Royal Fools

XIII. By the Hearth

It was easy to get lost in Birchfield, even without a raging snowstorm. But if you were familiar with the trees like Emory and Henry were, you would always find your way back. The enemy, however, was nature itself.

Even Henry could not stay out in this weather for long. And that's what Emory was most concerned about. If his cousin was with Florence, and he truly hoped he was, he'd seek the nearest shelter. And the manor may not be the nearest one. But that was only supposing nothing else happened.

He thought of various scenarios that could have played out. The only plausible one was that they got lost. Henry wouldn't, so it must have been Florence. His cousin would have tried to look for her.

He stopped the horse, trying to see through the blizzard.

Think, Emory. If you were Florence, where would you get lost?

He whipped his head around, already feeling the cold seep through his clothing.

The junction.

He urged his horse to go faster, his eyes on the trees as they passed, and pulled at the reins when they reached the one he had been looking for. It was a birch tree like the rest, but if you looked closely, it leaned a little too far to the right. And two trees away from that was the junction that led to another road.

Anyone not paying enough attention could easily follow that road because the turn wasn't noticeable.

Down that road was where the Davidsons lived. The only shelter one could have.

Emory considered his options. There wasn't a lot. He hesitated because if he pursued this path and turn out to be wrong, he'd be killing more time. But he had no other choice.

If you were Henry, where would you go?

Clenching his jaw, he looked up at the distant smoke rising in the sky. Praying he was right, he led his horse toward the Davidsons.

***

Emory had only heard of the Davidsons. Husband and wife farmed and kept to themselves. And like the rest of the villagers, apart from the Fitzwilliams, they didn't know who Emory was. Nor did they know who really owned Birchfield.

That's why, when Emory climbed off his horse and knocked on their door, Mrs Davidson asked who he was. And when he told her he was Daniel Stanton, her eyes widened with relief and she said, "Mr. Henry said you'd come."

That's when she opened the door, revealing a humble home packed with people.

The hearth, with pots hanging on the side, was the only source of heat. Nearby were three children huddled together and wrapped in blankets. Another man, Mr. Davidson, sat around the small table standing in front of the fire with a steaming drink in both hands, and across from him was Henry.

Both men got up to meet him. Mr. Davidson introduced himself. Emory absently shook his hand as his eyes looked around the tiny cottage.

"She's sleeping," Henry whispered. "She was too tired, I guess."

"Children, please step away from Miss Florence," Mrs. Davidson whispered to her children. "She needs to rest."

The three children scooted to the side, revealing Florence on the floor with a little girl in her arms. Both of them sleeping in a cot near the foot of the table, completely unaware. Emory's eyes scanned her face. Her hair was dry, her cheeks a little pale.

"My little Suzy is teething and has not had a good night's sleep," Mrs. Davidson said. "She's been crying the entire morning, but Miss Florence got her to sleep. Heavens bless her for it."