LOUISE ALLEN has been immersing herself in history, real and fictional, for as long as she can remember, and finds landscapes and places evoke powerful images of the past. Louise lives in Bedfordshire, England, and works as a property manager, but spends as much time as possible with her husband at the cottage they are renovating on the north Norfolk coast, or travelling abroad. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favourite atmospheric destinations. Please visit Louise’s website—www.louiseallenregency.co.uk—for the latest news!
Dear Reader,
When I was writing this story I had a real valley in mind,
one of the lovely chalk streams that cut through the Chiltern Hills, with beech woods on the slopes and tiny hamlets and villages tucked away. These valleys are lovely in the summer, but in the winter, under snow, they have a special charm and remoteness, and I especially love the area because my ancestors came from there. Many of the characters in this story share their names—and doubtless their liking for the local home-brewed ale!
I wish you a very happy festive season,
Louise
18th December 1814—the Chiltern Hills, Hertfordshire
‘You have to agree, Ajax, that it would be unpleasantly ironic to survive five years of being shot at, blown up and starved in the Peninsula to die of exposure in some Hert-fordshire valley.’
The big grey flicked one ear back and carried on plodding through the driving rain. An intelligent animal, he probably thought it was not so much ironic as foolish.
‘Rodgerson’s directions were clear enough.’ Hugo kept talking as he scanned the sides of the valley for any glimmer of light. He was beginning to shiver and feel sleepy and neither was good, not when he’d been riding since daybreak. He was soaked through to the skin despite the oiled wool cloak that had seen him over the Pyrenees in winter on one occasion. ‘That cross-country cut to get us on to the Northampton road without having to go out to Aylesbury would have saved hours.’
But a bridge had been down and then a road flooded and he had turned north in the fading twilight, using his pocket compass and a sodden and tattered route map. They must have gone clear between Berkhamsted and Hemel Hempstead, either of which would have provided a comfortable inn for the night. Instinct told him he was heading northwest now, which should be correct, but it was pitch-dark, his tinderbox was damp and the low cloud obscured the stars. Every yokel for miles around seemed to have vanished into their dwellings—wherever those were hidden. He couldn’t blame them, he’d settle for a flea-infested hovel himself, if one presented itself.
‘First cover, we’re taking it.’ Ajax did not bother to flick an ear that time. The horse was big and tough, but both of them were out of practice at being quite this cold and wet. ‘This will teach me to underestimate the terrain,’ Hugo muttered. And it would teach him to be antisocial and avoid invitations as well. He could be putting on a cheerful face in the midst of some jolly family gathering preparing for Christmas, right this minute.
Hunching his shoulders sent a fresh trickle of icy water down his neck from the brim of his hat as he narrowed his eyes against the rain. Hordes of children, irascible great-aunts, flirtatious young ladies, too much rich food, charades…possibly dying of exposure was preferable after all.
They were in a shallow valley. To his right was a river and what he assumed were water meadows, now impersonating a lake. To his left rough grazing sloped up into scattered trees and scrub. Someone, surely, must live in this landscape? Would the trees thicken up and offer any more shelter?
There. Ahead and to the left, a flicker of brilliance like a star, only too low and too yellow to be anything but a man-made light. He turned Ajax’s head towards it and almost immediately the squelch of hooves into waterlogged earth became the splash and crunch of metal shoes hitting the stones of a rough, potholed track.
As they came closer he could see the shapes of huddled hovels and small cottages higher up the slope. They seemed to be in darkness, but the light shone steadily from an unshuttered window in the slightly bigger building nearest the track, a beacon to guide him in. Against the sky he could just make out the jut of a pole above the door with a battered tangle of twigs thrashing in the wind at the end of it. ‘An ale pole, Ajax. There will be something for me to drink, at least.’
The ground came up to meet him with a force that jarred his tired legs as he slid out of the saddle in front of the entrance and he steadied himself with a hand on the pommel while he thudded on the panels with his other fist.
No reply. Damn it, he would break in if he had to and pay for the damage afterwards…
The door swung open spilling light and heat into the rain. Hugo blinked against it, looked down to meet the concerned gaze of the woman holding the door open and said the first thing that came into his head. ‘You are as wet as I am.’
Hell, she’ll think she’s facing a lunatic. But it was true. Wide hazel eyes smiled up at him out of a freckled face that was rosy with damp heat. Brown curls stuck to her forehead and cheeks, her sleeves were rolled up to reveal hands and forearms that dripped water and her wide white apron was soaked and glued to her skirts.
‘But not as cold, I will wager,’ she said with a laugh in her voice, turning to call over her shoulder, ‘Boys! Quickly. Come in,’ she added, ‘Before you drown. You will not be going any further tonight, that is for certain.’
‘My horse, ma’am. Can I get him under cover?’ Ajax stuck a wet muzzle forwards as though to emphasise the point as two boys erupted out of the inner doorway.
‘Mama?’ They skidded to a halt at her side and regarded him with avid curiosity, revealing themselves to be virtually identical twins.
‘Nathan, Joseph, where are your manners? Help this gentleman stable his horse and then bring him inside. You will excuse me,’ she added with a dazzling smile that made him blink even as it sent a surge of hot blood through his chilled body. ‘I am sparging the mash and one just cannot leave it. I will be back presently.’
‘Sparging? Of course you are. Yes.’ Bemused, Hugo regarded her retreating back. She had delivered that airy speech with the same tone—and accent—as any lady explaining to a guest why she must leave him for a short while. What sort of ale house was this? Her hair was coming down, but the exposed skin of her nape was white and soft and her hips swayed enticingly as she walked away from him. Soft, warm, delicious.
‘Good evening, sir.’ He yanked his wandering attention back. ‘If you go to that door, we’ll bring a lantern the inside way.’ The boy with the fewer freckles on his cheeks pointed to a stable door.
Nathan, that one, Hugo thought, recalling the quick glances each had thrown their mother when she had said their names. And Joseph’s ears stuck out rather more and his eyes were a darker hazel. Hugo walked into the warmth and smell of stabled beasts and the blissful relief of getting out of the insistent rain.
There was a stall in front of them, empty except for Joseph scattering straw on the stone. Nathan ducked out of the next stall with a stuffed hay net bouncing behind him. ‘I’ve stolen Sorrowful’s,’ he said, ‘but I’ve left him a pile on the floor. He won’t mind.’
‘Are