Free Winter Wonderland by Elizabeth; Mansfield

Despite his old, unchanging dislike of her, he was unable to keep from feeling pity for her plight. He could not supply her with protection for her feet, but he’d twice offered to give her his greatcoat. Each time she’d waved him off. “I will not be beholden to such a rudesby,” she’d said dismissively. And those were the only words they exchanged during the long, cold march.
    The lights of the inn made a welcome gleam in the darkness, and when the travelers slogged into the courtyard, the actual sight of it was truly comforting. The inn looked warm and inviting. Its snow-spattered sign, lit by the guttering flame of a brass lantern and creaking as it swung in the wind, read Deacon’s Gate Inn . It was small for a public house, with two picturesque bow windows and a thickly-thatched roof, quite like a cottage in a Mother Goose picture book. But the most welcome sight of all was the smoke billowing from the two chimneys at each side of the house; evidently there were some goodly fires burning within.
    Barnaby pushed open the door and followed Miranda into the blessed warmth. As they stamped the snow from their shoes in the tiny vestibule, a middle-aged woman (with a head of wild, though faded, red hair pinned so carelessly atop her head that much of it was falling about her face) appeared in the doorway of what was probably a taproom. “Bless me sainted mither!” she exclaimed in a thick brogue. “What wind o’ the de’il blew ye here in this storm?”
    â€œOnly shank’s mare,” Barnaby said shortly. “For God’s sake, woman, save your questions and take the lady to a fire.”
    â€œAye, sir. Yer lady does look frozen through.” The woman promptly put a proprietary arm about Miranda’s waist and led her into the taproom, a room only large enough to accommodate three tables. But the fireplace was huge, and an appropriately large fire crackled within it. Miranda knelt before the blaze and, pulling off her thin gloves, held her hands up to the warmth.
    The woman studied the kneeling Miranda with a look of sympathy before removing her soaked bonnet and pelisse. Then she turned to another door in the far corner. “Hanlon, ye lazy sot, come out ’ere,” she shouted. “’Tis company we ’ave! They’ll be wantin’ a hot toddy, so shake yer leg, me man!”
    A moment later, a man appeared carrying two mugs. Short and bald, his florid face exuded good humor. He greeted the lady at the fireplace and handed her a tankard. “’Tis a specialty of the ’ouse,” he explained, smiling broadly, “called a Lamb’s Wool. The name’s a mite unfittin’, but it’ll warm yer innards.”
    Miranda accepted the drink gratefully and took a swig at once. The innkeeper, meanwhile, crossed the room to Barnaby. “’Ere, sir, let me ’ave that wet coat o’ yourn. Just drink this down, an’ you’ll be feelin’ better afore it’s gone.”
    â€œA Lamb’s Wool, eh?” Barnaby sniffed into the tankard suspiciously. “What’s in it?”
    â€œCider an’ home brew an’ a bit o’ the grape,” the innkeeper said as he went off with the wet outergarments. “Nothin’ at all t’ trouble yer stomach.”
    Barnaby drank a draught and discovered that the innkeeper had the right of it. A delicious warmth spread through his body. Never had he tasted so satisfying a brew.
    The innkeeper’s wife came up to him and watched with a pleased grin as he drank. “Good, ain’t it? No one’s ever had a bad word fer my husband’s Lamb’s Wool. And now you’ll be wantin’ a hot supper, I’ll be bound.”
    â€œYes, indeed, Mrs. Hanlon—it is Mrs. Hanlon, is it not?—some supper will be most welcome. Anything you have on hand, so long as it’s hot. And afterwards, of course, a place to sleep for the