Read Online Lisbon by Valerie Sherwood - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Valerie Sherwood
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gravestones.
She wondered stabbingly if Tom would ever come back. So many men didn’t; they were lost at sea. The tall ships weren’t called “widowmakers” for nothing. Suddenly the currant-filled scones lost their flavor and Charlotte’s thoughts turned grayer than the wintry sky.
“We’d best be off,” decided Wend, jumping up with her mouth full. “Snow’s getting deep.”
It was indeed. They trudged on toward Wend's home cottage, arriving exhausted and grateful to see the smoke from its single stone chimney appear as a smudge through the drifting white flakes. It was a one-room affair with a curtained alcove where Wend's parents slept, and when Charlotte and Wend swept in, bringing with them a shower of snow, that room seemed too small to contain the people in it.
There were shouts of welcome from the children, who clustered around their skirts brushing off the snow. And Wend's mother, who was bent over the hearth stirring up the fire with a poker, turned about to beam at them. Wend's father, crippled from a fall while leading a party up the heights of Helvellyn, tried to rise from his chair— and fell back with a grimace of pain. But his eyes, hazel like Wend’s, sparkled through the smoke from his long clay pipe as Wend threw her arms around both her parents, greeting them as if she’d been living as far away as China instead of just down the way at Aldershot Grange.
“And you’ll be Mistress Charlotte,” said Wend’s mother comfortably. “I told Wend to bring you along for Christmas. ”
Charlotte instantly liked the woman, who seemed lik an older edition of Wend. She told her hostess shyly how much she’d been looking forward to this visit. Wend’s mother seemed pleased—it was the first time she’d ever had a visit from “the gentry,’’ and she took Charlotte’s mittens and stocking cap and scarf with care and hung them up to dry by the hearth. Charlotte felt deep sympathy for Wend’s mother, saddled with all those small mouths to feed, trying to survive on a tiny plot of land in this lonely place with a man who could not help her.
On Christmas Eve, when they sang Christmas carols, Charlotte remembered achingly her Christmases in the Scillies, with her mother gaily playing the spinet and everybody singing, and her eyes filled with tears. If only her mother were here . . .
But her mother was gone, the old happy life in the Scillies was gone, and it was never—any of it—ever going to return. Just as Wend’s two brothers who had gone away to sea were never going to return. The singing died away, the supper dishes were cleared, and everybody bedded down, wrapped in heavy wool blankets with snow hissing down the chimney into the dying fire.
They woke to Christmas morning with hugs and kisses and the giving of little homemade gifts—and snow piled up so deep outside that it drifted in over their feet when they opened the door.
They were snowbound the whole week.
Then, just before Twelfth Night there was a brief thaw, which turned all the white surfaces to treacherous glistening ice. And the day after a Twelfth Night celebrated mainly with hot broth and singing, Charlotte and Wend tugged on their stocking caps and mittens and prepared to trudge back to Aldershot Grange.
Just as Wend’s mother, who had come outside with a shawl wrapped around her thin shoulders to give Wend a last good-bye hug, cautioned them to be careful, she herself slipped on the ice and fell sprawling, unable to rise.
They got her inside, put her to bed, and decided to postpone their leave-taking until the next day. But the next day Wend’s mother was no better; she still could only creep about, stooped over and groaning.
At the door, with her breath making a cloud in the cold air, Wend told Charlotte good-bye. “I’ve got to stay with Ma,” she said. “Else who’ll take care of things here?” She hugged her friend and watched Charlotte start out
She wondered stabbingly if Tom would ever come back. So many men didn’t; they were lost at sea. The tall ships weren’t called “widowmakers” for nothing. Suddenly the currant-filled scones lost their flavor and Charlotte’s thoughts turned grayer than the wintry sky.
“We’d best be off,” decided Wend, jumping up with her mouth full. “Snow’s getting deep.”
It was indeed. They trudged on toward Wend's home cottage, arriving exhausted and grateful to see the smoke from its single stone chimney appear as a smudge through the drifting white flakes. It was a one-room affair with a curtained alcove where Wend's parents slept, and when Charlotte and Wend swept in, bringing with them a shower of snow, that room seemed too small to contain the people in it.
There were shouts of welcome from the children, who clustered around their skirts brushing off the snow. And Wend's mother, who was bent over the hearth stirring up the fire with a poker, turned about to beam at them. Wend's father, crippled from a fall while leading a party up the heights of Helvellyn, tried to rise from his chair— and fell back with a grimace of pain. But his eyes, hazel like Wend’s, sparkled through the smoke from his long clay pipe as Wend threw her arms around both her parents, greeting them as if she’d been living as far away as China instead of just down the way at Aldershot Grange.
“And you’ll be Mistress Charlotte,” said Wend’s mother comfortably. “I told Wend to bring you along for Christmas. ”
Charlotte instantly liked the woman, who seemed lik an older edition of Wend. She told her hostess shyly how much she’d been looking forward to this visit. Wend’s mother seemed pleased—it was the first time she’d ever had a visit from “the gentry,’’ and she took Charlotte’s mittens and stocking cap and scarf with care and hung them up to dry by the hearth. Charlotte felt deep sympathy for Wend’s mother, saddled with all those small mouths to feed, trying to survive on a tiny plot of land in this lonely place with a man who could not help her.
On Christmas Eve, when they sang Christmas carols, Charlotte remembered achingly her Christmases in the Scillies, with her mother gaily playing the spinet and everybody singing, and her eyes filled with tears. If only her mother were here . . .
But her mother was gone, the old happy life in the Scillies was gone, and it was never—any of it—ever going to return. Just as Wend’s two brothers who had gone away to sea were never going to return. The singing died away, the supper dishes were cleared, and everybody bedded down, wrapped in heavy wool blankets with snow hissing down the chimney into the dying fire.
They woke to Christmas morning with hugs and kisses and the giving of little homemade gifts—and snow piled up so deep outside that it drifted in over their feet when they opened the door.
They were snowbound the whole week.
Then, just before Twelfth Night there was a brief thaw, which turned all the white surfaces to treacherous glistening ice. And the day after a Twelfth Night celebrated mainly with hot broth and singing, Charlotte and Wend tugged on their stocking caps and mittens and prepared to trudge back to Aldershot Grange.
Just as Wend’s mother, who had come outside with a shawl wrapped around her thin shoulders to give Wend a last good-bye hug, cautioned them to be careful, she herself slipped on the ice and fell sprawling, unable to rise.
They got her inside, put her to bed, and decided to postpone their leave-taking until the next day. But the next day Wend’s mother was no better; she still could only creep about, stooped over and groaning.
At the door, with her breath making a cloud in the cold air, Wend told Charlotte good-bye. “I’ve got to stay with Ma,” she said. “Else who’ll take care of things here?” She hugged her friend and watched Charlotte start out
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