The claggy going slowed Sam down a little, but he still managed to cover a good five or six miles before he finally paused, taking a seat on a large flat rock at the top of a ridge, relishing the biting wind on his face.
He gazed out over the plain below for several minutes before his stomach rumbled loudly, prompting him to dig into his pocket and pull out the muslin napkin that his bread and cheese was wrapped in. Setting the bundle down on the flat surface of the rock, he reached back inside his pocket for his water flask. Once he’d quenched his thirst, he stretched his arm towards the muslin bundle, unthinkingly reaching for it with his left hand.
His brain recognised that fact belatedly, registering the weight of his false arm and the lack of responsiveness in the limb. It was only a momentary lapse—the instant his gaze fastened on the unmoving, wooden fingers of his false hand, he realised his error—but still it made his stomach roil with sudden nausea. He wanted to tear the false arm off and throw it off the ridge. Wanted the cold air to numb the reddened, itchy skin stretched over his stump.
He loathed these tiny lapses. Each time it happened—and it happened most days at some point—he felt the horror of his lost limb anew. Sometimes it was enough to take him back to the terrible day when the surgeon had taken his arm off. To the terrible bite of the blade slicing through his flesh and the grinding agony of the hacksaw as it ripped into the bone.
They’d given him enough brandy to fell a horse, and still he’d thought he’d die from the pain.
Turned out you could survive more pain that you’d ever want to imagine.
Sam squeezed his eyes closed, breathing hard as he tried to shove the memories away, thrusting them to the back of his mind.
He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that. Eventually, though, the crisis passed. His breathing slowly returned to normal, and he opened his eyes.
The rolling downs were still there, and so was the wide, cloudy sky.
The great, wide world didn’t care about his problems, and somehow that was a comfort.
Perhaps one day—when he was a little less raw—he would go out and discover more of the world. Travel beyond Spain and France and Portugal to even further distant places.
Missing left arm be damned.
Sam’s stomach rumbled then, reminding him he was hungry.
He turned towards the muslin bundle again, stretching out to lift it with his right hand this time, noting with dismay that Mrs. Braddock had fastened it with a tight little knot that he had to wrestle with one-handed. It took an irritatingly long while, but finally, he managed to pull the knot free and set the food down on the flat rock. He pulled the muslin corners aside, one by one, and reached for the bread.
It was good bread—wholesome and fresh-baked—and the tang of the cheese was satisfyingly sharp. As Sam ate, he relished the cold gusting wind on his face and a faint scent in the air that made him wonder if snow was on its way. Glancing up, he saw the sky was mobbed with thick grey clouds and decided it looked likely.
A faint stab of excitement pierced him. It would be the first snow he’d seen in five years.
And if that wasn’t a reminder that it was time he got himself home, he didn’t know what was. Best to go before it started. Besides, the Huxleys would be arriving later and would require to be welcomed.
Sighing, Sam shoved the empty muslin cloth back in his pocket and levered himself to his feet.
When he was within a couple of miles of the Hall, the snow did start, just a feathery, drifting shower. Sam wondered if it would turn heavier, but by the time he arrived back at the Hall, it was still the same, light swirl, the flakes melting as soon as they touched the ground.
Hobbs opened the door as Sam walked up the steps to the front door, bright eyes twinkling behind his spectacles, round stomach straining the buttons of his waistcoat.
“Good day, sir,” Hobbs said. “Did you have an enjoyable walk?”
“I did, thank you,” Sam said. “Have our guests arrived as yet?”
“Only one so far, sir,” Hobbs said, closing the door behind him and following Sam into the hall. “Young Mr. Jasper elected to ride and arrived a short while ago. I understand he left the rest of his family resting at the White Hare. They should arrive later, weather allowing.”
“Weather allowing?” Sam repeated, trying to look calm. His heart had begun to race at the news that Jasper was here.
“Hopefully the snow won’t get any worse,” Hobbs said conversationally, taking Sam’s hat. “But if it does, it may be difficult for the rest of Mr. Huxley’s party to get here. The road from Little Wolkham has been atrocious this last week. A blizzard could hinder them from reaching the Hall.”
Sam frowned.
“Is her ladyship in the drawing room?” he asked. His mother usually took tea around this time and would no doubt invite Jasper down to join them. Sam might have an opportunity to get Jasper alone for a word at some point—he was keen to clear the air with him at the earliest opportunity.
“Her ladyship and his lordship are not yet returned from visiting the tenants, sir. I believe they planned to drive out to the Stonecross Farm first, then work their way back, calling in on the other tenants on their way back.”
Sam frowned. Stonecross Farm was some way off, but given how long his mother usually visited the tenants for, he’d have thought they’d be back by now. Perhaps his father was being talkative—or perhaps the roads were not good? He hoped the snow would hold off till they got back.
Well, at least there was one silver lining: he now had the perfect opportunity to speak to Jasper Huxley while no one else was around.
“Tell me, Hobbs,” he said. “Which bedchamber has Mr. Huxley been given?”
“The Willow Room,” Hobbs said. “He was quite muddy when he arrived, sir—hardly surprising given the state of the road from Little Wolkham—so Archer’s fetching him water for a hot bath. However, I understand he has no clean clothes to change into, as his luggage is still with the carriages.” Hobbs paused, then added, “I was going to try to find something for him to wear, sir. If you don’t mind, your clothes are most likely to be suitable. May I ask Mr. Hogan to look something out?”
This was a perfect excuse to go and see Jasper. “No need, Hobbs,” Sam said. “I’ll look some things out myself and take them to him. Don’t give it another thought.”
“Very good, sir.”
Sam took the stairs quickly and strode down the corridor to his own bedchamber, a few doors down from Jasper’s. Opening his wardrobe, he awkwardly extracted a pair of breeches, a waistcoat, and a coat, carrying the items to the bed one by one and laying them on the mattress. The coat was a little too tight on the shoulders for Sam these days. It should do Jasper well enough, though it might still be a bit on the large side for him. From the armoire Sam extracted a clean shirt, neckcloth, and stockings and added those to the pile. He spent a minute or two tidying up the collection as best he could, one-handed; then he opened the door wide before returning to the bed to lift the bundle of clothing, pressing it to his chest with his right hand.
When he reached Jasper’s bedchamber door, he paused, taking two deep breaths before leaning forward and rapping the door with his false left hand, while still hugging the clothes to his chest with his right.
“Come in,” came a familiar voice from inside.