Winter's End by Clarissa Cartharn

said Nancy
speechless. “She’s staying for breakfast?”
    “Yeah,” he said
quietly. “And a whole lot more.”
    She arranged the tea and
sweet nibbles onto her tray and then studied the small ensemble of what would
have been a beautiful, delicious breakfast.
    “Do you want to take
it up?” she asked hopefully.
    Theodore rose to his
feet and straightened his tie. He then picked up the tray, giving Nancy a
woeful look. “Well, she’s here now,” he said and walked out of the kitchen with
it.

 
    ******

 
    The earlier light
drizzle of snow had stopped and the rays of sunlight was now peeking over the
low cumulus clouds. Emma would have found it pretty, had Ethel’s scowl not kept
her from enjoying it.  
    It was strange
thinking of Mrs. Kinnaird as Ethel. It made her young all over again. Emma
could see past the crows feet at the ends of her eyes and the wrinkles that
spread randomly over her face. The Ethel she now saw was young and beautiful
and the scowl she carried was beginning to charm her.
    It didn’t take much
for Emma to discern that Ethel’s sudden foul disposition was due to the other
woman’s   presence in the room.
    “Oh, cousin
Ethel,”   the woman said. “We’re still not
over the winter yet. It is far too dangerous for you to go walking out in all
that snow. You’ve just recovered from that cold earlier on in the season.”
    “Well,” Ethel
harrumphed. “You for one have impeccable timing. You know exactly when to call
in during those days. One must think you must be praying for it.”
    “Oh Ethel,” Mrs. Boyd
groaned as she daintily placed her tea cup on the coffee table. “You are such a
tease. I do of course pray for you. In fact I made a special visit to church
last week to ask for the reverend’s blessings for you.”
    “Why?” said Ethel,
rolling up her eyes. “Has he made some sort of dealing with you?”
    “Ethel,” Mrs. Boyd
said, her voice slightly startled. “Well, in fact, I prayed for your long life
and good health.”
    “What is the name of
the reverend?”
    “Why?” Mrs. Boyd
asked nervously.
    “I have a complain to
lodge. His prayers aren't working well enough. My health seemed to have
declined since.”
    “Oh, Ethel,” Mrs.
Boyd groaned. “It isn't the poor reverend’s fault. You are walking about in the
early hours of the morning when you should have been warm in bed.”
    “Just give me the name
of the reverend, Deanna. I have a special request to make,” Ethel said,
silently wishing that her husband’s second cousin would be slapped with a bite
of amnesia and forget her way to the Kinnaird mansion ever again. “I also want
to have a word with him about why your prayers are failing to reach the ears of
God. He’s not Reverend Clive, is he? Because the man can’t pray a darned worth.
And I refuse to comply to his blessings.”
    Mrs. Boyd shocked
beyond belief, waved her hands dismissively. “No, of course it wasn’t Reverend Clive.
He is a much younger reverend,” and she added quickly. “Whom you’ve never met.
But really, Ethel, do you have to be so blasphemous. The reverend is a man of
God. At least give him the deserved respect.”
    “Deanna,” Ethel said
firmly, leaning forward. “The man is a close-minded, opinionated piece of human
twaddle. An entire sack worth of baloney.”
    Mrs. Boyd gasped.
Ethel smiled. She loved that she could evoke that in the meddlesome, imposing Mrs.
Boyd.
    Emma shifted
uncomfortably in her chair. She tried to keep her attention on the icicles
frozen onto the branches of the fir tree, glimmering outside the parlour
window.
    “Mrs. Winston, you’ve
just moved next door to the Kinnaird Mansion, have you?” Mrs. Boyd said,
turning her attention to Emma.
    “Yes, yes I have,”
Emma stammered.
    “I’m so sorry about
your husband. I heard. It must be such a tremendous task bringing up young
children all on your own,” Mrs. Boyd shook her head sorrowfully.
    Emma flushed.
    Ethel lifted an
eyebrow