears. Come now, dearie.” And shaking, tears streaming down her cheeks, feeling like an utter failure, Violet let Christabel lead her out of the room.
The Rookery 