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Ghosts of Winter

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Ghosts

of Winter

by

Rebecca S. Buck

2011

GHOSTS OF WINTER

© 2011 By reBecca s. Buck. all riGhts reserved.

ISBN 10: 1-60282-219-0

ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-219-1

This Trade PaPerback Original is Published by bOld sTrOkes bOOks, inc.

P.O. bOx 249

Valley Falls, ny 12185

FirsT ediTiOn: aPril 2011

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. NAMES, CHARACTERS, PLACES, AND

INCIDENTS ARE THE PRODUCT OF THE AUTHOR’S IMAGINATION OR

ARE USED FICTITIOUSLY. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ACTUAL PERSONS, LIVING OR DEAD, BUSINESS ESTABLISHMENTS, EVENTS, OR LOCALES

IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL.

THIS BOOK, OR PARTS THEREOF, MAY NOT BE REPRODUCED IN ANY

FORM WITHOUT PERMISSION.

credits

ediTOr: ruTh sTernglanTz

PrOducTiOn design: susan ramundO

cOVer design by sheri (graPhicarTisT2020@hOTmail.cOm) Acknowledgments

Ghosts of Winter was written over a time of transition in my life. As a result, there are very many people—friends and family—I would like to thank for your love and support, far too many to name you all here! I hope you know who you are and how heartfelt my gratitude is. Some of you have always been in my life, some of you I’ve had the pleasure of meeting in this last remarkable year. You help me create a world in which my imagination can be unleashed.

Thank you.

There are some people I simply must mention by name: Ruth, you worked as hard on Ghosts as I did. Thank you for every moment of your time and all of your amazingly skilled input.

It is a privilege to work with you to make the best book we can and I consider myself incredibly lucky.

Radclyffe, thank you for being the inspiration and guide behind all that Bold Strokes Books is and will be, and for letting me live my writing dream.

Sheri, this cover is stunning. Thank you so much for making my book beautiful.

Lynda, thank you, your help with the yoga was invaluable!

And to everyone else at BSB too: the feeling of being part of a team is so incredibly special and my words only become that most magical of things—a book—because of you. Thank you.

Raych, I honestly don’t think this book would be what it is without you. Thank you for all the words we’ve shared.

Lindsey, writing can be a solitary thing. Sharing my lonesome writer’s world with you makes it less daunting and much more fun.

Thank you!

And once more to those I haven’t named. I take no one for granted. Thank you.

Dedication

To the ghosts. Those of history and of our own lives.

May they inspire us, teach us, and remind us of our common humanity.

timeline: Winter manor and its inhaBitants 1746—Lord William Fitzsimmons Winter inherits an old Tudor manor house from his father, has it demolished and rebuilt in Palladian style.

1751—The new Winter Manor is complete. Lord William invites his friends to visit in June.

c.1780—Lord William dies with no children. Winter passes to his cousins, the Richmond family.

1848—Though his father still lives, Edward Richmond moves into Winter, with his wife Kitty and his children, Francis and Catherine, then aged nine and five.

1862—In autumn Maeve Greville comes to tea at Winter and meets Catherine for the first time.

1863—Maeve returns to Winter in spring, as Francis Richmond’s fiancée.

c.1865—Catherine Richmond drowns in the river in Winter’s park.

c. 1893—Francis Richmond inherits Winter from his father. He does not marry and has no children.

c. 1900—Francis Richmond dies, Winter passes to his distant cousins.

1917—The legitimate male heir to Winter, Wilfred, is killed in World War I.

1925—Simon, master of Winter, dies with no living children. Winter passes to his sister, Mary.

1926—Mary, mistress of Winter, dies and her daughter, Evadne Burns, inherits the house.

1927—Evadne Burns has a liaison with John Potter, the neighbouring farmer, and falls pregnant. That summer Evadne invites her school friends to Winter for a reunion. Later in the year, John Potter marries May Shipley, the housemaid. Their daughter, Maggie Potter, will eventually inherit her father’s farm.

1928—Evadne gives birth to a baby girl she names Edith, Edie for short.

1930—As a result of the global economic meltdown, Evadne is forced to abandon Winter for a smaller house and find work.

1940—Winter is requisitioned as a place for wounded soldiers to recuperate during World War II.

1945—Winter is given back to Evadne, in terrible condition. She cannot afford to renovate it, but refuses to sell.

1965—Evadne Burns dies, and Edie inherits Winter but cannot live there.

c. 2010—Edie dies and leaves Winter to Ros, then aged 30.

Ghosts of Winter

chapter one

In the rear-view mirror, the road was empty for now, wide and black beneath the bright mid-afternoon sky. Peering ahead, I saw darker skies, threatening rain. I hoped fervently it wasn’t an omen. A sign came into focus, telling me the city of Durham was only another fifty miles north. Only another sixty miles to go until I discovered just what sort of a predicament I’d thrown myself into this time. Starting a new life just after my thirtieth birthday, every familiar part of my life hundreds of miles behind me, wasn’t an adventure I’d ever expected or craved. Yet here I was, driving into the uncertainty.

Winter Manor. I let the words drift through my head in the way they had done so many times over the last weeks. They were familiar now, but remained as unsettling as they had been from the beginning. A manor house? Not only a manor house, but a manor house located two hundred miles away from everything familiar to me. My manor house.

Considering it too deeply made it ludicrous. More ridiculous still, I now had all of my worldly possessions packed into my battered silver Ford Fiesta and was heading for the wilds of County Durham—a region I’d never considered, let alone visited—to move in to said newly acquired manor house. Apart from what I hoped were reliable assurances the house had water and electricity, and a wealth of preliminary structural reports I’d tried to wade through, I knew very little about my new home. I’d not even known it existed a month ago.

• 11 •

reBecca s. Buck

A few days after my thirtieth birthday in mid-November, a belated and half-hearted birthday card from my sister had arrived in the morning post through the door of my compact London flat.

With it came an intriguing, intimidating letter, summoning me to the offices of a lawyer I’d never heard of. That letter tormented me with curiosity for days. It was all very well informing me I’d been left something in the last will and testament of Miss Edith Burns, and I had to make an appointment to learn the size of the bequest.

What I’d really wanted to know was: who on earth was Miss Edith Burns?

I smiled to myself now as I remembered the kindly lady who lived across the street from my family home in our pretty Hertfordshire village, the house my mother, sister, and I had lived in until I was nearly eleven. Always known to me as Auntie Edie, though she was no relation at all, she had been my surrogate mother, an indulgent grandmother, and an amusing playmate for me in my childhood. My own mother, too busy in her work as a beautician or with indulging my sister—who was five years younger than me and far prettier—had never seemed to have the time for me I’d craved.

I’d turned to Auntie Edie instead. I remembered with huge fondness and gratitude her constant supply of lollipops, the horrific lime-green pullover she’d once knitted for me, and the shiny fifty-pence piece she gave to me every birthday.

I’d felt terrible in the lawyer’s office when I’d been informed that Miss Edith Burns was Auntie Edie. I hadn’t forgotten her kindnesses, but I’d not had cause to think of her in many years. The honour that she’d left something to me in her will was momentarily eclipsed by my sadness on realising she had passed away. Eternally a sprightly sixty-something year old in my recollection, I was shocked to learn she had been over eighty when cancer had claimed her. Auntie Edie had been a retired nurse when I knew her. I imagined the bequest would be the adult equivalent of that birthday fifty-pence piece, and I told the lawyer as much.

The lawyer had smiled mysteriously at that point. She informed me Auntie Edie had been born in a small country house, Winter Manor, in County Durham. The property had been in her family for

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most of the twentieth century but had fallen into disrepair since it was last inhabited in the 1940s. Auntie Edie, having no children, had remembered the little curly-haired child I’d been and left the place to me. I’d also been left most of her money, the result of her lifetime of saving, which was no small sum. The only condition in place required me to oversee the renovation of Winter Manor, returning it to its former glory.

I’d stared open-mouthed and questioned the lawyer’s sincerity.

But once she handed me the official documents, I began to believe this strange twist in my fortunes was genuine. Before I’d had a chance to think about it, I’d found myself asking, “Is the house habitable?” I almost hoped she would say no before the idea truly took shape in my mind.

“I believe it is, if you’re prepared to virtually camp to start with,” she replied. “It has electricity and water connected, that much I know. There’s some paperwork, including a full report on what needs to be done and some contact numbers of professionals Edie had already spoken to about taking it on. I think the information’s a few years out of date now, but I don’t suppose much has changed in that time.”

“I could go and live there?” The words had fallen out of my mouth, despite the very reasonable protests my brain tried to interject.

“If you wanted to.”

It was that simple, apparently. At her words, all logical objections took a step backwards, and there was a quickening in my veins that felt something like optimism. I’d looked at the piece of paper in my hands, ignoring the way it trembled with my fingers, and confirmed again this was not a fiction I had dreamed up, it really did inform me Winter Manor was mine. Two hundred miles from everything that still hurt. A place in the middle of nowhere, where my only responsibility would be to a woman I’d loved as a child, and a house full of history. Someone else’s history. For the first time in months I’d seen a path in front of me. Exactly what I had been searching for.

Only now, driving ever closer, the nervous tension was taking hold of me again. What if I failed Auntie Edie? What if I couldn’t

• 13 •

reBecca s. Buck

deal with such a practical project? What if this didn’t work out, in the same way as everything else in my life lately? I attempted to ignore the doubts. I only knew, for some unshakeable reason, I had to try this. I didn’t have a lot of other options after all.

I sighed and reached out to turn on the radio, hoping to occupy my mind with some talk or music. The haunting electronic notes of “True” by Spandau Ballet filled the car. I turned it off quickly in disgust. That song had way too many memories attached to it, and there were some places I didn’t want my mind to go today.

Bittersweet recollection of my early years with Francesca was one of those places. It had been one of the many songs that meant something to us whenever we heard it. For nine years. Now Francesca was gone, and nine years of my life, of loving, of compromise, of sharing my dreams with her, felt wasted.

Tears threatened to blur my vision. I wiped them away quickly and focused again on the road in front of me. I pressed the accelerator to overtake a slow-moving truck and opened the window to let the cold air blow over my face. The roar of the wind, as I drove faster still, obscured everything else. I pushed the accelerator harder. I had no choice now, my decision was made. I’d just have to hope fate was kinder to me than she had been so far in my life. The perfect isolation of Winter Manor beckoned. Right now, it was all I craved.

❖

I drew close to my destination at just before three in the afternoon, as the first signs of winter twilight were turning the December sky from pale grey to smoky blue. Following the directions given by the toneless voice of my satellite navigation system, I turned onto a small country lane, edged with hedgerows barren of leaves. I was soon aware of a low stone-built wall running along the side of the road behind the undergrowth to my right.

The navigation system, into which I’d programmed the exact GPS

coordinates of Winter Manor, instructed me to turn right in one hundred yards. “What the hell are you talking about?” I muttered in return. All I could see were hedges and that low wall. I slowed

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Ghosts of Winter

the car to a crawl as the display counted down the yards. I stopped with a few yards to go and wound my window down. Then I saw the entrance to my new home.

Two stone pillars rose from the tangle of brambles at their base to form ornate and pointed guardians of a pair of wrought iron gates which hung between them. The rusted, swirling metalwork of the gates had once been painted black, but the paint was flaking and faded. Both pillars and gates were intricately laced with ivy, some of it dark, living green, some of it brown and lifeless but still holding the structure in a death grip.

For a long time, I merely sat in my car and stared at the imposing sight. I knew I was in the right place but could barely comprehend the idea of simply opening the gate and going inside. Not only did I feel I would be intruding on what was really somebody else’s property, but I would also somehow be going against the natural order of things. Decay had well and truly set in here, nature was claiming the manmade for herself. Auntie Edie, the last living being with any real claim over this place, had died. What right did I really have to push open that gate, rip the ivy out of the way, and force my way inside? Me versus Mother Nature was a contest unlikely to go my way.

I opened the car door and climbed out. As I felt the ground under my feet I noticed that beneath the weeds of what looked like part of the roadside verge was actually the gravel of a driveway.

I approached the gates tentatively and peered between the ornate metalwork and tendrils of ivy. I could see nothing beyond a shadowy avenue of beech trees, which must have once been graceful. With their winter branches bare and after decades of neglect, the trees seemed rather to be guarding the driveway to the house, forbidding figures likely to come to life and tear at my skin and hair, monsters from a horrific fairy story.

I smiled at my runaway imagination and refocused on the driveway beyond the gates. Though it was overgrown, it would still be passable in my car. The view from where I stood offered no clue as to what the house itself looked like, and my curiosity to see it was increasing with every moment. Seeing the state of the gates, I felt

• 15 •

reBecca s. Buck

a growing trepidation I would find the property in worse condition than I had been led to believe it was in, and I was anxious to reassure myself. The monster trees would not put me off, however hard they tried.I pushed the gate and was dismayed to find it didn’t budge. I tore at the ivy snaking around the latch and discovered no lock, only a rusted old chain, broken many years ago. I ran my eyes to the base of the gates and discovered the problem at once: there was a bolt, dropped down and stuck in the ground. I bent and tried to force it up. It creaked, but resisted me. I straightened, and brushing the rust from my hands, went to my car and retrieved a can of WD-40 from a box on the back seat. I’d bought it, along with some initial supplies, because some vague memory of my father’s garage workshop, from the occasional weekends I spent with him after my parents’ divorce, had told me it was a magical fix-all substance. Had to be worth a try.

I shook the can and squirted some of the light oil onto the stubborn bolt. While it trickled through the rusty lock, I stowed the can in the car. I returned to the gate and tried again. I pulled with both hands this time. Just as I thought I’d failed in my attempt, the bolt slid free of the ground and both gates shuddered and groaned.

Disproportionately elated by my first practical success at Winter Manor, I pushed the gates. The ivy strained against me, still trying to bar my entry. I took a deep breath and pushed harder. The sound of stems and leaves tearing and releasing their hold gave me unexpected satisfaction. The gates scraped along the ground, and the hinges sounded ready to give up, but still, they opened. It was the first thing I’d achieved in months.

I returned to my car, started the engine, and turned into the driveway, easing the car slowly through the weeds covering the uneven ground. Clearly my actions confused the navigation system because moments later the computerised woman piped up in an insistent tone, “Where possible, make a U-turn.” I frowned at her negative attitude. “Where possible, make a U-turn.” I reached over and pressed the off button. “No,” I said to my so easily silenced companion, “I’m going straight ahead this time.” I was driving into the unknown, but at least I was going forward.

• 16 •

Ghosts of Winter

❖

My newfound optimism lasted for longer than it had been in the habit of surviving during the last few months. It made it all the way to the end of the half mile of overgrown driveway. Less than ten minutes. For much of the distance, all I could see were the forbidding trees on either side of me. In some places they had merged overhead to form a canopy of branches, shutting out most of what remained of the daylight. The natural archway had a certain gloomy charm to it, I reflected, peering upwards. It would be pretty in summer, with the dappled sunshine streaming through.

The driveway veered sharply to the left at the end of the avenue of trees. The vista before me opened up into rolling parkland. Winter Manor Park was 150 acres, I knew from the paperwork I’d studied.

It had been much larger when the house was first built in the mid-eighteenth century, but many acres had been sold off as farmland during the nineteenth century. That was one factor I was very glad about, since even 150 acres of landscaped pastures and wooded areas seemed like a small country to me, who had lived in a city most of my life.

I drove over a slight rise in the ground, and suddenly an apparition arose before my eyes, surprising me with its proximity.

The walls were of pale grey stone, broken by a regular pattern over two storeys of dark windows staring emptily back at me. I swallowed hard and stopped the car, fumbling for the door handle and climbing out quickly for a better view. The building demanded that I look at it properly, not peer at it through the windscreen. I stared up at it wide-eyed. The front façade of the house was ornamented by four very straight formal columns, at the top of which there rested a triangular pediment. To either side, the house pushed forward slightly, creating the symmetrical impression that there were two wings. The pyramid-shaped roof was tiled in dark slates and broken by small, regular dormer windows. At the apex of the roof was a somewhat incongruous domed clock tower, its curves at odds with the straight classical lines of the rest of the building.

Briefly, in the deepening half-light of evening, I was convinced I was at the wrong country house. I almost hoped I was. I’d expected

• 17 •

reBecca s. Buck

a graceful ruin, but my first impression was one of quiet grandeur, imposing self-control, and a towering dignity that quite frightened me. Then I looked a little closer. I saw the panes in many of the dark windows were cracked and even missing entirely in places.

Green moss crept up the walls, showing dark against the pale grey stone. The wide steps which led to what I assumed was the main entrance, between the columns, were littered with brown autumn leaves, and all over the large gravelled turning circle in front of the house there were clumps of tall grasses, trailing brambles, and other unidentifiable specimens of foliage.

In the trees behind me something rustled, and I jumped, suddenly aware I had been holding my breath. I felt dwarfed by the scale of the house, of the task I had taken on. I leaned against the car and gazed at the dilapidated glory of the building in front of me. Disquietingly, I sensed Winter Manor staring back, wondering who on earth I was to come here in my little silver car and disturb its dignified repose.

I grew conscious of the silence. The leafless trees did not even rustle in the strong breeze blowing my hair into my face. Another faint crunching reached me from somewhere in the undergrowth and then…nothing at all. I could hear no traffic or sirens, no voices or music blaring. I could see no signs of human habitation anywhere nearby. I couldn’t even hear the overhead noise of an aeroplane.

Winter Manor was a secluded oasis of oblivion. That consideration did not frighten me. It was exactly what I wanted.

I ducked back into the car and fished around in the glovebox for the set of keys the lawyer had given me. Small and insignificant in my hand, it was hard to believe they could possibly be able to give me entrance to this place. Marvelling at the chance to leave my car unlocked for five minutes, I strode purposefully towards the steps. As I climbed, to my right I noticed the statue of a woman who looked as though she would have been at home in ancient Greece, gracefully posed on a pedestal. Her waist was draped tastefully with a carved cloth, but her stone breasts were magnificently exposed to the elements. One of her arms had eroded and crumbled, but her expression, framed by stone ringlets, was still perfectly wistful, as

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Ghosts of Winter

she seemed to look past me to the other side of the steps. I turned and followed her eye-line, only to find she was staring at an empty space. I glanced downwards to see an empty pedestal, the small broken piece of stone a lingering suggestion of where her chiselled lover had once stood, gazing back at her. I looked back to the blank eyes of the woman. Her expression was so sad, staring longingly after something that had simply crumbled away to nothing.

“I know how you feel, love,” I told her with a small smile. She didn’t react. “Pleased to meet you anyway.” I turned back towards the wooden doors at the top of the stairs. They were varnished mahogany, the varnish peeling and flaking away from the wood.

The brass handles were tarnished. A large keyhole was located just below the handle, and a more modern hasp lock, with a very impressive padlock, added extra security. I felt my new statuesque friend had turned to watch me incredulously as I selected the biggest key from the three I had in my hand and inserted it into the hole below the handle. For some reason, I was surprised when it fitted perfectly. I turned it with remarkable ease and heard the lock click.

I unfastened the padlock with fumbling fingers, my trepidation growing as I considered the significance of crossing the threshold for the first time.

Both locks dealt with, I pushed the door. It swung open with an entirely predictable creaking of its old hinges. I took a slow step inside like a child entering a haunted house in an old Hollywood movie.

I found myself in a large hallway. The only natural light came from the narrow windows on either side of the front door, and shadows enveloped me as I glanced around this hall of vague and mysterious shapes. They stretched endlessly upwards to the high ceiling and back, beyond a very grand staircase, into recesses I couldn’t make out. Inwardly, I cursed myself for not setting out earlier and arriving when it was lighter. The expanse of undiscovered gloom in front of me was not reassuring.

I remembered the information I had been given. Connected to the National Grid since the 1920s, Winter Manor still had a working electricity supply, but it was turned off at the mains. The fuse box

• 19 •

reBecca s. Buck

was in a small anteroom to the right of the entrance. I turned in that direction and saw a doorway, slightly ajar.

My footsteps echoed on what was apparently a marble floor as I walked towards the door. A cobweb brushed my forehead as I went through. I shuddered. I’d brought a feather duster with me in anticipation of just such considerations, and it was my plan for tomorrow to rid the liveable rooms of all signs of arachnid inhabitation. I peered into the small, dusty room and located the fuse box on the wall. Opening the cover, I assumed the big switch must be the master switch I’d been told would restore power to the house. I moved it from the off position to the on position. Nothing happened.

I was first relieved not to see sparks and then disappointed. I glanced around for a light switch and flicked it. Still nothing.

I used the remaining daylight to bring my things into the entrance hallway. Then, wrapped in my sleeping bag on the creaking camp bed, I turned on my torch and flicked through the information Auntie Edie had collected before she died and found the name and number of an electrician she had wanted to employ. I called him on my mobile phone and thanked him profusely when he agreed to come and look at the faulty electrics before midday tomorrow.

He sounded surprised when I told him that I was living in Winter Manor. He probably thought I was a lunatic.

That taken care of, there wasn’t a lot else I could do. Itching though I was to explore the rest of my new residence, as night fell the prospect of wandering through the rooms with only my fading torch became less and less appealing. There would be time for that in the morning, in daylight. The house had been here for over two centuries, it wasn’t going to change overnight. My stomach growled, drawing my attention to more immediate needs. I found the packet of egg mayonnaise sandwiches I’d bought from a service station on the motorway, settled myself on the low camping bed, and devoured them.

I crumpled the wrapper and tossed it onto the floor near the camping bed. Unable to face tackling the camping stove to heat water tonight, I contented myself with the lukewarm bottle of Cherry Coke I’d been drinking earlier. Then, still fully dressed in

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Ghosts of Winter

the loose linen trousers and thick Nepalese knitted pullover I’d been wearing all day, I wrapped my sleeping bag around me and curled up on the folding bed in the corner of the dark hallway. The small halo of torchlight faded, flickered, and went out entirely.

I stared into the thick darkness. What would Francesca think of me now? The part of me that missed her wanted to pick up my phone and send her a text, at the very least. But somehow, even though the end of our relationship and our new status as awkward and distant friends was mostly of my own doing, I’d still not come to terms with it. Part of my heart could not help but want her, the comfort of her arms, the simply soothing presence of her company.

It wasn’t enough for a life together, but still, I mourned the only relationship I’d known.

I turned my thoughts away from Francesca and thought instead of my little sister, Jeanne. I hadn’t told her about either my inheritance or my decision to take up residence in the dilapidated stately home. I’d sent a characterless change of address card which wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow. Now, in the darkness, I pondered why I’d not told her more.

We’d never been close, Jeanne and I. The five year difference in our ages was less to blame than that we were total and complete opposites. As a gloomy, deep-thinking teenager, keen on trying out rudimentary philosophies and experimenting with my own spirituality, I’d considered her superficial and really rather silly.

Obsessed by ballet and boy bands, blessed with a carefree nature and a pretty face, Jeanne represented everything I had never been able to embrace as a teenager. As she and my mother had giggled together over boys and shared make-up tips, I’d felt excluded from their girly conspiracy and retreated into a world where I sought magic and comfort of my own, with crystal healing, meditation, and yoga. I bought my clothes from ethnic and alternative shops partly out of a desire to set myself apart from my peers, while Jeanne wouldn’t wear a garment unless all of her friends were wearing the same brand.

Though now that we were adults, such differences had become insignificant, our relationship was as distant as ever. Jeanne and I

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reBecca s. Buck

lived in different worlds. She dealt with life so smoothly, and had a knack of making me feel incompetent in comparison. Even with a five-year-old daughter and an out-of-work husband, she always seemed bright and cheerful. And though I knew she suffered just as much grief and bitter anger over the all-too-recent death of our mother as I did, she still managed to remain basically optimistic and find enough time to nag me about the way she thought I should be living. She’d never questioned her own path through life and saw no reason why I should question my own, growing quite frustrated with me when I wouldn’t listen. Her lack of understanding and constant, unavoidable advice had driven me further away from her than ever.

We’d barely spoken on the phone in months and certainly hadn’t visited each other. I didn’t have to tell her about Winter Manor yet.

I doubted she’d be interested anyway.

I closed my eyes. The house creaked and groaned around me, as though it was adjusting to my presence and not wholly happy with it just yet. I hoped it would get used to me soon. Against my expectations and alone in the middle of a county I knew nothing of, in a centuries-old house of which I had suddenly become guardian and sole resident, on a camping bed and with no electricity, I found I was comfortable. I could relax. The electrician’s surprise told me that though my inheritance of the house was expected by the people Auntie Edie had dealt with, my decision to live here and arrival today had not been widely broadcast. Nobody knew where I was. It was calming to be hidden and anonymous, with only myself to think about. No responsibility, no pain. No expectations. Just me, alone in the darkness. Winter Manor was, so far, everything I’d hoped it would be.

• 22 •

Ghosts of Winter

chapter tWo

I fell asleep with as much of my fully dressed body tucked into the sleeping bag as possible as a defence against the December cold and the lack of any heat source in the draughty hallway. I’d brought an electric heater with me, but it was useless without power.

Wrapped in the sleeping bag, I slept more heavily than I could have expected to. When I woke up, momentarily disorientated, a heavy banging was echoing around the hallway. I sat up on—and almost fell off—the narrow camp bed, rubbing my eyes as I tried to locate the source of the sound. I grabbed my phone from the floor and looked at the time on the display. Nine o’clock exactly.

I’d slept for almost twelve hours, no wonder my head felt as though it was full of mush. I unzipped myself from the constraints of the sleeping bag as it dawned on me that the pounding sound was, in fact, someone knocking on the thick front doors.

I rose groggily to my feet and glanced around me. For the first time I noticed the detail of the marble patterns on the floor of the hallway and took in the oak balustrades and banisters of the grand staircase rising majestically in the middle of the hallway to the as-yet-undiscovered rooms above. A little thrill rippled through me at the thought of exploring in a few hours.

The banging sounded again. I pulled my shoes on and went to open the door, sure the only person it could possibly be was the electrician, and pleased he was here so early. I turned the key in the

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lock and swung the door open, just as my visitor raised a hand to knock again.

“Hello. Rosamond Wynne?”

I stared at the person on my doorstep. This was most certainly not the electrician. My caller was a woman, about my age, with a striking appearance. She was an inch or so taller than me and slimmer with it. Her pale blond hair was tied back into a tight, incredibly neat, short ponytail. She regarded me from behind the lenses of designer glasses with fashionably thick, square frames, her eyes blue and intense. Her cheeks were flushed pink with the morning cold and her lips pinker still. But the most arresting thing about her was her stance. She held herself perfectly straight, her shoulders very square, and gave me the distinct impression she was about to breeze past me into the house whether I invited her or not. She wore a black winter coat which emphasised her angular shoulders, a royal blue scarf draped gracefully around her neck, and carried a black briefcase in a leather-gloved hand. She was looking at me as though I should have been expecting her.

“Hello.” I tried not to sound rude, though I instantly resented the expectant look in her eyes. “How can I help you?”

“Are you not expecting me?” she said in a clipped, unaccented voice.

“Not unless you’re the electrician.” I smiled half-heartedly, a gesture which she did not return. Accordingly, I set my face into a frown to match her own.

“I’m not,” she replied without the slightest hint of amusement.

“I thought you’d been told I was going to call on you. I took the liberty of contacting the lawyer to find out when you’d be here and told them I would call on you as soon as possible. My name’s Anna Everest, I’m the architect Edith was in discussion with about the house. I specialise in historic properties.”

“Oh, right. I came across your name in the paperwork. I didn’t really think about it though, you know, I thought electricity, heating, and maybe water would really be my first priorities.” I didn’t mean to sound quite as dismissive of my need to employ her services as I did, but she looked unperturbed.

• 24 •

Ghosts of Winter

“No doubt the facilities will be your first consideration.

However, it’s important we make long-term plans now. All historical renovations take place a step at a time, but they have to keep to a very detailed schedule.”

“Of course. You’d better come in.” I stood aside reluctantly.

She strode past me into the hallway. I snuck another glance over her appearance. Her coat was long, reaching to her knees, but below I saw tailored pinstriped trousers and flat-heeled brogues. I was surprised to discover her height was natural, not created by heels. I looked up into her face again, to find her regarding me evenly. Undoubtedly she had taken in the unbrushed state of my frizzy brown hair, my creased trousers, and the unflattering chunky pullover. Most likely my brown eyes were puffy and red-rimmed too, just to add to the effect. Now she glanced at the camp bed and bundled up sleeping bag. I tried very hard not to care what opinions she was forming of me but failed in the attempt.

“I’m sorry, I only got here last night, and I didn’t know I was going to have visitors this morning.” I kicked myself for feeling the need to explain.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” she returned with impeccable politeness.

“No, of course not.” A white lie.

She looked around for somewhere to place her briefcase and finally settled on one of the lower steps of the staircase. Having put it down, she pulled off her gloves and loosened the buttons of her coat, though, sensibly since the house was chilly, she did not remove it. Automatically, I glanced at her left hand and noticed the slim gold band around her ring finger. Clearly there was someone in the world brave enough to commit to such a woman.

“Of course you know this is a listed property?” she said.

“Yes. Grade One isn’t it?” I was pleased I’d paid enough attention to what I’d read to sound as though I knew what I was talking about.

“It is. That’s the most limiting category. It means we can’t make any changes to the appearance of the property on the outside, and the inside has to be very faithful to how it would have looked originally.”

• 25 •

reBecca s. Buck

“So building a white UPVC conservatory on the back is out then?” I asked in a flat tone. The look she returned was withering.

Without further comment she unfastened her briefcase and pulled out a file of paperwork.

“Before she died, Edith had a structural survey of the property completed. I can tell you that it’s mostly safe and sound, although you might have to replace some of the floors and ceilings in the east wing, where the roof is also badly damaged.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll let you—and everyone else who knows what they’re doing—guide me through. I’m not really an expert on historical properties.” I wasn’t even completely certain which part of the house was the east wing at this point.

“What do you do?” she asked, startling me with her interest.

“I’m a teacher. A history teacher. But I’m taking a break from it.” I wasn’t about to volunteer any more information.

“I expect you’ll find the history of Winter Manor fascinating then.”

“I think I will. I’m interested in it because it belonged to Auntie Edie and her family as much as anything.”

“Of course.” She flashed the briefest of almost-sincere smiles before looking down at the paperwork in her hand. For the next few minutes her attention was absorbed in what she was reading, and with nothing better to do, I studied her. The coat looked like wool, possibly merino and certainly expensive, probably designer.

Where she had loosened the buttons I could see a sliver of a white shirt and the suit jacket that matched the grey pinstriped trousers.

I guessed they were designer as well. The unusual black leather brogues wouldn’t have been cheap either.

I looked at her hands again, surprised to see her fingernails were less than immaculate and looked as though she was inclined to bite them. The evidence of such an undignified habit, a flaw in what was otherwise perfection, endeared her to me a little more. I started to examine her appearance for other positive signs she was, in fact, a human being and not simply a supremely turned out architect-robot.

After all, I had a feeling I was going to have to work with her quite a lot in the coming months. She wore no make-up, managing to

• 26 •

Ghosts of Winter

pull off a flawless complexion and defined features without artificial assistance. I wasn’t sure if that was a point in her favour or not. Her glasses suited her, and there was something intense about the way her blue eyes roamed over the writing in front of her, as if she was truly interested in the project.

“So,” I began and she looked up, her expression not displaying the irritation at my interruption I had expected to see there, “is this just a job for you, or something you’re really into?”

“I’m fascinated by buildings generally.” The truth of her words was evident in her tone, which was suddenly warmer. I gathered she appreciated my interest in her motivations. “Historical buildings are just the best of all. This one, for example. It’s a fine example of eighteenth-century Palladian design, but then you have the baroque clock tower. Those things just shouldn’t go together in one building, but clearly someone had other plans.”

“I have no real idea what you just said,” I confessed with a small smile, sensing a slight thaw in the coolly professional architect and seeing a little more of a woman I could converse with informally.

“I’m quite good at dates and political movements, the causes of wars, all that sort of thing, but my degree didn’t really stretch to styles of architecture.”

“I’m sure you’ll pick it up as we go along.” Her words seemed earnest and not at all condescending. I was sure she was pleasantly surprised by my interest. Even her expression mellowed as she held my gaze for a moment longer than wholly necessary. As she glanced down at her paperwork, I watched the professional mask return with remarkable swiftness, as if self-control was something she was well practised in. “Now, will you be looking to start with the restoration right away, or were you thinking of waiting until the spring?”

“It might as well be now. I’m living here anyway, and Auntie Edie made sure there was enough money to begin right away.”

“I’ll get on to some of the builders I know then.”

“You will? I thought you were the architect. Don’t you just, well, plan things?”

“I do. But I promised Edith I’d take a more hands-on role in this restoration. She could see that I understood the importance of

• 27 •

reBecca s. Buck

it, I think. I’m not going to project-manage per se, but I’ll do what I can. Since I’m local, I know the best firms to use, and I have a few useful contacts.”

“Oh, okay then.” Apparently I had no choice in the matter.

“You’re still in charge.” She appeared to interpret the slight disgruntlement in my words accurately and treated me to another smile, this one apparently genuine and wider than before. “You get to sign off on everything. But really, it will be easier for you if I take on some of the work.”

“You’re very welcome to.” My pride was soothed by that smile more than the words. “Is there anything you want to talk about today?”

“I just have an initial schedule to look through, if you have the time.” She actually looked hopeful, as though she could think of no better way to spend her morning. Impressed by her dedication to her work, I was also pleased to have induced some sort of relaxation in that stiff exterior. Curious to see more of what lay beneath it, I couldn’t help smiling back.

“I have as much time as you need.” I moved closer to her so I could see the papers she was reading from. She smelled of a heady combination of citrus, rose, and fragrant tobacco. I’d never been much interested in my mother’s make-up, face creams, and fashionable clothes, but the beautiful bottles of her perfume collection had always fascinated me, and I’d developed quite a nose for the fragrances I liked. Anna smelled, I realised right away, of one of the more expensive, vintage perfumes my mother had been given as a gift, but disliked and had barely worn: Tabac Blond. I took an extra breath, just to inhale more of the scent I’d always been partial to and hoped, as she glanced briefly at my face, she didn’t notice my blush.

❖

Anna showed me the basic plans she had drawn up for the restoration of Winter Manor. She managed to do so with a minimal amount of architect jargon, for which I was grateful. She was unceasingly professional and sounded so competent I felt largely

• 28 •

Ghosts of Winter

superfluous to the project. As she talked me through some of the more costly aspects of the repairs needed to the roof at the eastern side of the house—which, she explained, had to be in keeping with the original design of the property to meet the planning regulations—I found my ability to concentrate on her words fading. Her voice was strong and precise, very clear. It wasn’t a voice you would argue with readily. I completely missed the figures she quoted to me, but had faith Auntie Edie had more than provided for whatever costs were necessary.

She packed her papers away in her briefcase, refastened her coat, and slid her hands back into her leather gloves. I walked with her to the door.

“I think I know where to go from here. I’ll contact you when we need to talk again,” she said.

“Will that be soon?”

“Most likely. If it’s necessary could you come into the office in Durham?”

“Yes, absolutely. I’d love to see the city anyway.” I tried not to allow the unexpected burst of enthusiasm that inspired my words to creep into my tone.

“Will you be available during normal office hours?”

“Yep. I’m not working at the moment.” Her eyebrows drew together slightly above the rims of her glasses, as though she was trying to fathom why I wasn’t currently employed. I let it pass.

“Right. Good. Well, I’ll be in touch. It was good to meet you,”

she said, reaching out to shake my hand.

I returned the pressure firmly, finding myself oddly frustrated she was already wearing her soft leather gloves. I could feel the surprising warmth of her hand even through that barrier. It was odd she’d put her gloves on already if she intended to shake my hand. I couldn’t help wondering briefly what made her shy away from informality and flesh-to-flesh contact. I had to admit the air of mystery was intriguing. She squeezed my fingers in hers and we made the briefest of eye contact, looking away with an apparently equal measure of discomfort at the same moment. “You too,” I said through a tight throat. “It’ll be interesting working together.”

• 29 •

reBecca s. Buck

“Yes.” The warmth faded from her eyes quickly, but a vague flush lingered on her cheeks and made me smile before I thought about it. She turned and went out of the door. I watched her walk, straight-backed, down the steps to where her car was parked next to mine. Her car was a dazzlingly shiny red Audi sports car. I stared at it and wondered how the hell she had so much money. Architects weren’t that well paid, I was certain. Maybe her husband’s income kept her in designer clothes and expensive perfumes. My stomach stirred uncomfortably with that thought, and I put it out of my mind.

Several minutes after I had watched her car disappear down the driveway, I lingered still on the front steps, staring open-mouthed at the parkland in front of me, trying to comprehend the idea that it was mine. The bright morning light made it inconceivable. I glanced at the statue woman halfway down the stairs, still staring after her crumbled lover. I felt the moment I turned my eyes away she would be watching me, wondering. She probably didn’t know what to make of Anna either. “Morning,” I said to her pleasantly.

“Interesting woman that, wasn’t she? I’m Ros by the way.” The stone face was unmoved. “I think I’ll call you Phoebe. You look a bit like a Greek goddess, you know.” She gave no indication if she approved. I heard the sound of another vehicle making slow progress along the driveway. The white electrician’s van pulled to a stop in front of me moments later.

❖

The electrician took an hour to restore power to half the house. The other half, the troublesome east wing again, was apparently a lost cause until the entire property could be rewired.

He assured me he’d be available to do the job early in the new year. I realised I was going to need to buy a diary to keep track of the schedule of the various works that needed to be carried out here. As I watched the electrician drive away, I found myself grateful someone like Anna was involved in this project with me.

Her detached professionalism was exactly what was necessary. We didn’t have to be great friends.

• 30 •

Ghosts of Winter

The electricity working—partially at least—I set out to explore my new domain. My first priority was the bathroom, where I was assured I would find a functioning lavatory and at least one tap with running water. Having ducked around the corner of the building to relieve myself in the undergrowth last night, I was anxious to begin living a little more like a civilised human being. A wash would be beneficial too.

I stood in the middle of the entrance hallway, in between the front doors and the foot of the magnificent staircase. I looked down at the very basic floor plan I’d been provided and turned to my left towards where I thought the bathroom should be. A doorway led into a short, wide corridor with a very damp carpet and striped wallpaper hanging in ribbons from the walls. From this corridor opened three doors. I entered the closest one first and found myself in an almost square chamber with windows in two walls. I frowned at my plan and realised I was actually on the opposite side of the house to the bathroom. The shape of the room made it clear this was the Blue Drawing Room. An ornate marble fireplace drew my attention immediately, though it was shrouded in dust. There was no indication as to why this room could be described as “blue,”

but the light which streamed through the filthy—though intact—

windows was certainly a good enough reason to choose this room as somewhere to sit with friends. I assumed that to be the function of a drawing room, having never possessed one before. I almost laughed at this latest twist in my life, but the heaviness resting in my heart prevented the mirth from escaping. What had I taken on?

Curious and hoping to reassure myself a little, I suspended my search for the bathroom for a short while. A door led from this room into the next chamber. This one had no windows at all and was smaller and narrower than the Blue Drawing Room. My plan told me this was once known as the Music Room. There were fine plaster covings, another impressive fireplace, and, to one side of the room, an old armchair mouldering quietly. For the briefest of moments I tried to hear harpsichord or pianoforte music in there, but the smell of damp coming from the floor made it hard to imagine anything but hours of work.

• 31 •

reBecca s. Buck

I left the Music Room and returned to the corridor outside. The other doorway led into the Saloon, which had clearly been a very fine room with a high ceiling. It was a room large enough for dancing, or large-scale entertaining. Alcoves on either side of an even more spectacular fireplace contained shelves, and old, heavy, moth-eaten curtains still hung at the large, Italianate windows. Instantly, I pictured this room renovated to its former glory, full of friends and family. It took me a moment to remember I didn’t have enough friends and family to fill the small Blue Drawing Room, let alone this airy space.

A twinge of regret pushed the image of the renovated room out of my mind and brought me back to its present dereliction. Could I rebuild my life and an abandoned country house simultaneously? Or would they soon prove to be mutually exclusive tasks, demonstrating how foolhardy it had been to take this on when I was still feeling so fragile?

Another door in the Saloon opened back into the hallway. I went through it and crossed to the other side of the house, the east wing as Anna had referred to it, determined to find the bathroom this time and stop dwelling on anxieties and regrets. Downstairs, it more or less mirrored the pattern of the other side of the house, with what was described as the Common Parlour at the front of the house, and a sad, empty, oak-panelled library the exact opposite of the Music Room. The biggest difference was that instead of the Saloon towards the back of the house there was a small antechamber which finally led me into the bathroom. I wrinkled my nose automatically as I took in the old—probably circa 1910, if the scant history of the house I’d read was to be believed—lavatory with its pull-chain flush and the enamelled bath. Everything was draped with cobwebs and the chill in the damp air made me shiver. A small black fireplace was full of twigs from a birds’ nest which had fallen down the chimney. The floor was filthy. However, as I stood for a moment and assessed the potential of the room, I began to feel more excited. The dark indigo tiles on the walls were highly glazed and would be beautiful once cleaned. People paid a fortune these days for freestanding bathtubs such as this one. The checkerboard tiles of the floor appeared to be in perfect condition beneath the grime. I smiled to myself. There was hope yet; I could do this.

• 32 •

Ghosts of Winter

I knew from a note in the paperwork I’d been given that the stopcock for the water supply to the whole house was located in the bathroom. I opened what looked like a storage cupboard beneath the ceramic washbasin and found what I assumed was the tap in question.

I gripped it firmly and turned, taken by surprise when it moved easily. I heard a hissing and gurgling sound, a metallic creaking as water flooded back into the old pipes. I prayed nothing would leak.

After about thirty seconds the noises subsided. I straightened up and turned one of the taps on the wall above the bathtub. It spluttered for a moment, and then slowly at first, water began to flow into the tub below. The stream was rust coloured and irregular, but still, running water was real progress. Pleased with myself, I reached for the flush of the toilet and pulled. The toilet flushed as though it had last been used only days before. I decided this would be the first room I put my cleaning skills to use. A fully functioning, clean bathroom would make the whole place more like home instantly.

Smiling at my achievement and my enthusiasm refreshed, I left the bathroom, keen to see the rest of the house. A small door led from the antechamber outside towards the rear of the property. I opened it tentatively consulting my plan. I found myself at a landing of a narrow stone staircase which went both up and downwards.

This was the servants’ staircase. I stopped in my tracks: I owned a house with a servants’ staircase. It was astonishingly difficult to believe, even as I stepped onto the staircase in question. The plan told me that downstairs was the old kitchen and upstairs I would find a doorway onto an upper landing.

I peered down towards the kitchen and saw nothing but shadows and cobwebs. I shivered and decided I would wait to explore the bowels of the house for a day when I felt more comfortable here. I didn’t have to see everything today, after all, and I wasn’t sure my fragile optimism could take a dank abandoned kitchen. I had a lot of time to become familiar with Winter. Instead I followed the narrow staircase upwards. I reached a doorway which opened onto the first floor and went through gladly. The stairs continued upwards, to the attics, but that prospect was no more tempting than the downstairs kitchens. I didn’t believe in haunted houses but I wanted to feel

• 33 •

reBecca s. Buck

more confident in myself before I made my way into the gloomier parts of Winter.

I emerged from the narrow doorway and found myself on one side of the landing at the top of the grand staircase, in a sort of upstairs hallway. The nearest doorway took me into the Red Bedroom. Surprisingly, the bed still stood in the centre of the room, with its tapestry canopy intact and a stained yellow pillow crumpled against the headboard. The idea it had been there since someone had last slept here, at some point in the early twentieth century, was unnerving. Forgetting entirely it was kindly Auntie Edie’s family who had lived here, I indulged visions of Byronic lords and swooning heroines. Next to the bedroom was a small dressing room.

I peered through the doorway, caught a glimpse of my reflection in a dusty full-length mirror on one of the walls, and retreated.

Most of this floor was taken up by high ceilinged bedrooms—

twelve in all—and adjoining dressing rooms. An exceedingly functional lavatory, bathtub, and washbasin were fixed in one of these rooms and another small toilet and basin in one of the corner rooms. There was no other furniture in any of the rooms. In the eastern part of the house the ceilings were stained and in various stages of collapse, as Anna had warned me. The culprit was the damaged roof and it was here the most serious structural repair was needed. It did not look to be an insurmountable challenge.

The bedrooms were mostly located towards the back and sides of the house. Along the front was a large room with many windows.

The Long Gallery. I smiled, admiring the pride of whoever had named it, for the room was only long in relation to the other rooms in the house. I’d been in plenty of grand stately homes, with real long galleries, and this did not even begin to compare. Still, it was one of the easier rooms in which to imagine the inhabitants of former times admiring the portraits of their ancestors on the walls. The hooks and uneven colouring of what remained of the wallpaper showed clearly where such pictures had once hung.

There was something wistful about that faded, patchy wallpaper, the shadows of the portraits which occupied these walls. It was such a simple consideration in a house with so much to discover, but it

• 34 •

Ghosts of Winter

moved me. I wanted to pause for a moment, stop my exploration and think over what I’d learned already, consider my feelings for my new house. The windows in the Long Gallery each had a broad window seat. I perched on one and cleared a small patch of the dirty glass so that I might see out over the parkland.

The sky was a heavy grey and the daylight had taken on an oppressive yellow quality. I wondered if it was going to snow. I looked out at the bare-limbed trees, jagged and black on the horizon, and at the dull green of the grass. The meadows sloped down to where a small river flowed through the park. Somewhere out there was a bridge over the river. A flock of crows flew past, ignoring the house entirely as they swept by. It struck me at once, as I stared, nothing had changed at all since my arrival yesterday. This house had stood here for hundreds of years, at first glorious, then decaying.

As much a part of the landscape as the river and the stark trees. I was nothing in that great scheme of things. But I had to make a mark, I owed that much to Auntie Edie and to this building. It wasn’t really such a big house, as country houses went, but it was as proud as any other, with its Long Gallery, grand staircase, and high-ceilinged Saloon. Winter Manor still aspired to something, even after all the years it had seen come and go. It wanted to be more than it was, it remembered what it had once been. I could empathise with that.

I wanted to help it to be all it could be again. Maybe there was a chance I could find my own way to being all I could be in the process.

My thoughts strayed back to my visitor of earlier that morning.

The jury was still out on whether I liked Anna or not. I chose to entirely blank the nagging part of me that insisted on pointing out just how attractive my architect was. Those thoughts were neither appropriate or helpful. So what if I still tingled slightly where her fingers had pressed mine? I wasn’t used to being on my own yet, I was bound to have moments where the most unlikely women appealed to me. They were most emphatically not feelings I should act upon or consider.

However much more Anna thawed, whether she became a friend or stayed as just the architect, I wouldn’t let myself think

• 35 •

reBecca s. Buck

about her in any other way. She was married and I was an emotional mess. Two good reasons right there.

That the restoration of Winter was mostly in her hands I was pleased about. I already trusted her abilities and her work ethic.

Though with my turbulent emotions and hazy self-confidence I didn’t relish the idea of her coming to the house again and intruding into my refuge, a confusing presence. She made me feel judged, though she had done nothing to provoke it. Just recently I’d felt the whole world was finding me wanting in one way or another.

As I established myself at Winter I wasn’t sure another visit from someone so wonderfully competent would help. But maybe calling in to her office in the city wouldn’t be so bad.

I thought back to our parting conversation. I hoped she hadn’t found my reticence when it came to the topic of my employment rude. I didn’t want to discuss it with anyone, let alone someone who trailed clouds of professional capability in her wake.

Professional achievement had always been one of my aims in life. I’d considered myself reasonably successful only this time last year in, fact. I was looking good to be deputy head of year. Now I was sitting in a dusty window seat of a run-down manor house, avoiding conversations about my job. Truth was, I tried to avoid too many thoughts about it. I leaned my head against the window frame and let my eyes drift out of focus. How did I get to this point? One moment I’d been fulfilling a vocation, the next I was unemployed.

Maybe if my mother’s cancer hadn’t been diagnosed too late.

Maybe if I’d gone straight back to work after all those weeks caring for her. Maybe if I’d given more thought to my relationship with Francesca before Mum was sick. There was a chance I’d be in an entirely different place now. But maybe was a futile word and I knew it. I was here, be it by fate or accident. Perhaps Winter Manor was the answer to finally erase all the sentences beginning with what if?

Tears stung my eyes. I wiped at them and found that my fingers were freezing cold. I dragged my gaze away from the window and the view of the Winter parkland, and back into the spacious, shabby room. Would this really be the step forward I needed? On my own

• 36 •

Ghosts of Winter

in a rotting house, relying on somebody else’s money to revitalise a legacy that was really nothing to do with me. Surely it was the ultimate in running away? I sat on the edge of the window seat and looked around me pensively.

Suddenly Winter Manor was very large and full of shadows. I could lose myself here in a way I’d never intended. I ran my fingers over the wood of the seat I sat on, grooved and warped in places, the varnish flaking. Looking into the gallery I tried to envisage the paintings on the walls, the ancestors who were really nothing to do with me. I wouldn’t find my history here in this isolation. In taking on this project, was I really grasping at straws, hoping fate had thrown an answer my way, when I wasn’t sure which path to take next? A wave of heavy sadness, such as I’d not felt since immediately after my mother’s death, enveloped me. The sheer depth of it disturbed me and I rose quickly to my feet, shaking myself, hoping to drive the melancholy away. I had to look forward to the future now, stop lingering in the past. Easier said than done, when the route into that future was so unclear and apparently more subject to the whims of chance than any decisions I could make.

I heard a distant ringing. At first I thought I was imagining it.

Seconds later the bell sounded again. It sounded like a doorbell.

I turned back to the window and looked down to the front of the house. Sure enough, parked there next to my car was another, small and blue, a model I couldn’t distinguish from above. The bell rang once more. It had to be the doorbell. I hadn’t noticed there even was a doorbell.

I hurried over the uneven floorboards of the gallery, across the landing outside, and down the grand staircase. It struck me how the stairs and entrance hall were already beginning to feel familiar to me, as though they belonged to me. Or, at least, as though I could be at home here. That was a hopeful sign.

I jogged across the tiled floor to the door, wishing, as I opened it, I’d thought to take care of my appearance instead of exploring the house. I’d not planned on any more visitors, and frankly, I wasn’t really in the mood for this level of social interaction. So far Winter Manor had not been quite the retreat I’d hoped it would be.

• 37 •

reBecca s. Buck

Standing on the top step and already smiling at me as I opened the door was a woman I put to be in her early sixties, maybe a little older. Her hair, scraped back and secured with pins at the back of her head, had once been chestnut but was mostly fading to grey, and her hazel eyes were framed by a web of fine lines. She wore a purple waterproof coat which was fastened tight over a rather large bosom.

She was holding a foil-wrapped package in her hands.

“Hello there, pet,” she said. Her words were heavy with the warm accent of north-east England.

“Hello.” I couldn’t help reflecting her smile. Difficult to resent a smiling intruder.

“I’m Maggie Potter, pet, your neighbour.”

“Ah, you’d better come in then,” I said, curious since I’d not noticed any nearby buildings and slightly alarmed by the prospect of a friendly neighbour. That was really more social pressure than I wanted. She came into the hallway and I closed the door behind her, glad to shut out the December air, growing colder as the day progressed.

Maggie Potter looked around at the entrance hall, as if she expected me to have transformed the house completely in just a day.

“It’s a fine place.”

“Yes,” I replied. “I’m in awe of it actually. You said you’re my neighbour? Where do you live?”

“Oh, we’re not close neighbours, hun, it’s about two miles to my house from yours, longer by road. But the land to the east of yours is mine too.”

“To the east?”

“Yes, and a little to the south too. It’s mainly pasture, for the cows.”

“You’re a farmer?” I tried to keep the surprise out of my tone.

Why shouldn’t she be a farmer, after all?

“Well, I’m a farmer’s wife really, pet—or girlfriend, since we didn’t marry, quite a scandal we caused at the time you know—but my Jack moved on two years ago, so that leaves me as a farmer now.”

• 38 •

Ghosts of Winter

I couldn’t tell if she meant her partner had died or left her and didn’t like to ask, so it was hard to choose an appropriate reaction.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Oh, don’t be. I miss him but I know he’s in a better place.”

I assumed she meant heaven and not the arms of another woman.

“And I enjoy running the place. It was my parents’ farm, so I’m used to it. I’m converting us to organic.”

“You are?”

“Yes, pet, should be certified by this time next year.”

“Well done, that’s no small undertaking.”

“No, but it’ll be worth it.” She paused and I was acutely aware that this conversation had really gotten ahead of itself. She clearly concurred, asking in her next breath, “So, pet, what do I call you?”

“I’m Ros. Ros Wynne.” I held out my hand and she shook it warmly.

“Good to meet you, Ros.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“Well, hun, when I heard Edith Burns had passed on, I wanted to know if we were going to have any problems with the new owners. You know a lot of the old houses and parks up here are being made into hotels and golf courses, or being demolished and built on. They’re not the sort of neighbours I want. So I contacted the lawyers and they told me she’d left the place to a family friend who would be moving in about now.”

“I guess that’s me then.” I shrugged, unsure what else to say.

“You’re younger than I expected,” she told me.

“I’ve just turned thirty.”

“When you’re seventy-five like me, pet, you’ll think thirty is young.” She looked serious for a moment, and I considered a comment about how she looked at least ten years younger. Before I could make it, she laughed lightly. “Anyway, look here, I brought you a cake.” She passed me the foil package, which was surprisingly heavy.

“Lovely, thank you.” I was genuinely touched by the kindness.

I peeled back part of the foil and caught the scent of spices and dried fruit. “What sort is it?”

• 39 •

reBecca s. Buck

“Dundee, except I’m afraid I didn’t have the blanched almonds for the top, so I suppose it’s just a fruit cake. I didn’t realise until I’d got it all mixed and then it was too late.”

“I’m sure it won’t miss them, it smells heavenly. I’d offer you a cup of tea, but I don’t have the camping stove set up yet.”

“Oh no, hun, I’ll leave you to it in a moment, I just wanted to say hello. What are you doing for washing?”

“There’s still running water, believe it or not. I thought I’d heat some up on the camping stove. The bathroom is first on the list of rooms to renovate, believe me.” I hoped she wouldn’t ask me in depth about my plans for the renovation, since there really weren’t any and I felt suddenly very ill-prepared.

“Well, if you ever want a real bathroom, or to use my washing machine, you’d be welcome.”

“Thank you so much,” I replied, truly grateful and feeling unworthy of such generosity.

“It’s easy to find my place. Out of your gates, turn right, follow the road along, eventually you’ll get to another gate. It says Winter Park Farm on the sign next to the gate. Turn in there and follow the track to the house.”

“Winter Park Farm?”

“Yes, pet. It was all part of the Winter estate centuries ago. But a lot of the land was sold off. I always respected the fact that the family never chose to sell the house itself.”

“It’s really amazing isn’t it? I only hope I can do the legacy justice.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will, hun. Do you know much of the history?”

“Some.” I hurriedly thought back over what the lawyer had told me. “It was built in the seventeen fifties—”

“That’s right, pet, by Lord Fitzsimmons Winter. Though later the Richmond family owned it, and then the Burns family, of course.”

“You seem to know a lot about it,” I said with a smile. I wondered just how many tales Maggie would have to tell. I found I hoped I would one day have the time to listen.

“Oh, my family have always lived in these parts, so I know a thing or two.”

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“When was it last lived in?” I asked curiously. “I think the lawyer said the nineteen forties?”

“That it was. They requisitioned it you know, as a home for wounded soldiers to recuperate during and just after the war. A good cause, of course, but the state they left it in, no wonder none of the family ever came back here. It was such a fine house before the Depression and the war.” Maggie looked wistfully around the hallway.

“I’m hoping it can be fine again. Auntie Edie saved up a lot of money to make sure I can restore everything.” I reassured her with more confidence than I’d known I had.

“I suppose she never stopped thinking about the old place,”

Maggie said.

“That’s right. The lawyer told me it meant the world to her, even more after her mother died in the sixties. She always wanted to see it restored. I really hope I live up to her expectations.”

“You will, pet.” Maggie reached out and patted my arm. Her faith in me was unexpectedly soothing. “Are you all on your own here?”

“Yes, afraid so.”

“No boyfriend coming up to visit at weekends and give you a hand?”

“No. My girlfriend and I split up a few months ago.” I felt my throat tighten. They were difficult words to articulate, a detail of my life I still wasn’t used to. Whenever I thought about Francesca, my heart ached. I watched Maggie Potter’s reaction carefully. The hazel eyes showed no surprise or disapproval, only sympathy.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to pry, hun,” she said, patting my arm.

I sensed prying, in a kindly way, was one of Maggie’s favourite pastimes. I wondered if she would discuss what she discovered about me with other neighbours, if there were any. If she did, what did it matter? I had no plans to be a belle of the local social scene anyway.

“That’s okay,” I forced myself to say, though I didn’t feel especially okay in that moment. “I’m hoping being here is a new start in lots of ways.” I sounded more assured than I felt, but I made

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myself smile through it. Maggie Potter, a widow in her seventies managing a farm all by herself, clearly incredibly capable and not at all afraid of the things the world threw at her, put me to shame. If she could cope with loss and hard work, chances were I could too.

To her I must have appeared brave, moving halfway up the country, taking on a project of this scale, all by myself. She couldn’t see the anxiety that twisted my heart or see the sadness I struggled with.

Did she feel such emotions too? The notion came to me that maybe everyone felt the same things as me, and we were all just struggling to cope and putting on a brave face. The idea made me feel a little less alone and, to my surprise, more optimistic. If Maggie could find her way through life, there was no reason I couldn’t.

As though she’d noticed the change in my expression, Maggie moved towards the door, assuming, I suppose, I’d like to be left alone. I was not wholly sure I wanted her to leave, since such kindly treatment from someone who was a stranger to me was something I found reassuring. I knew once I had closed the door behind her I’d be left alone with my thoughts. But I could hardly demand that she stay and keep me company, especially when I was being such a terrible host, so I walked with her towards the door.

“Next time you call in I’ll be more organised. I’ll at least have a kettle and a couple of chairs so we can sit down to a cup of tea.”

“That’d be nice, pet. I reckon you’ll find a chair or two in the attic here. I heard that everything the family couldn’t take out of here got locked away up there. It’s a miracle the place wasn’t broken into more times, mind.”

“It was broken into?” I’d not noticed any signs, assuming the smashed windows to be simply decay over the decades.

“A few times. But with it being empty and all, even the kids lost interest. It’s a good job we’re not closer to the town, we’d probably have had a fire here by now, or those raves or whatever they call them. But no one wants to come out into the middle of nowhere just to break into an empty house. And no one’s ever wanted to develop it either. The world’s passed the old place by since the war.”

“Just as well, I guess,” I said, as we reached the door. “Thanks so much for the cake, and for calling ’round.”

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“You’re welcome, hun. I expect we’ll be seeing each other again before long.”

“I’m sure.” I gave her my warmest smile as she opened the front door and let herself out.

“Take care of yourself rattling around in this big place on your own, pet.”

“I will. See you again soon.”

She turned her back on me and made her way down the stairs.

I watched her climb, with no evidence of the stiffness I would have expected of a woman of her years, into the driver’s seat of her car.

The engine rattled as she started it, and she accelerated hard away from the house.

My smile faded as the car disappeared from sight. I noticed Phoebe looking stonily past me, as though she wasn’t at all interested.

“Looks like it’s just us then,” I said to her. “I’d share the cake, but you know, I wouldn’t want you to risk that figure.” I patted her cold arm and returned into the house.

I spent what remained of the afternoon cleaning the bathroom until it looked, though still a little uncared for, at least clean and functional. I scrubbed the sink, toilet, and bathtub until they shone in the light from the one electric bulb that hung, without a shade, in the middle of the ceiling. The water running from the old pipes was still distinctly rust-coloured, but I wouldn’t be drinking it—

having brought several containers of bottled water with me—just washing in it. I guessed the plumbing of the whole house would have to be replaced at some stage. I’d have another look through the paperwork Auntie Edie had put together later and see what details I could glean. Now that I was here and able to see first-hand what needed to be done, the notes were more meaningful.

The bathroom useable, I set to work establishing my small camp in the entrance hall. Having spent one night there, it seemed like the logical place to want to sleep and eat. It didn’t strike me until after I had moved the camp bed to one side of the room in the shadow of the staircase, and set up the camping cooker and its butane cylinder, along with a folding stool and a small collapsible table, that it would have brought me more privacy to have organised my

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new bedroom in one of the other rooms, away from the front doors.

Somehow I didn’t feel comfortable in those other larger rooms with their faded finery. I felt I had made my mark on the hallway, but the other rooms were still very much part of history, part of Winter Manor before my arrival. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but I felt the thick, aged atmosphere of the house itself might keep me awake in the other rooms, whereas, with the front door allowing the air in and out and having already slept peacefully here for one night, I was quite comfortable in the hallway. I piled my bags, suitcases, and boxes containing my personal possessions and clothes beneath the staircase, mostly out of sight. I looked around at the small home I had established and almost laughed. I was pretty sure Winter Manor had never seen anything like it in its two-and-a-half centuries of existence.

Once it started to get dark, there wasn’t much more I could do that day, and in truth, I was beginning to feel exhausted. That didn’t bode especially well for the days to come when renovation work was taking place all over the property and I was supposed to control the entire project. Still, I had time to get used to it, and I was sure Anna’s input would help steer things in the right direction.

I recalled those vivid blue eyes accentuated by their designer frames, and my heart beat a little faster. Anna was an attractive woman, I had to acknowledge it. I found her an intriguing prospect too. The beautiful clothes had a certain distinct and stylish flare, the red car was showy, and she was certainly confident. Yet there was a wall—more like a sheet of ice—between her and the world. I’d felt it very strongly today. Sometimes it thawed a little, even cracked in places, but froze again with alarming speed. I wondered what she was hiding, or what she was afraid to show. Had she been hurt? Was her confidence all an act? It puzzled me to meet someone with such a warm smile and generous enthusiasm who was at once so reserved and distant. I wondered what it took to get behind those defences and if I would be lucky enough to manage it. I suspected friendship with Anna would be a privilege. I already knew she was intelligent, stylish, and dedicated; I imagined her to also be witty, charming, and loyal. The sort of person I would like in my life.

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I cut the thoughts off before they had chance to develop any further. I was inventing a personality for a woman I’d only just met and who was working for me. Fantasizing about friendship—

or anything else—was a very bad idea indeed. I didn’t need disappointments and setbacks at this stage. I needed to be sure of myself and stop depending on other people for my happiness.

Still, I wasn’t used to being alone. The isolation of Winter gripped tightly, and for a moment I felt like a lunatic in an isolated Victorian asylum, or the madwoman in the attic room. I was alone in a place where even if I screamed it wouldn’t be heard. A panicky tension fluttered through my stomach, and I took a deep, calming breath. I wasn’t going to scream, or even cry. This was nothing compared to losing my mother and ending my relationship with Francesca. Winter wanted me here, to help rescue it from the past and show it a bright future. If I could do that—and Auntie Edie had faith in my ability to do so—then I could at least find some optimism for my own existence too. Winter and I had both languished for a while, but we would face the future together. It would just take a little work.

Wanting to infuse the air with my tentative optimism I fished about in my boxes of possessions for my oil burner, a stubby candle, and my small case of essential oils. I selected purifying clary sage and added a few drops, along with some water, to the well in the top of the burner. I lit the small candle and slid it underneath, waiting for the heat to vaporise the oil and for the aroma to begin to fill the room.

The little glowing candle and the wisps of aroma were dwarfed by the size of Winter, but I looked at the bright flame, breathed the scent, and knew I had to start small, one glimmer of light at a time. It was possible to bring this place back to life. If I had no other definite direction in my life, at least I had that to aim for.

• 45 •

• 46 •

Ghosts of Winter

chapter three

Over the next days, which were pleasantly visitor free, I forced myself to become acquainted with the house, even if some days I felt it was trying to expel me from its chambers or frighten me away. A water pipe in the bathroom sprung a leak, which meant I couldn’t use the bathtub water supply until I called in a plumber. I tripped on the rotting carpet of the grand staircase and fell most of the way to the floor below, bruising my hip uncomfortably in the process. And as I was examining the damaged ceiling in the east wing, a huge chunk of damp plasterwork simply came loose and coated me in gritty powder.

I took everything the house threw at me with an unperturbed sense of calm. Whether it was the house trying to tell me something, a reminder of the terrible condition of the building and the daunting task I had taken on, or the less likely possibility of poltergeist activity, I had to keep going. At least the physical process of going room by room and noting what needed to be done, consulting with Auntie Edie’s own notes, and taking photographs with my digital camera of spots I particularly wanted to ask Anna about gave me something to push away any doubts. By the end of the week, I had a good idea of what needed to be done and in what order, plus a list of people to contact in order to achieve my goals.

After my inspection of the rooms I decided it would be advisable to consult the architect again. Surely Anna would have some constructive input into my plans. However, a week of total

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isolation and immersion in the house, concentrating mainly on avoiding the ghosts of the recent past, made the prospect of dealing with her, in all of her professional glory, quite frightening. I told myself I was merely intimidated by her confidence, a quality I’d always struggled to possess. Yet the prospect of meeting the equally assured and competent Maggie Potter again was something I welcomed. Maggie made me feel that if she could make the best out of life then so could I. No, with Anna it was something else too. I knew perfectly well what it was. Why did my architect have to be a stunning and compelling woman? Why not a bumbling old man who I wouldn’t feel remotely attracted to?

Before I could think twice about it, and knowing I’d never get anywhere with the house if I didn’t consult her, I picked up my mobile phone and dialled her number.

“Hello, Anna Everest.” She’d answered after just one ring. I was momentarily taken aback. I’d expected to have to leave a message with her secretary, not to get through to the great one herself. At first, her clipped tones were not comforting.

“Oh, hello,” I mumbled, quickly gathering my scattered thoughts. “It’s Ros Wynne at Winter Manor.”

“Hi, Ros, how’s it going there?” Her voice was warmer now that she knew who she was talking to, and I felt encouraged.

“Good. Well not much has happened, but I do have some power at least. I’ve spent the week looking everything over and going through what Auntie Edie had already prepared. I think we should get together and talk about it.” I paused and waited for a reply. “If you have time,”

I added awkwardly when none was immediately forthcoming.

“Yes. Hang on a second, I’m just looking at my diary. Do you want me to come there, so we can look at some of the work in question?”

“That’d be great,” I replied, secretly dreading another visit to my disorganised squat in the hallway.

“I can make it tomorrow afternoon, after lunch. How does half past one suit you?”

“Perfect,” I replied, thinking how little time that was to prepare myself. “Thanks.”

“No problem. See you tomorrow then.”

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“Yes, bye.”

“Bye.” I pressed the button to end the call, left with the feeling there had been something else I wanted to say, but with no idea what it was.

I discarded the phone and lay down on my camping bed, wondering when I’d grown so uncertain of myself in the simplest situations. I looked up, beyond where the staircase reached towards the first storey. The ceiling here above the hallway was the full height of the two storeys of the house, white plaster with dark wooden beams supporting it. A comprehension of the vastness of the house hit me full on, and I felt lost and small. What was my insignificant life in comparison with the years of this house? If I was Winter Manor, I’d be viewing my arrival here with some scepticism. The potential for me to screw up this new phase of my life was endless.

And I really knew all too well where my unfamiliar insecurities were founded. For the first time in my life, I didn’t have family, friends, or Francesca to rely on. The fixed points, the guiding lights of my life, had all gone. I knew I’d still not come to terms with that.

Now I had to meet new people, begin new friendships. Somewhere into that, I couldn’t help but hope, slotted Anna, my architect.

Nervous tension built in the pit of my stomach at the thought of Anna coming to Winter Manor the very next day, and that feeling remained with me whatever I did and was still there when I woke up in the morning. I washed, dressed, and climbed into my car to navigate the five miles to the nearest supermarket. I had tea and coffee, but nothing else to offer at all.

In the bright lights of the supermarket I felt like I’d been a hermit, now finally emerging from a cave after many years to find the outside world overwhelming. I wanted to return to my cave. In a shop I was unfamiliar with, the array of products, the bustle of shoppers, and the piped music were both dazzling and disorientating.

I bought a few essentials to keep me going for at least another week, and then deliberated for five minutes as to whether Anna was likely to prefer chocolate cake or carrot cake. In the end I purchased both.

I spent the remaining hours of the morning ensuring the part of Winter Manor that was now my home seemed as clean and tidy as

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it was possible for it to be. I’d still not found another chair, but I’d offer Anna my folding stool and take the bed myself. I placed the two cakes on plates on the low table, and then concluded it made me look over-prepared, so I returned them to their packaging and put them away in the cardboard box in which I was storing my food.

Determined she wouldn’t think I wore clothes that looked as though I slept in them every day, I dressed in my dark jeans, an Indian embroidered top, and a mauve velvet jacket with the sleeves rolled up. I dabbed my lapels with patchouli oil, then brushed my hair and tied it back. I found my turquoise pendant and draped it around my throat. Turquoise, one of the more expensive stones, was very helpful to the throat chakra, coloured blue, which aided communication. I wasn’t sure I still held my old faith in the power of stones and crystals, but I figured a little possible help wouldn’t go amiss. If nothing else, turquoise made an attractive piece of jewellery.

I suspected Anna would be punctual, and sure enough, it was exactly 1:30 when she knocked on the door. I’d been lingering just inside nervously awaiting her arrival, and I made myself pause before I opened it.

She was not exactly smiling, but her gaze was friendlier than the last time I’d opened the door to her.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi, come on in.” I tried to match the tiny smile she offered me with an equally restrained one of my own. I couldn’t help a furtive inspection of her appearance. She wore her long black coat again today, but this time with a thinner scarf of green crushed velvet.

Her pale hair was loose, hanging sleekly to just above her shoulders where it curled under neatly. I wondered if she had to style it to achieve the effect, or if her hair simply grew in that precise, tidy way. Nothing could have been much further from my own unruly frizz.

“Can I make you a cup of tea or coffee?” I asked, as she came in looking around her keenly once more. I found myself burning to know what she was thinking. I wondered if she was expecting me to have achieved more, or if she was pleasantly surprised by the more

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organised appearance of the hallway compared with her last visit.

Her expression was inscrutable.

“Tea would be lovely please. Black, no sugar.” I turned on the gas burner below the already-filled kettle and put two tea bags into mugs. While I did so, Anna balanced her briefcase on the lowest step of the staircase, then removed her coat and hung it over the end of one of the banisters. When I looked back at her, I found she was less imposing without the coat. Still I stared at her, couldn’t stop myself. Anna was slim, in a beautifully linear way I couldn’t help but admire. Her suit, today a combination of dark grey woollen trousers and jacket, was perfectly tailored. There were no darts at the waist to give the illusion of a narrow waist and wide hips, rather it was cut in very angular, yet graceful, lines, defining her tall, lithe figure. The trousers were cut close to long legs and slim thighs.

She wore those unusual flat black leather brogues again. Beneath the jacket was a wide-collared shirt, pale blue with thin dark grey stripes. Nothing was at all out of place, and it suited her perfectly.

Anna was regarding me evenly with those ice blue eyes through the magnifying lenses of her square glasses. I turned red as I realised she was most likely wondering what the hell I was staring at.

“Sorry,” I said, searching for an innocent explanation for my fixation with her appearance, “that’s a beautiful suit. I’m guessing it’s not from the high street.”

She smiled more broadly than I expected at my compliment, showing straight white teeth. “Thanks. You’re right, not even off-the-peg, I have a tailor. I designed it myself actually.” She said it with no hint of bragging, and as if having a tailor was the most normal thing in the world.

“You can design buildings and clothes?” I secretly wondered if there was anything this woman couldn’t do, and was even more impressed.

“I studied design in general to begin with. It was a toss-up between fashion and architecture at university. The possibilities of working with historic buildings swayed me in the end. I don’t so much design new buildings these days as bring my knowledge to the renovation of old ones.” She gave me a slightly crooked smile

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and her eyes were inquisitive, as though she was feeling out how interested I really was in her career and what compelled her.

“Like this one, I guess.” I hoped my expression showed my genuine enthusiasm for learning from her.

“Exactly. Winter fascinates me actually.”

“Does it really?”

“Yes. It’s more like someone’s personal project than a large scale prestige property. Someone designed it exactly as they wanted to, with very little concern for architectural fashion.” The timbre of her voice grew warmer and deeper as her passion for her subject increased.

“Like you and your suit,” I said, then flushed. “Not that it’s not fashionable—”

“I hope it’s not actually.” She smirked slightly as though she rather enjoyed an element of the awkwardness between us. “Style and fashion are rather different things, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely.” I saw her brief examination of my own outfit and wondered what conclusions she drew. “Is it the same with this house?”

“Yes. As I mentioned before, the façade is pure Palladian, but the clock tower is baroque.”

“I think I know what baroque is, but you’ll have to enlighten me what you mean by Palladian,” I admitted. “But have a seat first.”

Anna glanced at the small folding stool and the camping bed and elected to perch on the bed. I felt an odd twinge as she did so, the action feeling like an invasion of my personal space but not a wholly unwelcome one. The way she held my gaze as she lowered herself gave me the unsettling feeling she knew exactly what effect she was creating. I tried not to think about it, looking away as I settled myself onto the stool. But I felt strangely compelled to learn more of what was behind her rigid façade, so I forced myself to continue the conversation, looking back into those intense eyes. “I am interested to learn a bit more about architecture. I really know very little.”

I was glad of my ignorance in the next moment because Anna’s entire expression lit up with enthusiasm at the chance to explain the architectural concepts she’d mentioned. With that fire in her eyes

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and a smile she barely seemed conscious of on her pink lips, she was transformed from striking to beautiful. I felt a dangerous heat creep through my body and willed myself to concentrate on her words.

“Baroque bent all the rules. It was curvy and feminine.” Her eyes flicked to mine as if she was watching for a reaction. I wondered what she expected, and felt warm. Her smile curled wider before she went on. “Even the word itself is rather beautiful. It’s from the Portuguese meaning misshapen pearl. You had twisted columns, oval rooms, sculptural designs. Though it followed patterns, it didn’t seem precise. It was artistic and dreamy.” Her voice, infused with zeal for her subject, deepened further, while remaining within its clearly defined range of expression. I found my gaze drawn from our intermittent eye contact to those pink lips that curved and shaped with such appeal when she spoke. I made myself look back to her blue eyes, the ice entirely melted now.

She hesitated and raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure you’re interested?” I wondered if I’d missed something, a question I was supposed to answer, while I was busy contemplating the change that had occurred in her eyes.

“Very much so,” I said, leaning forward on my stool.

“In the architecture?” she enquired, in what sounded suspiciously like a teasing tone. I frowned and flushed. Had I heard her correctly? Or was my imagination adding implications that weren’t intended?

“I’m very interested in the architecture.” I tried to keep any trace of either embarrassment or indignation out of my tone. It was possible I’d misheard her. Again her eyes lingered on mine for a moment longer than was necessary, and I thought I saw amusement there. Her measured expressions were infuriating to interpret. But it was also a rather compelling game to play. Her face grew more matter-of-fact again as she returned to her specialist subject.

“Palladianism takes its name, appropriately enough, from a man called Palladio, who was a sixteenth-century Venetian architect. It became popular mostly in the mid-eighteenth century.

It was really the total rejection of baroque and drew its influence from ancient Greece and Rome. Proportion and rules were suddenly

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all important.” Her hand made a vertical gesture in the air in front of her. My gaze was drawn to her slender fingers briefly before her words recalled me to myself, and I made eye contact again. “You get a lot of straight columns and pediments, like the front of Winter.”

Precision and straight lines. It described Anna in every detail. That was what she was: perfectly Palladian. I held back a smile at my conclusion as she went on. “The sculptural aspects were reserved for statues, like in classical times.”

“That explains Phoebe then,” I replied.

“Phoebe?” She looked at me, bemused.

“The woman who looks like a Greek goddess on one side of the front steps.”

“She’s called Phoebe?” Anna raised her eyebrows, clearly unsure whether to laugh at me or be concerned for my mental health.

“I only talk to her occasionally.” I grinned, letting her know it was okay to be amused. I was relieved when she laughed lightly.

It felt surprisingly good to smile with someone, though I’d never have thought on first meeting her that I’d be sharing a moment of mirth with Anna. I saw it as another piece of her icy barrier chipped away and felt a small sense of triumph that did wonders for my self-confidence. When Anna laughed, her lips parted slightly and her eyes narrowed and creased at the corners in one of the least beautiful expressions I could have imagined, but the sound she produced was one of musical proportions. I sensed that she did not laugh very often and felt privileged to share it with her.

The kettle whistled, and any further conversation was interrupted while I made the tea. “Do you like chocolate or carrot cake best?” I asked. It was suddenly much less important than it had been to me earlier. I was simply enjoying her company.

“I adore carrot cake,” she replied, in nothing less than a purr.

I tried very hard to ignore the effect of that sound on my body. My temperature crept up by a few more degrees, and all of my senses were suddenly on edge.

“Excellent.” I cut large slices for us both and passed Anna hers. I was surprised at the speed with which she ate her cake, large forkfuls at a time. She struck me as a nibbler, not someone who

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would gulp down mouthfuls so quickly. Clearly appearances weren’t everything with Anna Everest. Such an intriguing package. I took a sip of tea to wash the cream cheese frosting from my mouth, as she cleaned the crumbs from her plate by squashing them between the tines of her fork.

“Were you hungry?” I was amused by the way she didn’t leave a morsel behind. “There’s more if you want.”

“No, I’m fine. It’s very good though.” She didn’t seem to notice my amusement at the way she had eaten her cake, and I didn’t want to embarrass her, so I went back to sipping my tea.

“So,” she began, after the silence had stretched a little longer than was comfortable, “you said you’d had a good look around and taken some notes.”

“Yes. I mean, I’m not an expert or anything, but I’m in a better position to talk about things now.” My confidence ebbed slightly as I proclaimed my new knowledge. I sensed Anna would always be better at taking the initiative in practical conversations than I was and decided not to say too much.

“I was thinking it might be a good idea to go room by room together and make sure we’re on the same page, and then—oh my God, are you all right?” Anna’s tone changed abruptly as my insubstantial camping stool chose that moment to collapse under my weight and send me sprawling onto the floor in front of her.

Biting back a groan of pain as my coccyx hit the hard tiles, it took me a moment to understand quite why I was sitting on the floor. I blinked, my heart thudding with surprise, and looked up into Anna’s concerned face. “Yes…or I think so at least.”

“Here, let me pull you up.” She got to her feet and grasped my forearm in a remarkably strong grip. Her fingers were cool against my warm skin, and the contact sent a shock all the way from the place she touched into my whole body. Anna was not someone who touched freely, and an invasion of her own clearly defined personal space was not something I would have been brave enough to try.

Even her handshake had been shielded by leather. To suddenly feel her touch, to sense a temporary break in this invisible barrier, had a rather more powerful effect on me than I wanted or expected it to. I

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allowed her to help me to stand up. She dropped her hand from my arm as soon as I was upright.

“Thanks,” I said, not quite resuming eye contact. She didn’t reply, and I saw a flash of brief unease in her expression, as though she had realised something surprising. Puzzled by that, I decided it was safer to pretend I hadn’t noticed, so I inspected the ruins of the stool, which was clearly beyond repair. “I think it’s about time I found a shop to buy some proper chairs. Or ventured up to explore the attics properly. I’ve only had a quick look up there so far. Apparently there might be some old furniture locked away in one of the rooms, but I don’t seem to have a key for them all.”

“I have a set of spare keys for Winter,” Anna replied, her composure entirely restored. She put her little finger to her mouth and bit her nail thoughtfully. It made her suddenly so much more human. I smiled reflexively and was pleased she didn’t notice. “And better still, I have them with me, if you want to go up and try. The attic’s one of the main places I want to discuss with you anyway, since it will probably be the most radical change we make.”

I wasn’t surprised Anna would have a spare set of keys with her. I imagined her briefcase to be like Mary Poppins’s carpet bag—apparently bottomless and containing everything that could possibly be useful. And spending some more time with her, maybe discovering a little more of what lay underneath her frosty exterior, was an intriguing prospect. “Sounds like a plan to me,” I answered.

“Do you want to head up there now?”

Anna found the keys in her briefcase, and we climbed the staircase side by side. I was excited, after my week of becoming uneasy friends with my house, to hear more of her opinions about the future of the place. I was sure she would be forthright and bring a wealth of experience and knowledge to the renovation. On the first floor, we went through the small door in the wood-panelled corridor which led to the servant’s stairs, which were the only way up to the attics. Apparently only the lowliest inhabitants of the house had ever had cause to go up there.

The stairs led to a large landing area. From this, one attic room led into another, whether you turned left or right. We were in the

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sloping roof of the house, and the small dormer windows I’d seen from the outside let in light. Shafts of winter sunshine pierced the dusty shadows. The walls here were of plain plaster, the floor basic floorboards. To the left was the east wing of the house. The last room in that direction was the best place to view the damage to the roof, where much of the ceiling had collapsed and daylight could actually be seen through the tiles. The floor there was decaying and the rot getting through to the ceiling and floor below. To the right were one open room and a locked door.

“Where’s the door you can’t open?” Anna asked. I noted that, although I was breathing a little harder from climbing the stairs, her voice betrayed no strain. I wondered what she did to keep fit. With a figure like hers, it was clearly something strenuous.

“To the right.” We walked, leaving smudged footprints in the dust, into the next room, and I gestured at the impassable locked door. “Of course we might find the skeletal remains of a long-dead lunatic cousin behind it,” I added, as we regarded it together.

“You remind me of Catherine Morland in Northanger Abbey.”

Anna managed to make it sound like a genuine criticism.

“Sorry. Active imagination I guess. You like Jane Austen?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Anna had a unique intonation, giving me the impression I’d asked her a question with the most obvious answer in the world.

“I suppose,” I said, mildly surprised. She didn’t strike me as someone who would particularly enjoy reading of any kind, but I guessed Austen’s biting sarcasm would probably appeal to her. I decided to probe further. “I always wanted to be Lizzie Bennett myself,” I said. “I guess most girls do when they read Pride and Prejudice.”

“I wanted to be Mr. Darcy,” she replied nonchalantly, as though there was nothing unexpected in her words, and certainly no joke. I narrowed my eyes slightly but could think of no suitable response.

Anna was such a conundrum. I wondered what else she did and didn’t like, in reading and life in general. She was so infuriatingly intriguing. I began to see that a lot more lay below her controlled surface, just waiting to be discovered. I grew uncomfortably conscious that part of me wanted to be the one to uncover her secrets.

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I glanced at her as she looked down at the keys in her hand and at the keyhole below the handle of the door. Despite the measured lack of excitement in her tone, I could see she was almost as curious as I was to discover what, if anything, lay behind this door. Her glasses had slipped low on her small nose as she peered down at the key in her hand. She straightened, pushing them back into place, wrinkling her nose slightly as she did so. The movement was girlish and unaffected, and combined with the determination with which she looked back at the door, all of her illusion of professionalism and lack of interest was dislodged. I saw the woman she was and the girl she had been in one arresting moment, and my heart stuttered.

“I think this might be the one.” She held up one of the keys.

I was thankful she remained ignorant of the sudden emotion that gripped me and which I now forced myself to struggle against.

“Give it a go.” I watched eagerly as she stepped towards the door. The key was small and not at all rusted. She gripped it in those slender, short-nailed fingers. They were the sort of fingers that I knew would be talented. She could draw, that was a must of her career. Her handshake was firm to the point of crushing. I would have bet she played the piano, but it seemed an odd question to ask of her at that moment. Overwhelmed by an unaccountable urge to take her hand in mine and stroke those fingers, hold them to me and feel what their soft tips were like against my face, my stomach tightened and I felt my pulse in a lower place where I’d thought I wouldn’t feel anything for a long time. Thank goodness Anna was too intent on trying to fit the key into the lock to pay me and my turbulent feelings any attention.

She eased the key in carefully. It slid into the hole without a problem, then she paused and turned to smile slightly at me. I hoped my face didn’t look as hot as it felt. “Moment of truth,” she said, turning the key. Her eyes lingered on mine, and uneasy with the direct nature of her gaze, I dropped mine to her hand. I saw her fingertips turn white as she strained against the aged stiffness of the mechanism, but after a moment, there was a loud click and the key turned.

“Well done,” I said enthusiastically, “you were right first time.”

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Her pale cheeks had turned just a shade pinker. She looked happier and my answering smile was not just because she’d unlocked the door. She brushed a strand of hair back behind her ear and looked pleased with herself, though not quite smug. “It’s your house, you should open the door.” She took a step back and gestured with an outstretched hand.

“Very gallant of you.” I put my hand on the cold metal of the handle and turned, pushing the door at the same time. Though the handle seemed to work, the door didn’t budge, it simply creaked at me.

“It can’t still be locked,” I said, puzzled. “Maybe it really is a secret chamber and we need a password or something.”

Anna rolled her eyes, but looked mildly amused this time. “You can try open sesame if you want. But be quick, before the wicked count comes and discovers us trying to access the room where he’s disposed of his wife’s corpse.”

Her mouth twitched. I stared at her briefly, astonished by her words, and couldn’t help but laugh. Her smile flickered and grew until it made her eyes dance. Such a compelling smile. “Or maybe the wood is warped and it’s just stuck against the frame,” she said practically. Her smile faded as she focused on the door again, eyes scanning the frame. I was surprised by her insistence when she took my arm and physically moved me out of the way. Again, the moment of contact with her, entirely functional and meaningless as it was, had a far more powerful effect on me than it warranted. I balled my sticky hands into fists and moved to the side without a word of protest, my throat too tight to speak.

“I think if we apply enough force, it’ll give,” she said, trying the handle and pushing slightly, seeming to confirm her assessment.

If she’d noticed the effect she was creating in me she showed no sign of it. Could she really be that unobservant? Or was she choosing to ignore it? I made an effort to compose myself.

“Shall we push together then?” I asked.

“Just let me have a go first.” Her expression said she wasn’t a woman who would let a challenge defeat her, however insignificant.

To my astonishment, Anna stepped back from the door and unfastened the buttons of her suit jacket. She shrugged her way out

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of it and handed it to me. I took it dumbly and stared quizzically at her. “The door’s dusty and the jacket is more expensive to launder than the shirt,” she explained.

“Of course,” I replied, looking at the jacket as if I’d never seen one before. The garment was warm from the heat of her body as I gripped it. I tried not to dwell on that warmth, but my palms and fingertips tingled. The grey woollen material was clearly incredibly fine quality. I caught the smell of Tabac Blond again: that masculine undertone of leather, the sensuality of creamy vanilla, and the dangerously forbidden hint of smoky tobacco. I barely ever wore perfumes myself, partly in an attempt to set myself apart from the artificial potions of my beautician mother, but mostly because I never felt comfortable with a complex scent on my skin. When I suspected a perfume had been chosen specifically by its wearer, however, I loved what it told you about that person. Anna smelled of the best of the scents I’d discovered amongst the many glass bottles on my mother’s dressing table as a child. And the most expensive.

I had to fight not to raise her jacket to my face and inhale deeply.

The perfume combined perfectly with the lingering essence of Anna herself in the fabric.

“You wear Tabac Blond,” I said, unable to resist remarking on my recognition of the fragrance.

Anna turned to look at me, and I enjoyed her surprised expression. “You can name a perfume from one sniff?” She raised a questioning eyebrow.

“It’s one of my hidden talents.”

“I look forward to discovering some of the others.”

I froze with a stupid fixed smile at her words. Had this stunning and outwardly glacial woman just hinted that she would like to know more about me? And in tones so smooth the words virtually trickled from her mouth? She maintained eye contact, not apparently trying to convey anything, simply watching me. No one had ever watched me in that way before. I felt dizzy. “Was I right?” I managed to say in the end, trying to keep the conversation on the perfume before my face revealed my confusion and my intrigue.

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“About my perfume?” Anna’s smile was teasing. She knew the effect of her words I was sure. But what game was she playing with me? How on earth did I learn the rules of it? Was it even a good idea to try to find out?

“Yes. Is it Tabac Blond?” The conversation was back on safe territory even if my emotions were fluttering wildly, trying to settle only to be agitated again.

“Yes,” she said, and it sounded like a question, not an answer, as though she was asking what conclusions I had drawn about her from her perfume. I could have said it was a very androgynous, even masculine scent, an unusual choice. I could have said it was the scent of a strong, liberated, classy woman. I could have impressed her with my knowledge of women’s cultural history—a focus of mine at university—and told her it was created by Caron in 1919

as a result of the vogue for smoking among glamorous young American women just after the World War I. I could simply have told her I found the scent incredibly attractive, and I wanted to press myself close to her skin and inhale it warm, from her body, the way all perfumes should be experienced.

“I’ve always liked it.” I chose my understatement carefully.

“But it’s pricey stuff.” Anna raised her eyebrows and her smile was almost condescending, but not quite. Everything she did seemed calculated to tease me. Knowing I’d clearly lost all good judgement—she was, after all, married—I tried very hard to listen to her words without interpreting her facial gestures. Now her lips twitched as though she was going to laugh.

“I suppose I’m a pricey woman.” She turned from me and I watched, astonished as her face quickly grew impassive once more.

She was maddening to talk to, to flirt with. To flirt with? Was this flirting? I had no business flirting with anyone at this point in my life. But nothing could stop my heart beating just that little bit faster.

I watched her now, in her blue-striped shirt sleeves, as she tried the handle of the door one more time. The sleeves were long, with large turned-back cuffs secured by silver cuff links. Tailored close to her slim body, the shirt was tucked into a black leather belt at her waist. I followed the lines of her body lower, and couldn’t help but

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appreciate the way the quality fabric caressed the slight curve of her buttocks. I tightened my lips together and worked to ignore the throb low in my body.

Having failed to open the door conventionally once more, Anna twisted slightly sideways and braced her shoulder against it. She turned the handle and pushed with her whole body, this time bending her knees and straining hard. I watched, fascinated, wondering whether I should try to help and feeling quite useless that I could not. When she must have felt the door budge slightly, she rolled back on her feet and flung herself, shoulder first, at the door.

It gave way with a loud screech of wood against wood, and Anna fell forwards into the room.

I simply stared, astonished and impressed. Then I came to my senses and went to investigate if Anna had hurt herself. She was in the middle of the opened room, brushing dust from her arms and not apparently injured. The only real evidence of having just won the battle with the door was the vaguely dishevelled state of her hair and her slightly irregular breathing.

“That was pretty impressive,” I told her.

“Do you think so?”

“I couldn’t shift it on my own.” I was unable to work out if she was being modest or sarcastic. Did she want me to be impressed?

I wished she was easier to read. “You must be stronger than you look. Do you go to the gym or something?” I didn’t disguise my brief glance over her figure since it seemed appropriate to my observations. Part of me wanted her to notice me looking, just so I could see her reaction.

The shadow of a smile tightened her lips at my interest. I wondered again what she was thinking. “I do go to the gym now and again, but I find it bores me,” she said. “I practice tae kwon do several times a week, which helps build strength. I also swim, but that’s mainly for fitness.”

“Wow, martial arts?” I was genuinely impressed and interested.

“That explains it then.” The discipline required for martial arts clearly came naturally to her. I could see her in a white uniform, hair tied back but a few strands coming loose, the black belt—which

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she would undoubtedly have achieved—tied tight around her waist.

“I used to play tennis,” I said, so that she didn’t think I was entirely inactive and to divert my thoughts from further picturing Anna involved in physical exercise. “Not so much lately. I’m not a fan of the gym either.” Common ground, that had to be a good thing. It would be necessary if I was going to work with her in the future. Not for any other reason.

“I played mixed doubles for my school,” she said, indulging my interest in the one sport I was good at. “I had a mean double-handed backhand.” I should have predicted she’d be good at it too.

I wondered if there was anything she was bad at. It would be a fun challenge to find out.

“I played doubles myself. I was known for my down-the-line serves,” I replied, unable to resist a little boasting of my own. “So we’d probably be a good team.” I decided to take a risk. “Though, if I’m honest, I think the main reason I played was that it was a good way of meeting girls.”

I waited for a reaction. Anna’s eyes showed she registered my words and their implications. That spectre of a smile flickered over her mouth again, but otherwise she was inscrutable. She gave no sign of surprise at least. Taken aback by her complete lack of response, I faltered and found myself smiling stupidly at my own light-hearted comment. How could she not react? What the hell was she thinking?

“Well, it looks like you’ve found some chairs at least.” She gestured to the collection of old furniture that was piled against the wall opposite the windows. I wasn’t sure what to make of the change of subject, but whatever reason she had for backing out of that conversation, I had enough sense not to press and make her uncomfortable. We were going to have to work together. The restoration of Winter would also give us a long time to get to know each other. Why rush that now? I turned my attention to the furniture.

At once I wondered when this room had been locked and how old the furniture was, since it looked very old indeed. A white sheet was draped over one part of the heap of dark wood, but the rest was exposed and dull with dust and cobwebs. Despite the build-up of

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dust, I was excited to make out a set of six beautiful dining chairs, with elegantly curving feet, their crimson upholstery still intact.

An old armchair with a huge winged back, upholstered in mustard brocade, showed signs of age but appeared redeemable.

“That looks Edwardian to me,” Anna said, approaching the chair. “Possibly a little later. Those dining chairs are Victorian, I would say. They’re too fancy to be Georgian.”

“You know about antiques too?” I was no longer remotely surprised at her expertise. Again I wondered if there was anything she didn’t know something about.

“Not so much,” she admitted, and I admired her honesty. “It’s just an occupational hazard really. Spend a lot of time in old houses and you’ll pick up a lot of knowledge about styles of the interiors and furniture, as well as the architecture.”

“It must be fascinating.”

“It is.” She flashed that smile at me again. “I have to admit to being lucky enough to love my job.” Her attention was diverted from me as one piece of furniture caught her eye. “Oh, look at this bureau! Now this is classic Regency design. It’s mahogany, and you see this Greek-style pattern here? So simple and linear. It was such an elegant time.” She actually sighed with pleasure. I understood in that moment, complex as Anna appeared, her pleasures were really rather simple and not hidden as well as some of her emotions seemed to be.

“It’s that old?” I asked, running my hand over the dusty writing surface of the bureau.

“I’d say so. Since Winter’s been here since the early seventeen-fifties, we shouldn’t be surprised really. There’s some damage, which is probably why it was left behind, but there’s a good restorer in Durham I can put you in touch with.” Anna’s fingers briefly caressed the places where the wood was wounded.

An instant later I became aware we were both stroking the bureau at the same time. I felt an odd connection with her, which rapidly grew uncomfortable, ravaged as I was by my confused emotions. I removed my hand from the bureau but kept my eyes on the places her fingers touched.

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“I quite like the damage.” I said reflectively. “It’s like battle scars, or the traces of the people who used it before. It reminds you that Winter wasn’t always empty and derelict. There were living, breathing people here, laughing, crying, dreaming—”

“Damaging the furniture.” I grinned at the way she killed my romantic ramblings and was delighted when she matched my mirth with another smile that reached all the way to her eyes. “For an academic historian—a teacher—you seem very inclined towards a romantic view of history.” I felt my cheeks colour at her interest in me, and her accurate judgement.

“I suppose I am,” I replied. “And I don’t apologise for it. I know the truth of it all, of course. But I fell in love with history when I was a child because of that sense of connection, of someone having lived and loved in the same space as I’m living now. Maybe they even felt some of the same things as me.”

Anna smiled and her eyes were soft now, regarding me with more apparent contemplation than she had before. “You teach your pupils that view of history?”

I laughed lightly. “No way. I taught them to remember dates and about cause and consequence. I grabbed their interest with the grisly facts and smashed all signs of them getting romantic about it to pieces.”

“It doesn’t sound like teaching history is really what you want it to be.” I was impressed by her insight and flattered she’d paid enough attention to form it.

“No.” I looked into her eyes and felt safe enough to reveal a little more. “That’s why I got out of it.”

“You got out of it?”

“Yeah. Before I even knew Winter Manor existed. I just knew it wasn’t the job for me. I thought I liked it, but then stuff happened—”

“Stuff?” Anna’s enquiry was more gentle than I would have expected. Could she see the pain the memories stirred in me?

“It’s a long story.” I wasn’t quite ready to share it yet. “But the conclusion of it was that I took time to think about whether I really wanted to be a teacher. And I don’t. I wasn’t totally sure what I was going to do next. But it wasn’t teaching.”

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Anna nodded. I was astounded at how easily she’d drawn the confidence from me. I’d not intended to tell her anything about my situation quite so soon. But her expression was mild, and I sensed no judgement. Maybe Anna didn’t expect everyone to be as professional and apparently career-minded as she was. I was wrong to assume she would. I appreciated deeply that she had the tact not to press further.

“And then Winter came along?” she asked, clearly looking for the conclusion of the tale.

“Yep. Completely out of the blue.”

“Must have been a shock.”

“It was. But I’m just starting to understand what a good sort of shock,” I replied, with a smile I hoped included her. I wanted her to know I already thought meeting her was one of the good consequences of my inheritance of Winter.

When she said nothing further, looking actually a little lost for words, I turned to the white sheet covering some of the other objects closer to the corner of the room. I wanted to know what was under it, and the time for any further personal revelations had apparently passed for now. I took a step towards the sheet. Then I realised I still had Anna’s jacket folded over my left arm.

“Oh, here you go, I forgot I was holding it.” I offered it back to her with some reluctance. Holding on to it had been a sort of connection between us. I watched her slip it back on.

“I want to know what’s under that,” she said, gesturing towards the bulging sheet.

“Come on then, so do I,” I said, enjoying sharing the moment of curious suspense with her. “But if it’s a body, we’ll just put the sheet back and forget about it, agreed?”

“Absolutely,” she replied.

We pulled the dusty sheet away from the pieces it concealed and let it drop to the floor. Underneath were a table, once clearly French polished, which was obviously meant to go with the dining chairs; a chest with what looked like rosewood inlays on the fronts of the drawers; a low footstool with a moss-green velvet cushion; and a trunk covered in brown leather. On top of the trunk rested a

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small chest. I looked at it more closely, somehow more drawn to that than anything else in the collection.

“It’s a Victorian writing chest,” Anna told me, noticing where my interest was focused. “If you look inside you’ll find places for ink, pens, and paper, possibly a blotter and sealing wax too.”

I reached for the chest. It was made of dark wood, with a design in brass on the lid. Just below the clasp were two letters, also inset in brass: M. G. “I wonder if they’re the initials of the person who it was made for.”

“Most likely I’d say,” Anna said. “It looks like a lady’s to me.”

I opened the lid, trying to imagine what the owner of such an item would have been like. Was she rich? Was she born at Winter, or did she marry a man who lived here? Would we be friends if she was to walk into the attics now and introduce herself? M.G. What was her name? Margaret? Mary?

Inside the box, lined with dark blue velvet, we found a crystal inkwell, a set of three pens and nibs, and a tablet of sealing wax.

There was a space for paper and for the blotter Anna had predicted.

I took the inkwell and held it up to the beam of light shining through the dormer window. The cut crystal glittered perfectly, though a slight residue inside suggested it had once been in use.

“That’s a very fine piece,” Anna said knowledgeably. “You should get it valued.”

“I wouldn’t sell it though,” I said, balking at the idea. “I’m guessing it’s been here for over a hundred years. It would feel like I was betraying someone if I sold it.”

“For insurance at least then,” she replied sensibly. I liked the way she looked at me as though she really understood why I wouldn’t sell the writing case.

“Yes, for the insurance.” I knew she was right.

“Do you want a hand moving some of these chairs downstairs?”

Anna asked then, shattering my reflective mood.

I tucked the inkwell back into its place in the chest. “Oh no, it’s okay. I’ve got nothing better to do over the next few days, I might as well spend an hour or so moving chairs.” I couldn’t imagine Anna, in her tailored suit, helping me move dusty furniture. She’d already

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virtually broken down a door for me—there was only so much I could demand of her in one day. “Besides, it’s more important that we talk about your plans for the house. Tell me what you were thinking for the attics.”

Anna’s expression became instantly professional, but with enough eagerness that it was not a disappointment to see the architect return. “Well, it’s unusual to have a house of this pedigree with only two storeys. It feels like it should have a third floor, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” I said, though I’d not thought about it up until she mentioned it.

“And I’m going to assume you don’t need to use the attics as servants’ quarters—”

“No, I’ll keep the maids in the cellar.” Anna’s face showed a brief flash of amusement, but it did not reach her voice. I decided Anna the architect wasn’t quite as ready to joke as Anna the woman.

I wondered how she kept the two so separate.

“You already have the dormer windows too. Normally, in listed properties, converting the attics into living space can be a problem because of the need to put in windows or sky-lights, which of course alter the way the property looks from the outside. But I don’t think you’ll have any problems with planning permission if you want to convert this to bedrooms.”

“More bedrooms?”

“Or whatever sort of rooms you want. An office or a home gym. Up to you.”

“I’m not used to this sort of space. And it’s not like I’ve got a huge family living with me.”

“You don’t need to plan every detail now. And anyway, we’ll have to fix the problem in the east wing first. Shall we go and take a look?” Anna set off in that direction before I had a chance to answer.

I followed in her wake, watching the way her hair swayed slightly as she strode across the landing and into the rooms on the other side, tracing the lines of her slender shoulders, the linear jacket. I felt my hands grow sticky and an undefined ache build deep inside me.

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Winter manor, 1862

Catherine Richmond shifted her crinoline uncomfortably and perched on the edge of the window seat. The bones of her corset pressed painfully into the underside of her bosom, and she adjusted herself to ease it. The tension had been just too excessive to bear, she had simply had to escape from the family gathering downstairs. The Long Gallery was soothingly quiet, though the oil paintings which covered the walls glared disapprovingly at her.

In the flickering yellow of the candlelight she gazed at the artistic reminders of the people who had inhabited Winter before her. A fine lord of the previous century, with a ludicrous powdered wig, oozed arrogant self-confidence, even from his formal portrait. There were several beautiful but sad-eyed ladies, and a cluster of portraits of children, all with angelic faces, but no nameplates. However, it was her grandfather’s eyes that locked on to her from his heavyset face and made the hair on the back of her neck bristle with fear. It had been almost a relief when he’d died last year, though she saw the echo of his stern disapproval in her father’s countenance. Her father was a far kinder man, which she knew she should be thankful for.

Her mother emphasised continually how grateful they all should be to her father, Edward Richmond. Catherine’s mother, Kitty, had been born to a poor but respectable family and forced to work as a governess at Winter Manor, to Edward Richmond’s young cousins, Fanny and Eliza. Edward had spotted her walking in the grounds with the girls one day, and claimed to have fallen for

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her unusual beauty in that first instant. They had married within the year, despite Edward’s father’s disapproval. Father and son were eventually reconciled, the father won over by demure Kitty’s polite manners and keen sense of propriety, and when Edward’s father had inherited Winter Manor, ten years later, upon his uncle’s death, he had moved there with his son and his family, by then including Francis, aged nine, and Catherine, aged five. She’d been too young when they’d come to Winter to remember the smaller town house they’d lived in before.

Yet she had never settled into her home at Winter. There were too many rooms and too much parkland and she felt at once suffocated and overwhelmed. To make the days pass quickly, she had become a dedicated student of every conceivable subject, even branching out into the sciences, with the help of the books in the well-stocked library. She searched for some truth, some authentic foundation to build her world upon. In the books about biology and the natural world, she had found facts which truly interested her and inspired her to take on more advanced texts, but never really the understanding of the world she craved.

It was this queer interest in the sciences that her grandfather had so disapproved of. Her father allowed her to indulge her curiosity, but did not encourage it. Any questions she put to him were dismissed easily with words she barely understood. Her grandfather, a devoutly religious man, had been of the opinion that the sciences were at best a waste of anyone’s time, and at worst a crime against God himself. They were to be avoided by respectable gentlemen, let alone young women, being wholly unsuitable for more delicate and impressionable brains. Catherine had never understood, yet had not dared question, why his library was so well furnished with such texts if he truly held the convictions he claimed.

As she recollected her grandfather’s diatribes on this topic, Catherine wanted to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it, yet her mirth stuck in her throat. Laughter was difficult these days. She sighed, and the shadows of the Long Gallery seemed to sigh with her. Anxiously, she ran her fingernail over the grain in the wood of her seat, carving grooves in the softer part of the wood between the

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ridges. Even the science books were of no real interest to her now.

She’d pored over them looking for some sign what she was feeling was documented and possible, searching for sympathy in the printed word, the educated opinions of men who knew nothing of her. There had been no answers there.

Gloomy though Winter always was, it had appeared to be a brighter place very briefly, in the autumn of the previous year. The harvest winds had brought Maeve to Winter.

Her mother had been pleased there would be another young woman—just two years older than Catherine’s nineteen years—in the house, since she had decreed it was not healthy Catherine spent so much time alone in the library, and thought an acquaintance with a more normal woman would lift her spirits. Then Maeve Greville, who had recently come to reside with her uncle—who lived nearby and frequently went grouse shooting with her own father—arrived to take afternoon tea with Catherine and her mother.

When she entered the hallway, where Catherine waited to greet her, the breeze carried a flutter of brown and yellowed leaves in with her. Maeve could have been a pagan goddess of autumn. Her hair, swept loosely back in two braids secured at the back of her head, was flaming red, her skin pale and delicately freckled. She was an extraordinary sight. She removed a fairly conventional—

though longer than was fashionable—outer jacket, and Catherine was astonished to see she appeared to wear no crinoline or hoops at all. Her gown hung loose and narrow. Though her waist was slender, it did not have the artificial dimensions of a corset. In contrast to Catherine’s richly dyed blue silk gown, Maeve’s was delicately coloured in shades of peach and simply styled, apart from the intricate embroidery which decorated the neckline. There was something archaic, almost medieval, about her appearance, yet to Catherine she was a revelation. She’d never seen a woman like Maeve in all her years. Catherine stared, open-mouthed, until alerted by the curious look of Rosie, the housemaid who had opened the door and taken Maeve’s coat, that her behaviour was not polite.

“You’re most welcome to Winter, Miss Greville,” Catherine said, attempting to collect herself.

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“Miss Richmond?” Maeve enquired, and receiving an affirmative nod, said, “You must call me Maeve, of course. I’m sure we’re going to be great friends.”

“Of course. You may call me Catherine.” Catherine smiled broadly at such an open declaration of the desire for friendship. She felt her burden of loneliness shift almost instantly, and looking into Maeve’s clear hazel eyes, she was certain that they would indeed be friends forever. A kindred spirit was what she had always longed for. Maeve would be the person with whom she finally found that connection.

Catherine’s mother had been equally taken aback by Maeve’s unusual appearance when they had sat down to tea in the Blue Drawing Room, but her expression showed disapproval rather than admiration.

“You have a beautiful house,” Maeve said, after the introductions, and though Kitty Richmond had smiled graciously and thanked her, her immediate condemnation of Maeve Greville was evident enough in her countenance to make Catherine wince and hope Maeve, being unfamiliar with her mother, would not notice.

The conversation was faltering, as they ate salmon sandwiches, buttered crumpets, and almond frangipanes. Catherine had watched Maeve as she ate, taking note of the delicate way she nibbled her sandwiches, how graceful her hands were, with their slender fingers.

Now in the warmth, close to the blazing fire in the hearth, her pale white skin grew rosy.

Though naturally shy, Catherine did not usually struggle to make polite conversation with new acquaintances. However, words with which to address Maeve Greville had abandoned her entirely. It was so important that Maeve not think badly of her, that she notice the potential for a very meaningful friendship between them. The tension of creating the impression she desired made it difficult not only to talk, but even to eat the food in front of her.

While they were sipping their second cups of tea, Maeve caused the conversation to take an unexpected turn. “So, Catherine,” she began, leaning towards Catherine in a familiar way, “what do you do all day?”

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“What do I do?” Catherine replied, startled, for surely all women of her age and class passed their days in a similar fashion.

Avoiding the controversial topic of the science books, she said, “I like to read, and of course I sew. I practise my piano, and I like to take an occasional turn in the park.”

“Oh, I never sew and I can’t get a decent tune from any instrument,” Maeve replied flippantly. “I do read though, some wonderful books. Given the choice, I like to write too.”

“You write?” Catherine asked, surprised and impressed.

“Yes. Poetry mostly, but I am trying my hand at a short novel.”

“You must tell me about it.” Catherine’s enthusiasm was almost a surprise to herself. Her mother glanced at her disapprovingly.

“Miss Greville must have better ways to pass her time than talking about her hobbies with you Catherine,” she said, her smile stiff.

“Actually, no, I love to talk about my writing,” Maeve said.

“And one day I hope it will be more than a hobby.”

“You intend to be published?” Catherine asked, excitement suffusing her features.

“I do,” Maeve replied. “I think it would be ever so thrilling to see my name in print and to know that people out there are reading my words.”

Catherine felt almost breathless. “I’ve tried to write, once or twice,” she replied impulsively.

“You must show me,” Maeve replied. That was when Mrs.

Richmond interrupted their conversation again.

“Really, Miss Greville, you mustn’t encourage Catherine in such pursuits.”

“Oh,” Maeve said, pausing for a moment and looking thoughtful and knowing at once. “How about painting then? I’m rather fond of all the arts.”

“Do you paint landscape or still life?” Mrs. Richmond asked, apparently relieved.

“Actually, I prefer to study the human form.” Catherine did not miss the flash of defiance in Maeve’s eyes.

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“How interesting,” Catherine’s mother said, failing to hide her dismay. “You don’t sew?”

“Not if I can help it.” Maeve shrugged her shoulders slightly.

“I assumed you had made your gown yourself. It is so…

unusual.” Mrs. Richmond made the word unusual sound like the worst possible condemnation.

“You wonder perhaps, Mrs. Richmond, why I should choose to dress in this fashion?”

“Yes, Miss Greville, I confess I do.” Catherine flushed with embarrassment at her mother’s tone but turned her gaze towards Maeve, curious as to what her explanation would be. It was impossible not to be impressed by how undaunted Maeve was by Kitty Richmond’s disapproval.

“I dislike fashion,” Maeve said simply, at first. She smiled slightly and then enlightened them further. “Corsets and crinolines are so dishonest. They make all of us women into liars. Uncomfortable liars.” Her tone was conspiratorial, as though she expected Catherine and her mother to agree with her. Catherine looked into her hazel eyes and knew she would agree with every word Maeve uttered, even if she declared the sky to be green and the grass blue. However, her mother was clearly not at all impressed.

“You think us dishonest, Miss Greville?” she enquired coldly.

“No, Mrs. Richmond, I don’t mean any offence to be taken. I simply think the demands of high fashion are rather more than any woman should be asked to bear. What, after all, is wrong with the female form that we should have to constrict it here and accentuate it there, beyond all natural proportions? Nor do we need excessive decoration, which, after all, detracts from our God-given beauty.”

“These are highly unusual opinions you hold with, Miss Greville,” Catherine’s mother said with as much politeness as she could muster, which was not a great deal.

“Not so unusual amongst many of my acquaintance, Mrs.

Richmond,” Maeve replied evenly. “I suppose it depends upon which circles you move in, does it not?”

“Yes. I cannot imagine yours is a very large circle.” Kitty Richmond’s tone was biting now.

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“Larger than you would expect. There are many artists and poets who think in a very similar way to me.”

“It sounds so fascinating,” Catherine said dreamily, picturing such a world of art, and revolutionary views, and poetry. Everyone in that world—men and women both—would be as beautiful as Maeve. They would dress naturally as she did and spend their days composing poetry, or in fierce debates, while others painted their lives away, fingers constantly smeared with oils, little regard paid to the smudges on their clothes and noses.

“Nonsense, Catherine,” Mrs. Richmond snapped sharply, breaking into Catherine’s reverie. Her mother composed her features into a serene smile once again. “I mean, these things are all well and good for someone like Miss Greville, but they’d never suit a girl like you.”

Catherine’s face flushed. To be spoken to like a child in front of Maeve was mortifying. She sipped her tea in silence, her blood on fire as she had never felt it before. She looked at her mother and fury stoked the flames, but when she turned her gaze instead on Maeve, searching for relief, the burning simply grew worse.

Mrs. Richmond brought tea to a close rather earlier than was usual and withdrew to her chamber hurriedly, claiming the onset of a headache. As Maeve prepared to leave, Catherine followed her through the hallway and to the door. “You will come back, won’t you?”

Maeve turned and took Catherine’s hand in cool fingers.

Catherine felt frozen to the spot under her touch. “Dear Catherine. I don’t think your mother will like that.”

“For me,” Catherine said, knowing she sounded quite ridiculous but somehow unable to help herself. “You must come here as my guest and visit me. We can walk in the park perhaps—mother won’t even know you’re here.” She could barely believe she’d suggested such deceit, but could not bring herself to retract the suggestion once it had been spoken.

“You would keep me as your secret?” Maeve said, raising her eyebrows.

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Catherine blushed and looked at the tiles of the floor. “I wish you would call again,” she said awkwardly, unable to understand why she felt so extraordinarily shy.

Maeve’s fingers squeezed her own. “Then I will, Catherine dear. For you. Until then.” She smiled widely at Catherine, and then turned and made her way down the steps. Halfway down she turned back, glancing at the statue which stood there. “And I’d love to draw this statue,” she called. “Maybe when I return.” Catherine looked at the half-naked stone woman and her throat felt tight. There was no reasonable answer, so she simply let Maeve’s comment hang in the air and drift away on the autumn breeze.

Maeve walked in the direction of the beech avenue. Her carriage waited for her at the end of the driveway, since she claimed it was a shame to deprive herself of the walk on such a lovely evening.

Soon she was among the trees with their russet and gold leaves, her glorious red hair, the soft peach of her skirts, and the warm brown of her coat making her appear part of the scene, at one with nature.

Catherine watched until she had disappeared.

That night, Catherine could not sleep. She stared at the heavy canopy over her bed and listened to the wood crackling in the hearth.

She turned her pillow over and over, needing the cool fabric against her hot face. It felt unnaturally warm in the room and her heartbeat was unusually loud, too thunderous to allow slumber. The image of Maeve filled her mind, no matter how hard she tried to focus on her mother’s righteous disapproval of their unusual visitor. That such a woman existed turned the world upside down. She presented a challenge to everything: the possibilities that lay before her, her sense of her place in the world, the rules of respectability. In such a short amount of time, Maeve had destroyed Catherine’s cloistered yet bewildered perspective on the world, and Catherine could barely contain her impatience to see the beautiful destroyer again.

Maeve was true to her word and visited again the very next week.

She delivered a card to the door, which was brought to Catherine as she attempted to read in the library just after lunch. On the back of the calling card was written in flowing handwriting: Come outside, meet me in the park. M. Catherine’s heart beat faster as she read the

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words. The notion that Maeve had returned, especially to see her, was thrilling enough. The necessity of their meeting being kept a secret simply added to the peculiar excitement beginning to throb through her body. She called for her outdoor coat and bonnet at once and told Rosie the maid, whose loyalty she trusted, to inform her mother she had elected to take a turn in the park for the sake of the fresh air.

That walk with Maeve in the park was to be the first of many.

They began to arrange times to meet in advance, to save Maeve the need of coming to the house at all, since Catherine’s subtle questioning of her mother had revealed the “quite improper” Miss Greville was not at all welcome as a visitor at Winter again.

Maeve and Catherine would stroll arm in arm towards the river, even as the air grew frosty and Christmas drew nearer. There were endless topics to discuss, and Catherine always had new questions for Maeve. They talked about poetry and art, artists and nature, and Catherine was delighted to find her knowledge of the sciences, far from meeting with disapproval, actually was a subject of continuing fascination for Maeve.

The days and hours between their last parting and the next time she would see Maeve felt interminable to Catherine. Nothing was the same for her any longer; even the books in the library could not hold her interest. Her life was empty, only those few stolen hours with Maeve felt full and worthwhile. Maeve’s ideas were constantly in her mind, and she imagined she could feel her consciousness expanding with every new topic they broached.

One day, at the beginning of December, they had walked down to the bridge over the river, crossed it, and climbed a little way up the gradual slope of the meadow on the other side. From there they could see the tree-lined river, the bridge, and back up the slight hill to Winter itself. There had been a hard frost that night, and the grass and leaves were still glistening brightly. They paused next to a bush bearing bright red berries and gazed back at the picture before them.

“It’s beautiful from here,” Maeve said. “It could almost inspire me to paint a landscape with Winter as the focal point.”

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“Yes. Who’d ever think it was such a prison?” Catherine was used, by now, to expressing her innermost feelings to Maeve and had made no secret of how she felt increasingly trapped in the house.

“People and ideas keep you trapped, Catherine, not the house.”

Maeve told her, not for the first time.

“I know. If it was just walls, then I could escape.”

“You’ve escaped in your mind. That’s a very good place to start,”

Maeve said, touching her arm lightly. As always, Catherine felt the tension grow through her whole body at the feel of Maeve’s hand.

Suddenly hot despite the chill of the day, she tugged uncomfortably at the thick ribbons which held her bonnet in place beneath her chin.

“Why don’t you take that thing off?” Maeve, who wore a loose fur-trimmed hood herself, suggested. “You’re so trussed up against the cold I’m surprised you can breathe at all.”

“I didn’t want to catch a chill,” Catherine replied, thinking it sounded quite a pathetic excuse.

“I promise you won’t die if you take your bonnet off outside, Catherine,” Maeve said, her voice filled with laughter. “Have you ever actually felt the breeze blowing through your hair?”

“Not that I recall.” Catherine removed her gloves hurriedly and reached up to the bow beneath her chin. That loosened, she unfastened the strings concealed beneath it, which actually kept the hat secure, and removed it. The air felt very cold where it crept over her exposed head. She felt as though she had woken up after a long sleep and washed her face in icy water.

“You might as well be wearing another hat! Loosen your hair,” Maeve instructed, eyeing Catherine’s braided locks and the practical snood which covered the back of her head. Catherine smiled and did as she was told, removing the pins that held the snood in place and releasing the length of her hair from the fine netting. This done, she allowed the braids to fall forwards and untwisted them, until her hair fell in a solid dark brown curtain around her face and shoulders.

“Don’t you feel liberated?” Maeve reached for Catherine’s hair and took several locks between her fingers, lifting them and allowing them to fall back into place slowly. “You have beautiful hair.”

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Catherine felt the liberation Maeve talked of. It grew, as Maeve’s fingers slid through the waves of her hair, into an exultation. In these moments it was as though she knew herself for the first time, she was only just seeing the world in all its colours and brightness. The brightest point of all was Maeve, whose beautiful pale face, flushed slightly pink, was only inches away from hers, smiling at the beauty of her hair. Her mind was blank, her body seemed to act on its own impulse, as she leaned closer to Maeve and pressed her lips against her friend’s pink, smiling mouth.

As though she was not at all surprised, Maeve kissed her back without hesitation, and it seemed to Catherine their lips were made to fit together. Heat surged through her, sensations she’d never known pulsed through her veins. For those seconds, everything that had ever been wrong in her world was put right, and there was nothing but the power of the emotions that drew her to Maeve. They were kindred spirits, and more.

Too quickly, Maeve pulled back from her. Catherine reached for her to draw her back, but Maeve pushed her hands away gently.

The haze cleared, and Catherine’s vision became suddenly, brutally, clear once more. Maeve was looking back at her with something like fear in her expression. Catherine had never seen her appear so uncertain, and as she read the confusion in those beloved hazel eyes, the ground fell away from beneath her feet.

“Maeve?” Catherine yearned to break the tension between them. “Maeve? Say something.”

“What can I say, Catherine?” Catherine wished she’d never demanded Maeve speak. The confusion in Maeve’s expression transformed into intense sadness. Catherine had no idea how to soothe such pain.

Wiping her eyes with her sleeve, Maeve turned and hurried away in the direction of the house. Catherine felt rooted to the spot, sick to her stomach. Horror froze the blood in her veins but was abruptly replaced by terror that worse was to come. She could not lose Maeve. She forced her feet to move, to hurry after the rapidly retreating figure.

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“Maeve, I’m sorry!” she called desperately as she drew closer, her loose hair flying wildly behind her. “I don’t understand what happened, but it doesn’t have to happen again.” She was level with Maeve now, but the other woman did not turn to look at her, merely stared resolutely ahead and kept up her pace. “I’m sorry. Please don’t leave, Maeve. I need you. We’re friends.”

At that Maeve stopped abruptly. Catherine stood opposite her and waited, barely daring to breathe. Slowly, carefully, Maeve leaned towards her and brushed the slightest of kisses onto her cheek. Catherine fought back the tears. This was not a goodbye. It could not be. They’d shared too much, Maeve possessed too much of her soul for their friendship to be over now. “Dear Catherine. I’ve loved you so much,” Maeve whispered. “But we can’t. Go back into the house now. Don’t follow me.” Then she turned once more and walked away, in the direction of the driveway. Catherine watched her and waited for her to turn. If she turned Catherine would run to her and beg Maeve not to abandon her. But Maeve did not turn. She was out of sight within minutes.

Numb, Catherine forced her bonnet back onto her head and returned to the confines of Winter, sure her life was over.

The long winter months were giving way to spring before she began to recover. At first she thought her heart was broken beyond all hope of mending. She found her mother’s company insufferable now, and her father’s clear disapproval of her new habit of keeping to her chamber until early afternoon and of her lack of interest in everything weighed her down every time she was in his company.

Gradually, though, she began to resign herself to the realities of her life. Knowing Maeve had been her one brief moment in the sunshine, the rest of her existence would not be so bright. She could still be content, knowing that her mind had expanded beyond its previous constraints as a consequence of her friendship with Maeve.

Of the feelings Maeve had inspired in her, she tried not to think.

This partial recovery was decimated in early April, when Catherine’s older brother, Francis, who had been at Oxford, announced his intentions of returning to Winter and bringing with him his new fiancée. Kitty Richmond was tremulous with excitement

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at the prospect of having her elder child—her son—under her roof again, and more thrilled still with the notion that he was bringing home the woman with whom he would be continuing the family line. Catherine would be pleased to see her brother again, but did not relish having to form a new friendship with her future sister-in-law.

When her brother entered the hallway a week later in the mid-afternoon, Catherine greeted him warmly and then turned her eyes to the woman who followed him meekly. She wore a broad-brimmed bonnet piled with silk flowers, and a wide crinoline. Her skirts were crimson silk, looped up to show the contrasting violet silk underneath. For a moment she was entirely unfamiliar. And then Catherine looked into her eyes.

Maeve.

The room whirled around her as she stared at the woman she’d thought she would never see again. It was surely a terrible trick.

Maeve removed her ornate bonnet and looked nervously between Mrs. Richmond and Catherine.

“Hello, again.” There were dark shadows beneath her eyes where there had been none before, and her skin was even paler, if that was possible.

“Miss Greville!” Catherine’s mother exclaimed. “Francis?

What does this mean?”

“Oh, Mother,” Francis said, smiling as he brushed a hand through his brown hair and tried to appear entirely relaxed, “when we met at a reading in Oxford, Maeve said you’d encountered each other once before and didn’t quite see eye to eye, but I told her everything would be perfectly fine. Now she’s here as my fiancée.”

Mrs. Richmond had little option but to smile weakly and bend to kiss Maeve lightly on the cheek. Catherine watched her mother run her gaze over Maeve’s transformed appearance and relax perceptibly. Meanwhile, her own heart was lying exposed on the floor, and Maeve was about to stamp her foot down on it and kill her.

“Catherine. How do you do?” Maeve said, showing no trace of their former intimacy in her expression. No one knew how much they’d shared, and now Catherine might as well have dreamt it all alone.

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“I’m well, Maeve, thank you. I trust that you are too.” Such a desperate effort just to form the words.

“Yes, thank you. It’s wonderful to be back at Winter.” Just before she turned her gaze away to focus with apparent adoration on her husband-to-be, there was the faintest acknowledgement, deep in her eyes, of what had passed between them before. And then it was gone.

Maeve and Francis, who had encountered each other while Maeve was visiting her cousins in Oxford, would be married in late May, and take their honeymoon on the Continent. Until then, they would stay at Winter, within easy visiting distance of Maeve’s uncle.

Though they had just arrived, Catherine longed for the day when they would depart Winter. Every time she saw Maeve, the pain came again, as raw as it had been on that last day near the bridge, when Maeve had walked away from her.

❖

Unable to bear it, bewildered by this new turn of events, and wondering how Maeve could subject her to such torture, Catherine avoided being alone with Maeve for the rest of that week, leaving the room if they happened to find themselves together. But on one rainy day, they both left their chambers and found themselves in the upstairs passageway at the same moment. Discomfort turned to alarm, turned to irresistible elation as Maeve wordlessly, unexpectedly, took Catherine by the arm and drew her into her chamber. Before Catherine could think, Maeve’s lips were hot against hers. With her heart swelling as if it might burst, thundering in her ears, Catherine held the kiss. But when Maeve eventually pulled back, she was reminded of the day by the bridge, of the chilling reality that Maeve was engaged to Francis now, and she looked at her with bewildered, frightened eyes. How could Maeve taunt her like this?

“What are you doing?” she demanded, ashamed to hear her voice tremble.

“It’s what we both want, isn’t it Catherine?” Maeve’s eyes were intent on hers, the passion in them unmistakeable. “Don’t tell me you’ve stopped loving me already.”

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Tears welled in Catherine’s eyes. She knew Maeve would never truly comprehend just how much she loved her. “You broke my heart, Maeve.”

“I’m so sorry, Catherine, dearest,” Maeve said, reaching up to stroke her face and smooth the tears away. “Your heart is so precious to me. Is it possible I can mend it, do you think?”

Catherine gazed into Maeve’s hazel eyes and tried to make sense of the words she was hearing. The worst of it was the hope fluttering in her heart, the compulsion to kiss Maeve again. “How on earth can you mend my heart, Maeve?” she asked, her words infused with her pain.

“Don’t you see? I’ve come back to you, Catherine.”

Catherine swallowed hard and wondered if Maeve was really suggesting what she seemed to be. “You’re engaged to my brother,”

she said plainly. “You’re going to marry my brother. You’re in my house, but you’ve not come back to me.”

Maeve took Catherine’s face in both of her hands and looked imploringly into her eyes. “Yes, yes, I have Catherine! Do you think I could really love Francis? Do you think for a moment I really want to wear these ridiculous clothes? It’s all for you, Catherine, I’ve come back for you.”

“You don’t love Francis?” Catherine ached on her brother’s behalf, still trying to comprehend the remainder of Maeve’s words.

“Not as a wife. He’s dear to me because he’s your brother, of course.”

“Then you cannot marry him, Maeve, it’s too cruel,” Catherine protested.

“I only said yes to him because I knew it would bring me back to you, Catherine. Just think, after we are married, we’ll have all the time we want to be together, alone.”

The extent of what Maeve had planned, expected her to be complicit in, was clear to Catherine finally. She pulled in a strangled breath, forcing the throb of hope away. Too much. It was impossible.

“Live a life of lies? Betray Francis?” Yet her heart bled with how much she wanted to consent to any deceit, just to be with Maeve.

“And what about the risks? If anyone ever knew…”

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“I love you, Catherine. That’s the most important.”

“And I love you, Maeve. So much it nearly killed me.” She paused to draw on her last lingering vestige of strength. “But I cannot be so selfish or so cruel. I did not think you could be. All your talk about freedom and creativity, and you want to reduce our love to something sordid and deceitful!” Catherine was beginning to sob now, because the temptation of what Maeve offered was so great, and her disappointment in Maeve for suggesting it was so profound.

“But for love, Catherine, dear.” Maeve leaned in to kiss Catherine again. Catherine pulled back before their lips met.

“Don’t, Maeve! It’s too much. Marry my brother if you will, I would not have you let him down now. But expect nothing of me beyond sisterhood. My heart has been broken once. I will not risk it again.”

“But Catherine, this is all for you—”

“It is all for yourself, Maeve, don’t you see that? How could you think this is what I’d want?”

“You love me.”

“Yes. I will love you as my sister. But there can be nothing else.” Catherine was astounded by her own resolution, her ability to speak the words so definitely, as her heart strained towards Maeve.

She could stand the conversation no longer. She reached up briefly to stroke Maeve’s smooth, pale cheek, pushed past her quickly, and fled to her own chamber, where she gave in to the sobs that tore her throat and chest apart. Maeve did not follow her.

❖

This evening, Catherine had been forced to escape to the window seat in the Long Gallery. In the Music Room, Francis was demonstrating his accomplishments on the piano, Maeve gazing at him with eyes full of a love Catherine knew she did not feel. Her mother had been swayed very quickly in favour of the apparently reformed and now charming Maeve Greville, and even her stern father seemed drawn to Maeve’s charms. Only Catherine sat restlessly, the music tormenting her senses, as she watched Maeve,

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remembering what those lips had felt like against hers, unable to shake herself free of her fascination.

Worse still, she knew the secrets of Maeve’s heart, understood too well the real reason Maeve was now at Winter. Her brother was so happy, and for that she was glad Maeve had chosen to stay despite her own refusal to succumb to her entreaties. But to live her life with Maeve as her sister, as nothing more, knowing her brother’s marriage could not be a happy one, struck her as worse than being sentenced to all the fires of hell.

She’d left the room hurriedly and escaped to the dark, quiet Long Gallery, with only her oil-painted ancestors for company.

Surely none of them had ever felt the sort of sadness she experienced now. She was certain it would press the life from her before too long.

Perhaps she would haunt the Long Gallery, crying from a broken heart she could not mend.

❖

Later that night, Maeve Greville sat beside the bureau in her chamber, her writing case in front of her. She stroked her fingers over the place where her brass initials, M.G. , were inlayed. Not her initials for much longer. Soon she would be Maeve Richmond. It was impossible to conceive of it. Francis was a good man, a truly good man who loved her, but she could not imagine him as a husband.

Catherine’s resolute words, her rejection, had shattered her tenuous dream, and now she felt like a predator, but one who had trapped herself in the course of the hunt.

Catherine had spurned her. Her reprimands had stung because they were true. Catherine was disappointed in her, and Maeve knew she had betrayed their pure love that she had treasured above all. She would never have Catherine now. Should she torture both of them by lingering here, going ahead with a marriage she had only ever viewed as means to an end? Could she survive in the dark rooms of Winter Manor, with its fine carpets and heavy curtains, its oppressive tapestries and wallpapers, the disapproving portraits and air of strict moral conduct, haunted

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by desires she could never act upon? It was a ghastly thing to contemplate. Impossible.

Maeve opened her writing chest and took out a sheet of creamy paper. She reached into the blue velvet lining and drew out a pen and nib, and opened the crystal inkwell. The writing chest had been a gift from her mother the year before she died, and it was one of the most beautiful of her possessions. She dipped the nib of the pen into the ink and began to write.

❖

Catherine did not sleep well that night. She awoke long before her maid came to help her dress. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she saw a white envelope on the crimson carpet close to the door. With a feeling of cold dread filling her, she padded over in her bare feet and picked it up, quickly tearing it open.

Dearest Catherine,

I know that you will not allow this letter to be read by any eyes other than your own. By slipping it beneath your door before I depart, I hope it will fall into no other hands.

As you read this, I will already have departed from Winter.

I believe I will go to Darlington and travel by train from there to London. Wish me well. I have a fancy I may become an artist’s model, and maybe even a painter myself. I hope you are laughing at me now, Catherine, can you see me sitting still for long enough to be a model?

Oh, Catherine, there are no words for our final goodbye. Your words found their mark in the deepest recesses of my heart, my dear.

I cannot be dishonest and marry your brother, whom I do not love as a wife should. I cannot expect you to behave in a manner I now realise would have been not only improper, but quite against your beautiful nature. I have no choice, I must leave Winter. It does me no good to remain here, and it is of even less benefit to you. But knowing we shall not meet again is a pain that is hard to bear.

I write it now so you might be sure of what I have already confessed. I love you, Catherine. I craved your sweetness in the time

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we were apart over the winter. I hope you will forgive what I have done, in the knowledge I acted out of love.

I know now that it is not our time, my sweet love. I am sorry that I made you love me in return and for any pain I have caused you. Who would have thought you would turn out to be the wise one of the two of us?

I have quite taken your words to heart, Catherine, and you must know thoughts of you, and your goodness, will guide me through the rest of my life. Who knows, perhaps our paths will cross again someday and we will see each other happy, and laugh at all that passed between us? If not, in another place, in another time, maybe our kindred souls will find each other and finally merge together and create a perfect whole. But it is not here and now, and I am afraid we must continue into the world incomplete.

I will never forget you. When I write or paint, Catherine, you will be my Muse and in my every stroke of the pen or brush.

Now I must leave, whilst Winter still sleeps.

Goodbye, my love. Remember me, if I may ask such a favour.

With the whole of my heart, and hopes for your future happiness, Your Maeve.

Minutes later, tears she could not hide streaming over her cheeks, Catherine flew, still in her nightgown, along the passageway to Maeve’s chamber. The door was ajar. She opened it gently and peered inside. Francis was sitting on the edge of the bed, a piece of paper in his hand. His expression matched her own, and she swallowed her emotions, for fear of them being discovered.

Maeve was gone. The room was littered with traces of her, the objects she could not carry or had not wished to take. Several gowns were still in the wardrobe, a fan and a pair of gloves were on the foot of the bed, and her writing chest, its inlayed initials a lingering echo of her presence, remained on the mahogany bureau.

Even the muted linear elegance of the bureau, a remnant of earlier this century, seemed to mock the turbulence and loss of control she felt in her heart.

“She’s gone, Catherine,” Francis said numbly.

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Wordlessly, Catherine walked to her brother and gathered him in her embrace. His heart would heal, in time, she was sure. But nothing had prepared her for the sudden departure of Maeve from her life again, despite her rejection of the impossible subterfuge Maeve had offered. Confronted by her absence, love surged in her contrary heart for the woman who had altered her entire existence.

She could not bring herself to regret that alteration, even as her spirit ached now. Knowing Maeve was somewhere in the world, holding her in her heart and loving her still, would have to sustain her. Her love for Maeve would be her guiding light for the rest of her life.

Catherine knew nothing nor anyone would ever outshine her.

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chapter four

Anna smelled so good. That was all I could think about as we walked through the house. Giving my full attention to her plans was impossible, no matter how hard I tried, how important I knew it would be for Winter. Her proximity made me hot and uncomfortable. I was continually trying to see behind the professional mask and guess what she was thinking. After our adventure in the attics, it took about an hour and a half for her to tell me the basics, and show me some sketches, for the renovations to come. The occasional breath full of the warm, dizzying scent of her perfume, the heady sensation that swept through me every time my eyes met her cool blue gaze, seemed to be all I was aware of. Yet I found I easily understood the concepts and ideas she suggested, was infused by her personal enthusiasm. Anna made me feel anything was possible, where the renovation of Winter was concerned.

When we had finished and returned to the entrance hall, I offered her a cup of coffee, half hoping she would accept and half hoping she would leave me to get hold of my wayward emotions.

She glanced at her watch—which I couldn’t help but notice was a notably expensive Tissot—and said she was sorry, but she’d have to get back to the office since she had some paperwork to draw up before the end of the day. I sensed real reluctance in her tone and that her reason was genuine, not an excuse to escape me. The idea she would have liked to stay for coffee made a smile flicker on my

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lips. She caught it and returned one of her own, without apparently wondering why I was smiling at her.

As she put on and refastened her coat, I watched her, trying to make sense of just what was so damned attractive about her.

But there was no way of clarifying it. Yes, she was striking to look at, and there was something undeniably appealing about her sheer competence. But the traces of what lay below the surface drew me to her most. That glimmer of enthusiasm and curiosity, the edge in her tone, possibly sarcasm or mirth, her unexpected physicality.

She wore her wealth obviously and yet did not flaunt it. She was confident in her abilities and knowledge, but not arrogant. In so many ways she was a puzzle, a mass of contradictions, and I sensed there would be surprises while getting to know Anna that would only lead to more questions. It made her fascinating. As she headed for the door, now fully wrapped up against the cold of late afternoon, I knew I wanted to see her again soon. I was pleased when she gave me the perfect opportunity.

“If you think of any questions, or want to talk about anything at all, feel absolutely free to call me,” she said. Her expression was open and friendly, and I felt her invitation was more than a professional courtesy.

“Thanks. I have no doubt I will.” I was pleased when she nodded and smiled slightly, a glimmer of enthusiasm in her eyes prompting me to risk moving from the professional to the personal.

“I’m thinking of coming down to Durham one day soon.” I paused, wondering how she would react. Beyond a flicker of her gaze away from mine and back again, her expression gave no clue. Might as well carry on now though. “If I do, would you like to meet for coffee?”

“Come to the office when you’re in town. You’ll know where I am for the future then. We can do coffee, as long as it’s lunchtime.”

Her words were blunt and formal, but I saw the softening of those eyes from ice blue to a softer violet. My heart thudded loudly in my ears. She wanted me to have coffee with her, I was certain.

“I’ll give you a call on the day,” I said, trying not to smile too broadly.

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With that, we said our goodbyes and she departed. I walked with her down the steps, marvelling once again at the expensive sports car she climbed into. A sleek, bright red, ostentatious display of speed, excitement, something fundamentally primal. So different from the cool, measured Anna with her carefully chosen words.

Such an exciting juxtaposition.

I knew Phoebe was watching me, amused, though when I looked back at her she gave every appearance of being as disinterested as usual. “Don’t tell me you don’t see something attractive about her?”

She was unmoved. “Are you telling me you’ve seen more interesting people than her over the years?” I enquired further. “Anyone I’d have liked, do you think?” Phoebe gave no hint she was about to tell me about any of the people who had been here before me. I sighed and gazed down the steps towards the driveway, trying to imagine the centuries of arrivals and departures, meetings and partings which had taken place here.

A gust of icy wind made me shiver, so I sighed and retreated into the relative warmth of the house.

❖

An hour or so after Anna’s departure, I’d managed to drag two chairs down from the attic, which I figured would be sufficient for the time being. I was hopeful I wouldn’t have enough visitors to necessitate any further seating. Once I’d dusted them down with a damp rag, they were quite presentable. I sat on one to try it out and discovered, if not luxuriously comfortable, it was at least stable.

I made myself a cup of tea and leaned back in the chair and let my mind run back through Anna’s visit. My first thoughts were of the many and varied details she’d revealed of her plans for the house. They were exciting, I had to admit it, and I was pleased to have something that resembled a plan for the future. The future of the house at least.

It didn’t take very long for my mind to begin to drift. I was aware of something fading inside me. Being with Anna had somehow recharged an element within me, but now that she was gone, that

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charge was leaving me too. I had to admit to myself I enjoyed her company, in a way I’d never expected to enjoy anyone’s company.

Her heady fragrance lingering in my nostrils, I could still sense her presence. The image of her came very readily to my weary brain.

That suit really was stunning on her. Designed herself. She clearly had some artistic flair and a keen sense of style, along with her eye for technical detail.

There was something tantalisingly queer about Anna’s overall appearance too. The edge of masculinity suggested by the straight cut of her suit, the flat shoes, the styling of her watch. Even her scent was known for its androgyny. More than that, my instincts told me there was something unspoken there. It was pointless to chide myself for stereotyping, if I’d not known better I’d have sworn Anna was every bit as gay as I was. And flirting with me into the bargain.

But what was stopping me accepting my impression of her?

The slim gold band around her finger? That didn’t mean she had to be married to a man, not these days. Did some other woman have the privilege of her company every evening, and through the night? Had some other woman reached beyond that cool exterior and understood what lay beneath? Seen Anna in her wildest, most stripped-down moments? A stab of something I recognised as envy shot through my heart. I tried to picture the sort of woman Anna would choose to share her life and knew that it would be somebody emphatically different from me. Someone equally competent and professional. Someone with comparable designer taste and deep pockets to match. A stylish woman, probably very glamorous. I pictured Anna with a stunning redhead on her arm, in a floor-length satin ballgown, hugging every perfect curve. Yes, it would be someone like that. Not someone with a turquoise pendant to expand her throat chakra, a decaying country house instead of a career, and a life without definition, direction, or meaning.

It took me a moment to notice I was ludicrously contemplating the idea of Anna rejecting me. It was bloody stupid, making myself feel unattractive by creating a false situation involving someone I really knew nothing about. For all I knew she was married to a perfectly nice man, and it served no purpose, other than masochism,

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to think about her in this way. There were so many ways in which I might not be her type it was ridiculous to sit here pondering it.

Besides, if I was her type, what good would it do? I wasn’t ready for anything like that yet. Was I?

I tried to listen to the radio to distract me, but found the incessant love songs just a little too much to bear. I picked up an escapist thriller I’d been trying to read, but found the words blurred, and the image of Anna pushing her glasses back into place with that little wrinkle of her nose presented itself before my eyes instead.

I’d not thought it was possible I would feel this way again so soon. My break up with Francesca, my mother’s death, had left my heart bruised and battered. Could it be revived so easily? Was moving on this quickly possible? Was it even healthy? Just how long was I supposed to give myself to recover? I’d felt happy with Anna here this afternoon, despite the general malaise with which I regarded each day. Could the company of an attractive and yet mysterious woman actually make me feel better? Was it a sign I was recovering, finding my way again? Or was it evidence I was lonely and a little desperate? I knew my attraction to her was genuine, I’d not just attached myself to the first attractive woman who had come along. My heart had never raced this way since the early days of my relationship with Francesca. Was there potential for some happiness here, if I was brave enough to reach for it?

Was Anna happy herself? She was certainly composed, successful, and powerful. Did those things equate to happiness? I tried to picture being friends with such a woman, the possibility of anything more than friendship with her. It was as terrifying as it was tempting. I was an emotional mess. Much of Anna’s beauty came from her serenity, her settled poise. She was the antithesis of my own hazy sense of myself, my recently much-diminished confidence. Anna was the ultimate professional, I was jobless and with no clue where my employment future lay; Anna was beautiful, I was ordinary; Anna was wealthy, all the money I possessed was earmarked for the renovation of my ruin of a house; Anna knew who she was, I currently had no idea. Even as a friend I didn’t have a lot to offer a woman like her, and to contemplate the possibility

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of anything more was entirely ludicrous. I should really keep my distance and save myself the suffering of my unrequited attraction.

Yet there was something irresistible about the idea of seeing Anna again. For my sanity I should have forgotten she’d agreed to coffee in the city with me. But as the evening wore on, the shadows filled the hallway, and I felt Winter once more uneasy at my inhabitation, I knew inevitably I’d call her and I’d have coffee with her.

❖

I saw Anna again sooner than I expected, before I’d built up the courage to call her to arrange that coffee in Durham. Two days after her last visit, I was drinking a cup of tea, seated on the front steps, enjoying the bite in the mid-afternoon December air, when I heard the rumble of a car approaching down the driveway. As soon as I saw the flash of scarlet, I knew it was Anna. I swallowed my mouthful of tea quickly and rose to my feet, alarmed at how hard my heart was pounding. I considered dashing into the hallway to tidy up frantically before I let her inside, but I knew she’d have spotted me by now, and such behaviour would appear odd. To say the least.

I reviewed the state I’d left the hallway in. I’d not washed my breakfast or lunch dishes yet, but otherwise it wasn’t too terrible.

I glanced down at my appearance: long, comfortable denim skirt, flowing Indian cotton tunic in a tone of blue I rather liked. Not perhaps the outfit I’d have chosen had I known she was coming, but still, I was at least presentable.

The car came to a stop in front of the house. I knew Anna was looking at me through the windscreen—she couldn’t have missed me hovering awkwardly on the steps—but I couldn’t see her eyes or her expression clearly through the glass, which gave her an unfair advantage over me. I smiled in her direction, hoping to create the illusion I could see her perfectly.

She opened the door and climbed out. “Ros, hi, I’m not interrupting, am I?” she called, as she closed the door again and started in my direction.

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“No, not at all,” I replied, wishing I could claim she had arrived in the middle of me doing something of pressing importance, just so she would think I’d done something constructive with my day. I checked myself in the middle of that thought process. Why the hell was I so concerned what she thought about me? I tried to relax and react in a rational way to her presence.

“Great. Well, I won’t stop long, there’s just a few things I wanted to go over with you, and I thought I’d find you at home.”

She had climbed up the steps to stand beside me now, and I saw she was smiling. To my relief, she appeared much looser than on the previous occasions I had encountered her.

“I’m not always at home.” Another little white lie.

“If this was my house, I would be,” Anna said, putting me at my ease surprisingly quickly. She was an efficient human being, but she was still human. I had to remember that about her.

“You’d better come in.” I stood aside to let her walk into the house before me. “But please excuse the mess. I didn’t expect visitors today.”

“I hope I’m more than a visitor by now.” Her tone suggested nothing, but her words made me warm all the same. I wondered if that was her intention or my own flustered reaction. “I’d hate to feel you were standing on ceremony or anything.”

“Well, yes, of course. I mean, I’m not, but I’d still prefer the house to be tidy.”

I followed her into the hallway. “What’s that smell?” she asked, sniffing the air. Instantly my heart sank. Accustomed to the way my home smelled, I could detect nothing at all and didn’t relish the idea of an odour strong enough she felt the need to comment on it.

“That depends. Is it good or bad?” I asked cautiously.

Anna’s lips curved into a smile. “I love the way you’re so concerned what I think, Ros, but really, don’t be.”

My face flushed bright red at her words. Her perceptive powers were startling. Alarmingly, my reaction only served to increase the warmth of her expression. “I’m not,” I protested. “Well, I mean I am, but—”

“It’s a good smell, by the way. Incense maybe?”

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I tried to relax, but there was a new warmth in her expression which I found difficult to ignore. I sensed she was making an effort to be friendlier than before. I hoped I’d made a favourable impression on her so far. I grew warm at the notion. “In that case it’s probably a combination of the lavender and clary sage oil I’ve been vaporising to help purify the air and the energy, the patchouli I’m wearing, and the scent of the rose candle I lit last night.” I told her the detail in an attempt to repay her new friendliness with my own. I wanted her to know a little more of who I was. If she didn’t like it, that was her lookout. Much as I hoped she would like me, I was past the point in my life for hiding my true self, eccentricities and all.

“That’s quite a combination.” She sniffed the air again.

“Too much?”

“No, it’s nice. You’ve been purifying the energy?”

“Something like that.” I hesitated. “I mean, I’m not totally sure I believe in things like that the way I used to when I was younger, but I always think it can’t hurt. A nice smell makes a place feel cleaner and brighter, don’t you think?”

“Oh, absolutely. And your combination is better than anything artificial out of an aerosol.”

“I’m glad you think so.” I smiled at what was apparently a compliment, though her tone made it difficult to tell. I searched my head for words as I continued to gaze at her. “So, what was it you wanted?” I winced internally when I made it sound as though I wanted our conversation back on a professional footing.

“Downstairs,” she told me. “The kitchens. I realised we never went down there together, and there’s a couple of measurements I want to take. It makes a difference as to what use the space can be put to, you know, to fit with the regulations.”

“No, I didn’t know. I’m very glad you’re here.” I wondered if she was at all aware of how truly I meant those words. I paused for a moment to be sure she appreciated my sentiment. “You know, you didn’t have to come all the way here just for that.”

Now it was Anna’s turn to flush slightly. “Oh, it’s a nice drive this way, and you know, I do like to do things right away when they need doing.” She shrugged, and I took the hint the subject was

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ended. I was left with the sense there was more behind her visit than keeping up her usual efficiency, but I couldn’t bring myself to try to project what the added motivation could be. I knew I’d only start thinking things I shouldn’t.

“Let’s go down there now, shall we?” I gestured towards the back of the hallway and the door to the servants’ staircase.

As we made our way down the narrow stairs to the kitchens below, I felt Anna’s gaze on me as she followed behind me. I grew uncomfortable and struggled to break the silence. I was glad when she asked, “Have you been down here many times so far?”

“Not so many,” I replied honestly, as we reached the place where the stairs took a sharp turn to the right before opening out into the kitchen. The first room was very large, with a vaulted ceiling. The walls had clearly once been limewashed, but most of the surface had faded and flaked away. There were windows along one side, high in the wall. Most of the kitchen was underground, and those windows were only an inch above the ground. As a consequence, where they were broken, weeds from the outside invaded the kitchen. At the end of the room was a huge, wide brick fireplace, in which stood an old cast iron range. I hoped it would be possible to restore the range, since it looked so perfect in its position. In the centre of the room was a large, heavy wooden table with a scarred and scratched surface. Arched doorways led into smaller chambers, which I knew to be the laundry and pantry, and a short flight of stairs led to a door to the rear of the building, where there was a small courtyard, and the traces of an overgrown kitchen garden, surrounded by the remains of what had once been stables and a coach house.

“I think I’d have spent a lot of time down here myself,” Anna said, looking around keenly.

“It is interesting,” I said. “But you know…”

“What, the threat of more ancient bones stowed here by the evil count puts you off?” That smile was twitching at her lips again, and her eyes sparkled. My palms grew moist, and I pressed them against the fabric of my skirt.

“I’m not a slave to my imagination.” I laughed.

“Worried about ghosts?”

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“I don’t believe in them.” It wasn’t wholly true. I liked the idea of ghosts but would need proof before I’d really believe in anything of the sort. However, I didn’t want Anna to think I was frightened of poltergeists or something.

“Me either actually,” she said. “But what is it then?”

“I don’t know. Just a feeling I guess. It feels a little sad down here. I think I can picture the warmth and hustle and bustle in the kitchens when people lived in Winter, and this is such a contrast.” I shrugged, uncomfortable. “I don’t suppose you know what I mean.”

“Actually, I do.” Anna was regarding me keenly, as though she was reading me, drawing conclusions about me. I wondered what they were, felt myself more exposed than was completely comfortable. Yet somehow I was beginning to trust Anna, to understand she was perceptive and not at all judgemental. She paused for a moment. “I think you see history like I do. It’s never really dead, is it? The echoes of the people that were here before never quite die away.”

“Exactly!” I was disproportionately excited to find we had such a sense of history in common. “So you don’t think I’m crazy?”

“I think you’re sensitive to your surroundings. Which is a very good thing.” Anna smiled. I flushed in response, surprised she would pay me such a touching compliment. I tried to receive it as gracefully.

“Thanks. Don’t you think it seems so much worse in a place like this. I mean, the people here would have been so busy, so vibrant—”

“And now it’s silent and empty,” Anna concluded, describing my sentiments exactly. “You know, that’s one of the reasons I love my job. When I help restore a building, it’s like restoring some of its life too.”

The brief glimpse Anna allowed me of her motivations delighted me. That they had so much in common with my own way of thinking was an unexpected pleasure. I tried not to linger too long on the assessment of how much we had in common. Looking away from Anna, I glanced around the room, seeing nothing. When I turned back to her, I found she was looking at me intently. She quickly averted her eyes, the faintest of blushes on her cheeks.

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“Beautiful floors,” she said abruptly. I looked down at the red quarry tiles I’d barely even noticed until she mentioned them.

“Yes, they are.” My attention was focused on just how disconcerted Anna appeared. She put one hand to her mouth and bit the nail of her index finger, without an apparent awareness she was doing it, and shifted her weight slightly from foot to foot, all the while keeping her eyes on the tiles in question. It was difficult to imagine what could have made her so uncharacteristically ill at ease. I tried very hard not to leap to any conclusions. Surely it was nothing to do with our conversation, with being here with me? It couldn’t possibly be anything to do with me at all, could it? I tried to resist the temptation of allowing the notion but found I could not.

I wanted her to be disconcerted because of me. In the best possible way. Causing a crack in that smooth, glassy exterior would be quite a triumph. It was one I wanted to claim.

Suddenly, she looked upwards, and regarded the brickwork above our heads. I was sure she was studying the boundaries of the room to avoid eye contact with me.

“And I love the vaulted ceilings. I think this will be a perfect country kitchen, don’t you?” she asked, rather hurriedly.

“I can’t say I’ve really pictured it.” The obvious attempt to bring the conversation back to the professional almost made me laugh. But I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable, and we really did need to talk about the house. “I might have a good imagination for the macabre, but I’m not so good at envisaging what Winter will be like in the future.”

Eventually, Anna looked at me again. “It’s going to be a beautiful house, just as lovely as it was when it was inhabited before.” Her words were a confident assurance, her eyes glowing with enthusiasm once more. Her awkwardness had apparently vanished for the time being, as quickly as it had overtaken her.

“Can you always see the potential in things?” I asked, truly curious.

Anna paused to think about her response, her head tilting slightly to one side as she considered. My eyes slipped past her strong jawline and to her pale, slender throat. I forced my gaze back

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to meet hers. “Not always,” she told me in an earnest tone, “but usually. I suppose I’m an optimist.”

“I think you have the skills to make your optimism well founded.”

Anna smiled with pleasure. “I’m pleased that you have so much faith in me, Ros. I only hope I live up to it.”

“Oh, you seem like the sort of person who always lives up to expectations,” I said, unable to resist a teasing tone.

“I try,” she replied wryly. “Depends on the expectations of course.” That smile twitched at her lips again.

“I can assure you mine are wholly realistic at least.” I paused to remind myself we were talking about Winter. “All I really want is to do justice to what Auntie Edie wanted. Other than that, it’s all in your hands.”

“Such power could go to my head,” she said with a widening of her smile.

“As long as you take care of Winter for me, you can be as much of a dictator as you want.”

Anna laughed, with that peculiar wrinkled expression and musical tone I’d noticed before. “Now that is a dangerous promise!”

I giggled with her. Her mirth was genuinely infectious. As our laughter trailed off, there was a moment of silence during which we stared, still smiling, into each other’s eyes. I saw her press her lips together pensively, as she broke her gaze away from mine. My throat tightened. I could not deny the tension that hovered in the air between us, and it grew increasingly hard to ignore what the cause of it was. At least, I knew why my heart fluttered, and the prospect she was experiencing anything like the same sensations only made my own palpitations worse.

“I am very glad I have you to rely on,” I said seriously. “I know we’ve not started work yet, but you’re a very reassuring person to have onside.”

“Reassuring? That doesn’t sound very dashing and sexy.” Her words were impulsive, and she looked as though she wanted to suck them back in and swallow them as soon as she’d spoken.

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“Oh, you’re dashing and sexy too.” I said it casually, as though it was simply the joke that led on naturally. Only neither of us quite managed to laugh with the appropriate ease.

“I’m glad to be reassuring,” Anna said hurriedly. “And for the record, I do think it’s a wonderful thing you’re doing, taking on Winter.”

“I didn’t have a lot of choice.”

“Don’t be so modest. I’m sure there’s plenty of money, you could have simply called in the experts and supervised from afar.

You didn’t need to move here and take such a personal interest. It’s really very brave of you.”

“Not really brave.” I considered and decided it was time for a little more honesty. “I’ll confess to you I was completely at a loose end before I came here. In between jobs, as I told you. And for a few other reasons. Coming up here was the easiest option really.”

“Other reasons?” Anna probed gently. Her eyes were softened with interest, and I saw a well of understanding there. I wanted to tell her more.

“My mum died at the beginning of May,” I said, surprised how much emotion just uttering the words stirred inside me.

“Oh, Ros, I’m so sorry.” Anna’s sympathy seemed genuine, and I was relieved she didn’t look at all uncomfortable. I’d found it surprising in recent months how many people refused to confront death, or even conversations about death. “Was it an illness?”

“It was cancer. Of her pancreas. By the time they diagnosed it, it was too late. She only had months left by then.” I reminded myself not to be angry, not with my mother or with the doctors who could do nothing. My mother had held a lifelong belief if she ignored a problem it would go away. She’d not recognised the signs her relationship with my father was heading for disaster until he’d walked out the door for the final time. She’d never seen the need to intervene when my sister and I drifted further and further apart. And having endured crippling pains in her abdomen and joked about her sudden weight loss, she’d only approached a doctor when her skin had turned yellow with jaundice. There was nothing the doctors could do by that point other than offer her pain relief.

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“Were you close?” Anna’s questions were so gentle, being able to talk about it was an unexpected balm to my grief.

“The funny thing is that we weren’t at all. I always thought she liked my sister more than me and felt sort of separate from them, you know?” Anna nodded and waited for me to go on. “But she needed a lot of care in those last months, and I was the one who could take the time to do it.” My sister, with her two jobs, unemployed husband, and young child could hardly have been expected to care for our mother. I’d wanted to do it. I was the oldest, I was the one with a job I could take leave from and go back to. “In all those hours with her, I think we came to a sort of understanding. She was very different from me. But I felt how much she loved me for the first time. Then she died.” I glanced up into Anna’s sympathetic listening face and realised I’d taken advantage of the opportunity to share my feelings.

“Sorry,” I said, “you don’t want to hear all of this.”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to hear it,” Anna replied bluntly.

Her direct tone was remarkably comforting. “So you didn’t go back to work after she died?”

“No. I suppose the time away from it, and the sudden confrontation with how short life really is made me stop to think if my job was really for me. And it wasn’t.” I looked down at the ground. Breaking up with Francesca had been such a big part of the process too. I wasn’t ready to share that with Anna yet. “So you see, I wasn’t really brave choosing to come up here. It was more that it was my only option.”

Anna smiled a smile that reached right into me and soothed my anxieties. “That says plenty about you though, Ros. When the going gets tough, most people wouldn’t think so dramatic a new start is the easiest solution.”

“It sounds good when you put it that way.” I smiled in response, looking into her eyes to make sure she knew I appreciated her positive opinion of me. She didn’t know the whole story yet, but it didn’t stop me feeling buoyed by her words. “I think I’m going to like having you around here, Winter needs some optimism,” I told her. I needed the optimism too. Did she sense that?

“I feel like it’s an optimistic house, don’t you?” she said.

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I pondered her question for a moment before I confided, “I don’t know. I’ve been so busy trying to feel at home, I suppose I’ve been though all sorts of feelings about it.” I was surprised at just how honest I felt able to be with Anna. The pleasure of the surprise was intensified because I sensed she valued my earnestness. Certainly her expression remained interested and sympathetic as I spoke.

“I always find you have to listen to find a house’s personality, let it introduce itself to you. Sit quietly and think about nothing else, you know?” She said it in a confidential tone, as though she was revealing a secret, something she wouldn’t share with everyone.

“Is that what you do?” I asked.

“When I have the opportunity. Though often I have to rush through the introductions and concentrate on the structural integrity and such like.” Anna shrugged, as though she suddenly wanted to trivialise what had actually been very heartfelt advice.

“Well, you can take the time to listen to Winter whenever you like,” I told her. “What you said, it’s almost like meditating. Letting the house speak to you, picking up on the energy. I think I might try it.”

“You meditate?” Anna’s tone was genuinely inquisitive.

“Yes. Not so much as I used to, I find it harder to clear my mind these days. But I do try, now and again.” I hadn’t for a while, my mind had been impossible to clear for months, but Anna didn’t need to know that right now. I was enjoying her interest.

“Time for reflection is important, whether you reach full meditation or not,” Anna said. I guessed from that she had some experience of it herself. “I think Winter will be a wonderful place to reflect, with time.”

“You’re probably right. When I can reflect on something other than the renovation and sleeping on a camping bed, I’ll find out. I’m surprised you get a moment to pause for thought yourself.”

“I make time,” she said simply. I imagined every moment of Anna’s day being timed to perfection, including an allocated period of relaxation and reflection. The thought made me want to smile, and I fought not to let the amusement show on my face for fear she would think I was mocking her. I wondered once more

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about that gold band on her finger. Nothing she said gave any clue there was anyone significant in her life, to take up any of her time, to cause her to compromise. Even as I learned more of her, she remained as much of a puzzle as ever. It was so intriguing, putting the pieces together, with no idea quite what the completed picture was supposed to be. I knew it was going to be something very beautiful, but I could not yet see it in all of its hues and complexities. If she didn’t volunteer the information I wasn’t sure of the wisdom of asking.

Another vaguely awkward silence descended between us. “So, what was it you wanted to measure?”

“The height from floor to ceiling, both at the walls and where the vaulting is at its highest. And the size of the windows. I honestly can’t believe I never took those measurements before.” Anna actually looked embarrassed.

“I think even you’re allowed to miss something occasionally.”

“Oh no. I pride myself on never missing anything.” She sounded perfectly serious.

“Is that why you’re such a good architect?” I asked, teasing slightly.

“I hope I’m as good as you think.” She paused and the corners of her mouth twitched again. “And I don’t just mean professionally.”

She looked away from me and up at the vaulted ceiling. I felt my face growing hot as I looked at her, dumbfounded. How was I supposed to interpret a comment like that? “Well…can I help?” I offered tentatively, thinking I should say something but at a loss for any suitable response for her last remark.

“Yes.” Anna reached into her briefcase, on the floor at her feet, and drew out a tape measure, a notebook, and a pen. “Here, hold this end on the floor down there, I’ll measure where the vaulting meets the floor first.” As I squatted and held the end of the tape against the tiled floor, Anna moved close to me and reached up to measure the distance between the floor and the place where the vaulted ceiling met the wall. I caught her scent at once, that intoxicating and increasingly familiar essence of spice, tobacco, and flowers. Exotic and refined all at once. It was proof there was more to Anna than

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that cool exterior. You simply could not wear that fragrance if there weren’t multiple layers to discover.

Drawn by the sense of her so close to me, I glanced up. I found myself looking up the entire length of her body, along the slender legs sheathed in close-fitting black fabric, past where her pale green shirt was tucked neatly into her belt, where her short, fitted jacket was pulled upwards as she reached, to her long, smooth neck and defined jawline. She was paying no attention to me as she squinted to read the measurement, and I suddenly felt I should turn away, as though there was something voyeuristic in my gazing up at her body in this way. I looked down at her feet and speculated just how expensive those shoes would have been, how unusual they were.

Unique like their wearer.

“Right, that’s one done.” Anna allowed the tape measure to retract into its casing and made a note of the measurement in her notebook. “We’ll measure the highest part of the arches now.” She was matter of fact and professional again, all traces of her former awkwardness and teasing, even the gentle sympathy, eclipsed by the job in hand. I was glad, since it meant she was far less likely to notice the way I was reacting to her proximity, to her scent, to the way her clothes fitted her body, to the tone of her voice. I was losing control of all appropriate behaviour, as hot emotions ran riot in my body. It was impossible she wouldn’t see it; and yet her focus was steadfastly on taking her measurements, making her notes, and the occasional comment on the good condition of the brickwork. In fact, she had become suddenly so efficient we made no small talk, or even eye contact. Was it by her design to avoid any further tension? I didn’t imagine Anna was the sort of woman who relished feeling out of control or confused by her emotions. Perhaps her professionalism was an excellent way of keeping them at bay. Was there any chance at all she was feeling the same as I was?

As Anna made short work of measuring the windows without my assistance, I chided myself again. I knew it could be a mistake to try to work out how this remarkable woman dealt with her emotions or what those emotions were. Such considerations were meaningless to me, she was my architect, nothing more. It didn’t

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matter how damned attractive I found her, there were two major obstacles to the development of anything significant between us.

The first was that I had no idea about Anna’s status or sexuality. Just because she didn’t strike me as someone who was married, didn’t talk like someone who was married, didn’t mean she wasn’t. That was what the wedding ring was for, after all, to tell me—and the rest of the world—she belonged to somebody, she was unavailable.

A jolt of jealousy shot through my veins once again. I took a deep breath and ignored it.

I also had no place feeling jealous or otherwise about Anna.

The very simple truth, whatever her situation in life, was there could never be anything between us anyway. I just wasn’t in a place where I could try anything like a relationship with a woman like her. My recent failures in love and my career, my mother’s death, were still taking their emotional toll on me. Here I was, dependent on Anna’s skills and capability to help me restore someone else’s ruined country house. What could I even begin to offer her?

These sensible musings were all well and good while Anna was measuring windows and paying no attention to me. It was quite another thing when she had packed her tape measure and notebook away and finally turned to smile at me once more. Something inside me simply disintegrated when those hard-set lips curved into a smile.

“All done?” I asked, through a thick throat. She looked at me curiously, as though she had noticed the strain in my voice but was uncertain what the cause of it was. Or uncertain how to react.

“Yes, all done. I think I have everything I need now. You’ll be pleased to know I don’t think there’ll be any problems at all turning this back into the kitchen, the ceilings are plenty high enough to meet regulations. You might want some dividing walls or something though. I’ll draw up some plans, we’ll have to see what we are allowed to do while still complying with the listed status.”

“Of course. I’m so pleased you know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s what you’re paying me for.” Her tone was businesslike, but her eyes glowed. Apparently she found it amusing to refer to our professional relationship. It served as a reminder of how much

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beyond that we’d actually come, while barely even noticing or trying to.

“Am I paying you well? I have to admit to only having a loose understanding of the budget at the moment.”

“Well enough.” She smiled slightly.

“But you’ll have to put up with that old car of yours for a while yet?”“Unfortunately so.” Her words were filled with wry humour and I couldn’t resist another foray into a friendly—rather than formal—conversation.

“It is a beautiful car.”

“You like cars?” Anna raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Well, not really,” I confessed. “I mean, I’m no petrol-head or anything. But I can see the beauty of your car.”

“You’ll have to come for a drive with me one of these days,”

Anna said, her face lighting up in a way that stirred something deep inside me. I watched as she realised how warmly she’d extended the offer and made an effort to moderate her expression.

I almost laughed, but the knot of tension in the pit of my stomach prevented it.

“That would be lovely,” I said softly.

“Yes, we’ll arrange something.” She hesitated for a long moment as though she was going to add something further. She drew in a deep breath. “Well, I should probably be going.” I was disappointed she hadn’t said whatever she’d been thinking.

We climbed the stairs together, and lingered awkwardly in the hallway. “Thank you,” I said in the end. “I really do feel reassured having your help with Winter.”

“You’re welcome. I feel privileged to be able to work here.”

“I’ll try listening to the house, like you said.”

“Yes, do, and tell me what you hear.”

“I might not hear anything.”

“You will. I can tell you’re perceptive enough.” She smiled slightly and her gaze, intensified by her glasses, focused on mine intently. I felt she was trying to tell me something, but I didn’t dare allow myself to accept it, to try to understand it.

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“Thanks,” I said quietly. “I’m still planning on visiting Durham in the next few days, are you still up for coffee?”

“Yes, very much so.” There was that unexpected enthusiasm again. It was enough to send a thrill of anticipation through my body. “Just call first,” She added matter-of-factly.

“Will do. I guess I’ll see you soon then.”

“Yes, you will.” Anna hovered for a moment, looking again as though she was going to say something more. “Bye then.” She turned quickly and headed for the front door.

“Bye.” I followed her to the door and watched her retreat down the steps and into her car.

The lingering glow of Anna’s company took even longer to fade this time. Winter was a brighter place in the aftermath of her visit. What was strange was how easily I managed to set aside my doubts. Over the next few hours I felt anything was possible as long as Anna was somehow involved in it. I knew I was on dangerous ground, feeling so strongly about a woman I barely knew, yet I was helpless to resist it.

❖

As afternoon became evening, I decided to try listening to the house in the way that Anna suggested. I rummaged around in my boxes until I found a purple candle and a smoothly polished piece of deep blue lapis lazuli. Indigo, the colour of the third eye chakra, ajna in Sanskrit, located on the forehead and associated with intuition, insight, and open-mindedness. Some of my most successful meditations in the past had involved a focus on this particular chakra. Even if the stone and the candle had no effect at all, they helped to draw my thoughts to a singular point, to help me open myself to my intuition. I knew intuition and an open mind were what I needed to listen to Winter effectively, as Anna wanted me to.

I spread my blanket on the floor, and sat down cross-legged.

I drew a deep breath and reflected on what I was about to do. The truth was, I’d not meditated since my mother’s death. Such a close

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encounter with mortality had made me less inclined towards any reflection, or to allowing my emotions to flow too freely. Losing both my job and Francesca had given me further obstacles to a completely peaceful mind and made the prospect of meditation even less appealing. I feared how vulnerable meditation made me to my innermost feelings.

But now I prepared myself to give it a go, because Anna wanted me to. It wasn’t only her influence. My intention this time was not to listen to myself, but to leave my mind open to a new awareness of Winter, which I felt more secure in than any exploration of my own emotions. Yet I couldn’t deny the part of me that wanted to do this for Anna. I wanted to demonstrate I was as perceptive as she gave me credit for, I craved her good opinion. I looked forward to telling her what I discovered when I saw her again. I inhaled deeply once more and tried to relax my shoulders.

I struck a match and lit the wick of the candle in front of me.

Holding the lapis in my hand, I focused on the bright yellow flame of the candle as it guttered briefly, and then began to burn steadily. I began the process of emptying my mind of everything. I visualised the more awkward thoughts as solid objects in my mind, then bundled them up and threw them out. I imagined I was drawing the light of the candle into myself, feeling infused by its energy and brightness.

Everything except that point of light blurred into shadows. I half closed my eyes until the flame became a star composed of shafts of golden light. I concentrated, imagining I really did have a third eye in the middle of my forehead with which I could see the world differently, an eye which opened wider as the bright energy from the candle reached it. I focused on making that area feel vital and receptive. I let my breathing relax into pranayama, the steady yogic breathing with a pause between inhalation and exhalation, to keep my mind calm. And then I listened for what Winter was telling me, allowing my perceptions to drift through my consciousness like passing clouds.

I noticed a gentle draught stroking my face, though I’d never been aware of it before. I heard the now familiar creaking of the wooden stairs, a groan from the old plumbing. Then, all at once, I felt

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the presence of the entire house around me. I had a perfect awareness of the proportions of every room, every dark corner, from the attics to the cellars. Instead of scattered, half-explored chambers, with so much still to discover, I sensed the house as a solid entity. It did not quite have a living energy, but was coherent and powerful. Winter Manor, two-and-a-half centuries old, but also the representative of a much older house which had stood here before. A repository of stories, of lives lived.

I focused on my breathing once more. Was I welcome here? Did Winter feel positive or negative? Was Anna’s optimism justified? A swirl of emotions swept into my mind. There was loss and longing, but also love, intense love, and everything in between those two extremes. I closed my eyes as I felt my heart ache with empathy drawn from my recent loss, the love I wanted so badly to be able to share once more. In the grip of those emotions, I began to understand my house, finally. Winter, though a cohesive presence, could not be pinned down. Though the building stood solid, a self-contained whole through the years, people came and went, their stories and emotions fluctuating. Winter was a different place to each of the people who passed through. I was neither welcome nor unwelcome; I was simply another story drifting though these rooms, interpreting the energy here in my own way, adding my own essence to the mix.

I knew with certainty it was not right the stories played out in these rooms were lost, even if they could not be actively remembered. I’d bring Winter back, preserve it to the best of my ability.

I opened my eyes and let my thoughts drift back into total awareness of the present moment. I felt a little teary, but also excited.

I couldn’t wait to tell Anna I’d acted on her advice, really listened to Winter, and actually heard something of what the house was telling me. I remembered the sensations of loss, and of love. That gave me pause for thought. Was I listening to Winter? Or was I really listening to my own heart? Was I recasting Winter as a character in my own story, as people had done for centuries before me? And why was my first thought, having done this, how badly I wanted to share my discoveries with Anna? I suspected however practised I was at meditation, and whatever energy there truly was in this house, the

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driving emotional force just then was the way Anna made me feel.

I was only brave enough to meditate again because of Anna. She was becoming far too significant to me already. It was foolish, even dangerous, to allow those feelings to take hold of me as they had done, when I was still lost in an emotional wilderness without a map, and a terrible prospect as anyone’s girlfriend. And yet I found myself helpless to resist her lure. I looked around me at the grand hallway, mostly in shadow, and couldn’t help but wonder what the next chapter of this latest story of Winter would be.

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chapter five

So strong was my urge to see Anna again, it was an effort to wait the two days I managed before I went to Durham.

I woke up early, aware the light flooding into the hallway from the narrow windows either side of the door was somehow brighter than usual. I padded to the door in my thick socks to find the parkland coated in a thin blanket of pure white snow, shining blue in the shadows and hollows and glistening as though someone had sprinkled diamonds over it where the sun caught it. The outside world was serene and beautiful, and it infused me with inner calm and confidence. I glanced down the steps towards Phoebe, to see that she was half coated in windblown snowflakes. Shivering for her, I retreated indoors. I switched on my small electric heater and sat directly in front of it as I ate cornflakes for my breakfast and contemplated with trepidation just how cold the bathroom was going to be while I washed.

Choosing my clothes carefully, I selected a pair of dark purple corded trousers that wouldn’t look wrong with my sturdy boots, and a simple black blouse. I opted for my thick black woollen cardigan in the place of my ugly duffel coat and pulled my black beret onto my head.

I slipped my polished rose quartz pendant around my neck—pink was good for the emotions governed by the heart chakra. Dangling Indian silver earrings completed my outfit, and I was able to smile at myself in the mirror. There was nothing designer or especially chic about my appearance, but I looked presentable enough.

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I intentionally dressed to go out before I called Anna, an added incentive not to back out since, however much I wanted to see her again, meeting her for social as opposed to professional reasons was taking our relationship to a whole new intimidating level. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I picked up my phone and dialled her number.

“Hi Ros,” she answered, taking me by surprise with the warmth in her greeting.

“Hi,” I said, determined not to hesitate awkwardly, “I’m coming into Durham today. Do you have time for coffee?”

“I do. If you call into the office at twelve, I’ll have an hour or so then.” Her tone was matter of fact again.

“Excellent. See you later.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” She didn’t entirely sound as though she was anticipating our meeting with pleasure, but that was just how I expected her to sound, and I smiled as I ended the call.

My first view of Durham was from the road as I approached in my car. Having driven through tired mining villages, with their rows of functional terraces and working-men’s clubs, I wasn’t sure what to expect from the city. I soon discovered it to be something of an anomaly in its own county. The square tower of the huge Norman cathedral, perched on its hill, loomed over the entire town.

I drove over the river and parked on a side street, keen to travel on foot into the town centre, along with hordes of shoppers, tourists, and cheerful students. I couldn’t help but be impressed. Durham in the snow was like a scene from a Christmas card. The cobbled streets had been mostly trampled clear of snow, but the rooftops, uneven and close together, were still dusted white. Though all the modern shops I expected were there, many of their frontages retained traditional Victorian styling and tasteful signage. Durham was quaint and bustling, a busy enough place that no one gave me a second glance, and I loved it instantly.

I had an hour or so to spare before I was due to meet Anna, so I contented myself with wandering around the shops, picking up a few essentials I hadn’t been able to find elsewhere. I teetered down a steep cobbled hill, which the signs told me was called Silver

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Street, to find myself crossing a bridge over the River Wear. The wide, glassy river was fringed by winter trees, their dark branches frosted white and reflected by the water. I stopped to look behind me, at a spot halfway across the bridge where two or three tourists were taking pictures, and was astounded by the view. The turrets of the castle glowered ominously above me, not softened at all by their dusting of snow, leading the eye along the hilltop towards the more refined, ornate grandeur of the cathedral. Stunning. I leaned on the cold stone wall of the bridge and let the passing shoppers and tourists fade away. My spirit seemed to break free and soar up the steep hillside to the cathedral. The sheer timelessness of the two buildings, so solidly eternal, moved me most of all. This view must have remained the same for centuries, long before me and my troubles, years and years before Winter Manor was even begun.

At once forbidding and serene, the castle and the cathedral were guardians of everyone below them. Just gazing at the glorious relics of this city’s rich history infused me with an unexpected optimism.

In that brief moment I felt myself to be so blissfully insignificant I had nothing to lose and anything could happen.

I was jostled from behind by a woman carrying an armful of shopping bags. The magic was lost in an instant, but a trace of the optimism lingered. I glanced at my watch and saw that by the time I climbed the hill back to the square next to which Anna’s office was located, it would be time to meet her. My heart sped up as I walked, and it had nothing to do with negotiating the cobbled incline.

The square was bordered on one side by a Gothic church and on another by the very quaint town hall. The other sides of the square were lined with colourful shopfronts. I turned to my right as I entered and walked a few yards down Saddler Street which led away from the square. A small black-and-white plaque next to a panelled green door proclaimed that I’d found Everest and Payne Architecture. Anna’s name was first, and I suspected it wasn’t from alphabetical considerations. I pressed the button next to the door and waited for the buzz to allow me access.

The offices of Anna’s company were on the first floor of the Georgian red-brick building, and the door opened only into a small

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lobby. I climbed the steep stairs, which turned back on themselves, to lead me to the first floor. The walls were papered in a very stylish floral design, which reminded me of an Elizabethan tapestry, clearly high quality and distinctive. As I reached the top of the stairs, a white door opened in front of me and Anna herself was standing in the doorway, smiling slightly. Waiting for me? My heart beat quicker. The pleasure of knowing she was looking forward to my arrival was only surpassed by the effect of remembering all over again just why I found her so physically attractive.

Her hair was tied back into a loose knot at the nape of her neck, and she wore the black pinstriped suit and white shirt she had been wearing when I first encountered her. As her eyes met mine I felt a disabling surge of nervous excitement. I wondered if any similar sensations rippled beneath her surface.

“Hello,” I said, as evenly as I could manage, “how are you?”

“Good, thank you.” Anna showed no signs of tension, or the awkwardness I remembered from our last encounter. “Glad it’s time for a break. You?”

“Good too. I’ve been admiring Durham.”

“It’s lovely isn’t it?” I saw she was pleased I liked her city.

“I’m not sure I’ve seen a prettier city, especially in the snow.”

The ice in Anna’s blue eyes melted once again with the warmth of her enthusiasm. “I was wondering, actually, what do you say to grabbing a coffee from the place on the square and then taking a walk up the hill to have a closer look at the cathedral? There’s a view down to the river which is really beautiful.”

I was honoured Anna wanted to show me anything of the town, rather than simply allowing me to keep her company during her lunch break. I felt as though she wanted me to see more of her world. I was excited by the idea of learning a little more about her.

“Sounds good to me.”

“I’ll just get my coat then,” she said, turning back into her office. Over her shoulder I caught a glimpse of more designer vintage wallpaper, a large desk, an angled drawing board, and several rows of filing cabinets. To my left was a small desk which looked to belong to a secretary, but was currently empty. Next to Anna’s office

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was another, closed, door. She was back in a moment, buttoning her long black coat and adjusting the royal blue scarf she had wrapped around her throat. The colour suited her perfectly, making her hair golden and bringing out the depth of the colour of her irises.

We made our way down to the street in silence and headed back towards the square. The coffee shop was on the corner where the street joined the square. The warm scent of roasted coffee beans was tantalisingly strong, even out here in the street. It was a fashionable, youthful establishment. As we entered, I sensed people watching us.

Somehow, by just walking into the shop, Anna drew people’s gaze.

A balding man, carrying a tray of full cups, even paused to let her pass in front of him, then almost collided with me. I was clearly not alone in being captivated by her. I felt a little less foolish for being under her spell, but also oddly possessive. I wanted to be the only one who was so impressed by her, the only one who truly wanted to see below the surface. My mind returned reluctantly to the sobering recollection that she was wearing a wedding ring.

“Long macchiato to take away, please.” Anna ordered her coffee and looked at me expectantly.

“Oh, and a caramel latte, please.” We watched as our drinks were made, then Anna insisted on paying. I found it difficult to argue with her. I trailed behind her as we walked out of the shop, feeling like a child running after a sophisticated grown-up.

The mood shifted though, as we walked side by side, past her office, and continued up another cobbled hill, this one with signposts to the cathedral and castle. I took a sip of my coffee and glanced across at her, wondering what to say. I was surprised to find her looking back at me. Once more, her smile was barely perceptible, but there nevertheless.

“I don’t think I expected you to want to drink coffee from a cardboard cup, walking up the street,” I said to break the silence between us.

“No? What did you expect?” she asked, raising one quizzical eyebrow above the frame of her glasses. I coloured slightly and looked down at the cobbles as though I was making sure of my footing.

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“Well, you know, I suppose I thought we’d end up in some exclusive café. Or maybe a pricey tea room.”

“There’s that word again,” she said, and I panicked for a moment, thinking I’d offended her.

“I don’t mean it as a bad thing,” I said, back-pedalling, “just you seem to have, well, high standards.”

“You mean I seem to have expensive tastes,” she returned bluntly, and I had to glance at her again to see that she was smiling.

“Which is an accurate judgement. It doesn’t mean everything I do has to have a high price tag. There are other pleasures that are just as important to me.”

Something in the way she said the word pleasures, with a lingering emphasis on the deep vowel sound at the end of the word, made my heart flutter and my cheeks warm despite the chilly air. I took another sip of my sweet, creamy coffee.

“Such as?” I was flirting now, asking her what her pleasures were. Would she flirt back, or was I behaving like a teenager with a crush, while the object of my attraction remained entirely oblivious?

And what the hell was I doing flirting with a married woman? I began to feel a little frightened of myself, wondering if I was so desperate to restore my happiness I was searching for it in places that would not provide it. Yet just walking next to her was strangely satisfying.

“Art and architecture mainly,” she replied. “But also good food and good wine, beautiful clothes, cars.”

“Perfume too,” I added.

“Not so much. I just know what I like in that regard.” She hesitated a moment and I felt her eyes on me, though this time I didn’t look across at her. “And you?”

“I like your perfume,” I said, unable to help myself.

“I didn’t mean that,” she replied lightly, amusement just edging into her voice. “What are your pleasures?” I wished she would stop using that word. Something inside me previously frozen solid rapidly turned molten. Was she flirting with me?

“History.” I said. “I like to see the continuum, and I take pride in remembering names and dates. I can’t disagree with you about

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food and wine. And I’ve always been interested in spirituality in one form or another. Along with meditating I used to practise yoga.”

“Yoga is wonderful.” I was pleased to have found something else we had in common.

“You do it too?”

“Yes. Quite regularly. I don’t go to a class or anything, but I think I have enough knowledge of my own by now.”

“I never liked the formality of a class. It’s quite a private thing too, don’t you think?” I enjoyed probing her thought processes, already sure I knew enough of her to sense she would concur but intrigued what else lurked in that so-well-hidden personality.

“Absolutely.”

“I wanted to tell you, actually,” I began abruptly, excited to tell her and worried I wouldn’t if I didn’t say it now, “I did what you recommended and meditated to try to listen to Winter the other night.” I felt a thrill sweep through me. I wasn’t going to reveal to her quite how profound and yet bewildering the experience had been for me, nor how significant a part she’d played in it. But I wanted to share the result with her, and for her to know I’d taken her suggestion seriously.

“You did?” She sounded mildly surprised, but pleased.

“Yes. I really got a sense of the house as a whole. It was like I was seeing into all the dark corners and realising there’s nothing to be afraid of there. And that Winter neither welcomes nor rejects me. I think the house is waiting to see what I’ll do next. I do think it wants to come back to life too.” I paused and waited for a response.

When I received none, I wondered if I’d gone too far. “Do you think I’m crazy now?” I asked, turning to glance at her again.

I was surprised to see her looking back at me reflectively. I wanted very badly to know what she was thinking and waited for her to speak with keen anticipation. “I don’t think you’re crazy at all,” she replied gently. I wanted her to expand on her comment, but she fell silent once more. She had a habit of never quite saying as much as I wanted her to.

“Well, I’ll keep listening.” I was slightly awkward, and tried to direct the conversation back into less meaningful territory. “And

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I think the grounds will be perfect for yoga in the warmer weather too, don’t you?”

“Actually, do you know, I had a thought about Winter that was yoga related,” Anna said, unexpectedly enthusiastic suddenly.

“Did you?” I asked, intrigued now.

“Yes. I’ve been involved in several similar renovations. One quite recently in Northumberland. The owners intended to rent most of the house out as a yoga retreat. There are others being used for writers and painters, that sort of thing.”

“Are you suggesting that Winter would be suitable for something like that?” I felt the first stirrings of enthusiasm.

“The place in Northumberland was much smaller—not much more than a large cottage. Winter has much more space and would certainly be a lovely retreat.” Anna sounded as though she knew what she was talking about and was confident in the idea as a real possibility. Her confidence seeped into me.

“Do you really think I could do that?” I pressed. “I mean, I am looking for some way of earning money.”

“That’s what I thought,” Anna replied, smiling at my positive response to her suggestion. I was flattered to know she’d thought about my situation at all. I wondered what else she’d thought.

“I don’t want to do anything that Auntie Edie wouldn’t approve of.” I tried to moderate my excitement. “Or that the neighbours wouldn’t like.”

“I wouldn’t suggest anything like that,” Anna said. “But I did think, when all the work is done, it would be the perfect venue.”

“Wow, that really is an amazing idea.” My enthusiasm surged.

“Not that I’d have a clue where to start.”

“It’s just something to consider, for the future.”

“I definitely will.”

We were nearing the top of the hill now, the shops and cafés on either side of the narrow road giving way to grander, older residences, now clearly used as offices, university buildings, and apartments. As we reached the crest, the road before us opened up and we strolled into a wide area, which I presumed was usually grassy, but today was a vast expanse of snow. It was criss-crossed in places by footprints,

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and in the very centre two boys scooped up handfuls and laughed loudly as they pelted each other with snowballs. To our right, on the side which overlooked the river, the ground rose gently towards a wall. To the left were the almshouses associated with the cathedral.

Straight ahead, across the snow, rose the cathedral itself, appearing to stretch even higher into the blue-washed sky when seen so close up. We stopped to gaze up at it in admiration.

“It’s breathtaking,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter how many times I come up here, I’m still in awe.” Anna sounded truly impressed, as though she was seeing the building with fresh eyes. I loved that hint of zeal in her tone, the touch of colour to her cheeks. I wanted to encourage her enthusiasm, so I decided it was time to show off my own small knowledge of building design.

“It’s Norman architecture, isn’t it?” I said. She turned to face me, her expression clearly demonstrating her pleasure at the conversation I’d started.

“Why do you say that?” she asked, in a tone that was almost teasing. Was this how architects flirted?

“Well, it’s massive, for a start. And the rounded arches, they’re Norman too, aren’t they?”

“Do you know when it was built?” Anna asked, obviously deciding to keep me in suspense as to whether I was correct or not.

I considered for a moment. “I’m figuring it dates from the time when bishops were as powerful as princes,” I said. “I’m not sure, but I’d guess at eleventh century.”

Anna’s satisfied smile was easy to interpret this time. She was pleased I could hold my own in this conversation. “You’re right, of course,” she told me. “The present building was founded in ten ninety-three.”

“So it is Norman then?” I confirmed my guess, slightly smug I’d been correct.

“Yes, it is. Though of course Norman architecture is just the name for Romanesque we tend to use in England, because it was the Normans who brought it here. Like you said, the arches are rounded.”

She reached out and sketched a semicircular shape in the air with

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her hand. It was as though she was caressing the ancient stonework itself with those long fingers. “It’s very different to the pointed arches of Gothic architecture which came afterwards. The large tower is another typical feature.” She gestured upwards, directing my gaze. “Everything Romanesque is on a large scale. The walls are massively thick, and there’s pillars inside you wouldn’t believe the size of. I think what I like best about Norman buildings is their relative simplicity. Gothic cathedrals look archaic. Romanesque buildings are cleaner somehow. I think it’s hard to believe just how old they really are.”

“You’re right.” I considered my impressions both of the gigantic building in front of me, and of the woman standing next to me. Anna was remarkably expressive when it came to architecture, and I wondered how someone who could talk so fluently and enthusiastically managed to keep her personality so sheltered from view. Was it intentional or just a part of her, an insecurity? She took hold of my arm, and I jumped at the contact. She guided me to turn around.

“And behind you is some more fine Norman architecture, though with a lot of later additions.”

I looked at the turrets of the castle in front of me. “Now a good sturdy castle. That’s what I always think of as typically Norman.”

“Most people do.” It was hard not to feel slightly patronised.

“Though I expect you’re an expert on castles.”

“It is a popular topic to teach eleven year olds.”

“I’m not a fan of them myself,” Anna said, and I enjoyed the idea she was comfortable sharing her opinions with me, wanted to hear her thoughts on every conceivable topic and still wondering why she had been so taciturn when it came to sharing what went on in her head. “There’s something so brutal about castles. I prefer the churches and the country homes.”

“I suppose they’re more graceful,” I said, debating whether or not I agreed, “but castles have a certain drama about them.”

“I suppose I prefer beauty over drama,” Anna replied. Her reflective expression softened her face so much I could almost have been looking at a different woman. It was remarkable how

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expressive her face could be, and yet how impassive at other times.

Anna confused me still, but it was an increasingly intoxicating brand of confusion. Abruptly she tensed and gathered herself, almost as if she realised she’d shown me her softer, more emotional side and wasn’t entirely comfortable with that. I frowned and was wondering what the best way to continue the conversation was, when her expression brightened dramatically, as though she’d forced herself to move on from whatever thought had troubled her temporarily.

“Come over here and see the view.” She tugged on the sleeve of my cardigan like an excited child might, before dropping her arm and walking in her usual straight-backed fashion towards the wall which ran between the castle entrance and the cathedral. I followed her, our route taking us through undisturbed snow, which slowed our progress.

When we reached the wall, I saw the meandering Wear below me and, to my right, the bridge from which I’d previously admired the castle and cathedral, across which tiny people bustled back and forth. The snowy rooftops and frozen trees opposite made this look more like some quaint Bavarian fairy-tale town than a northern British city. I leaned on the wall and sipped my rapidly cooling coffee. Anna drained the last of hers and crushed the cardboard cup in her fingers.

“You’re lucky to live here,” I told her. “Have you always lived here?”

“I’m from the south actually, West Sussex,” she said. “But I went to university here and I couldn’t bear to leave.”

“I’m assuming you live in the city.”

“I live where the city meets the countryside. It’s a Georgian cottage I’ve been working on for the last three years.”

“You’ve renovated it?” I couldn’t help but notice the way she spoke about her home, and her renovation of it, as though it was a project she had undertaken alone. Where was the man or woman who had given her that ring in all of this? In prompting her to tell me about the cottage I hoped I might finally learn the truth. I knew I was desperately in need of the reality check.

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“Yes,” she replied. “It wasn’t a ruin or anything, but it needed some serious work. All of the major stuff was done in the first year.

I’m on to finishing touches now.” She made it sound very simple.

And solitary.

“Sounds like the best part to me. I can’t wait to get to that stage with Winter.” I wondered just how far into the future that point would be.

“Hopefully it won’t take you anywhere near three years.”

“Why has it taken you so long then?”

“It’s my hobby, I suppose. I could have spent a fortune and got it all done in about six months. But then what would I have done in my spare time?”

“I don’t know. Tae kwon do?” Spent time with your husband or wife? The question burned in my brain.

“I needed something to exercise my interest in buildings and my latent interior design skills as well as my body,” she replied seriously.

“Bet it’s cost some serious cash.” And is all that money yours alone?

“It has. But then I’m a perfectionist. And”—she hesitated and shot me a knowing look verging on playful and very charming—“I know you’re dying to ask if I earn all of my money from being an architect.”

“Not dying exactly. Just curious.” Are you about to tell me you’re married to a millionaire?

“Well, no, I don’t, though it does pay well. But my family have always been well-off, and I can’t quite bring myself to refuse the allowance they still pay me. My father is retired now, but he worked in investments and made a few very wise decisions. My mother’s a barrister. Really, by their standards, being an architect is quite a comedown.” She laughed gently, though I sensed a slight tension in her words. “I earn enough to live independently. I use the extra for my treats.”

“Bespoke suits and fast cars?”

“Among other things, clearly.”

That explained one mystery. Anna showed no evidence of bragging about her family’s wealth and was refreshingly honest

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about it. Resentment of her good fortune was impossible when she handled it so well. But it didn’t explain the wedding ring.

Anna took my empty cup from my hand and strode away the few steps to the nearest waste bin. She threw the cups away and returned to where I leaned on the wall. She mirrored my stance, resting her bent elbows on the cold stone. She stood close and her sleeve pressed slightly against mine. I froze, not willing to move, while wondering if I should inch away from her myself, for the sake of my own comfort. She was so near it was difficult to look into her face, and I glanced down instead at her left hand where it was folded over her other on the wall. I summoned all of my courage to ask the question that burned inside me.

“Does your husband enjoy renovating property too?”

She leaned back and looked keenly at me, apparently startled.

I made myself keep looking into her eyes, watching her reactions. I saw the realisation dawn an instant later. “Do I seem like a married woman to you?” I couldn’t quite read her tone, but it sounded slightly sarcastic.

“That ring seems to be evidence enough.”

“It’s a piece of jewellery people read a certain significance into, that’s all.”

“You mean you’re not married?” My pulse thundered in my head, and I felt a little dizzy. Suddenly a ridiculous dream had become a possibility, and the reality of it was disconcerting.

“No, I’m not married. But I don’t appreciate the inappropriate attention of every single man I have to deal with. I wear the ring as another form of defence. I can always take it off if I want to create a different impression. It just makes life easier.”

Easier? I wondered why Anna needed the ring, why she found it so difficult to just be honest. She had to know the ring was a barrier to any thoughts of potential intimacy with her. What was she so afraid of? “But are you in a long term relationship?” I was determined to discover the whole truth now and sensed I knew the answer already. Anna seemed so solitary, precisely why it had been so easy to forget the ring over and over.

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“No,” she said, smiling slowly. “And I’m not really into the idea of marriage either. My last girlfriend was, but it was just another thing we didn’t see eye-to-eye on.”

I blinked and my mouth was suddenly dry. “Girlfriend?” I raised my eyebrows meaningfully.

“That’s what I said.”

“So you did.”

We were silent for a drawn-out moment, both staring at the river below. I had no doubt neither of us was really pondering the view. I knew what I was thinking, but what was going through her mind? Would a woman like Anna really have any interest in me?

Could I even dare to hope? And what should I read into her views on marriage? Was she worried about commitment, or was it merely the formal institution of marriage she disliked? What could I learn about her from that slight glimpse into her thoughts and feelings?

“So,” I began, thinking one of us should say something, “what do you have against marriage?”

Anna’s shoulders tensed perceptibly, and a shadow came over her face. I wondered what the story of her last relationship had been to create such a reaction. “Oh, you know. It’s not so much marriage that I object to. It’s the idea of committing in any way to the wrong person,”

she said dismissively. I sensed I wasn’t being told the whole truth.

“The commitment worries you?” I questioned.

“Promising yourself forever to someone you don’t know you definitely want to spend the rest of your life with worries me.

I mean, how do you ever know for sure? People change. And I suppose I value my personal freedom too much to compromise it easily.” Elements of strain were showing in her expression now, and I decided it was better not to press too much. There was more to this story, but she wasn’t going to tell me.

“I suppose you might think differently if you found the right woman,” I suggested.

I knew she shot me a sideways glance, but I kept my eyes on the view. There was an awkward silence before she spoke again.

When she did she startled me by asking, “So, you don’t have anyone special?”

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My stomach lurched with a memory of Francesca. The only someone special I’d ever had. Our relationship had been rocky for years, the strain of my mother’s death and my sudden lack of interest in working had only finished it off. Still, it seemed strange to be talking about her to Anna as a thing of the past. Especially when I hoped Anna would be very present in my immediate future. “I had a girlfriend. We split up earlier this year.” Now wasn’t the time to dwell on it. I supposed neither of us was really ready to share right at this moment.

“You’ve had quite a year then.” If she had unspoken questions, she gave no sign of them. I wondered just how interested in me she was.

“That I have. And still smiling.” I grinned to demonstrate and lighten the tone, hoping she didn’t perceive how often I faked that grin.

“I admire your strength, Ros,” she said quite seriously but in a rushed way, as though she was awkward saying it. I was flattered, taken aback by the compliment given so abruptly, and didn’t answer.

A not-quite-comfortable silence stretched between us.

Eventually I turned my head and looked at her. In the same instant, she raised her eyes to mine. Suddenly there was no denying the understanding that passed between us. From hammering in my chest, my heart felt as though it stopped as I comprehended the intensity in those blue eyes. I tightened my lips as she took a breath and hers parted slightly. Still we gazed at each other, as though neither of us could quite believe it. I wanted her very badly, I couldn’t do anything but acknowledge it to myself. But was there any chance? It was virtually impossible to view myself as worthy of this beautiful, competent woman. As though she saw the moment of doubt in my eyes, she looked down at her watch.

“Gosh, look at the time! I have an appointment in fifteen minutes.” I wondered if she really did, but was sufficiently relieved to take the escape route she gave us both. We began to walk quickly in the direction of the road leading back down the hill and to her office. As we navigated the slippery cobbles of the street, the silence between us was so tense I just had to break it.

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“Thank you for showing me the cathedral.”

“I’m sure you could have managed it on your own,” she replied,

“but you’re welcome.” Her voice sounded tense, heavy with the things we hadn’t said.

“I couldn’t have gained so much architectural insight without you.” This conversation was hard and awkward, but silence would be worse at this stage.

“True.” We were quiet a little longer. Finally I glanced across at her. Noticing my attention, she looked back. I watched the tension melt from her expression as a smile she apparently could not suppress pulled at the corners of her mouth. “I’m glad I could help you with your architectural knowledge.” She raised an eyebrow, her tone mocking both of us and our new awkward reticence.

“It’s been interesting.” I spoke cautiously, unsure if either of us was actually going to acknowledge the new territory we were in.

“I’ve certainly discovered some fascinating things. I’ve had a good time.”

“Me too,” she replied. Her words were insufficient but her expression was not. “We can maybe do it again sometime?”

“I’d like that very much.” I hoped she would understand how enthusiastic I felt.

“Good. I’ll call.” She looked reflective for a moment, and once more I wondered what was going on in that keen mind. And if I’d ever find a way to get her to tell me. Not that I was being especially eloquent myself right now. “Listen, I’m going to see about getting my contacts in order, so the work at Winter can start as soon as possible. Is that okay?” Apparently it was time to talk business again. Except we both knew the work on Winter would involve us working together and necessitate many more meetings and phone calls.

“Sounds perfect to me, thanks.” I couldn’t prevent my smile even while I tried to keep my words moderate and at least almost businesslike.

“I’ll call,” she repeated. That she’d felt the need to say it again thrilled me.

“When will I see you again?”

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“I’m not sure. I’ll probably come to the house again next time.”

“Okay. Just let me know.” I found, rather than dreading another visit at Winter, I was already anticipating it with some pleasure, a fierce curiosity beginning to burn as I wondered what might happen between us over a few more encounters. We’d reached her office door now, and she stood awkwardly, as if wondering quite what parting words we should exchange.

“See you soon then.” Anna looked as though she was not entirely in control, as she had in the kitchens at Winter. I knew the feeling well.

“I’ll look forward to it,” I said. She turned and disappeared quickly through her door. To begin with, as I walked back towards my car, my heart was soaring at what I’d discovered about Anna today. But as I walked farther away from her, I felt the optimism slipping away. How could I, at this point in my life, with my emotions unpredictable and nothing more solid to hold on to than a ruin of a house, consider beginning a relationship at all? Was I really ready to move on in that way? Or was Anna just so captivating I’d lost all grip on reality? I felt nauseous because the chances of me really being able to make a relationship work, right at that moment, were thin to non-existent, however much I wished it was different.

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• 130 •

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chapter six

Optimism and doubt waged a war inside me over the next two days, and I spent them in a kind of limbo. Finally, the contrary impulses negated each other, leaving me incapable of understanding the way I was feeling. I’d not experienced such moments of excitement at the notion of something that could happen in the future since the early days of my relationship with Francesca, but neither had I been dragged down by such confusion since the weeks after our break up. I realised just how severely my emotions had been damaged by all that had happened in the past year. I was recovering and I was moving forward, but I still had a long way to go. Complicating that process now was a bad idea.

For those two days I did nothing constructive at all. On the first I slept late, and once I was awake—not bothering with breakfast or washing—I wandered aimlessly around the house, seeing nothing but the damage and decay, wondering how I was ever supposed to know where to start. Then I would remember I had Anna to guide me and feel flushed with hope.

By the time I woke up on the second day, close to lunchtime, I couldn’t stand the thought of more time in the dusty, shadowy rooms, tormenting myself with the scale of the task I had taken on. I peered through the window and saw the blanket of snow had deepened overnight. Everything was smooth and serene. I needed to be part of it, to clear my head, lose myself in the pristine whiteness. Wrapping

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up in several layers of fleece, I pulled on my most waterproof boots, and headed out into the dazzling scene.

The cold air stung my skin sharply. Even Phoebe looked cold.

There was a most undignified icicle on the end of her nose. I did her the favour of breaking it off with my gloved fingers.

“Don’t thank me,” I said to her. “I know you’d do the same for me.” She gazed steadfastly over my shoulder. Such dedication to her lost love. Had she ever been tempted to move on? Seen a sudden flash of potential in some other chiselled figure, someone to save her from her solitary longing? Maybe that was why she appeared so wistful. If I kept looking behind me, studying the mistakes and regrets instead of moving forward, would I end up like my statue friend, cold, alone, and frozen? I didn’t want my story to go that way, but could I dare to hope for different?

I looked away from her serene face before the tears came. Crying while gazing at a statue was ridiculous. I looked out over the vista of the park instead. To my left was the snow-covered driveway and the trees which lined it. To my right the snow-smoothed meadows were rolling, gradually sloping downhill towards the river. I’d only taken short walks in the park so far. Now I decided I wanted to go as far as the river and see the bridge I owned. Possessing a bridge was still a bizarre concept to comprehend.

The undisturbed snow was ankle deep and powdery. Traipsing through it, leaving footprints where no one else had walked, was incredibly satisfying. I’d not seen this much snow in England since my childhood. Throwing myself to the ground and waving my arms and legs to make a snow angel was tempting, but sensing the house with its sophisticated history behind me, I suddenly didn’t want to do anything Winter would disapprove of. Not in sight of the house, anyway.

The landscape was almost entirely monochrome, the sky sunless, dull light flattening my surroundings. The silence suggested the snow had suffocated every living thing. Thick, like a sinister blanket, the snow obscured so much detail. Threatening and peaceful at the same time. The temptation to try to lose myself in that silence, to push away the urge to move on, and to stagnate pulled at my heart.

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I’d still not finished mourning my mother. I should be concerned by my distant relationship with my sister. I had no job and knew I could not return to the career I’d spent most of my life building. Ideas for my future financial security had come and gone over the past few months, but nothing had seemed to fit. Now I had a rundown manor house to take care of and a potential business to provide me with part of a solution, but one which would take a lot of work. On top of it all I was falling head over heels for a woman I had no business being attracted to at this point in my life. My heart was still sore from my break up with Francesca. I still missed her. I really shouldn’t fling myself into any further entanglements yet. So many considerations I wanted to hide myself away from. I looked around me and drew in a deep breath of the cold air. The calm, white nothingness of the snow allowed me a blissful emptiness, as I let it inside me and felt it erase those worries for the moment.

As I continued to walk, and the exercise began to make me feel better. I laughed at myself as I pondered the safety of hiding away in Winter and avoiding potential relationships. A less complicated life beckoned. I could be a traditional English eccentric, haunting the rooms of my decaying home. Perhaps I’d adopt stray cats and have dozens of them in every room. Maybe I’d become the stuff of local legend. I just had to resist the temptation of Anna.

I drew in another deep breath and tried to rid my mind of the image of Anna. She stayed with me with remarkable persistence for a daydream. Frustrated, I bent down and scooped up a handful of snow, forming it into a ball and aiming it at the trunk of the nearest tree. I missed. The skeletal branches of the tree, outlined black against the pale grey sky, mocked me. Again, I half imagined the trees of Winter were likely to come to life. This one looked ready to tear my eyes out. I turned away from it with a shiver.

My route took me over the slight brow of the hill and then down a long shallow slope to the bank of the river. Compelled by some reckless urge, as soon as I began downhill, I broke into a galloping run, my feet dragging as they barely cleared the snow, which found its way into my boots and melted into my socks. I cut a path of destruction through the smooth, perfect surface, sending

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snow flying in all directions, and almost losing my footing several times. I didn’t think, allowing the exhilaration to overtake me.

When I arrived at the bottom of the slope, drawing in rapid lungfuls of the frosty air and my face stinging from the cold, I looked up at the mess I had made of the snow with some satisfaction. At least it looked as if someone had been here now. I’d made my mark, made myself solid, not just a spectre haunting the house and not so easily obliterated. Another unexpected wave of optimism swept through me, and I resumed my hunt for the bridge enthusiastically.

I walked for about a quarter of a mile alongside the small river.

The water was jet black against the white of the snow, glassy but rippling under the surface. A willow tree wept into the river, and where its branches skimmed the water it was covered in crystals of ice. The sheer beauty of it was breathtaking. To own such magnificence was extraordinary, to be able to explore it at will liberating.

The river meandered to the left. I followed the curve and there, before me, the bridge presented itself. Three pointed arches built in grey stone spanned the water gracefully. Half the bridge was coated in windblown snow. From where I stood, each end of the structure was framed by snow-encrusted foliage, including dark green ivy. It was spectacular, a picture an artist might have painted in oils. Amazed, my spirits soared as I took on board that such beauty belonged to me. Remembering Anna’s suggestion, that Winter would be a perfect location for an artists’ retreat, I imagined sharing this beauty with people with a real appreciation of its charms. Such a perfect solution for both my future and Winter’s. The future shone brightly again. I would bring Anna here, hopefully before all the snow had melted. I was sure she would appreciate the graceful architecture of the bridge. Gothic arches, if I wasn’t mistaken.

I set off in the direction of the bridge, and walked to the centre of it, looking down on the swiftly flowing river below. I smiled to myself and thought how bizarre it was to have been craving oblivion and nothingness just a few minutes ago. I wanted movement, fine detail, all the beauty of life. I was still here, still breathing. If I’d

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learned only one lesson from the last year, watching my mother fade slowly from the world had taught me how precious every moment is. I had to hold onto that when life seemed challenging and take time to appreciate my surroundings. The water trickled beneath the bridge, and the gentle sound soothed me. A lump of snow dropped from the branch of an overhanging tree and sunk into the water with a satisfying splosh. The landscape was waking, coming alive around me, with sounds and motion, throwing off the pall of silence.

One sound in particular reached my ears. A thudding, rustling sound, somewhere from the other side of the bridge, a regular sound, increasing in speed. I heard a sharp whistle and a cry of, “Pepper, come back here, boy!” in a distant female voice.

In the next instant a black and white blur raced to my side and woofed happily, before nosing my thigh. I stared at the tall Dalmatian, astonished and bemused as to where he had come from.

He appeared amiable, so I stroked his head, and he pressed against me appreciatively. His head was nearly level with my hip.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I heard from the direction the dog had appeared from, “he’s just so friendly.” A broad figure wrapped up in a winter anorak and headscarf came into view, carrying a dog leash.

Recognition dawned on me.

“Maggie?” I called as she approached, trudging heavily through the snow onto the bridge.

“Yes, pet, it’s me,” she replied, close enough to speak normally now. “Not much chance of it being anyone else out here on a day like this.” The dog left my side to stand close to his owner, and she rubbed his flank affectionately.

“No. How are you?”

“Well as can be in this weather. Pepper insists on a walk even on days like this.” She looked down at the dog, who gazed back with unlimited adoration. “Don’t you boy?”

“Pepper?”

“What else can you call a Dalmatian?” she asked, with a cheerful smile. “I didn’t expect to see anyone else out and about today, pet. Thought you’d be keeping warm inside.”

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“The warmest place is my hallway, where I have an electric heater, but I can’t sit in the hallway all the time. I’ve not made it down to the bridge before.”

“Oh, it’s lovely down by the river. Better in spring though. You don’t mind me walking Pepper here do you, hun? It’s your land now.”

“Gosh, no, don’t be silly, of course I don’t,” I replied, surprised that she had even asked. “I don’t even really think of it as my land.”

“I’ve been coming down here for years. Wait until you see the bluebells next year.”

“Sounds perfect.” I dwelt for a moment on the energising thought of spring and new life coming to Winter. “Though it’s a picture today.”

“If you like the cold.” Maggie shivered obviously. “I prefer the summer myself. So, how are you doing in the house?”

“There’s not been much work done yet. But I’ve been talking with the architect and I think we can get started soon.” Speaking of Anna in her professional capacity was a little surreal. She was so much more than merely the architect to me now.

“You’ll have to wait for the snow to melt, I imagine.”

“Yes, I expect so.”

“Thought I might have seen you at the farm before now.” I felt instantly remiss for not visiting her sooner.

“I have been meaning to visit.” It was nearly true. “Things have just been a bit strange though, you know, in a new part of the country in a rundown house.”

“Don’t worry about it, pet, you know where I am if you need me.” Maggie was unperturbed. “Oh, get away, you daft thing!” Her last sentence was addressed to Pepper, who attempted to rear up and apparently embrace her with his front legs. Not at all offended, he returned to all fours and ran around in an excited semicircle, barking happily. I smiled at his enthusiasm.

“Maybe I should get a dog,” I said, almost serious in my pondering. An infinitely more sensible idea than roomfuls of cats.

“They’re good company, for sure. A royal pain in the backside sometimes, though.” We watched Pepper play in the snow contentedly.

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“It’s good to have company,” I said, feeling the surprising truth of it. Maybe I really would get a dog. I wondered if Anna liked dogs.

I pictured walking down to the bridge with her, a little brown dog, maybe a spaniel, frolicking around us. Down by the river, where the green river bank was flooded with bluebells, an artist was painting the bridge in watercolours. I smiled at Anna and she leaned over and kissed me.

Maggie jolted me out of my daydream, and suddenly I was cold again. “Talking of company, what are you doing for Christmas, pet?”

“Christmas?”

“Yes. You know it’s next week.”

“Is it that soon?” I’d seen the decorations, cards, and gifts in the shops in Durham, I knew Christmas was coming up. Only I’d been trying to ignore its approach and had so far been quite successful.

Now Maggie wanted to know my plans.

“Comes up quick, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. I’m…I’ve got some friends coming to visit me.”

“Oh, that’s nice. If you’d been on your own I was going to ask you if you wanted to come to the farm. It won’t be a big occasion, just me and my son, his wife, and their baby girl, and my daughter, who’s coming up from London with her new chap.”

“Sounds lovely. If I didn’t have other plans, I’d love to have come,” I said. I could envision Maggie’s Christmas perfectly. I saw the big farmhouse kitchen, the table loaded with food, the happy family gathering, a roaring fire…I knew I was idealising, creating a picture from a storybook. Chances were Maggie’s son and daughter argued all of the time and her daughter’s boyfriend was new because she’d never found someone who she truly loved. No one’s life was perfect. But suddenly I faced the prospect of my own Christmas.

Alone in Winter Manor. I planned to just let it pass me by. The only celebration I intended to allow myself was buying a small Christmas cake, since it was the one festive treat I was partial to. There were no friends and no family who would want to spend the day with me. I felt the optimism slipping. So much had changed since last Christmas when I’d spent the day alone with Francesca, having

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refused my mother’s invitation to dinner. Now my mother was dead, and I had no real idea where Francesca was. Yet Christmas approached inexorably again, as though everything was perfectly all right and it would be welcome.

“Don’t worry about it, hun,” Maggie said, patting my arm.

Perhaps she thought the alteration in my countenance was a result of wishing I was free to visit her at Christmas.

“I will pop over and see you one day soon though, I promise,”

I said, forcing a smile.

“You’ll be very welcome, pet. I’ve got mince pies and cream.”

“Lovely.”

“And don’t forget to bring your washing.”

“If you insist, that would be a big help.” My heart was aching now, and even Maggie’s kindness could not quite soothe it. I expected these moments to come, from time to time, but it didn’t make them easier when they did.

I looked back down at the water sliding beneath the bridge. As if she was reading my change of mood, Maggie said, “It’s awful to think of, but do you know the story is that a girl killed herself here once?”

I looked up at her, surprised at the sudden turn in the conversation. “No. Is that true?” Hearing such a rumour left me unexpectedly unsettled.

“Well, according to the story I heard, her family tried to cover it up as an accident. She was a strange girl, apparently.” Maggie’s brow furrowed into deep lines as she tried to recall the details.

“When was this?”

“Oh, I can’t say for sure, pet. Sometime in the eighteen sixties or seventies, I think. She was one of the Richmond family, who owned Winter then. If I remember it right, her brother inherited in the end, but spent most of his time in London, because the old place reminded him too much of his sister.”

“A strange girl?”

“Yes, as I heard it, pet. Who knows what they meant by that in those days, though?”

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“That’s such a sad story.” I gazed at the water and tried to imagine what urge would be so terrible that a girl would drown herself here. Tears came to my eyes. The most tragic aspect of the whole tale was that Maggie couldn’t even remember her name, let alone her story. A human life vanished just like that. I felt the horror of it as a deep-rooted pain. Maggie and I were both silent, mutually pondering the story she had related. I imagined an Ophelia-like image of a beautiful, pale-skinned, dark-haired woman, floating in the river, her skirts billowing, her hair drifting in the current. Surely nothing could be so bad. For all that my life had lost its direction, I couldn’t picture needing to obliterate myself so totally and finally.

Pepper bounded up to his mistress and barked, bringing us both out of our reflective states of mind. Large flakes of snow began to drift down from the sky, tickling lightly over my skin. “Oh, will you look at that,” Maggie exclaimed, looking skyward, “as if we haven’t had enough already!” Pepper whined. “Yes, I know, boy, come on, let’s get us back home shall we?” She smiled at me. “Better go, while we still can,” she said. “See you soon, pet.”

“Yes, you will. Nice to see you today.” I smiled because she was so kind. Maggie turned and walked away from me, Pepper lolloping past her, then pulling up sharply to wait for her to catch up. I found myself feeling envious of even that companionship and loyalty. I wouldn’t get a dog. What if I didn’t want to get up and walk him every morning? I’d be a terrible owner, I was far too selfish and inward looking. Maybe changing that should be my New Year’s resolution.

Maggie and Pepper disappeared from view. I stayed where I was and looked at the sky, the greyish yellow of a fading bruise, and full of whirling, turbulent snowflakes. I stared at them and felt dizzy, overwhelmed. Against the sky they were another shade of grey, dark, like smuts of soot. They were transformed as they fell, and I saw them against the darker trees, becoming pure white and delicately fluffy, twirling all around me, brushing over and teasing my forehead and cheeks, settling on my shoulders which turned rapidly white. I stood perfectly still, my face to the sky, letting the snow hypnotise me, feeling it cling to my eyelashes. It fell so

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silently, its accumulation was so insidious. I felt as though—if I closed my eyes, allowed it the chance—it would begin to cover me, smother me, erase me entirely. I forced my eyes wide open and tore my gaze from the sky. I wouldn’t be obliterated so easily.

The flakes melted against my skin and made my cheeks wet.

More snow fell, caressing so lightly it tickled. Snow and Christmas were a perfect combination, of course. Christmas. I’d never realised that it meant so much to me before now, but the prospect of being alone was one that weighed heavily on me. I would miss the option of visiting my mother on Christmas Day, though for years I’d refused it. I would miss Francesca terribly too. That our relationship had ended was undoubtedly, unavoidably, for the best. My being alone for now was undeniably the only sensible course. To allow my bruised heart to recover and be ready to love again, avoiding any entanglements for a while, was the only way forward. Loneliness also meant time to think and to clear my head, to reconnect with myself, wherever that self was buried under layers of mourning and confusion. But being alone at Christmas was not a prospect I wanted to dwell on.

I stared through the thick flakes towards the hill up to the house, feeling quite desolate. I could still see the path I’d made when I ran down the hill. The falling snow was beginning to obscure the tracks I’d made. I felt a flash of sudden anger that it could wipe out all traces of me so easily, like the years had wiped out the memory of the dead girl in the river, and summoned the strength to climb back up the hill and make my mark once again.

❖

By the time I reached the top of the hill, I was panting, and my chest was beginning to hurt, but I did not slow down. I stormed all the way back to the front steps of the house. Phoebe’s expression was impassive as I swept past her without even acknowledging her. The hinges of the front door creaked their usual welcome as I entered the hallway. I closed the door heavily behind me, glad to shut out the snow.

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The familiarity of my hallway residence was more comforting than I expected. Winter was finally beginning to feel like home.

Which was just as well, since I felt sure Winter, with its rotting rooms and echoes of history, was the only part of my immediate future I could be certain of. The prospect of anything else frightened me, left me exhausted. I threw my outer clothes to the floor, perched on the edge of my camping bed, and tried to wrestle my emotions back under control. I thought again of the sad story Maggie had related to me, and I knew Winter had seen its share of tragedy and misery. Did I want to be part of that, another sad, wistful chapter? Or did I have the courage to hope for, even demand, a brighter future?

An unexpected sound reached me from the direction of the Saloon, quite different from the usual creaks and groans of the house.

I got to my feet and went to investigate. As I entered the large, airy room, still grand despite its disrepair, there was no obvious source of the unusual sound. I looked around me curiously, listening hard.

Eventually, my gaze settled on the large Venetian window. I could see the snow was still falling heavily outside. Then I knew what had caused the strange sound. Just outside the window was an old oak tree. One of its aged branches had bowed and snapped under the weight of the snow and now hung at an odd angle, resting partly on the snowy ground. It had been the straining and breaking of the old wood I’d heard. I pitied the graceful tree, with its thick trunk and apparent strength, its symmetry so easily undone by an accumulation of feather-light snow.

I also experienced a curious sense of empathy with the oak, its strength deserting it under the build-up of cold weight. The sight of that fallen limb, the sharp, broken end, finally recalled me to myself.

It had been a terrible year, but I couldn’t give in and break under the strain. The girl in the river, and countless others who’d been in Winter’s grand rooms, had surely suffered heartaches greater than my own. I wasn’t the only one to linger in the high-ceilinged Saloon and wish that life had turned out differently. I wasn’t that important.

The thought made me ashamed of my depression and determined to be more optimistic, for the sake of Winter, if nothing else. Surely all problems could be overcome?

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My thoughts turned back to Anna. She wasn’t a problem to be overcome, either professionally or personally. I was delighted to have her talented input into the renovation, and pleased my feelings for her proved my heart hadn’t died when my relationship with Francesca had, even though I still needed to heal before I could contemplate loving anyone again. Anna seemed to feel the same, false wedding ring and all. Good. It was fun to flirt—in a taciturn sort of a way—and now I knew she was unattached, I could do so without guilt. I had to remember not to hope for anything else and that my emotional balance was far more secure that way.

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chapter seven

Finally making solid plans for Winter was an excellent distraction for most of the week preceding Christmas Day.

Anna did not call, which disappointed and relieved me at the same time. She’d clearly been busy contacting all manner of workmen, as she promised she would, since I was contacted by all sorts of tradesmen. Builders, plumbers, roofers, and electricians were the first wave, sizing up the scale and the price of the job. The quotes I received were not for the faint-hearted, but Auntie Edie had left a very substantial amount of money for this renovation, and it more than covered the costs that would soon be mounting up.

I made calls to plasterers and specialists in wooden floors, to find out if they would be available to work at Winter in a couple of months, once the major structural work was completed. Looking ahead to that time, I truly began to believe I could bring Winter back to life, even initiate a new and exciting phase in the story of the old place. If I was still confused myself and uncertain just where life was leading me, I found a real sense of excitement and optimism in every detail and plan that was set out for my house. Even the traipsing of strangers through my hallway home did not disturb me as much as I anticipated, though I did conclude it would be better to move my sleeping and eating area into one of the separate rooms, out of the way of the regular comings and goings. Winter welcomed this sudden infusion of life, and accordingly, so did I. These weren’t

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people who were going to ask me about my personal life, or make judgements. All they expected was a rough idea of how I wanted the property renovated and the prospect of the money I would pay them to do the job. That kind of human interaction I could deal with without a qualm. I had Anna’s plans, and the money to pay them.

Dealing with Winter’s future was pleasingly simple, and it boosted my confidence.

The only problem with being so busy attending to workmen and plans for the house over that week was Christmas Day dawned, and I realised there would be nobody at all coming to the house that day. The emptiness struck me even harder than it would have done had I spent the week alone. Some diluted sunshine had thawed the snow throughout the week, and it was now just a thin, wet layer and not remotely festive. Green grass appearing once again gave some inspiring evidence of life surviving beneath the oppressive cold, but the constant dripping of the meltwater from the holey guttering was becoming infuriating, and the grey light after the brighter white of the snow did little to lift my spirits.

I made a concerted effort to forget it was Christmas. I contemplated picking up the phone and calling Jeanne, Christmas possibly the perfect time to begin my attempt at reconciliation with my sister. At the same time though, I didn’t relish the prospect of an uncomfortable conversation, nor feeling like an intrusion in her family Christmas. Jeanne had a peculiar way of making me feel inadequate, and I decided I preferred loneliness to a conversation that would undermine my fragile self-confidence.

There was really no one else to call. My father lived in London these days and would no doubt be spending the day with some of his many friends—the friends who had always meant more to him than his family.

At lunchtime I ate a bowl of piping hot tomato soup and a cheese sandwich. I followed it with my one concession to Christmas, a large slice of Christmas cake. I’d bought the best quality the supermarket had. The fruity, spicy, moist cake with the almost sickly sweetness of marzipan and icing was one of my favourite tastes all year. The first mouthful was wonderful, and for a moment, I felt a little festive

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spirit and almost wished I’d found some other way to mark the day.

I’d let Winter down by not at least having a Christmas tree or a holly wreath. Next year I’d do better.

Next year. Three hundred and sixty-five days. So much could happen in that time. Next Christmas was way into the future, a date by which I hoped the major renovation work at Winter would be complete. Yet last Christmas seemed such a short time ago. How had so many terrible and life-changing things happened in the intervening time? I’d lost everything I’d thought was important—

my own sense of myself included—in the space of just those few hundred days.

I discarded the last mouthful of Christmas cake uneaten, suddenly slightly nauseous. I’d lost so much. How could I ever hope to get such things back? I knew I’d still not entirely come to terms with the way in which the entire foundation of my life had crumbled.

Next year I would hang a holly wreath on Winter’s grand front door.

What else would I be doing? Would I be alone still? Would I be eating dinner with friends? A lover? Would Winter be complete?

Would I? Another three hundred and sixty-five days would bring about changes, undoubtedly. I had to hold on to the strength of my optimism and know they would be for the best.

I made some tea and sat in my Victorian dining chair clutching the warm mug. I was reminded suddenly of the story of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol and the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Yet to Come. What would such spirits show me, were they to arrive in Winter now and take me on a journey of self-exploration? My past was the loss of a happiness that, while not perfect, was at least comfortable and secure. My present was simple enough. Alone on Christmas Day in a ramshackle country house, subject to wildly fluctuating emotions. What would the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come show me though? I thought of Ebenezer Scrooge’s vision of his miserable, lonely end. If I was to expire here and now, who would know? The thought made me shudder, and I made a vow there and then, whatever the coming year brought, it would be better. I would begin to make sensible decisions and have faith in myself once again.

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The wood of the great staircase creaked loudly, for no apparent reason, as it often did. I imagined the house was trying to talk to me.

I wished Winter could tell me its stories, that the walls could talk, as the cliché went. Now these walls sheltered me impassively. I was reassured to believe Winter and I were facing the future together, a team.

I took a sip of my tea and paced around the hallway restlessly, coming to a stop in the shadow of the stairs close to the entrance to the Saloon. I looked through the open door. Distracting myself with thoughts about how I would decorate and furnish what would eventually be a spectacularly beautiful room presented itself as a good way to regain my focus. I was about to step inside when a loud knock on the front door made me jump and almost spill my tea.

My mind raced as I considered who could possibly be calling on me in the early afternoon of Christmas Day. My first assumption was Maggie Potter, and I wondered how on earth I would explain to her why I was alone, eating soup and Christmas cake, when I’d claimed to have friends visiting me. I contemplated not answering the knock. Then I wondered why Maggie, with her farmhouse family Christmas, would be here at all, unless it was something urgent. I hastily put my tea on the table and crossed the hall to the door.

When I opened the door, beginning to worry, it was to find Anna looking at me expectantly. A combination of elation and terror almost made me close the door again and pretend I’d not seen her.

“Merry Christmas, Ros,” she said, with a genuine smile.

“Merry Christmas,” I replied automatically. “What are you doing here?” My pounding heart wiped out my ability to be polite.

“Very welcoming, I’m sure,” she remarked caustically, though her eyes were still unusually warm. “Especially since I come bearing gifts.” She raised her hands. One held what was clearly a wine bottle, wrapped in exquisitely beautiful golden wrapping paper. In her other was a flat box, also neatly gift-wrapped, which looked likely to contain chocolates. In the same hand she was gripping the handles of a cheap white plastic bag. I looked from the gifts back to her face.

Her blue eyes burned into mine with a greater intensity than I’d seen there even when she’d spoken about her beloved architecture. Why

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was this stunning woman standing on my doorstep with wine and chocolates? I knew what it seemed to mean, but that was more than I dared allow myself to hope for.

“Thank you,” I managed to stammer. “I don’t have anything for you. In fact I don’t have very much at all in the way of celebrating Christmas.”

“Against your religion?”

“No, I just didn’t expect visitors, and I didn’t see much point buying anything special for just me.”

“I didn’t either, but then I thought, why just let Christmas go by without marking it? I had a feeling I’d find you here on your own.”

“You did?” I wondered how she knew enough of me to have guessed. Anna was still very much a conundrum to me, even more so now. I asked the most obvious question first. “You were on your own today too?”

“Yes. My parents live in West Sussex and my brother’s in Cambridge. Too far to travel.”

“Oh, I see.” I was surprised she didn’t have legions of admiring friends with whom to spend the day. I also knew by now Anna wouldn’t venture much more information about herself without my asking first. “What about friends?”

“I saw some of my friends for dinner last night, and I had one or two invitations for today. But I told them I had other plans.” There was no way to misinterpret her meaning. Her plan was to visit me at Winter.

“You planned to come to Winter?” I was unsure how far I should push the questions. What if I didn’t like the answers?

“Yes. I thought the old house might like a bit of company.” Her tone was ironic and beneath the words her true meaning more than apparent. She wanted to see me. Now she wanted me to acknowledge that I understood, as she looked at me with a question in her eyes.

I took a deep breath and realised I couldn’t find the words. I wasn’t ready to launch myself into this quite just yet. But I couldn’t help being ridiculously glad she was on my doorstep.

“I’m sure Winter’s very pleased to see you.” I knew that response was awkward and tried to balance it with a smile. A vague

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shadow of disappointment flickered over Anna’s expression, and I cursed myself for not knowing how to handle this any better. Why could neither of us seem to manage to talk frankly about this? Did she really plan to visit me alone on Christmas Day? With what intentions? The thought she was here to see me because she had any intentions at all towards me circled in my mind until I found I not only accepted it but also grew excited by it.

“Are you going to let me in?” she asked, recalling me to the moment and the realisation we hadn’t moved from the doorway. I stepped back, and she passed through, handing me the gift-wrapped bottle and box, though she kept her grip on the mysterious plastic bag.

“Thank you,” I said, catching the scent of her perfume. Not her usual Tabac Blond today but a more sweetly delicious scent I couldn’t place, which somehow suited her even more. I watched as she hung her leather shoulder bag over the end of the banister and removed her black coat and green scarf. The sudden vision of Anna in clothing other than her professional suit astonished me. She was wearing black velvet trousers that hugged her hips and thighs sleek and close. They partly covered shoes not unlike her usual flat brogues, but these were classically styled in black and white leather.

Her shirt was made of deepest blue silk, the buttons shimmering mother-of-pearl, and was open at the neck far enough to reveal a considerable expanse of the smooth pale skin of her throat and chest. I swallowed hard.

“You’re welcome.” She gestured at the gifts as I held them awkwardly. “I couldn’t come empty handed. Open them.” I looked at the expensive wrapping and allowed myself to smile. I wondered if I was perhaps dreaming the extraordinary and thrilling turn my afternoon had suddenly taken. The gifts felt rather too solid in my hands for this to be a dream. I focused on the gifts, and concentrated on the unwrapping. I began with the bottle. To tear the exquisite paper was a terrible thing, but I did so all the same to reveal a small bottle of beautiful golden wine. I peered at the black and gold label, knowing instinctively the wine was high quality. It was Italian.

“Frescobaldi Pomino Vin Santo,” I read out loud.

“It’s my favourite dessert wine,” Anna said.

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“It looks lovely.” I wondered just how generous the gift was.

“Less than forty quid too.” It was as if Anna was reading my mind. She was clearly amused, which was unusual, for Anna was rarely clearly anything. All of her expressions and moods seemed somehow more accessible to me this afternoon, even if she did not articulate them.

“Oh, cheap then,” I replied with a smile.

“I wouldn’t bring you expensive wine, Ros, you wouldn’t appreciate it.” Her mouth twitched as she tried to make her expression supercilious. I laughed out loud, delighted by the humorous side of Anna once again. My earlier depressed mood was rapidly receding, along with my bewilderment at her sudden arrival, as I simply began to enjoy her company.

It was very easy to enjoy her company.

I tore the paper from the rectangular gift, discovering chocolates, as I had guessed. I looked at the stylish box more closely.

“You buy your chocolates from Harrods?”

“I know, predictable isn’t it?” she replied, with a deadpan expression. “In my defence, I only use their online shop occasionally.

It’s just I adore those chocolates in particular. They have wonderful vintage fillings like violet crème and stem ginger.”

“Thank you. They sound lovely.” I was impressed despite myself. “In return, I can offer you a slice of the best Christmas cake from the very exclusive supermarket in the next village.”

“I’ll pass on that delight for now, thank you,” she replied. “I’d actually rather like you to open the wine.”

“I love the sound of that.” I rummaged in the box in which I kept my utensils and found my corkscrew.

“I was hoping you’d have one. I wasn’t sure.”

“I brought as many things up here as I could think of,” I replied.

“I don’t have real wine glasses though. Will this be okay?” I showed her a small tumbler.

“I’m sure I can manage. It will taste just the same.” Though the words could be sarcastic or condescending, I had no trouble interpreting Anna’s more light-hearted meaning now. Perhaps I was growing used to her, or maybe it was because she was more relaxed

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and therefore less guarded. Whichever, the pleasure it gave me made it difficult not to smile. Her previous discomfort had apparently vanished, but there was an air of heightened emotion about her, as though the smallest part of her control had slipped, or been pushed aside. And I responded to it.

I opened the wine with a pop and poured out our drinks. Thick, sticky, amber wine that looked as though it would taste of pure honey trickled into the glasses. I passed one to Anna, and she raised it in a toast. “To Winter Manor, I think,” she said.

I clinked my glass against hers, “To Winter. And Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.” We each took a sip of our wine. My taste buds were dazzled by a sweet, spicy fruitiness, silky and smooth on my tongue. “What do you think of my choice?” she asked, watching my reaction.

“It’s delicious,” I told her.

“You should be getting apricots, dried nuts, and cinnamon.”

She paused and raised an eyebrow as she waited for my reaction.

When I just stared at her and wondered what to say, her face relaxed and she laughed. “Though, if I’m honest, I got that from the label.

As much as I enjoy a good wine, I can never place the flavours I can taste.”

“No, that would just be pretentious,” I said wryly.

“Yes. Just like shopping at Harrods,” she said in the same tone.

I took another sip of the wine, and noticed she was drinking hers rather quickly. The unusual excitement emanating from her made it seem there was something more she wanted to say. A pleasant tension, with none of the awkwardness there had been between us before, hung in the air. I was about to tell her to take a seat, since she had been standing since she entered, when my eyes fell on that anomalous plastic bag she’d been carrying, which now rested on the bottom step of the staircase. I looked at her with curiosity.

“So, what’s in the bag?”

“My other gift.” I saw a hint of challenge in her eyes and wondered what on earth had put that gleam there. My body surged in response.

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“What is it?” I asked, unable to look away from her.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Of course I do. Is it expensive?”

“Not at all. I didn’t pay a penny for this one.” Her mysterious remark only intrigued me further.

“Now I really have to know.” The atmosphere between us grew charged. My legs were a little weak as I gazed at her.

“Okay then,” she said, going to pick up the bag. She opened it and I saw green leaves. “This was growing on an apple tree at the bottom of my garden.”

“You brought me a plant?” I asked, surprised and perhaps even disappointed. Then I caught her expression and grew warmer without knowing the reason.

“This is more than just a plant,” she said, pulling it out of its plastic wrapping. I saw at once it was a large clump of mistletoe, complete with white berries.

I said nothing, I simply looked from the distinctive foliage in her hand and back to her face. She was watching me keenly, with a touch of nervousness maybe, but mostly a mischievous playfulness suffusing her features. “It is Christmas, after all,” she said.

“It is.” My throat had seized up, and the words were almost a croak.

“And it’s nice to have a few traditions.”

“Yes.”

Anna took a few paces towards me, eyes still intently on mine, and raised the whole clump of mistletoe into the air above her head.

I followed it with my eyes, until she spoke and my gaze jolted back to her face. “What do you say, Ros?” she said, her tone challenging.

“Shall we honour the tradition?”

I covered the remaining distance between us slowly. The couple of inches in height difference meant I had to tilt my head back slightly to maintain eye contact. There was her perfume again, citrus and jasmine, heady like incense, intoxicating. Her shoulders were rising and falling with her deep breaths, and the ice blue of her eyes had mellowed to a softer indigo. As I moved closer, her breath was warm and carried the spiced sweetness of the wine. Our faces

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were almost touching now, our breath mingling. We paused, as if we both wanted to linger in the last instant of dizzying anticipation. At the same moment, we moved that small distance closer and our lips brushed. Hers were satin soft, and my own melted into them.

We both pulled back, the Christmas tradition of a kiss under the mistletoe satisfied. But I stared into her eyes, still, and our breaths came together, fast and deep. The short distance between our parted, tantalised lips was charged with electricity. For a long moment time stopped, and I knew she was going to kiss me again. The mistletoe brushed my arm as she let it drop to the floor, slipping one hand around my waist and pulling my body to hers as our mouths collided, this time with bruising intensity. Her hot lips parted against mine, her tongue slipping over my lips, demanding entrance to my mouth. I opened my mouth for her and allowed my tongue to twine with hers. I wrapped my arms around her slender body, running my hands over the cool silk of her shirt, which quickly warmed under my touch. One of her hands tangled in my hair, pulling me deeper into her kiss, as I pressed into her mouth, needing to taste her, to explore her.

She made a deep, throaty sound of arousal, so remarkable a departure from her usual restraint, hearing it made my temperature increase further still. I couldn’t hesitate to consider what I was doing, I just wanted her with a real insatiable hunger. Her hands pulled me tighter to her body, and I felt the pressure of the swell of her breasts against my own chest, her thighs fitting close to mine, as I slid my hands lower, yanking her shirt out of the waistband of her trousers, desperate to have access to the skin underneath. I pushed one hand under the fine silk and felt, even more perfect, the flesh of her smooth, warm back. As I traced her spine she shuddered, her hand twisting tighter in my hair and her kiss becoming ferocious. Her free hand slid over the curve of my hip, caressed my buttocks, and she trailed it up my body to reach my braless breast, barely shielded from the squeezing of her strong fingers by my thin T-shirt. I felt my nipple harden as she rolled it between her thumb and forefinger, and a huge wave of pleasure swept through me.

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She was pulling at my cardigan, and the air was cold on my arms as she removed it and threw it onto the floor. I moved my hands over the perfect expanse of her back, my fingers encountering the clasp of her sports bra. I fumbled with it eagerly, satisfied when it released and was no longer a barrier to my caresses. We were still kissing, with mutual passion, as I began to unfasten the buttons which held the front of her shirt. I quickly had them all loose and pushed my hands inside and beneath the undone bra, feeling the pliable weight of her perfectly firm breasts, stroking my fingers over them, weak with arousal as her nipples stiffened under my touch and she made that animal sound in her throat again.

Our hands continued to explore as our kiss subsided to a gentler intensity, slower but more deeply satisfying. I felt her reach down to loosen the fastening of my jeans. Apparently it resisted her efforts, and she eased her mouth away from mine to look down at what she was doing. She undid the button and zipper and ran her hands slowly over the place where the waistband had previously covered my hips. I gasped with the pleasure of her touch, at the consuming strength of my desire to have her move that touch lower.

She looked into my eyes, her own dilated pupils larger still through the lenses of her glasses, which rested on cheeks flushed a beautiful rose pink. She took a deep breath and leaned her forehead against mine.

“What are we doing?” It wasn’t an expression of any real doubt, more of pleasant surprise.

“You brought the mistletoe, you tell me.” My lips were so close to hers, I just wanted to kiss her again.

“I think this goes beyond a Christmas tradition.”

“Just when I thought I’d found one I like.” I couldn’t resist pressing my lips to hers. She responded with her own kiss, then pulled back once more, smiling slightly.

“So this is okay?”

“Do I seem like it’s not?”

“Is this okay too?” She slid her hand into my open jeans and cupped my sex through the thin fabric of my underwear. I caught my breath.

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“Oh, yes.” My entire focus centred where her hand was pressing gently.

Anna smiled a teasing smile. “Shall we drink some more wine?”

She slid her hand out of my jeans and moved half a pace away from me. Strangely, though I missed the contact, I wasn’t disappointed. I didn’t want to rush anything with Anna. Pausing to drink delicious wine and savour the anticipation was a perfect suggestion.

I reached for my glass as Anna did the same. The silky-sweet liquid was perfection in my burning mouth. We were watching each other now, and I knew her gaze, at once playful and a little shy, mirrored my own. She took another sip of her wine and I watched the way it moistened her lips until she licked over them with her tongue. The pressure between my thighs was becoming exquisitely uncomfortable, urging me to seek relief. Yet it was fun to slow things down.

“Would you like a chocolate?”

“Love one,” Anna said. I could see in her expression she was pleased we were playing the same waiting game with each other.

I reached for the box and opened it. The neat rows of chocolate were confectionary perfection, each an individual work of art. The warm smell of rich cocoa reached my nostrils. I offered the box to Anna. “Lucky dip,” she said, choosing one at random and slipping it between her lips. “Mmm, rose crème.” Even those words sounded unbearably erotic to me. “Your turn.”

I chose my own chocolate and put it on my hot tongue, letting it melt a little before I chewed to discover the centre. “Caramel,”

I told her, as the bittersweet taste of burnt sugar crept over my taste buds. I reached for her, and our mouths met for the briefest of moments, a chocolate-sweetened kiss that left me wanting much, much more.

Anna smiled a smile suggesting she was feeling exactly as I was and sat down on the edge of my camp bed. She gestured to her side and indicated that I should join her. “It won’t take the weight.

Stand up a moment.” She did as I asked and I grabbed the sleeping bag and extra blankets I’d been using and pulled them onto the floor, spreading them out. “Do you mind slumming it on the floor?”

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“Not if you get me some more wine.” Anna lowered herself gracefully onto the blankets.

I reached for the bottle and topped up both of our glasses. I sank down next to her on the floor. She took a sip of her wine and leaned in to kiss me, flooding my mouth with the sweetness of the wine once more. I put my own glass to the side untouched, and she did the same, as we reached for each other again. She easily pulled my T-shirt over my head and trailed her tongue down to my nipple, sucking hard when she reached her target. I felt a warning twinge between my thighs and pushed her back. I didn’t want this delicious anticipation to end anytime soon.

I fell on her throat, kissing and running my tongue over her warm skin. Her pulse throbbed close to my lips, and I nipped her skin gently with my teeth. She moaned and reached for my head, pushing me lower until I was nibbling softly on the warm flesh of her breasts. I smelled the combination of perfume, like fresh lemon and heavy leather all at once, mixed with the essence that was so uniquely Anna. Determined to play her at her own teasing game, I pulled back.

“You’re wearing different perfume.”

“You must have a very sensitive nose.”

“I love to smell you.”

“You’ve been smelling me since the first day we met.”

“True.” I blushed a little at the knowledge she had noticed.

“What’s this perfume?”

“It’s called Jicky, it’s French, and it was created in eighteen eighty-nine.” Her tone was flirtatious and alluring, as though the innocent words were a tease.

“Is it very expensive?”

“Incredibly.” She sounded as though she relished every syllable of the word, rolling it around in her mouth.

“Is everything you own expensive?”

“Absolutely. I have high standards, you see, as I’ve told you before.” It was impossible to miss the seductive challenge in her words.

“Do you really?”

“Yes.”

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“Let’s hope I live up to them.”

“So far, so good.”

We could have spoken about anything in those moments, and it would have been intensely erotic. The effect of this conversation was to turn my insides into magma which I knew would have to erupt before long.

Anna seemed to be studying my breasts. She dipped a long finger into her wine and reached out to rub her moist fingertip over my swollen nipple. My chest rose and fell heavily, since it was perfectly clear her mouth would soon follow her finger. Her tongue swept firmly over my hardened flesh, and then her lips began to tease. I ran one hand through her smooth, soft hair, as my other stroked over her shoulder to her back.

When she sat up again, her glasses were slightly askew. I grinned and straightened them for her. She was truly beautiful, and I had to kiss her again. I pulled her to me firmly and pressed my mouth to hers, my tongue penetrating her, as she kissed me back with just as much enthusiasm.

She moaned louder this time, and I felt light-headed. We’d reached the point of no return, there would be no more teasing or drinking wine. Suddenly her kiss strengthened as she snatched control from me and pushed forward, forcing me onto my back on the floor. I submitted willingly, her mouth still on mine, feeling the warmth and weight of her lean body above me.

I reached down to loosen her trousers, slipping my hand inside far enough to feel she was completely shaven. I was so close to touching her wet heat when she stopped me. “Not yet.” She sat back and helped me out of my jeans and underwear, her eyes all over my newly exposed nakedness. She trailed a finger from my breasts, circled my navel, and slowly slid it between my thighs where I knew she would feel the copious evidence of my arousal. She took her glistening finger and slipped it between her lips, her eyes on mine. I could barely breathe. “Better than the wine.”

“Even the expensive wine?”

“Absolutely, but I’d like another taste, to be sure.” Her hands pressed against the inside of my thighs as she moved between them,

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bending her head lower. For an excruciatingly long time there was only that pressure of her warm hands on my legs and the caress of her breath against my swelling wetness. Then her mouth was on me, gentle teasing mounting gradually into firmer sweeps of her tongue.

When she took me between her lips and sucked, I was lost.

“Oh God, Anna…” I cried, as the intense focus of painful, hot arousal burst and overwhelmed my whole body. She didn’t move her mouth away, drawing out my climax with her tongue until I was nothing but a shuddering mess. Then she curled her body around to lie with her cheek on my stomach, as I tried to recover my breath. I ran a hand over her shoulders, which were still enveloped in the silk of her shirt, and stroked her hair. When I could finally speak again, I murmured, “Well, you’ve certainly set a high standard.”

She raised her head and smiled her satisfaction at me.

“Don’t you think you can live up to it?”

“I didn’t say that. I have faith in myself.” Spurred to confidence by everything that had passed so far, I reached for her waistband.

“Take these off.” Her naked figure was smooth and sleek, all of her skin pale pink and irresistible.

“Now come up here, I’ve wanted to taste you for nearly as long as I’ve been smelling you. Let me prove I can meet your standards.”

Pleasure and aroused anticipation dominating her expression, she knelt over me and bent to kiss my mouth. She parted her thighs and put one knee next to each of my shoulders. Her thighs were warm on my cheeks as she lowered her body slowly, and I reached for her with my tongue. Her taste was far more intoxicating than any wine, and I lost myself in proving I had it in me to far exceed the standard she had laid down.

We were occupied with each other until well after it was dark outside. Anna agreed, twice in a row, I did live up to her standards and set out to raise the bar herself. I thought about nothing and nobody else, captivated by how intense Anna’s usually carefully hidden passions could be once unleashed. Sensations and urges I’d thought dead in me were revived, stronger than I’d ever known them before.

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We finished the wine, ate half of the chocolates together, and fulfilled our physical desires in as many ways as we could think of. Eventually, still entwined and on the floor, we pulled one of the blankets over us and relaxed. It wasn’t long before Anna was asleep, one leg slung over my body, breathing steadily. Listening to her breaths, my mind thinking lazily over everything we had done, I was soothed into sleep myself.

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Winter manor, 1751

Lord William Fitzsimmons Winter leaned on his ornamental walking cane and gazed up at the façade of Winter Manor.

Though late in the evening, it was June and only just dusk. The half-light made the house with its pale frontage appear ethereal, as though it might vanish if he were to blink. He looked with awe upon his creation, a thing of classical beauty, following the strict lines of ancient Greece, his dream land. He could not transplant himself to the Greece of Socrates, but at least, in Winter, he could capture a little of the perfectly proportioned style of those times.

He’d inherited Winter Manor from his father five years previously, and the house which had occupied this spot had been a small, dark, and tiresome Tudor residence. He despised insular, rambling buildings and ordered its demolition almost immediately.

For most of the period of the construction of his new home he’d sojourned in his London town house, relishing his ability to speak to his acquaintances of his impressive country house in the North. His good friend, Sir Robert Hodgson, who studied architecture as one of his many scholarly pursuits and understood his desire for Greek beauty, had sketched the plans for the building on his behalf, and had undertaken to supervise the project, for a quite extraordinary fee. Lord William rather liked paying over the odds for his house. It made him feel indulgent and decadent.

He had been in the North for a month now, ensuring the finishing touches of his new home were undertaken to perfection.

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Overall, he was very pleased though well aware he’d allowed the more baroque aspects of his nature to run wild in the interior décor of the house—the sweeping luxury of curves and silks was hard to resist. He looked up to the clock tower, its curvaceous design at odds with the rest of the house. It was the one part of the house that broke the rules, his rebellion, and it made him smile, feeling rather wicked.

The bitter smell of burning reached his nostrils, and he watched as two male servants lit the torches he’d had placed between where the driveway exited the avenue of trees and where his friends’

carriages would stop in front of the house. They would begin to arrive any minute, and Lord William was excited. It was his first house party at Winter, the first time he’d been able to entertain friends as master of his own country house, emerging finally from his father’s shadow. He’d invited only his closest friends today, and planned to unveil the house to his acquaintance at large at the ball he would hold in August.

He glanced down at his appearance once more, though he had examined every detail in the looking glass several times over before coming out to the front of the house to wait for his guests. His finely embroidered coat was newly made for this occasion. The material was heavy and expensive, the cut perfect, with panels to emphasise the fullness of his hips, but cut close to his slim body about his chest.

He adjusted one of the cuffs, turned back all the way to his elbow, just to feel the silk lining of the coat once more. The waistcoat he wore beneath was of the same rich fabric, and both were trimmed with glistening gold braid. He bent to ensure his new soft leather shoes, with their large silver buckles, showed no imperfections. His white silk stockings were very fine, the buckles securing them to his breeches sitting evenly above his slightly muscled calves. He raised a hand to smooth over his powdered wig. It was impossible for him to look any better. Smiling to himself in satisfaction, he wryly acknowledged his own vanity.

A clanking, rattling sound alerted him to the progress of the first of the carriages to arrive along the driveway. A pair of grey horses appeared, pulling a fine landau. Lord William smiled to

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himself again and waited for the carriage to come to a halt close to where he waited. A footman, liveried in green and gold, descended the steps to open the door and lower the step for the passengers to disembark from the carriage.

“Dearest Georgiana! And Percy too, of course,” Lord William exclaimed as Lord and Lady Stanwell climbed from the carriage.

Georgiana Stanwell, once plain Mary James, born in the St. Giles rookeries, the most horrendous and depraved part of the ever-spreading capital, was one of his closest London confidantes. With her raven hair and voluptuous figure, she’d escaped the gin-soaked whoredom of her mother and sisters to become a much-admired actress, when handsome, rich Lord Percy Stanwell had outraged his family and most of polite society by asking for her hand in marriage.

Lord William delighted in the scandal attached to them, so markedly in contrast to the purity of the way they adored each other, and their friendship had been firmly cemented over the time he had spent in London, since their own town house was across the square from his own.

“William. What a beautiful house you’ve built!” Lady Georgiana exclaimed.

“I laid every stone myself, of course,” he returned. “That is the most exquisite stomacher.” He glanced down over the rest of her fine gown. “But my dear, I fear you’ve changed shape since last we met.”

“Oh, wide and flat is so out of style now, William. Our skirts have to be round and full these days.”

“It suits you perfectly, Georgiana, of course.”

“Now, William, that’s my wife you’re paying lavish compliments to,” Lord Percy said. William patted him on the arm,

“Are you jealous, Percy, dearest?”

“Exceedingly,” Lord Percy replied. “I’d rather like a compliment or two myself.”

“Then I must say I rather admire your ruffles, Lord Stanwell.”

“Most kind.” Lord Percy chuckled softly.

The footman closed the door behind them, and the carriage rumbled away to the rear of the house. “Welcome to my home. I thought tonight wine, sweetmeats, and cards would be a suitable

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entertainment. Tomorrow I will take you into the park and tell you in interminable detail of my intentions for the grounds. I have very interesting plans for a bridge over the river.”

“I’m sure it will be fascinating,” Lady Georgiana replied with ostentatious insincerity. Lord William’s droll reply was interrupted by the arrival of another carriage into the flickering torchlight. His gaze darted over the livery on the door of the carriage, and he hoped his slight disappointment did not show in his expression. Clearly he was a terrible actor, for Lady Georgiana leaned close to him and whispered, “Not who you were hoping for, William?”

“I am equally delighted to see each of my guests.” He smiled his acknowledgement of the truth of her words whilst refusing to look into her twinkling eyes.

The footman opened the door of the newly arrived carriage and the occupants climbed down. Sir Robert Hodgson, who had designed the new Winter Manor, accompanied by his good friend Mr. Henry Branton, and that man’s timid younger sister, Eleanor.

Sir Robert was in his early forties. His tightly curled wig was the colour his hair had once been, dark brown, and his clothes were, at least in comparison to Lord William and Lord Percy’s, rather plain. Henry Branton was more finely dressed, in one of the new style three-piece suits, his breeches, waistcoat, and frock coat all of the same patterned fabric. His pretty blond sister, whose face was flushed with excitement, wore a skirt of the type Lady Georgiana claimed to be now out of fashion, with wide panniers over her hips, but a rather flat profile if viewed from the side.

“Robert! I see you’ve come to examine the use I am making of your work of art,” Lord William said to his friend in greeting.

“I have no doubt you are making excellent use of it,” Sir Robert responded in his characteristic gruff voice.

“Henry, good to see you. And the delicious Miss Branton. I may call you Eleanor, mayn’t I? You may call me Lord Winter.”

Lord William winked at the young woman, and she flushed and giggled, apparently lost for words.

“Are you going to keep us out here in the cold?” Lady Georgiana enquired of him.

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“It’s June, Georgiana, dearest.”

“It’s my prerogative to be cold whatever month it is,” she returned. “Is there a reason you’re not allowing us into your new house?”

“I am rather afraid you will contaminate the perfection of the air,” Lord William said in a serious tone. “But I would hate you to die of a chill, Georgiana, so I will allow you all inside after all.”

Lord William turned towards the house, looking rather regretfully over his shoulder. All of the expected guests were not equal, just as Lady Georgiana had suggested, and there was one in particular he was waiting for.

The party had just reached the point of the front steps where his new Greek statues gazed at each other. He was about to remark on how discontented he thought they looked, with their eyes locked eternally on each other, when he heard another carriage approaching.

“You may all go inside,” he said, ushering his guests past him and through the front doors into the high-ceilinged hallway. “The servants will see you settled in the Drawing Room with drinks. I will meet our final guests and attend to you in a moment.” He caught the knowing look on Lady Georgiana’s countenance, her skirts brushing his legs as she passed him and entered the house.

The carriage came to a halt and the footman attended to it. A woman emerged first. She wore the air of easy sophistication that signalled her nationality. The Marchioness Claudette of Danbridge had been in England since her marriage ten years ago, but she was still perfectly Parisian. Accustomed to luxury in her upbringing in the French royal court of Louis XV, she appeared to regard the whole world with something like distaste. Her gown was decorated with broad vertical stripes, and her waist was corseted into the narrowest dimensions. Her wig was powdered and piled in curls on her crown, her cheeks and lips rouged, and she wore a dark beauty patch to the left of her perfect full lips. She was breathtaking. Lord William kissed her hand and then turned his attention to the man climbing quickly down from the carriage after her. His smile grew broader, and he felt that dreadful surge of anticipation in the very pit of his stomach. George, Marquess of Danbridge smiled warmly at him,

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and it was impossible to miss the simmering heat in his eyes. Lord William was perfectly sure he was not imagining the intent in that even gaze.

The Marquess of Danbridge was taller and broader than Lord William, though not greatly. His frock coat was dark blue and decorated with black and gold piping, with lace at the cuffs. He wore no wig, rather his full head of chestnut hair was swept back and tied with a black velvet ribbon at the nape of his neck. His skin was ageless, though he was four years older than Lord William.

Though his jawline was firm, his mouth was fleshy and sensitive.

Lord William was fascinated by the Marquess’s mouth.

“George! Claudette! I was beginning to think we might not have the pleasure,” he said jovially.

“We couldn’t deny you that of course,” the Marchioness replied in her musically accented English. “Your little house is rather charming,” she added, looking up at Winter appreciatively.

“Only you would call it ‘little,’ Claudette, dearest.”

“It is little. But little is not always a bad thing. It depends on the use the size is put to, don’t you think?” If the Marchioness meant the innuendo of the words, her expression gave no sign of it.

“I agree completely,” Lord William replied, before turning his attention to the Marquess.

“Wonderful to see you, George. I am very eager for you to see the Saloon, I’m sure you will approve of it. I drew a lot of inspiration from our last conversation—about Venice.”

“You did, William?”

“You’re very inspirational, George.” Lord William could feel the colour rising to his face.

The Marchioness rolled her eyes dramatically and took both men by the arm. “Shall we go inside now, William?” She propelled them towards the doors.

Half an hour later, the exclaiming over the quality of the plaster-moulded ceilings, the carved marble fireplace, and the fine blue silk lining the walls of the Drawing Room was complete, and the entire party sat down to a game of whist, declaring that the tour of the rest of the property could wait until daylight would show it to

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its best advantage. The only exception from their game was Eleanor Branton, who declaring herself to be “atrociously terrible” at cards, seated herself at the harpsichord in the adjoining Music Room, and provided an accomplished musical accompaniment to their entertainment, tinkling her way through one of Scarlatti’s sonatas.

“Excellent claret,” Sir Robert said, sipping his drink as he contemplated his hand of cards.

“It is French, of course,” the Marchioness replied.

“Is everything French exquisite?” Lord Percy asked.

“Everything, my lord.” The Marchioness offered him a slight, suggestive smile. “The English manage vulgarity with so much more success than we ever could, however.” She threw a card onto the table.

“I’m particular to English vulgarity myself,” Lord Percy said, patting his wife’s hand comfortingly.

“There’s nothing a French woman can do that I am incapable of,” Georgiana replied indignantly.

“As I’m sure Percy can testify,” Lord William said.

“Perhaps we should ask Percy and George to compare the merits of each nation’s women for us?” Henry Branton said, with a smirk that suggested he would really enjoy such a description.

“And maybe this house party is a respectable gathering.” Lord William’s protest produced contemptuous peals of laughter from all of his guests. Henry Branton played his card, Lord William followed suit, and the game continued. He pondered that laughter though. For all the sins of the company he kept, he felt himself to be, at his core, a respectable man. His father had been a fair and efficient landowner; he had himself studied at Cambridge to be sure his intellect did not stagnate as a result of his wealth; he neither drank nor gambled to excess; and he even listened to the sermon from the family pew in the local church most Sundays.

Lord William took a sip of his claret and leaned back in his chair to survey his gathered friends. A former actress and woman of easy virtue leaned lovingly on the shoulder of a lord wealthier than himself who had spited his family and married for true love.

A knight who spent most of his time enclosed in his library and

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planning fine buildings sipped his claret with true appreciation. A country gentleman studied the cards intently, and his rather silly, yet accomplished, younger sister smiled as she played the harpsichord.

A self-obsessed French aristocrat glanced around at the company as keenly as he did himself. And an English Marquess reclined in his chair, watching the game with a relaxed countenance. Lord William’s eyes lingered on the Marquess. He loved Georgiana, it was true, but suddenly everyone in the room except the Marquess appeared frivolous and pointless. None of them were as solid, as deeply thoughtful, as substantial as the Marquess.

George, Marquess of Danbridge and his wife, Claudette, were also the only members of his party who were both welcome in respectable society and actively sought out such approval. Both attended King George II at court when they were in London, and the Marchioness’s French style was envied and copied by many of the nobility’s most proper ladies. That he claimed them among his own close friends was a privilege he did not quite understand. They took a risk in being associated with Lord William, not because of Lord William himself, but because Lord William maintained friendships with people such as Lady Georgiana—who were generally bitterly condemned by polite society—and preferred the company of men such as Sir Robert, who were shunned for their eccentricity. The Marquess was different, he straddled both worlds without duplicity, and Lord William was endlessly fascinated by him. It had changed everything when he’d discovered, during their last meeting, that the Marquess returned similar feelings. Since that time, Lord William had been able to think of very little else.

Lord William found it no great revelation that he should be attracted so compulsively to one of his own sex. His time at Cambridge had educated him in more ways than one. The surprise was that a man such as the Marquess would share any of those feelings, and that they should be inspired by him. Certain comments had passed between them, and more meaningful glances, until there was no doubt of their shared sentiments. The uncertainty came in whether either of them would yet act on their feelings. The Marquess was a married, respected man, but somehow the look

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in his eye suggested he was also a man of action, who would not leave his desires unfulfilled. Lord William found that glimmer in the Marquess’s expression desperately exciting.

The card game was eventually won by Sir Robert, who was very pleased with himself. Lord William ordered a footman to go to the kitchens and bring them further refreshments, since there was no indication of any of his guests being ready to retire to their chambers just yet. Eleanor Branton had ceased playing the harpsichord and suddenly found herself the uncomfortable centre of attention, as Lady Georgiana quizzed her about her future marriage plans, of which, aged just sixteen, she had only the vaguest, most optimistic of ideas.

The Marchioness appeared a little distracted from the conversation, as did Henry Branton, who was gazing at the Marchioness with an inscrutable expression, apparently unnoticed by its object.

The Marquess rose to his feet and brushed the skirts of his coat smooth, announcing his intention to take a brief turn outside, for the sake of the fresh air. Lord William immediately rose to his feet and declared that there was an aspect of the columns on the façade of Winter that he especially wanted the Marquess to examine, and followed him from the room.

The two men were silent as they crossed the hallway to the front door, their heeled shoes loud on the tiled floor, and went out onto the front steps. There, the Marquess paused and turned to Lord William, as though there was something to say he did not quite have the words for. Lord William heard his heart in his ears and began to fiddle nervously with the lace trim of his cuffs. He waited for the Marquess to speak, knowing he could not break the silence himself.

“What is it you wanted me to see, William?” the Marquess enquired, with a slight raising of his eyebrows. Lord William felt his eyes drawn back to that soft mouth, such a contrast with the otherwise brusque character of the Marquess’s face. There was the slightest hint of the regrowth of his dark beard along the firm jawline.

“You can admire the Greek pillars if they draw your interest, George,” Lord William replied, tension coming into his voice.

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“They don’t really draw my interest at all, William,” the Marquess returned, his dark eyes now fixed on Lord William’s face.

“No?” Lord William said weakly.

“Not particularly.”

“What does draw your interest, George?” As the question passed his lips he wondered if it was too bold.

“I think you know what draws my interest, William.” The Marquess’s expression intensified and he closed the space between them. Lord William took a step back and found his back pressed against one of the stone columns. The Marquess moved closer still, until the skirts of their coats touched and Lord William could smell the wine on his breath. He felt a familiar tightening in his crotch. The Marquess placed one hand either side of Lord William’s shoulders and leaned still closer until Lord William could feel his heat along the length of his body, and his face blurred with proximity, all except those deep brown eyes. The pressure in his breeches grew.

“And…what is that, George?” Lord William asked, trying to maintain his end of the conversation with something like composure.

“You know they could hang you for the thoughts you’re having, William?” the Marquess said in a breathy whisper that caressed Lord William’s lips.

“Just for the thoughts?”

“Maybe not just the thoughts.” The Marquess pressed his mouth to Lord William’s, in a kiss that was at first exploratory and tender. The force of the kiss increased then, and the sensation which had swept through Lord William’s entire corporeal form suddenly became increasingly focused in his crotch, growing from pleasurable warmth to searing heat. Caught by the intensity of the passion the Marquess’s kiss inspired, he wrapped one arm around the Marquess’s muscular body and pulled him tight against his own chest, whilst his other hand slid lower, to discover that the Marquess was just as aroused as he was. That first contact with the hardness in the Marquess’s breeches was almost his undoing, and he groaned with the effort of resisting the urge to release.

The sound seemed to jolt the Marquess, as though he had been in a daze. Suddenly he stepped back from Lord William, breathing

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hard and wide eyed. Lord William found himself still leaning against the stone pillar, his legs not strong enough to support him on their own. He looked at the Marquess and tried to understand what was happening.

“George?” he said, frightened by the ragged tone of his own voice.

“William.” The Marquess paused and seemed to consider his next words. “I cannot do this.”

“But why, George?” Lord William demanded, feeling almost desperate.

“I want you too much, William. You’ll never be some meaningless and fleeting liaison, easily forgettable. We’ll have to see each other in the world.”

“You’re worried for your reputation?” Lord William was surprised. “I won’t breathe a word to anyone. Don’t you trust me, George?”

“I do trust you, William. But can we do this? You realise I’m a married man.”

“Claudette need not know.”

“If she did it could break her heart.”

“She has a heart?”

“Now, William, don’t be cruel.” The Marquess’s face twitched with the flicker of a smile.

“But George, really.” Lord William walked towards him and reached to run his fingers over the planes of his face. Now that he knew how that mouth tasted, how those lips felt against his own, he needed more. “Can you deny this?”

The Marquess leaned towards him, and Lord William felt the excitement growing once more. But he pulled back again. “I want to, William, I can’t tell you how greatly. But could you stand it if, in a year or so, we are in the same society, and I have to play the doting husband and pay you little regard? It is not merely Claudette’s heart that I worry for.”

“That is your concern, George?” Lord William considered for a moment. He could not deny the difficulty the Marquess put between them. Though fashionable society was full of rumours of

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such relations between men, it was an open secret, never spoken of and most certainly never acknowledged by the men involved. To show any symptom of such a relationship, or even the desire for such a relationship, could mean social exile and the very real spectre of the death penalty. Moreover, Lord William certainly had no wish to injure the Marchioness, or her reputation. Yet the temptation was so strong. It was difficult to convince himself something that felt so correct, so straightforward, was in reality so much more complicated.

He assessed his own fortitude, his ability to be in society with the Marquess and give no hint of what had passed between them. He was strong enough. “Do not concern yourself with my heart, George.”

“Is that not what one does with the heart of the one they love?”

Lord William caught his breath. “You love me, George?”

“Since the first moment we met, William,” the Marquess replied, his voice wavering.

Drawn inextricably by the emotion in the words, Lord William bent towards the Marquess once more. Their lips met and their tongues slid together. Then the Marquess eased away from the kiss.

“Which is why I can’t do this, William,” he whispered thickly and then walked away, up the steps and into the house. If he had gone in the direction of the gardens, Lord William could have followed him, pleaded with him to change his mind. But the house, with their friends and the servants, was the one place he was helpless. So he remained where he was.

The night was cooler now, and a strong breeze was blowing.

Lord William’s fine clothes felt suddenly as though they were suffocating him, and he was gripped by an absurd urge to rip all of them from his body and stand naked in the night air, to roll in the grass and feel its cool dampness against his skin, to run down to the river and let its cold currents wash the longing and wanting away from his body. He could still taste the Marquess on his lips, feel that hard flesh against his fingers. To know he aroused a man like the Marquess caused another wave of sweat to prickle all over his skin. To hear the Marquess’s pained declaration of his love, and yet to know the same love was the reason he was denied, was the most terrible torture for his heart, unused to such emotions as it was.

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He looked out across the dark parkland. An owl screeched somewhere in the thick trees, and the eerie sound made him shiver. There was no choice but to return to the bright candlelight of the drawing room and the company of his friends, to ignore the Marquess, and to smother his own heart. It would be good rehearsal for the rest of his life.

Lord William turned and glanced at the impassive statues on either side of the steps. They reminded him of his own predicament, loving, looking, longing, and yet unable to move any closer because of the stuff they were made of. Only he knew his craving for the slightest touch of the Marquess was far greater than anything these classical, stony lovers could ever be capable of representing with their unmoving features. He sighed and took the remaining steps to the front door quickly.

In the entrance hall, Lord William closed the door quietly behind him. He glanced around and was relieved to see no skulking footman had observed him. He began to walk towards the Drawing Room, his footsteps ringing loudly on the floor.

“William.” The voice came from the shadows below the grand staircase, close to the entrance to the Saloon. The distinct resonance of the Marquess’s voice was instantly recognisable. Without a moment’s hesitation, Lord William went towards it. He saw the tall shadow lingering near the open Saloon doorway. He had the notion if he were to hold up a light, the shadow would vanish in a moment.

Seize the moment now or forever regret it.

“George?” he said, as he approached, scarce able to believe what was happening. The lack of illumination in this part of the house was disconcerting, and Lord William felt almost afraid, filled with anticipation of what would happen next. Suddenly the shadow moved in front of him, and he was taken by the arm and dragged into the Saloon. The candles had not been lit in that room, for Lord William had had no intention of using it tonight. A bluish light filtered through the Venetian window, but the darkness was thick and enveloping. The Marquess pushed him back against the door as he closed it behind them, and kissed him with a passion that made their first kiss on the steps entirely innocent in comparison. The

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Marquess’s strong fingers cradled Lord William’s face, pulled him deeper into the devouring kiss. The whole of Lord William’s body seemed to combust in one moment as he gripped the Marquess and pulled him closer so their bodies were touching.

“What about…everything you said?” Lord William managed to ask between gasping breaths, as the Marquess left his mouth to bend his kisses to his throat, his hands working quickly to loosen the high white stock Lord William wore about his neck.

“Nonsense, all of it,” the Marquess returned breathlessly. “This is too much to resist and pointless to deny, William. Society will never know more than whispers, and God knows there are those already. My dear wife is, I suspect, a faithless French whore, though I’ve not caught her at it.” He kissed Lord William again and trailed his tongue over his jaw and down his now-exposed throat. Lord William shuddered with arousal. “And even if there is only tonight for us, William, I have to know what it is to be with you.” His hands were working on the buttons of Lord William’s waistcoat now. He exposed the thin cotton of Lord William’s shirt and placed his hands over it. When Lord William felt the warmth of the Marquess’s hands through the thin fabric, it was almost too much.

Lord William fought his way beneath the Marquess’s layers of clothing, knowing he had to feel the warm skin and smooth muscle against his hands, more than he needed air to fill his lungs. When he reached his target he leaned back against the wall, running his hands over the Marquess’s back with its very fine covering of hair, and the Marquess brought his mouth back to Lord William’s, his kiss this time infused with love and fed by the more frenzied passion pulsing between them, driving their bodies closer. Lord William felt they were fusing together, becoming one flesh, and knew there could be no better fate in this world.

The Marquess’s hands worked at the button fastening of his breeches. Lord William could get no harder, but he felt his heartbeat focus in his groin. When the Marquess’s hand slipped into the opening he had created, William held his breath as the warm, dry fingers took hold of him. His whole body tensed, and he gripped the

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Marquess’s body hard. The Marquess’s hand moved gently, gripping tighter, as he brought his mouth to Lord William’s ear.

“Don’t hold yourself back, William, my love, I want to feel you give yourself for me.”

“All for you.” Lord William could restrain himself no more.

The Marquess smothered his cry of release with more kisses as Lord William slammed his arms back against the wall, pressing his body forward into the Marquess’s muscular form. He knocked a candlestick from the nearby sideboard as he did so, but did not notice the sound as it fell. His ears were ringing and he was blind, but the Marquess’s mouth was still on his, those warm fingers still holding him. Whatever happened after this moment, he knew this was the pinnacle of his existence and the only time he would feel truly alive, ever in his life.

❖

In the Drawing Room, Eleanor Branton heard a dull thud from somewhere beyond the walls of the Music Room. She listened carefully but heard nothing further.

“Did any of you attend to that peculiar sound?” she asked of the company at large.

Lady Georgiana, who was seated close to her husband on the settee, conversing with him with her forehead almost resting on his, looked up. “What was that, Miss Branton?”

“Why, Lady Stanwell, I was certain I heard a sound from the rooms beyond this one,” Eleanor replied, flushing to feel several pairs of eyes turned in her direction.

“I am quite sure it is merely a servant about some task or other,”

Lady Georgiana replied dismissively.

“Yes. Or Lord Winter, perhaps. He and the Marquess have been absent a long while.”

“Haven’t they just?” Lord Percy agreed. “Perhaps I should go and investigate what has become of them.”

“I think not, Percy dearest,” Lady Georgiana replied, placing a gentle restraining hand on her husband’s arm. “I think it is unlikely that William is lost in his own house.”

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Lord Percy caught his wife’s warning look and comprehension dawned on him slowly. “Oh yes, you’re right of course, darling Georgiana.” He smiled slightly to himself. Eleanor Branton caught that vague smile and wondered what it meant. She would be pleased when Lord William returned to the room, for he was by far the handsomest man in the party, and the sole reason she had begged to accompany her brother to Winter Manor tonight. She entertained a hopeful notion, if she could put herself enough in company with Lord William, he would pay her sufficient attention to realise what a suitable wife she could make him. Her mother had urged her to do everything within her womanly power to coax him into an interest in her, and she had to confess to herself there was something about Lord William she found rather compelling. When he looked at her it was all she could do not to blush.

She listened closely again, certain she heard movement once more from the other side of the Music Room. She wondered which room was through that wall, and what on earth a servant was doing there to be making such noises. Then she noticed Lady Georgiana regarding her keenly, the look in the other woman’s eyes somehow a warning, though she could not comprehend it. Eleanor had not been much in society, and interaction with these people was at once fascinating, intimidating, and bewildering. There always seemed to be something unsaid between them, communicated in a language of glances, whispered asides, and silent expressions she could not read.

Perhaps when she understood what lay beneath such mystifying communications, she would be completely accepted by these people. She longed for their acceptance. Maybe then Lord William would pay her more attention.

Eleanor sighed and left the Drawing Room, turning through the open doors of the Music Room to sit by the harpsichord. She ran her fingers slowly and gently over the keys and began to play, a slow nocturne she deemed suitable accompaniment for this advanced time of the evening.

❖

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The gently rising notes of the harpsichord filtered softly through the wall connecting the darkened Saloon to the Music Room. Now naked but for his loosened shirt, Lord William raised his head to listen. The Marquess reached down to stroke his hair, free of his wig. The Marquess was sprawled on his back on the chaise longue, Lord William on a cushion on the floor, his head against the Marquess’s solid naked thigh. The door was locked, but the strains of the melancholy music reminded them of the people assembled just two rooms away.

“I wish I could die now,” Lord William sighed.

The Marquess raised his head and smiled wistfully. “No you don’t, William. You have this beautiful house, a fine tailor, your father’s fortune, and excellent taste in claret. What more does a man need?”

“I need you, George.”

“As I do you, William, dearest.”

“I thought, perhaps, after tonight the need would lessen.”

“I knew it would not.”

“This won’t be enough, will it George?” Lord William felt a cold jolt of fear through his bowels. It was a paralysing horror at the idea of moving away from the Marquess now, of leaving this perfect moment, and it was a terror that knew no bounds, of the difficulty of keeping something so profound private, with the most desperate necessity. It felt like trying to fit an Indian elephant into a mouse’s hole, trying to hide something of gigantic proportions in a secret space that could not possibly confine it.

“No William, it will not be enough. But there will be other nights, other moments.”

“And recollections of tonight will sustain me.” Lord William felt the truth of his statement in the deepest recesses of his soul.

“This will always be our time, our place,” the Marquess replied.

He sighed. “Do you ever worry about the sins of the fathers and all that, William?”

“What, being visited upon the sons? I have absolutely no intention of fathering any sons, George. Or daughters, for that matter.”

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“But I might. And what of the generations who will inhabit your fine rooms after you? They are surely your heirs.”

“Then I hope to bequeath them a legacy of love and the most irresistible desire. I don’t believe you need to be concerned for the souls of your yet-to-be-born offspring, George. This doesn’t feel terribly sinful.”

The Marquess ran his fingers through Lord William’s hair and sighed once more. “I have to agree with you, William.”

The harpsichord music grew softer, pianissimo. It might as well have come from another world, a terrible nightmare world with cruel rules, whispered judgements, and frustrations yet to come.

In the dark Saloon, his cheek against the Marquess’s thigh, it was almost impossible to believe such a world could exist.

But it did exist, and now they had to return to it. “Will there be other times, George, for us?”

“There will be other times, William, my love. I believe I might find reasons to travel to Winter alone in the future.”

“I have never valued my inheritance so greatly,” Lord William said with a small smile. The Marquess stooped to kiss him, before they rose to their feet, dressed, and prepared to return to the brightly lit other world. As he did so, Lord William entertained a hopeful, poetic notion that maybe love—sheltered within the walls of Winter though it would have to be—could overcome anything. If it could not, it was at least the most beautiful, profound distraction.

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chapter eiGht

I woke up while the hallway was still shrouded in the blue shadows of very early dawn, an unsurprising consequence of having fallen asleep not much past eight. I opened my eyes and blinked at the now familiar shapes around me: the looming staircase, the beams of the high ceiling. But the perspective was wrong. I was on the floor, and there was a warm pressure against my left side.

Anna.

I turned my head to look at her, rolled away from me in her sleep, the blanket pulled over her naked shoulders. My first emotion was a wave of disbelieving elation as the memories cleared, accompanied by a surge of heat in my groin.

She moved slightly and mumbled something incoherent.

The recollection came out of nowhere: Francesca used to talk in her sleep too. My stomach plummeted, though I fought the wave of sudden anxiety. Francesca was the last person I wanted to think about in that moment. Just one night with Anna had proved what I had already suspected, I was capable of far greater levels of passion than Francesca had ever aroused in me. Now, more than ever, I knew I’d made the right decision in leaving her.

But Francesca had appeared perfect to me once. What was to say a relationship with Anna would be any more successful? I willed my doubts not to encroach on what should have been one of the most perfect mornings of my life, but once the thoughts began, the sinking feeling was inescapable. I knew it was a direct reaction

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to how wonderful the night had been. Looking at Anna now, as she still slept peacefully, I could barely believe just how close to perfection those hours had been. I recalled the feel of her hands on my body, the taste of her on my tongue, and knew I wanted her again. Too badly. I couldn’t risk falling in love with Anna, lured by her captivating, hidden sensuality. The events of the past months were still too fresh to risk new pain. Besides, I had nothing to offer her. Not only was she beautiful and talented, her life was in order, it was stable. I craved the sort of stability Anna maintained, and did not want to risk undermining hers, as I found myself still hurting and vaguely bewildered by life. There was no way I could believe she saw this as more than a passing diversion. I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with that, especially not at this point in my life, longing for certainty as I was.

Feeling panic creeping from the pit of my stomach to wrap itself crushingly around my heart, I stared at the back of Anna’s neck, the tendrils of her golden hair. I wanted to reach out and touch them, so badly my fingers trembled.

As though she had pushed me, I jolted away from Anna’s side and sat up. My bare leg brushed the cold tiles of the floor and sent a chill through my whole body. I stood up, found my clothes from the evening before, and dressed quickly. I saw the evidence of our pleasures: the empty bottle lying on its side, the half-consumed box of chocolates, and the discarded clump of mistletoe. They stirred a recollection of warmth, which I suppressed fiercely.

I sat on a chair and stared at Anna as she slept. She was so perfect. Stunningly attractive, intelligent and witty, and with the promise there would always be something new to discover about her. I had no doubt I was half in love with her already. That was why I had to stop this. I’d been carried away the day before. The occasion of Christmas had made me weak, her sudden arrival caught me by surprise. Now I needed to be strong and sensible. I wasn’t anywhere near ready for another relationship, even if that was really what she wanted. And that was by no means certain anyway. Did Anna want a full-blown relationship? With the views she’d aired over the compromise of her personal freedom, were our ideas of what such

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a relationship involved in any way compatible? There had been a real darkness in her expression when we’d talked of relationships before. That surely didn’t bode well.

Besides, even if—unlikely though it seemed—Anna had developed real feelings for me, I had to stop leading her on. She knew nothing of me. She didn’t know that my mother’s death had terrified me with a reminder of my own mortality and made my turning thirty seem a dreadful occasion. I’d not told her I’d had only one serious relationship, and as a result of its failure, I was now questioning all of my assumptions about love, contentment, and desire. She didn’t know how thoroughly confused by life I was and how blindly I’d been seeking a new direction before Winter was presented to me.

I’d shown Anna only the side of me I wanted her to see, the Ros who could talk about architecture and history, could flirt and tease as well as she could, was enthusiastic about the renovation of Winter, and was optimistic about the future. That might be the woman I wanted to be, but it was not my truth in this moment. Anna knew nothing of me at all. I didn’t have enough certainties myself to be able to enlighten her much further. That was no way to begin a relationship. Having seen the perfection of what it could be, I knew it was too much to hope for. It was better to end it now, before things went too far.

As though she felt me watching her, Anna stirred and turned, opening her eyes to look directly at me. She’d removed her glasses as we’d begun to doze the night before, and without their hard lines, her eyes heavy with sleep, she was girlish and vulnerable. It made the prospect of disappointing her horrific, for I sensed at that moment she was not as resilient as she gave the impression of being.

I knew her eyesight was bad enough she couldn’t see me clearly without her glasses and watched as she found them and put them on, waiting until she could see me properly before I said anything.

As soon as she focused, she smiled. “Good morning,” she said.

She looked more closely at my expression, and her smile faded. “Or is it not such a good morning?”

“It’s not about last night.” I made my face as emotionless as I could manage, when I actually wanted to cry. “Last night was…

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was…so close to damn perfect I don’t have the words.” My voice wavered.

“Then what is it?” Her expression grew increasingly concerned.

“The perfection is the problem,” I said softly.

“What on earth do you mean, Ros?”

“You need to leave.” My words sounded cold, even as I spoke them. In the blue early morning, in the sparsely furnished hallway, they echoed and grew colder still.

“What?” She sounded somewhere between offended and angry in her confusion.

“You need to leave. We can’t do this—or, I mean, I can’t do this.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I just can’t.” I wasn’t sure I could sustain this resolution for long, if she didn’t leave soon. Just looking into her blue eyes, even growing increasingly hostile as they were, stirred emotions deep inside me and made me grow hungry for her once more.

“So what was last night then?”

“A perfect, wonderful mistake. Something I wanted very badly, but really shouldn’t have done.”

“It didn’t feel like a mistake. And if you wanted it, then why the hell is it a mistake?” She made my argument sound as weak as it was. But I had to be resolute.

“You don’t know me at all, Anna.”

“Is that the problem? Well you don’t know me either, Ros. I think we can remedy that quite easily. It’s called getting to know each other. It’s what happens when people like each other.” A biting sarcasm crept into her tone now.

“That’s not the problem,” I said. “At least, it’s not that we don’t know each other well enough. If you knew me better, you’d think less of me.”

“Are you a closet psychopath or something? Are you going to strangle me in my sleep as you’ve done to a whole host of women before me and bury me under the floorboards?” Her gaze challenged me to laugh and allow the situation to resolve itself. I clenched my teeth together and did not.

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“No. But it won’t work out. I’m not up to it right now. You’ll think it’s all been a mistake in the end.”

“Isn’t that my decision?”

“Look, Anna, I can’t be with you. Please. You have to go.”

I couldn’t take the logic of her interrogation. If she’d been softer, more sympathetic to my feelings I might have known what to say next. But her peremptory reasoning was too much for me.

In silence she stood up and began to gather her clothes. I turned away from her beautiful nakedness and the wounded expression on her face. I stared at the doorway which led through to the Blue Drawing Room. Over the past week I’d started to see it, in my mind’s eye, renovated to its former beauty and grandeur. I’d begun to see how the whole of the house would take shape. I realised now how, without my even stopping to consider it, Anna had become integral to all of those plans. Now I would have to work with her, knowing how much I wanted her and could not have her. Having had a taste of what we could be together and forced to resist the temptation. On top of that, I’d let her down, maybe even hurt her. I didn’t want to hurt her. I wanted so badly to tease those little crooked smiles onto her lips, draw out the cries of pleasure that had echoed around this hallway so short a time ago. But wanting it and being able to give it were very different things. I couldn’t prevent the tears flooding my eyes.

“So, when will I see you again?” Anna said from behind me. I heard her formal, professional tone and I winced. How would I cope with working with her in the future on such a cold, businesslike basis? I didn’t want to turn to see her eyes had frosted over again.

Maybe I wanted her to ask me gentle and understanding questions.

But that wasn’t Anna’s way. The lump in my throat prevented me from responding. “Ros?” Her tone demanded that I reply. I couldn’t look at her.

I heard her footsteps approaching me, and then her hand was heavy on my shoulder. “You’re at least going to look at me before I leave.” She forced me to turn around with her insistent tone. As I did, I saw the angry expression on her face change and mould itself into one of confusion and then compassion. I stared back at

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her through a haze of tears. My heart felt as though it imploded with the pain of wanting, of longing for something I could not have, for reasons I could not define. I shook her hand off my shoulder.

“Don’t touch me. Please, I can’t stand it.”

Anna let her hand drop, her expression puzzled. “Ros? What’s wrong?”

“Everything, Anna. Everything’s wrong. There’s so much you don’t know about me. And I’m not sure I’m ready for this. I don’t know how I’m supposed to know if I’m ready or not. How on earth will I ever be able to offer you anything you need? You deserve so much more.” I said the last words weakly, through an aching throat.

The tears were running over my cheeks now. I wiped them with the back of my hand.

“And what makes you think you know me so well that you can judge what I need of you?” Anna reached for my arm and squeezed it gently.

“I just know,” I replied, stubborn in my miserable conviction.

“Everything in your life is just as it should be. You don’t need someone with my emotional baggage. You deserve someone who knows for sure where their life is going. I have no idea.”

“Don’t be so ridiculous,” Anna said, her tone softer than her words. “For a start, my life is far from perfect. And do me a favour and credit me with some judgement. I didn’t come here with the intention of spending the night with you just because you have beautiful eyes.” She hesitated and looked awkward, as though she wasn’t sure how to phrase the next words. “I like you Ros,” she said tentatively, “with whatever baggage you’re carrying. I want to get to know you more.” I knew she wanted me to smile, to be convinced by her words and let the tension between us thaw, but I couldn’t.

“You don’t understand. With all the stuff that’s happened lately, I have no idea where my life’s going—”

“Don’t tell me you think you’re the only one who’s ever had anything bad happen to them and struggled to cope?” Anna’s tone was sharper now, and I winced as she went on. “That’s part of life.”

Her expression was pained, and I wondered what Anna had ever suffered. “But you’re no martyr, Ros. It’s one of the things I like

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about you. I know some horrible things have happened in this last year, and you’ve got a lot of thinking to do still. But you’ve come through it all with your sense of humour intact and the bravery to take on Winter. You’ve by no means gone under, and you don’t whine for sympathy either. I admire that.”

“You do?” I wanted very badly for her to confirm her high opinion of me. I needed more words of reassurance.

“Why should that be so hard to believe?”

“Because you handle life so well. I don’t really know why you think I have anything for you.”

Anna sighed. “It’s not about what you can give me, Ros. It’s just about you. You’re beautiful, you’re witty, you’re perceptive and sensitive, you’re brave, and you’re a bloody good kisser. I like the scent of patchouli oil. Am I allowed to find you attractive now?”

The words were rushed as though she was embarrassed to say them, yet could only be genuine from the way she reddened. Her tone stopped my tears but made it no easier for me to believe she had the right impression of me. “And besides, you have no idea how I handle my life,” she added.

“Better than I do, I have no doubt,” I countered.

“For God’s sake, Ros!” Anna exclaimed, irritation creeping into her words. “I never took you as someone with a low opinion of themselves.”

“You see, you don’t know me at all!”

“Then tell me.” She took my hands in her cool fingers, with a tenderness that surprised me following so closely after her apparent annoyance. She led me towards the stairs and sat down. As she did, she was bathed in a shaft of daylight from the small window above the door and looked heartbreakingly beautiful. She indicated I should sit beside her. I obeyed her automatically, perching on the step just below her, drawn to her kindness. Why was she still here?

What did it mean? “Go on, fill me in,” she urged.

“I can’t. You don’t want to hear about—”

“Tell me, Ros. I’m not asking. You owe it to me.” I considered her words. She was right. In allowing her so close I’d opened the door to a greater intimacy between us. It was unfair of me not to

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explain why I slammed that door closed again now. I had to do the right thing by her and make it clear to her why we couldn’t pursue a relationship.

“Okay,” I said quietly. “But I don’t know where to start.”

“At the beginning is usually best.” Her tone compelled me to speak.

“I’ve only had one girlfriend in my entire life.”

“Well, that’s hardly a problem, and it certainly hasn’t turned you into a prude or anything,” Anna said.

“That’s not what I mean. I’m saying I don’t feel like I can handle relationships very well. I told you we broke up earlier this year.” I looked up into Anna’s eyes and wanted to tell her. “I think I’d always had an idea of what our relationship was, and when I finally realised it wasn’t living up to that, I decided it had to end.”

“Were you with her a long time?”

“Nine years. But I guess the magic had gone for at least the last three of those.” I smiled wistfully. My relationship with Francesca had been on the rocks long before my mother’s death and my subsequent re-evaluation of my life and career. I’d just never forced myself to look at it honestly before.

“It’s not easy to move on from long-term relationships Ros, I don’t expect you to—”

“It’s not just that.”

“Then what else is it?” Anna looked as though she really wanted to understand. The temptation of breaking down and telling her everything I felt, seeking her sympathy and understanding, was huge. I made an effort to keep my composure and my mind on what was sensible and healthy.

“My mother’s death made me think about things so differently.

She was only fifty-two. She’d never even thought about death, but she was already dying when she was diagnosed. I watched how easily a life can slip away. How a living person becomes a memory, nothing but a ghost.” It had been a real shock to my system. I’d never confronted the idea of death before. I knew it had to happen one day, but to see the reality of it shook the entire foundation of my life.

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“And it made you look again at your career and your relationship and wonder whether they were really what you wanted to do with this brief life we have?” Anna was so perceptive when she chose to express her thoughts.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“But I understand that, Ros. I wouldn’t push you into anything you weren’t comfortable with.” Anna’s tone was imploring me now.

I knew she wanted me to trust her, to believe her when she said she understood. Could I trust her when I didn’t even trust myself?

“It’s not you that’s the problem here,” I told her as honestly as I could. “It’s me. And I don’t mean that in the clichéd way either.

I do really like you, Anna. But I’m not in a place where I can do this right now.” She deserved the truth. My words were the closest approximation of what that truth was I could manage.

“I think you underestimate yourself, Ros,” Anna replied. I could tell she was beginning to see how resolute I was. The compassion in her eyes was turning to something that looked a lot like pain. My lack of ability to trust her, to believe her assurances and her faith in me, was hurting her. After the clear effort it cost her to speak the words to explain her feelings she deserved more. I hated myself for causing her pain but knew I had no other option. I needed more time before I entered any sort of relationship. Being with Anna promised so much, but if I was not ready, it would be pointless and cause us both even more heartache. I had to find my own path, and be sure it was safe, before I invited someone to walk with me.

“You might be right,” I acknowledged. “But really whether I’m underestimating myself or not, the point is I don’t know myself well enough at the moment to give you what you need.”

“You don’t know what I need,” Anna said firmly. “If that’s all that’s the problem—”

“It’s not all. I don’t know what I need either.” I said this more firmly, knowing she was still missing the point and determined she would understand me now. “You’re very kind Anna, but I’m in a place where I don’t know how I feel about my future, I even can’t bring myself to contact my baby sister because she intimidates me with her competence, and I’m not sure what sort of relationship I

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want to be in with anyone. I don’t know myself. How can I let you know me when I’m not sure who I am? Please understand that it’s not about you at all. But right now I cannot give you everything you deserve.” My tone was emphatic, and she winced slightly as I concluded.

“I didn’t mean to pressure you, Ros,” she said, half apologetic and half indignant. “And I’m not stupid. I understand what you’re saying, I’m just trying to tell you that I don’t see it as a problem for us to give it a go and—”

“And nothing Anna.” My exasperation was with myself, not her, and I hastened to soften my words. “I can’t. Not right now. I wish I could tell you something different.”

Anna considered me thoughtfully for a moment, clearly slightly taken aback by my bluntness. I was half in love with her already, ludicrous though that was when I’d only barely seen beyond the surface. That in itself was proof of my vulnerable emotional state and a very good reason for me to stay firm to my resolution. My emotions would only grow stronger if I confided in her further and gave her a chance to reassure me.

More doubts began to trouble me. How did I even know for sure her reassurances were genuine? My heart longed to believe her, but my mind reminded me we’d just slept together. She could hardly run a mile from whatever I told her now without looking heartless herself. I didn’t know her well enough to know what she was really thinking. Why on earth did it seem to be such an effort to tell me how she was feeling? Until I knew her better I couldn’t allow myself to be drawn in.

Besides, even if every word she uttered was entirely honest, I needed more time, I needed more hours alone to find my way again, without the complication of falling for someone I barely knew, especially someone I already liked as much as I did Anna. Too much, too soon. I had to end this. For both of us. Now.

I forced myself away from her and got to my feet. “Look, Anna, you’re very kind. After last night, I don’t have to tell you the way I feel about you. I don’t want to hurt you. That’s why it’s best you just leave now.”

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Anna rose to her feet to stand next to me. I could see she was about to protest. When she reached out her hand for my arm, in one of the hardest movements of my life, I stepped away from her. “No, please. I can’t, Anna. Know that I want to, please know that. But I really can’t.”

Her eyes were keen on my face, and I saw the moment she comprehended my decision was final. Realisation was followed by something between disappointment and resentment. She was hurt I didn’t trust her, I could see it plainly.

“Okay. I can’t force anything, and I respect your choice, Ros.

I clearly can’t convince you differently.” She reached for her coat and put it on. Her face had become a mask again, and her tone gave nothing away beyond a vague regret. I wanted to tear the mask away again but knew I could not. She wrapped her scarf around her neck. I watched her with misery quivering inside me, forcing myself not to reveal it to her. She turned towards the door. “Last night was pretty perfect for me too, Ros. I really thought there could be something good between us. I suppose I was mistaken, I’m sorry. I’ll call you about Winter after the New Year.”

“Thank you,” I said, unable to look her in the eye. She let herself out of the door. I didn’t breathe again until I heard her car pull away. I sank to my knees in the middle of the hallway and sobbed until I’d made my throat raw and my eyes swollen. Anna had shown me a possible path into the immediate future, some real solid happiness. But I knew all too well the dangers of thinking I was on a sure and certain path. It could all change in a painfully short amount of time. What Anna offered was wonderful, but it would be built on a shifting and weak foundation. I couldn’t take the chance with my emotional well-being. Given time, I could contemplate a relationship again. There would be other attractive women, when I was stronger. Now, gazing through blurred vision at the wilting mistletoe and half-eaten box of chocolates, I just had to reconcile myself to my sensible decision.

• 187 •

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chapter nine

I waited indifferently for the New Year to dawn. Last year I had greeted the beginning of another January with enthusiasm, imagining the year in which I turned thirty would be one of the best of my life. I had expected to achieve something. Now I wandered blindly around Winter, my optimism dissolved, and the coming months loomed like huge obstacles in front of me.

What had happened with Anna left me longing to feel numb.

Instead, I was tormented by thoughts of her. Where I’d expected ending our relationship before it began to give me room to develop the clarity and direction I was lacking, I found that I was instead rather more confused and full of doubts as to whether I should have handled things differently. Worse, the notion of facing her again terrified me.

I knew I certainly had to see her again. Auntie Edie had wanted her to work on Winter, and I doubted there was anyone better. Besides, I wouldn’t deprive her of a job because of my own emotional turmoil.

I’d simply have to find a way to deal with her on a professional level.

Professionalism and efficiency were what Anna did best; dealing with her professionally would surely be straightforward, if not easy.

I knew I would never forget her wine-sweetened kisses, those warm, firm hands, and the embraces of Christmas Day when, for a brief moment, my life seemed to come together again. But I would have to put the memories out of my mind.

I visited Maggie Potter on New Year’s Eve, motivated by the need to escape from the thoughts that were circling in my head

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until they were sending me half crazy. I found the entrance to her farm easily and drove slowly along the track leading to the house, wondering what her home would be like. I’d brought a bag stuffed with my dirty washing, as she’d instructed me to. I’d not been to the shops and had nothing to offer her as a gift, but I sensed she wouldn’t be offended.

I parked my car outside the house. It was an average-sized late-Victorian building built of red brick and looked almost exactly like the imaginary houses I’d drawn as a child—square, with a symmetrical pattern of windows, and the door in the centre. To the side was the first of a series of barns and outbuildings which stretched into the farmyard to the rear. Just in front of the house was a well-laid-out garden, with neat borders, which I imagined would be a riot of colour in spring and summer. The house and garden were surrounded by fields, some green with crops I didn’t recognise, some brown and fallow.

I was just climbing out of my car when the front door opened and Maggie came outside to greet me. She was wearing plain blue trousers, a colourful knitted pullover, and a floral apron. “Hello there, Ros, pet, I saw you from the window.”

“Hi. I hope you don’t mind that I brought some washing?”

“No, I told you, you’re welcome.” I heard a bark, and Pepper the Dalmatian darted out of the front door to stand next to Maggie, barking further at me. She smiled at him. “He’s pleased to see you.”

“I’m pleased to see him too,” I said, since it seemed the appropriate thing to say. “I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

“No, pet. I was just doing a spot of baking. I need someone to sample my coffee cake when I’m finished.”

“I’d be happy to help.” Maggie made me feel welcome easily.

As she guided me, laden with my bag of washing, through her front door, I felt almost as though I was a normal person again, not a confused idiot who had just let a near-perfect woman slip through her fingers.

We went through the small hallway and into the kitchen. It was everything I expected a farmhouse kitchen to be, with the exception that the fittings were perhaps more functional than I had imagined, and there was no roaring open fire. This was the twenty-first century

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after all. The scent of the just-baked cake, cooling on a wire rack on one of the work surfaces, filled the comfortably warm room and made my stomach rumble.

“The washer’s here,” Maggie said. “Shove your things in now, pet, and they’ll be done in an hour.” I did as she said, and the washing machine was gurgling through the beginning of its cycle as I sat down in one of the chairs surrounding the long wooden table in the centre of the kitchen.

“Tea or coffee?” Maggie asked.

“I’d love a cup of tea. Milk and two sugars, please.”

“That’s just how my daughter takes hers. Always had a sweet tooth, that one. Heaven knows how she stays so slim.”

“I know the problem.” I grimaced. Maggie bustled around the kitchen making the tea, and I watched her, feeling more content than I had in days. I couldn’t let my turmoil over Anna, or anything else, overtake me now, since I had to keep an appearance of being mostly sane for Maggie’s sake. The ability to indulge my melancholy removed, I found I was able to feel something like happiness, as I relaxed in the warm kitchen.

“So, how was your Christmas?” she asked, as she poured boiling water into a large ceramic teapot.

I tensed instantly, a vivid recollection of my Christmas evening conjured suddenly into my mind by her question. “It was good,” I replied quickly. “How was yours?”

“Lovely. It was so nice to see Peter and Philippa again. I don’t see them so often these days.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Not really, pet. I don’t expect my children to organise their lives around me, no mother should. They’re their own people.” She placed the teapot, covered in a red-and-yellow knitted cosy, in the centre of the table, then fetched mugs, a milk jug, and a sugar pot.

“You know, being a mother’s a wonderful thing, I won’t ever say otherwise, but a good one won’t ever make her offspring feel like they have to visit her. If they want to come, they will.”

In that moment I wished I could have had a mother like Maggie.

I sensed her understanding and time for her children knew no limits.

• 191 •

reBecca s. Buck

I felt guilty for allowing myself such a thought. Since my mother’s illness, I’d never really confronted the feelings I’d had about her when she was healthy, and I’d thought we’d have years left together. In some ways, her death had been a shock, because I’d always expected to have more time to really understand our distant relationship. Now, with Maggie’s words, I allowed myself to remember the feelings and insecurities I’d buried in mourning her death. I’d not been close to my mother and always felt the odd one out in our family. I had to let myself remember and confront these things if I was going to move on. I could never ask my mother about it now. I looked up into Maggie’s kind face and felt compelled to ask her instead. “Do you find you relate better to one of your children than the other?”

Maggie looked serious for a moment. “Well, pet, a mother shouldn’t, but sometimes she can’t help it. Only it can change with time too. Now, my Philippa and I used to argue terribly when she was a teenager. Then she was unhappy for a very long time in her first relationship. I knew it, and I wanted to help her, but I couldn’t get close enough to her to do any good. Her boyfriend was very possessive, you see, never let her have a thought she could call her own. It was the worst feeling in the world, to watch her suffering and not to interfere. It brought us closer in the end, when she finally left him. I’m closer with her than with Peter these days, though when they were younger she used to think he was my favourite. She told me that quite recently. Really, I think mothers love their children equally, just differently.”

“All mothers?” I hoped Maggie didn’t see how much I wanted to hear her affirmative answer.

“I think so, pet.” I looked back at Maggie, who was regarding me with curiosity in her expression. “Do you see your own mam often, pet?” she asked.

“She died earlier this year,” I replied.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. She must have been young still.”

“She was. It was cancer. I cared for her in the end.” So few words to explain a situation that had changed my life.

“That must have been hard for you.” Maggie’s expression showed nothing but sympathy and concern. In all of the funeral

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arrangements, worry over my job, trying to co-ordinate with Jeanne and to be strong for Francesca, I’d never had much time for sympathy. Now I realised the welcome comfort Maggie’s kindness was to my troubled soul.

“Yes. It was hard.”

“She’d be proud of you, pet, taking on Winter.”

“I’m sometimes not so sure.”

“Oh, I am.” It was that simple, apparently. Maggie’s faith in her assumption was profoundly reassuring. If I’d had more time with my mother she might have grown to be close to me and proud of me. I did have something to offer, and that my mother wasn’t here to see it and to express her pride in me, in the way she always had to my sister, didn’t diminish what I had to offer. She would have been proud of me. I could achieve something worthy of that pride. I felt a flicker of optimism.

Maggie watched me for a moment or two and said nothing as she rose and began mixing the coffee icing for her cake. “You know, I’m sure your mam is looking proudly down on you and hoping you’re happy,” she said, as she stirred coffee into icing sugar vigorously.

Her words fitted so well with my own reflections they brought tears into my eyes, and I hastened to wipe them away. Knowing nothing of me, Maggie had still found words to comfort me. Even to inspire me to snap out of this latest bout of melancholy. She turned away from me to press her hand onto her cake and check it had cooled sufficiently. “And,” she went on, beginning to spread the icing, “you being happy would probably be the best way to honour her memory too.”

I wiped the persistent tears away hurriedly and drank some more tea in an effort to remain in control of my emotions. I could never know if my mother was watching me, from heaven, as a spirit, or in some indefinable way. However, the idea I had the potential to make even my apparently so hard-to-please mother proud of me compelled me to the resolution that I would henceforth act in a way to make her proud. As though she was still alive, and we really did have another chance at our relationship. If she was watching, then she would see. Part of that was accepting happiness, realising it was

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time I recovered from everything horrible that had occurred in the past year, finally letting some relief creep in. Not just for my mum.

I needed it for myself. I’d come to Winter to rebuild more than a house. I’d known it all along but had been struggling to find my way. If I could grasp hold of that concept and hang on to it tightly, then maybe I could be ready to live and love again too. My thoughts strayed to Anna. Not yet. But one day, when I was ready, perhaps there was a chance she would still be interested.

“Slice of cake?” Maggie’s offer broke my contemplation. I saw she’d spread the icing on quickly and now stood ready with a sharp knife.

“I’d love one,” I replied, with a smile that almost convinced even me. She cut a huge chunk of the cake and placed it on a plate in front of me. It was delicious, and I had to force myself to eat it slowly. I’d barely eaten for days, and the cake was very rich, the coffee flavour very strong. While we ate our cake and drank second cups of tea, Maggie asked me about my plans for Winter. I was pleased to be able to tell her about the progress I’d made and that there were actually dates for the work to start now. As I spoke, I realised just how far I had come with the house. It struck me I was, in fact, looking forward to discovering how the plans played out over the next few months. Maybe I was already doing things my mother would be proud of. To be proud of myself for.

“Sounds like you’re doing well with it, pet,” Maggie said as I concluded. “I expect a guided tour there when you’re finished, mind. My own mam was a housemaid there for a while, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know. That’s amazing. When?”

“The late twenties. Just before the house was abandoned. I think it was partly because she lost her job that she chose to marry my father, who owned the farm here.”

“Do you know when it was abandoned?” I tried to imagine what Winter would have looked like in the late twenties, to give life and colour to the rooms I’d seen only in decay.

“Yes, pet, it was in the early thirties. The Depression was just too much for Evadne Burns—that’s the lady who employed my mam—to keep on such a big place on her own and bring up a little

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girl—your friend Edith—on her own. She moved south with family I believe. It was always hoped the Burns family would return, but I suppose the requisitioning during the war put paid to that in the end, leaving it in the state they did.”

“The lawyer told me that Auntie Edie always wanted to come back to Winter. She trained as a nurse in the last years of the war, did you know that?”

“I heard something of it,” Maggie told me.

“Her mother refused to sell the place, apparently, even when the money was tight. Auntie Edie hoped to be able to renovate one day. But I guess time ran out.”

“I heard Evadne Burns always said she didn’t want to betray the memories in the old place. I expect her daughter inherited her way of looking at things. That too much had happened there, and she was frightened it would be demolished. So many of the great houses went that way, you know, in the middle of the last century.”

Maggie looked troubled for a moment, then smiled at me. “I have a feeling it’s safe in your hands, pet.” Her faith warmed my heart and gave me a new boost of confidence. Talking to Maggie was proving to be an excellent tonic.

“I’d love to know more about your mother’s life there, as a housemaid,” I said. It struck me again what a huge repository of life stories Winter was. Generations before me or Auntie Edie, guests and servants, the rich and the poor. So many lives lived in the house or just passed through. So ethereal and fleeting when Winter was so solid. I didn’t believe the spirits of the dead walked, but I knew the ghosts or echoes of those stories were there. I was guardian of them now. To my astonishment, I found I rather liked the idea, huge responsibility though it was.

“She was called May. I’ll dig out some old pictures for you,”

Maggie said. “I think there’s even one or two taken at Winter.”

“Thank you, that would be wonderful,” I replied.

We talked more about the potential for Winter, and she told me some of the points of interest in the local area, and then my washing was finished. As I unloaded the machine, Maggie left the room. She returned holding a small white envelope.

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“Sorry, pet, I forgot before. This came for you just before Christmas, when we had all that snow. The postman mentioned he had a letter for you, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get through your gates or down the driveway in the snow—I clear ours in the tractor you know—so I said I’d take it for you.”

I looked at the square envelope warily for a moment. I’d found something good to dwell on today, I didn’t want bad news. Maggie handed it to me, and I turned it over to look at the handwriting on the envelope. Jeanne. I felt sick with nervous tension as I ripped open the envelope. Inside was a Christmas card with a picture of a cheerful robin on the front. I opened it and read what she had written: To Ros, Happy Christmas. With love from Phil, Jeanne, and Madeline xxx

Then I noticed that there was writing on the other half of the card. I read it quickly: Ros, I think we should talk in the New Year.

Things between us haven’t been right for a while. Why have you moved so far north? Please call me. J xx My heart leapt. That Jeanne had a moment in her busy, efficient family life to think about me and the state of our relationship took me by surprise. The reminder that she did care for me after all was very welcome. If my relationship with my sister was not irretrievably damaged by all that had happened over the last year, maybe a lot more could be salvaged than I’d been counting on. Maybe I wasn’t so lost after all. I knew the doubts would return and there would be obstacles. There was no way it would be so simple. But still, I smiled because there was also hope.

I noticed Maggie watching me keenly again. “It’s a Christmas card from my sister,” I told her. “I haven’t heard from her in a while.”

“That’s lovely. What’s her name?”

“Jeanne. She’s five years younger than me.”

“That’s lovely.” Maggie looked as though she was waiting for me to say more. She was so open it was easy to confide in her a little.

“We didn’t always get on so well. Jeanne and Mum were really close. They had a lot more in common than I did with either of them, and I always felt a little excluded. Then Jeanne went and got married and had a baby, and managed it all so well. She copes with

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everything really well. Better than I do.” I smiled slightly, surprised how much I’d confessed to Maggie.

“Everyone copes differently, pet,” she said. “One way’s not better than another. Just different. I wouldn’t mind betting there’s things you do she wishes she could.”

“I can’t think of any.” I smiled ruefully as I pondered this idea.

“Would she move halfway across the country and renovate a rambling old place like Winter?”

I thought of Jeanne, happy in her little town house just a few miles from where we’d grown up. Her ambitions had always been focused on family and home. Doing what I was now undertaking wouldn’t even cross her mind. “No,” I told Maggie. “But she wouldn’t want to.”

“Would you want her life?” Maggie asked. I understood her implication instantly. If I wouldn’t want to live as Jeanne did, there was no point comparing myself with her. We were different.

“No. No, I wouldn’t.”

“She probably thinks you’re very brave, pet.” Maggie patted my arm.

“She doesn’t really know what I’m doing up here. I’ve not explained it to her.”

“Maybe it’s time you did. Life’s too short and all that. Can’t get it back, pet.”

Maggie’s words caused an unexpected sting of tears. She was right. I’d been wasting time for too long. My mother’s death had taught me the value of every day. Now Maggie reminded me. I had to get a grip and take hold of each and every moment, stop letting them slide by. If I could reclaim the days, perhaps I could find a clear route through them too. Somewhere on that journey I would find the real Ros again.

“You’re very wise, Maggie.” Maggie just smiled.

“Is she going to come up to Winter, do you think?” she asked gently.

I looked back at Maggie thoughtfully and surprised myself with my answer. “Yes,” I said. “I think she is.” One step at a time.

I’d taken charge of Winter. Time to make a start on myself.

• 197 •

• 198 •

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chapter ten

The commencement of the reconstruction of Winter coincided with an increase in the temperature, which made it pleasant to have doors and windows all over the property open to allow the fresh air to sweep through, though on some days the breeze brought with it a fine drizzle. I imagined pockets of air that had lingered since the house was shut up in the 1940s suddenly flooded with the oxygen of a new century, and Winter beginning to breathe more easily. I couldn’t help but think of Auntie Edie’s mother, forced to abandon the house she loved through lack of money, and never able to return to live here. Her legacy was in my hands, and that was a privilege to value. I recalled what the lawyer had told me, and wondered what Auntie Edie’s mother, who had been called Evadne, was like. Hers was one of the stories Winter sheltered I would dearly love to know more of. Auntie Edie had apparently, according to her lawyer, never known her father, who was not named on her birth certificate. What had happened in Evadne Burns’s life to lead her to make that unusual decision for her times? Why had she not married the father of her child? There were so many untold stories here. I could have been concerned my renovation, the flood of fresh air, would wash them away. But instead, I felt as though I was restoring them with the house, giving these shades of the past renewed life. I was proud of myself. The feeling was upon me before I had a chance to consider it, and more powerful and enduring for the lack of

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thought involved. I saw a true glimmer of happiness on the horizon where there had been previously only dark clouds.

I moved my living accommodation into the Blue Drawing Room, which thankfully—after a good clean—needed very little substantial work. It would need thorough redecoration, but such things were still months away. On the first day I enlisted the help of one of the builders to assist me in moving the mustard armchair downstairs from the attic. I dusted it off and threw a blanket over it, and I finally had somewhere comfortable to sit. That night, I decided I’d slept on a camping bed for long enough and would order a real bed the next day.

Since Auntie Edie had provided an ample budget, I concluded it was better for the house to be renovated in one all-encompassing onslaught, rather than tackling it gradually. Hence I had builders, roofers, joiners, and electricians all working at the same time. The rooms, silent for so long, were suddenly full of activity. Admittedly, I was unsure if Winter appreciated the intrusion, especially since the initial work seemed to make the state of the house worse.

The damaged section of the roof was removed and replaced by a billowing blue tarpaulin, huge sections of floor and ceiling in the east wing were removed, and the electrician began chasing out a network of channels in the plaster of the walls. The sounds of drilling and hammering took the place of the silence, and I found I was glad of the noise.

Men in dusty jeans and dirty overalls were wandering backwards and forwards through the hallway all day. I tried to keep them supplied with cups of tea and biscuits, but gave up any effort to keep track of who was doing what. Instead, I inspected each job at the end of the day, to make sure I was getting what I was paying for.

After a week, I was still massively impressed by both the standard of the work and the speed at which it was being done. But then these tradesmen had been recommended to me by Anna, and it was unlikely she would use any but the best.

I was so absorbed in coordinating the beginning of the work, it was difficult for me to think about much else. However, I had propped Jeanne’s card up on my table and read the words inside

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over and over. I was excited at the prospect of seeing Jeanne again, of telling her about—hopefully showing her—Winter. Maggie’s faith my mother would be proud of me for taking Winter on had finally started to convince me that there was something brave about my decision to move here. I actually thought Jeanne might be impressed, might admire her older sister for the first time in our lives. I felt warm at the prospect. I’d call her soon, once the renovations were well under way and I’d thought of exactly what to say. I looked forward to it.

My feelings regarding Anna were rather less straightforward.

So soon after pushing her away with doubts and insecurities, implying I didn’t trust her, I was beginning to feel more optimistic.

Had my night with Anna and her words in the morning played a part in my being able to finally see the light? I found I wanted to believe the words I’d made myself ignore. Was I jumping from confusion to optimism too quickly? And was there any chance with Anna anyway, after the determination I had shown to persuade her to leave me alone? Even more confusing, I was still very much aware I had no clear idea what Anna wanted from a relationship. I knew her views on marriage. Did she view any commitment in a similar way?

As I watched the progress Winter made, saw the way the house had actually kept a firm grip on its beauty over the centuries and only needed a gentle hand to help recover it, I grew reassured that my optimism was not, for once, transient, but apparently with me to stay. Yet there was still a pain deep in the pit of my stomach, and I knew perfectly well what the cause of it was. Anna.

Reminders of Anna were everywhere. Workmen mentioned her by name, referred to her plans. As I began to see a future for myself at Winter, her suggestion of the artists’ workshops or yoga retreat became a more and more realistic prospect. I wanted to talk about it with her, both in a professional capacity with regard to the necessary planning permission, and on a personal level, as the person who had suggested it with such enthusiasm. The memory of how I’d treated her that morning haunted me, and made me feel hollow. After such a perfect night, how could I have done it? Part of me was inclined to call her, beg her forgiveness.

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Yet, at the same time, I was frightened of her forgiveness. If I had a second chance with Anna it would mean I had to take the risk I was shying away from, embrace the idea our relationship might not work out. Embrace the equally frightening consideration it might work out perfectly, and my life would change beyond recognition. I was in a different place to where I had been a year ago, but my heart had still not broken free and moved on. Was I capable of it?

❖

I heard nothing from Anna for two weeks, though I had a visit from the local council planning department to ensure I was doing everything necessary to comply with Winter’s listed status. I muddled through on my own, and everything seemed to be in order, but I would have truly appreciated Anna’s professional input, since the plans submitted to them were hers. I wondered how badly I’d offended or hurt her, and just how awkward it was going to be when we eventually met again.

I was standing on the steps outside the very next day, watching as the final touches were made to the eastern end of the roof. The new tiles were reclaimed and matched so perfectly it was impossible to tell where the repair began. I heard a car motoring up the driveway towards the house. During the past weeks, I’d grown used to all manner of cars and vans arriving and departing, and I didn’t even turn to look until the car came to a stop behind me, and I recognised the purring throb of the engine. Builders did not drive vans with engines that sounded like that.

I whirled around, barely daring to breathe, as I felt the tension rise in my chest. Sure enough, I found myself facing Anna’s red Audi, Anna herself climbing out of the driver’s seat. The car seemed to grin at me, mocking my nervousness.

“Hello, Ros.” Her tone was coldly formal, not hostile, but nothing more than polite.

“Hi, Anna.” She did not return my smile. Her hair was tied back today, and she wasn’t wearing a coat. Her suit was a deep maroon, which made her eyes a deeper, darker blue. I remembered that gaze

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running over my naked body, those lips exploring every inch of my skin, and I began to ache. “I’m glad to see you.” I attempted to sound as though I had a far better grip on my emotions than I did.

“I thought I should come and see how the renovation is going.

The roof’s looking excellent, I must say.” The passenger door of the Audi opened, and I realised Anna was not alone. “And I wanted to introduce you to Sam too.”

I looked at the woman who climbed out of the car and then sauntered around to stand next to Anna. She held out a hand to me and I shook it automatically. “Sam?” I said.

“That’s me, love.” That Sam was gay I was in no doubt. Even if it had not been for the distinctly masculine cut of her jeans and T-shirt, and the spiky, gelled hairstyle, I just knew. The effect was completed by a tattoo of interwoven women’s symbols on her left arm. What I did wonder was why the hell she was climbing out of Anna’s car. She didn’t so much walk as swagger, her attitude one of confidence, and she looked at Anna as though she was ready to devour her. Grudgingly, I admitted to myself her confidence was justified. She was incredibly good to look at. I read a challenge in her expression.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Ros.”

“I know. Great place you’ve got here.”

“Thanks.”

“Sam is a plasterer, but especially skilled in historical restoration. She uses the materials they would have done when the house was built to make sure it’s authentic,” Anna said.

“Excellent. You sound like just the woman for the job then.” I was determined not to let Anna see my hostility towards Sam. Not only did I have no claim on Anna, I also had no right at all to feel jealous because she’d brought a plasterer—who just happened to be a hot lesbian—to the house.

“Yep. When Anna told me about your house, I knew I wanted to be involved. Fascinating. We were talking about it over dinner last night.”

“Dinner?” I raised my eyebrows in Anna’s direction. She kept her gaze steady, challenging me to react.

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reBecca s. Buck

“Yeah, Anna showed me this little place in Durham she likes.”

“Lovely,” I said, through gritted teeth. My impulse was to slap her, as she looked at Anna in a distinctly lascivious way.

Anna even smiled back at her. I couldn’t make sense of it. Sam was the last woman I’d have expected Anna to have any interest in at all, yet they’d had dinner together last night, and it was difficult to misinterpret the glance they’d just shared. I’d thought myself unsuitable for Anna, but I could sooner picture myself at her side than this grinning woman who stood too close to her now. I stared at the pair of them and felt sick. Had I really lost my chance with Anna so quickly?

“Do you mind if she has a look at the work that needs doing?”

Anna said, the smile fading from her face as she looked at me. I longed for her to smile at me.

“That’s fine, of course,” I said stiffly, though all of my instincts were to forbid Sam to cross the threshold of my home. Instead I held out a hand and gestured for them to go inside. As Anna walked past me the air was filled with her leather, vanilla, tobacco scent. I bit my lips and fought the urge to cry. I’d brought this suffering on myself, after all. I’d had no choice. I would get through this like every other challenge this year.

I endured Sam’s inspection of the places where Winter’s walls were crumbling and in need of repair and had to admit she did sound as though she knew what she was talking about. She irritated me by directing most of her comments at Anna, as though she was trying to impress her with her expertise, when it was me who would be paying her. By the time she had looked in every room, she was infuriating me simply by breathing. She was probably a perfectly nice woman, but the way she laid her hand in a familiar way on Anna’s arm, as though that barrier of personal space I’d always felt around Anna meant nothing to her, the way she winked at her when she made some vaguely suggestive remark about smoothing the plaster, made her insufferable to me. What I couldn’t work out was why Anna laughed at her jokes, or why she even wanted to talk to her in the first place.

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Anna herself was even more attractive to me, now I knew some of what lay beneath that cool surface. I couldn’t believe it was possible I had denied myself the chance to discover more of her. I caught her looking at me thoughtfully at one point, though her icy mask returned when she noticed. How badly had I hurt her by pushing her from me? Was it beyond redemption?

As they climbed back into Anna’s car and pulled away, my heart ached. Maybe I’d shoved her away too firmly and she wouldn’t risk another attempt, but I had to try. If I could find optimism for Winter and finally a vestige of pride in myself, perhaps I did have something to offer Anna one day too.

❖

Sam was so wrong with Anna, it would have almost been a comical pairing if I’d not been so fiercely jealous. The thought consumed me for the rest of the day. What had Anna revealed to Sam? Was there a whole other side to her I didn’t know yet? I wanted to understand everything there was to learn about Anna. I regretted the way I’d treated her. Why had she brought Sam here with her today? They hadn’t needed to come in the same car. Could she not bear to be parted from her? A thought occurred to me, though I tried to dismiss it as vain and self-absorbed. What if she was trying to make me jealous, to show me she didn’t need me, to remind me just how much I wanted her? Had she been interested enough in me to go to those lengths? It didn’t seem feasible, yet I couldn’t quite let go of the possibility.

I couldn’t stop thinking of how much I wanted to speak to Anna again. By the evening it had grown unbearable. In the end, lying comfortably on my newly delivered bed in the Blue Drawing Room, I picked up the phone and dialled her number.

“Hello, Ros.” At least she wasn’t ignoring me. That had to be a good start.

“Anna. Hi. How’s it going?” I had her on the other end of a phone, her undivided attention. I knew I had to make every word count. But I wasn’t used to this and wasn’t sure which words to start with.

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“I’m okay. What can I do for you?” Her tone reminded me of the cool nature of our first conversation. But so much had happened since then, I knew she must be feeling something.

“I need to talk to you, Anna.”

“Is something wrong at the house?”

“You know I don’t mean that.”

“I was under the impression that all other topics were closed.”

“I know. I know what I said. Oh my God, Anna, if I could change how I reacted, I would. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m not hurt. At least you made your feelings clear before things went any further. I’m only disappointed.” Her tone suggested she was rather more than merely disappointed, though she wouldn’t say so. Regret jolted through me.

“I was wrong, Anna. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and I realised a lot of things. Taking on Winter is really something to be proud of. I’m not as confused as I was. I really think everything’s going to be okay.” I knew, as I said the words, I finally meant them.

“I’m pleased for you, Ros, really. But what does it have to do with me?” Her reply was colder than I had expected and stung me sharply.

“I was being stupid before. I was letting things weigh me down.

I thought you were too good to be true.”

“You know that’s perfectly ridiculous. Could you not trust me?”

“I do, I really do. I’m getting a grip now Anna. Starting to understand what I want.”

There was a pause from Anna’s side of the conversation. “This is all very well, I’m glad you’re feeling better, but why are you telling me? I’m not your personal therapist.” Her icy tone almost made me shiver. She was a hard woman to persuade. Perhaps she was just protecting herself. I wished she would express an emotion in return, hurt, anger, anything but this cool and formal tone. How was she feeling?

“Anna. I want to go forwards now. I want going forwards to involve you.”

“You’re paying me to be involved in what you’re doing.”

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“You know damn well I don’t mean that. Anna.” I paused to gather myself. “I’m sorry for everything,” I added more quietly.

Uttering the apology released the tension inside me.

“I accept your apology. I know you’ve been through a lot, Ros, and I truly sympathise. I’m glad you feel like you’ve found your way again. And I think I’ve made it clear already that I like you—”

“I like you more than that, Anna.”

“You’ve made that perfectly clear as well,” she said, in slightly warmer tones, and my heart began to skip with hopeful excitement.

She was hard to read, harder still over the phone, but she said she forgave me and she liked me. She paused and I heard her inhale deeply. “But I’m not sure you are ready for a relationship. And I’m going out with Sam tonight. I have to get ready. I’ll call you.”

With that she ended the call. I stared at the phone, wondering if it might ring. She’d disconnected so suddenly I was almost sure she’d made a mistake, she’d at least been going to say something more. When the phone did not ring, I discarded it with disgust on the bed next to me. The disappointment was worse because it was preceded by the rallying of my hopes when she had accepted my apology. Still, that was something.

I looked around the room from my bed. My eyes settled on the ornate fireplace, with its fluid, curvy, organic carvings. Very baroque, even if it wasn’t actually baroque. Something else I’d learned from Anna. I smiled with the recollection of the day when she’d explained the differences between baroque and Palladian architecture, and I’d instantly categorized her as Palladian. Linear and playing by the rules, that was Anna on the surface. But I knew now, underneath she was far more baroque. I’d had evidence enough on Christmas Day.

The memory stirred a heavy warmth low in my belly.

The flush of heat chilled abruptly as I imagined Anna on a date with Sam. That coupling was still so wrong in my mind I could hardly accept she was telling the truth. Admittedly, I could imagine Sam’s considerable professional expertise would hold some appeal for Anna. But what did she have that I didn’t? A swagger in her stride? Maybe it was my own burning jealousy that made it so difficult to comprehend. What did I know about what

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Anna really liked? I’d just hoped to have further opportunities to learn more.

I sighed and leaned back to gaze at the plaster mouldings on the ceiling. The Blue Drawing Room was still unfamiliar accommodation to me, since I’d spent so long in the hallway. Now that I was sleeping in here, I began to truly appreciate just how beautiful the rooms of Winter would look once the renovation was complete. I wanted very badly to be able to share that with somebody. There was nobody I could imagine sharing it with better than Anna.

After everything, even with the new optimism I’d managed to dredge from somewhere deep inside me, I was still here, alone.

I found that difficult to reconcile in my mind. Winter was being restored around me, rescued from its decay, given a new future, and the house was mostly in Anna’s hands. I wanted her to care about my future that way. But the end of the phone call had made it clear.

Anna would not be cruel, but I’d lost my opportunity. I was ready, but Anna had moved on.

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chapter eleven

Every morning I was tempted to linger in bed and put off facing the day until later. But the workmen arrived early and forced me into rising not long after the sun. Once I’d opened the door and welcomed whichever workers were due that day, and dealt with anything they wanted to talk over with me, there was a lull before I made them a first cup of tea. The day after my call with Anna, the time to myself stretched interminably. I didn’t like to appear to be interfering with the work by wandering around to the various sites of activity around the house, so I secreted myself in the Blue Drawing Room, slumped in the mustard-coloured armchair, and attempted to read a magazine and not to think about Anna and Sam on a date.

The sound of a wood saw reached me from upstairs, where a team of joiners were working on the floorboards in the east wing.

The sounds heralded Winter’s revival, and I loved them. I wanted to tell someone about it, and I wanted to prove to myself that I too was capable of being revived, along with my house. I glanced across at the phone. I scrolled through the menu until I found my sister’s number and pressed dial.

As I listened to the ringing and waited, I grew more and more nervous. My hand, holding the phone, was shaking. I very nearly gave up the attempt. Just as I was coming to the conclusion there was no one home and the pre-emptive tension had been for nothing, Jeanne answered the phone.

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“Hello?”

“Jeanne. Hi, it’s Ros.” I waited for her reaction, my shoulders tense.

“Ros? I’m so glad you called. I didn’t think you would.” Her tone was warmer than I’d dared hope for and took me by surprise.

“It’s been a while hasn’t it?” I said, floundering for better words.

“Yes. I’m sorry, Ros. I got so caught up with everything—you know, Phil losing his job and all—that I forgot you were going through this all on your own.” My heart soared with Jeanne’s words.

As soon as she apologised and offered her sympathy, my contrary nature told me that I didn’t need it. I’d been strong enough to cope after all. I’d come through the grief, and the break up with Francesca, and here I was on the other side, still in once piece.

“It’s okay, Jeanne,” I said with some assurance. “Things were tough for a while, but they’re much better now.”

“Do you mean it?”

“Of course I do.”

“I was worried about you, Ros. Losing your job like that, not looking for another one, and then Francesca too—”

“I think what happened with Francesca had been inevitable from the day we first met. We just weren’t meant to be together forever.” The awareness that I could now say it with remarkably little pain startled me. That was something new.

“But your job?”

“I didn’t lose it, Jeanne. I chose not to go back to it. I decided a steady career in teaching wasn’t everything I needed it to be. You know I’m not like you.”

“I do know that. I’m sorry if I sometimes seem judgemental, Ros. Phil tells me I can be from time to time.”

“I know you care about me, Jeanne.” I recalled Maggie’s words of wisdom. “And I don’t understand your way of going about life any more than you understand mine. But being different doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be better friends than we are.”

“I agree. I think Mum would be sad if she knew we barely talk.”

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“Then we should do something about that, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Jeanne replied. I could hear the smile that had come into her voice. “And to begin with, I have some good news.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m pregnant again. Madeline’s going to have a little brother or sister, due in August.”

“That’s wonderful, Jeanne! I’m so happy for you.” And I was.

It wouldn’t have been my choice, to be pregnant with my second child before I reached twenty-six, especially while trying to hold down two jobs, but I could hear the joy in my sister’s tone.

“I want Madeline and the new baby to know their Auntie Ros.

I think they could learn a lot from you.”

“Do you really?” My heart pulsed with unexpected excitement and happiness.

“Yes. Anyway, why the hell are you in County Durham?”

“I don’t think you’ll believe it.” I told her about Winter. My nervousness returned briefly, at the notion I’d had such good fortune from a family friend and she had not, but Jeanne did not seem in the least envious. She didn’t remember Auntie Edie at all, and told me she thought I was “incredibly brave” for taking on such a project. I didn’t admit the decision hadn’t seemed at all brave at the time, but had rather offered me an escape route. I understood, as we talked, that for my sister, being happy in her own life made it very simple for her to be happy for me. Her contented marriage and children were everything to her, and with such a blissful existence, she wanted the best for me as well.

And I realised my own lack of contentment, with Francesca or with my chosen career path, had always made it difficult for me to feel happy for anyone else, and made me fear their judgement of me.

I could deal with my sister now without intimidation or resentment, and I could understand her way of looking at life. If I could resurrect my relationship with my sister, it made me wonder what I could achieve with Anna too.

As though she’d tracked my thoughts, Jeanne changed the subject. “Do you ever hear from Francesca?”

The tension returned slightly. “No.”

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“Oh, I just wondered…I saw her in town the other day.”

“Really?” It was difficult to hide my interest in this information.

“Yes. She’s had her hair cut, so I didn’t recognise her at first, but she said hello as we passed.”

“She did?”

“Yes.”

“Did she look…happy?” I asked, fearing the answer.

“Well, the thing is, Ros…” Jeanne’s voice trailed off as though she didn’t want to reveal something.

“Yes? Look, just tell me.”

“Okay, she was with someone. A woman. I’d say they were more than friends.”

My heart stuttered, and I wasn’t sure quite how my body was reacting to this news. “You think?”

“They were holding hands.”

“I’d say you were right then. Did she look happy?”

“Yes. They both did actually. I’m sorry, Ros.” It was Jeanne’s obvious sympathy that made me comprehend I didn’t need it, the news was good. I wanted to know Francesca had moved on and found happiness. I felt a twinge of sadness, maybe even a lingering trace of jealousy, at the thought of another woman holding hands with my Francesca. But now I found I could let go of her. In fact, I knew I already had done.

“Don’t be sorry,” I told my sister. “I’m glad she’s happy.”

“Oh!” Jeanne sounded surprised. Then she asked, in a new tone, “So, is there someone special up there?”

My mind flew instantly, irrevocably, to Anna. But I could lay no claim to her. “No,” I replied. “At least, there was someone I was interested in, but I think I fucked it up with her.”

“How did you manage that?” I was briefly transported back to our younger years when, now and again, we’d shared sisterly chats.

The urge to confide in her had left me by my late teens, when the age gap between us had seemed widest and the differences in our personalities and aspirations had become more marked. But now, on the other side of those turbulent years, having come through so much, I was compelled to rekindle some level of intimacy with her.

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I wanted to tell her the story of what had happened with Anna. At the same time though, I didn’t want to give Jeanne an excuse to begin to pity or lecture me again.

“It’s a long story.” I decided to risk it. “Things were going really well. But I sort of freaked out. She’s so perfect. I suppose I thought I had nothing to offer someone like that. Not until I felt a bit more…secure.”

“Oh God, Ros, you’ve got so much to offer!” Jeanne’s tone was enthusiastic, and I appreciated the reassurance from someone who had often been my harshest critic.

“I’m beginning to see that now. But it might well be too late.”

“And you let this get in the way of what was happening with this girl?”

“Her name’s Anna. And yes, I suppose I did. Big time, actually.”

“Can you try again with her?”

“I don’t know. I think she’s dating someone else.” Even saying it was painful.

“Maybe she wants you to fight a bit harder for her.”

“Do you think?” I didn’t want to cling to false hopes, but it wasn’t such a far-fetched idea.

“I don’t know, but if you like her, it’s worth trying, isn’t it?”

“You’re right.” I smiled even though she couldn’t see me.

“Thank you.”

“I guess this is what sisters are for.”

“I’ve not been a very good sister.”

“Neither of us has, Ros. We’re going to change that.”

“Yes, we are.” I replied with conviction. “Are you going to come up and visit sometime?”

“Of course. And you must come down here soon. And get yourself online so we can be in touch more often.”

“I will. I promise.”

“I better go now, Madeline’s trying to pull the phone out of my hands.”

“Go on. I probably ought to be making cups of tea for the workers by now.”

“Talk to you soon, Ros.”

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“Yes. Bye.”

“Bye.”

I ended the call and stared at the phone as though it had worked some kind of miracle. In some ways it had. I understood I’d never really known my sister before, and I felt sadness for the years we’d missed, combined with a little thrill at what the future held. I really wanted to be friends with Jeanne.

Her advice about Anna made sense too. Buoyed by the conversation with Jeanne, and the prospect of a much brighter future, I decided the workmen could wait a little longer for their morning tea and coffee and instead scrolled through the phone until I found Anna’s number. I dialled before I could think twice about it.

I listened to the rings, wondering what I was going to say when she answered. The phone rang for much longer than it usually did. Then the voicemail answered. I’d never known Anna to be far from her phone. “Anna, it’s Ros. I want to talk to you. I’ll call again later.”

Part of me was elated with relief and optimism. But somehow the situation with Anna seemed worse for it. I wanted to share my new happier mindset with Anna. I wanted her to see the progress at Winter. I wanted her to meet Jeanne. And now she wouldn’t even take my call.

❖

Thankfully, I was occupied for most of the afternoon, going from room to room with the electrician, who wanted to confirm things such as the placement of light switches with me. Towards the end of the afternoon the chimney expert arrived to check the fireplaces and chimneys. He told me as soon as they’d been professionally cleaned, they would be perfectly safe to use. The thought of lighting a fire in one of the grand fireplaces, warming the room with the glow of dancing flames, and seeing smoke billow from the chimney, gave me a real thrill. Winter was gradually getting its life force back. I knew then how connected I felt with my home, and despite everything, I smiled. I couldn’t wait for Jeanne to see Winter.

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The work on the house had to stop once it grew dark, which, this being mid-January, was still before five o’clock. As twilight deepened and, the house empty once more, I grew accustomed to the silence again, Winter and I relaxed together. I switched on a lamp for the sake of the warm, yellow glow and heated a pan of vegetable soup on my camping stove. At some point in the next week I had someone coming to the house to tell me whether the old range in the downstairs kitchen was suitable for renovation. I looked forward to being able to cook a meal for myself other than the soup or pasta that I could manage on my camping cooker.

Eventually, I found relaxation gave way to restlessness. The satisfaction resulting from my conversation with my sister was with me still, but it was at war with thoughts of Anna. Not being able to talk to her on the phone left me hovering in a vacuum. I didn’t know whether to begin the difficult process of trying to forget about her and the potential between us, or whether I could still hope, making it worth planning a way to fight for her affections. Hoping for a resolution, I grabbed the phone and dialled her number again. It rang, rang some more, then went to voicemail again. I knew Anna wouldn’t be at work at this time. She was ignoring me. The thought hurt more than it should have done. “Anna, it’s Ros again. Please can we talk?”

So much had happened. I was at the beginning of a relationship with my sister that promised to be better than anything we’d shared before; I had a real sense of my mother being proud of me; Winter was progressing nicely, as the lingering odours of varnish and cut wood told me; I’d met, and spent the night with, a phenomenal woman. And yet here I was, in a quickly darkening room, on my own, longing for something I couldn’t have. A lot had changed from when I’d come here in November, but my life appeared to be in much the same shape. Was this going to be the perpetual state of my existence for the rest of my time? However optimistic I felt, it was all for nothing if I couldn’t translate the feeling into the way my life played out.

Unable to sit still and contemplate this for any longer, I decided it was time to have a look around the house and inspect what work

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had been done today. I found it a comforting ritual, going from room to room, taking stock of the progress bringing the house into the present century. I left my hideaway in the Blue Drawing Room and headed upstairs. The old, mouldering carpet had been removed, and the steps looked rather sorry for themselves stripped bare. I had a meeting with an interior designer next week, another friend of Anna’s, who was an expert on period properties. The prospect made me a little nervous, for I had the impression interior designers were used to far more savvy and artistic clients than I was. I still found it hard to understand I even had the money to pay for an interior designer, having never been able to afford more than a pot of paint and a brush when it came to decorating in my previous homes.

Auntie Edie’s money was dwindling gradually, but I was surprised by how much was left. I saw it as Auntie Edie’s money for Winter, not mine, but it still kept the roof over my head and provided me with my meals. I would be forever grateful for the chance she had given me, the honour of bringing Winter back from its decline.

The landing at the top of the stairs was as bare as the stairs themselves, the floorboards naked and partially sanded. Some work was being done to the windows here, and one had been removed and boarded over. I opened the door ahead of me and peered into the Red Bedroom. The old bed was still there, draped in dustsheets.

I intended to keep what scant furniture there was in the property, and consult an antiques restorer when the timing was appropriate.

Some of the floorboards had needed to be replaced in this room, and I saw this work had been completed. There was a layer of white dust coating everything, the consequence of the electrician chiselling at the plaster. His channels were still open, and the new wiring was visible, tucked neatly inside. I still had power for the time being, as the electrician had left most of the old system in place for me while he fitted the replacement circuit. He promised I wouldn’t be without electricity for more than a day, for which I was grateful.

It had grown completely dark outside, and the first floor was a shadowy place with the few working electric light bulbs illuminating it. I’d planned to go up to the attics and see what had been done up there, but something about the deepening night deterred me. The

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dark corners and passageways of Winter did not frighten me, but they were still not wholly familiar.

At night, I always felt I was exploring someone else’s house.

My knowledge of the long period of time the house had stood empty made that feeling even worse. The last people to call this their home had lived here in the early 1930s. Life had been so different in those days. I had a very good grasp of the events of that time, of what the people who lived here might have worn, but they were so far removed from me, so very different, that any traces of themselves left in this house might as well have come from another world.

Winter had never seen truly modern life, and I never felt it more than when I wandered around its empty rooms in the evening.

I wasn’t unwelcome here, I was just a surprising and unexpected chapter in a story that had seemed to be over. The missing pages of that story made it difficult to follow and I felt oddly connected to and yet separate from Winter’s history. If there had been such things as ghosts, I imagined they would gather round and inspect me curiously, trying to understand what I was doing in their house.

Sometimes I felt they were there, the spirits of Winter’s past, unsettled by my presence. Maybe I would burn some bundles of sage in the rooms to rid the place of negative energy. Or perhaps I should embrace the lingering energy of times past. Its influence was not necessarily negative. Good things were happening to me here.

Perhaps the spirits were helping me.

I left the bedroom and returned to the landing. I was about to go back downstairs and maybe examine the restoration work being carried out in the Saloon, when my attention was drawn by a sound like a trapped bird beating its wings against a window in the shadows of the east wing. An eerie and strangely loud sound in this silent house. After a moment, I realised the source of the noise was a flapping tarpaulin. I guessed it had been secured over one of the damaged windows and had come loose. I wouldn’t hear it from my bed, and it wouldn’t disturb me once I went back downstairs, but it was a horribly disturbing noise, and with my reflections about the previous inhabitants of Winter fresh in my mind, I had to restore the peace to the first floor.

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The electricity in the east wing was not working, but I grabbed a torch left by one of the workmen and turned it on. The beam was weakening a little, but still shone bright enough for me to see my way to the window. Sure enough, the bottom corner of the tarpaulin had slipped out from behind the piece of wood that should have been holding it in place, and it was flapping in the breeze. Such restless fluttering was unnerving, the sound filling the chamber as though it had a mind of its own. I smiled as I thought how easy it must be to convince someone a house of this age was haunted, if they were ready to believe.

I made my way towards the loose tarpaulin, still absorbed in my contemplation of possible ghosts. I did not notice the black and yellow tape in my path until I felt it touch my thighs. Before I realised that I’d walked into warning tape, or why it was there, I’d taken another step forward. A second later, the floor below me creaked and groaned loudly. Then it disappeared beneath my feet, and I was falling.

Something caught my T-shirt as I fell and held me suspended for seconds before, through my panic, I heard the ripping of fabric and I fell again, farther this time. Though it must have taken just seconds, I had enough time to realise I had fallen through the floor into the room below, which had a very high ceiling. It was a long way from that ceiling to the floor. I was surely going to die. I had no time to be scared, just to be glad I’d made amends with Jeanne, before I hit the floor of the Common Parlour. And everything went black.

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Winter manor, 1927

Really, Evvie, darling, this was the most top-hole idea!”

Clara Bridgford accepted her glass of scotch whisky from the tray the housemaid offered her and reclined on the sofa in the Common Parlour, smiling at her friend Evadne Burns, who grinned back at Clara’s purposeful use of schoolgirl slang.

“Yes, and how!” Courtney Craig added, from her place on the sofa close to Clara. “It’s so long since we saw each other. What is it now, nine years since we left St. Hilda’s?”

“Nine years it is.” Evadne smiled with satisfaction and sipped her gin and tonic as the maid left the room quietly. Inviting her closest school chums to Winter to spend the weekend with her, a small reunion, had felt like a good idea when it had first occurred to her, but she had grown rather nervous over the previous week, as the preparations were made. Her friends were all so much more sophisticated than she was, and though she had seen them on occasion since they’d left school aged eighteen, they had not been together as a group at all in those nine years. She was concerned that, en masse, her schoolgirl pals would be rather overwhelming.

However, she’d told herself, she was mistress of Winter Manor, a country house of her own, something none of them could claim.

In the end, it was simply awfully exciting to see them again. Their idiosyncratic ways had deepened as they had matured, and they were all infinitely more fascinating than they had been in those long-ago days. She also found she derived endless amusement from the

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servants’ expressions when they encountered her friends, especially Clara.

Aged twenty-seven, as they all were, Clara was strikingly attractive. Her dark blond hair was cut short in a severe Eton crop.

She wore little make-up, just enough powder to make an already smooth complexion flawless. Her outfit was an immaculately tailored gentleman’s sports jacket in blue-and-cream striped fabric, complete with white silk cravat, and cream slacks. To see a woman in trousers was astonishing enough for Winter’s servants, but a woman in a man’s attire was something they could barely help but stare at. Clara sat with the posture of a man too, lounging back with the ankle of her bent leg resting on her opposite knee, her whisky in one hand, her other arm resting loosely around Courtney’s shoulders.

Evadne had to admit to herself even she’d been slightly startled by Clara’s appearance when she had arrived with Courtney, driving her own motor car, earlier that day. Though Clara had never been feminine, she’d never been quite so blatantly masculine in their younger days. Yet a few minutes’ conversation had revealed that Clara, underneath the affectations, was still the warm-hearted, witty friend she remembered from their school days at St. Hilda’s School.

That Clara and Courtney were still an item was no great surprise.

They’d been sweethearts in their last year at school, and Courtney was totally dedicated to Clara. Originally from New York City, as her accent made apparent, Courtney’s parents had sent her to boarding school in England when she was thirteen. Though she had returned to her home across the Atlantic when she’d left school, it had only been a year before the separation from Clara had been too much for her to bear, and she had returned to England and her lover.

Clara was justifiably proud of her girl. Courtney was beautiful, with her Marcel-waved chestnut hair, perfectly pale skin, red lips, and slender figure. She’d been made for the latest fashion of dropped waistlines and flat chests, unlike Evadne herself, whose swelling hips and rounded bosom she considered the worst of natural curses.

Courtney’s midnight-blue dress, its hemline resting just below her knees, intricately covered with dazzling crystal beads, was a work of art in itself. It would have been easy to resent Courtney, were she

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not so engaging in conversation and quick humoured. Evadne was sure the Common Parlour, or any of Winter for that matter, had never seen a more intriguing or attractive couple as Clara and Courtney.

“But where in this world has Edith vanished to?” Clara demanded.

“I’m not sure, but she and Madge appear to be together wherever they are,” Courtney replied, her tone suggestive.

“Well, can’t say I’d blame Edith, Madge is quite a poppet, even if her taste in dresses is perfectly horrendous.” Clara spoke as though she was serious.

“You can keep your eyes to yourself,” Courtney said affectionately. “Besides, if you ask me, Evvie here’s got her own eye on Edith.” She cast a sly glance at Evadne, who felt her face colouring before she could do anything about it.

“Oh, don’t be so ridiculous,” Evadne said, trying to laugh.

“Do you know, Courtney dear, I think you might be right,”

Clara said, as she leaned forward, placing her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hand, to study Evadne with new interest.

“You can stop that right away.” Evadne squirmed under their attention. “How would you know who I’ve got my eye on?”

“Oh, Evvie, darling, we just know.” Clara said.

“We? Is this the secret wisdom of the sisterhood of inverts?”

Evadne hoped a witty remark would divert their interest.

“Oh, darling, how could you use that word?” Courtney sighed melodramatically as if really wounded.

“Makes it sound rather fun, if you ask me,” Clara said, with a crooked smile. “As though we spend all of our time standing on our heads.”

“Whereas we only do that some of the time,” Courtney said wryly, with a suggestive grin. “But all of this is drawing us away from the subject in hand.” Her gaze settled firmly on Evadne once more. “Have you got your eye on Edith, Evvie? Oh, do say yes, it would be ever such a thrill!”

“I don’t find women attractive,” Evadne replied, hoping to silence them with a certainty she did not feel.

“What about Miss Goodman at St. Hilda’s? You had a real crack on for her,” Clara said.

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“I did not.” Evadne flushed an even deeper red.

“Oh, we all did, sweetheart, don’t even try to deny it,” Courtney put in. “They just don’t make women like her back home. So very severe, but when she smiled, you just wanted to—”

“It’s not your fantasies we’re interested in, dearest,” said Clara.

“We’re interrogating Evvie.”

“And I would be pleased if you would cease in your interrogation.” Evadne said firmly.

“Just give us a tiny hint,” Courtney said, in the tone of a spoiled little girl who knows she will get her own way eventually. “Please, darling. You don’t even have to say the words. Just nod your head if you like her.”

Evadne hesitated. Then the temptation of confession, of potential empathy, was too great. She nodded her head slightly.

“Oh, darling, attagirl! Welcome to the fun!” Courtney said.

“I still find men attractive.” In truth, Evadne’s emotions regarding Edith were rather confusing—as they had always been—

and more so now, considering the secret she was hiding.

“Well, no one said you were forced to choose. Modern times you know, darling. We can do whatever we like,” Clara told her, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

“Whatever we like?” Evadne asked.

“Well, perhaps with a few carefully constructed boundaries,”

Clara said.

“You have boundaries?” Courtney enquired of Clara, eyes wide with mock surprise.

“One or two,” Clara replied, “though not when it comes to you, my sweetheart. But Evvie, has she given you any reason to think she might like you back?”

“Of course not. And I won’t be looking for it either.” Evadne knew they didn’t believe her. She wondered how much they remembered of their shared last year at St. Hilda’s. She and Edith had been so careful, but still, Clara and Courtney clearly knew the signs to look for. Had they suspected all those years ago? She found she almost hoped they had.

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Clara was about to respond to Evadne’s blunt denial, when the door opened and two women entered. The first, Madge Sidney, was rather plain looking, with her bobbed mousey hair and conservative brown dress, though she was by far the most intellectual of the group and had been Head Girl in their final year at school. She had attended university, studying medicine, but she claimed that her recent marriage to a colleague, a very well-respected doctor, was the happiest event of her life. She looked forward to nothing more than starting a family.

Madge was followed by Edith Richardson, the subject of their conversation. Edith’s hair, which she wore in a short waved bob, was chocolate brown, her complexion lightly tanned, even in the winter months. Her arms and legs were long and sleek, accentuated by the short skirt and absent sleeves of her embroidered mauve dress. Evadne’s gaze was drawn to her beautiful emerald green eyes, so expressive of her rapidly changing emotions. Edith had attended St. Hilda’s on a scholarship, since her family were not wealthy, but her prowess in team sports—particularly hockey and cricket—had soon made her many friends, and she’d been Games Prefect in their final year. She was one of the school friends Evadne had seen on more than a few occasions in the nine years since they’d left school. Every meeting had, however, been in a public place, usually a tearoom, once or twice at the theatre. When there was even the remotest chance of their conversation being overheard, neither of them dared risk even a whisper relating to what had passed between them in their last year of school. Whenever they met they’d shared, in glances, wordless recollections of the past, mutually acknowledged the pain of their separation. But nothing had ever been spoken.

Maturity suited Edith, and at every encounter she was even more beautiful to Evadne, their parting so much more difficult. This was the first time Edith had visited Evadne in her home.

“We were beginning to consider sending out a search party,”

Courtney told them.

“We were just talking about the old days,” Edith said, sitting on the arm of the sofa upon which Clara and Courtney were already seated. “Do you have a ciggy, Clara?”

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Clara reached into her inside jacket pocket and produced a silver cigarette case, then opened it and offered it to Edith, who took one and placed it between her pink lips. Evadne tried not to stare and accepted the cigarette Clara offered her by way of distraction.

Her attempt to divert the insistent course of her thoughts was not helped when Clara remarked, to Madge and Edith, “Say, do you girls remember Miss Goodman?”

“The history mistress? Pretty impossible to forget I’d have thought,” Edith replied. “She hated me, of course, since I’d far rather have been on the cricket pitches than remembering exactly which king was which. I was always in trouble with her for not spending enough time on my prep. She was terrifying.”

“I rather liked her myself,” Madge put in, causing Clara and Courtney to chuckle knowingly.

“That is precisely what we were talking about with Evvie.

Everyone liked Miss Goodman. Well, apart from Edith,” Courtney said.

“Oh, I liked her. I just kept a respectful distance.” Edith joined their laughter.

“And I didn’t mean I liked her in the way you’re implying,”

Madge said, rolling her eyes. “We’re not all deviants like you girls.

History was one of my better subjects.”

“They were all your better subjects, Madge, darling. And now look at you, throwing it all away on a man.” Clara’s eyes were dancing, but it was impossible to miss the edge of seriousness in her tone. And Madge surely knew that to some of her friends, her choice to abandon her medical career, take care of her husband, and start her family was nothing short of extraordinary in these progressive times.

“I’m not ‘throwing it away.’ I’ll be a better mother through being so well educated,” she said defensively. “Besides, I will still do charity work and use my skills that way.”

“Don’t get in a flap, darling,” Courtney said soothingly. “You know Clara’s a dreadful tease.” She drained her glass. “Evvie, sweetheart, why don’t you ring for more drinks?” Evadne pulled the cord in the corner of the room to summon a servant.

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“It is a difficult one though, don’t you think?” Edith said thoughtfully.

“What is?” Evadne asked, turning her eyes keenly on Edith’s serious expression.

“Well, the marriage question,” Edith replied.

“Is it a question?” Madge asked.

“For the rest of us,” Edith said, “it is. You’re lucky in some ways, Madge, that you’re so perfectly sure it’s what you want.

We’re not all the same, though. I mean, look at us, all nearly thirty and only one of us married.”

“Clara and I have been together since school. We’re as good as married,” Courtney said.

“Oh, you make it sound rather dreary, Courtney dearest.” Clara massaged Courtney’s shoulder as she spoke, as if she couldn’t bear physical separation.

“Well, we’ll exclude you two lovebirds from the argument since you’ve chosen a deviant path.” Edith smiled at them.

“There’s that word again,” Clara said, protesting mildly.

“You should try it Edith, it’s ever so much fun.” She smiled her most seductive smile in Edith’s direction and watched in apparent satisfaction as her friend blushed bright red. Evadne felt herself flushing too, and was pleased when Edith recovered herself to retort,

“I’m tempted Clara, really, but I don’t think Courtney would like it.”

“I never said we’d leave her out of the fun,” Clara replied, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

“Honestly, Clara, I’m trying to make a serious point,” Edith said.

Clara had mercy on her discomfort. “Your loss. Go on.”

“Thank you. I mean, really, look at the rest of us. Even Madge has only just married. A decade or two ago, we’d all have been onto our umpteenth child by now.”

“A lot happened in that decade or two though,” Evadne said, knowing the painful memories her words stirred for all of them. “We lost so many men. I didn’t even think of it at the time, in amongst all the tragedy of it, but it’s rather a problem when it comes to finding a husband.” She smiled slightly.

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“Did you read about the memorial in Ypres they unveiled last month, on the road to Menin?” Edith asked. “It’s for the men they never found. Clive’s name is on there.”

“Yes, I did read about it.” Evadne watched as Edith’s thoughts lingered on her twin brother, lost when he was just seventeen, towards the end of the Great War.

“My cousin George’s name is on there too,” Clara said. “I considered going for the ceremony, but in the end I knew I couldn’t bear it. We’ve all moved on so far in the last nine years. The world changed. I didn’t want to be reminded of how things were before.”

“But it’s important that we remember, don’t you think?” Evadne asked, seeing the emotion which darkened Edith’s green eyes. “I lost Uncle Simon at the Somme and two of my cousins, one at Verdun and one at Passchendaele. I think Aunt Victoria might have survived the ’flu if it hadn’t been for how devastated she was. And of course, I wouldn’t have Winter if Wilfred hadn’t died at Verdun. I have to remember to honour that.”

“I’m not suggesting we should forget,” Clara said, “only that it does no good to linger on those old times. We’re the generation who are changing everything, the ones who are never going to stop looking for a better life. And we’ll get it too.” Clara spoke with conviction, and it was difficult not to agree with her. However much they treasured their memories of the loved ones the Great War had snatched from them, the effect of those losses was to make them committed to transforming their world. So many had died, and the best way to honour them was to live, as brightly and with as much passion as could be grasped with both hands. Despite their differences, all of the women knew that this undercurrent connected them to each other. Something had died between 1914 and 1918, but their generation was the phoenix which would rise from the ashes, and not be dragged down. Life was precarious and it was precious, and they would value its every passing moment.

“I think the next decade will be the one for us women,”

Courtney said, backing Clara up, as she always did.

“Hasn’t this been a good decade for us?” Madge asked.

“Nowhere near good enough, darling,” Courtney replied.

“There’s work to be done.”

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“There speaks the spirit of the suffragettes,” Evadne said, laughing lightly.

“I may not be chaining myself to railings,” Courtney said, “but I will be addressing a gathering of the Women’s Union next month.”

“You’re so political, darling.” Clara held Courtney tighter.

“And very brave,” Edith said. “I could never talk to all those people.” Evadne noticed that she still wore a look of sadness and knew her thoughts were still largely on her lost twin.

“I intend to keep advising women on preventing pregnancy,”

Madge said, as though determined to prove her own contribution to the female cause.

“Excellent,” Clara replied, “and no doubt you have to pretend all of them are married before you can breathe a word of it. And will all women be able to vote?”

“Oh, I think so,” Courtney replied. “After all, they let us manufacture ammunition and play at being conductors on the trams during the war, why not let us all vote too? Mr. Lindbergh can fly across the Atlantic, and I’ll soon be able to telephone Mater in Manhattan. Surely all women being allowed to vote is such a little thing in these advanced times.” The sarcasm in her tone was biting.

There was a pause as they all reflected on her words.

“Well,” Evadne said, getting to her feet, “I must say this is a rather serious conversation, girls. How about we leave the politics alone for tonight and listen to some music?” She walked in the direction of the gramophone in the corner of the room and opened the wooden chest containing her collection of records. In truth, she mostly wanted to lighten the mood for the sake of Edith, who still looked so terribly sad.

“What’s the latest you have?” Courtney enquired, sitting forwards and looking more animated. “Anything decent?”

“If you mean anything from your side of the Pond, then you’re in luck,” Evadne told her. “I have a couple of Ruth Etting’s, Paul Whiteman, and some Duke Ellington.”

“You have impeccable taste, darling,” Courtney said. “How about Varsity Drag, do you have that one? I think it’s the cat’s pyjamas.”

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“I most certainly do,” Evadne replied, laughing at her friend’s slang. She selected the record in question and slipped it out of its sleeve. As she was setting it up in the gramophone, there was a knock on the door, and it opened to admit the slight frame of her red-haired housemaid, May. Evadne could not afford to keep many servants, but maintained she could not manage her life, nor Winter Manor, without a housekeeper, cook, and butler. There were, of course, gardeners and other workers involved in the upkeep of the house and grounds, but Evadne left the management in the hands of her butler, Thomas Hodges, and she could not quite keep track of her entire staff.

Evadne lowered the needle onto the record and the opening bars of the music blared into the room. She looked at her friends in various attitudes of relaxation, and thought back to the days when they had all been schoolgirls, in their brown tunics and orange ties, dreaming idly of the lives before them. At ease in the comfortable Common Parlour, which she much preferred over the more formal and old-fashioned Blue Drawing Room, they could almost have been back in the old prefects’ room they had shared. The war had ended in the same year they had left St. Hilda’s, and the future had been the great unknown. Looking at them now, she wondered, were any of them really where they’d expected to be? Clara and Courtney maybe, she pondered, they had always known they were meant to be together, whatever happened. But the others? Certainly, she had not expected to find herself sole mistress of Winter.

Winter Manor had belonged to Evadne’s uncle, on her mother’s side. It had been expected that it would pass to his only son, Wilfred.

But Wilfred had lost his life in the mud and barbed wire of Verdun when she was seventeen. His mother and father had hoped for another child, someone to maintain their family’s presence in Winter. But Evadne’s aunt had died of influenza in 1919 and her uncle had followed his wife six years later, having shown no interest in remarrying or producing another heir. Winter had passed to his only living relative, his sister Mary, Evadne’s mother. Her father had died when she was still small, and she had no brothers or sisters. When her mother had passed away in the previous year, Winter had become hers.

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Though the prospect of managing the house alone was daunting, she soon found the presence of the servants made it rather easier to run than she’d expected. She was learning to love Winter, her own private domain. She had grown to value the space and privacy of her home, though sometimes she still felt terribly alone. A shiver of cold fear swept through her, and she wished her mother was still alive, though she’d never been very close to her. She longed for a confidante, someone to share her secrets, her happiness, and her fears.

Evadne looked over at Edith, who was asking May for a dry Martini. She sighed softly and turned to Clara and Courtney, who leaned into each other on the sofa. They made their life together appear so easy. But some stories were not meant to have happy endings.

“Gin and tonic for me, May, thank you,” she called as brightly as she could manage, and swaying her hips in time to the music, moved back into the middle of the room and the company of her friends. For now she wanted to forget her fears.

❖

May Shipley left the Common Parlour, with its lively gramophone music and bright light, made her way to the back staircase, and went downstairs, in the direction of the kitchen. Cook was seated at the big table, drinking a cup of tea, and Mr. Hodges was opposite her, flicking through the pages of a newspaper. Mr.

Hodges looked up when she entered.

“More drinks, May?”

“Yes, Mr. Hodges,” May replied, and repeated the list of required drinks to him, as he rose to his feet to prepare them. It irritated May that he did not trust her to manage the task competently.

“What are they doing up there?” Cook asked with interest.

“Just talking and listening to music, I think,” May replied. The refrain of the gramophone tune was still echoing in her head, and it made her want to tap her foot in time.

“Even the one who thinks she’s a fella?”

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“All of them,” May replied, thinking of the extraordinary gathering of women in the Common Parlour. Her mistress had never appeared to live an especially remarkable life, and yet one look at her friends hinted there was something more to Miss Evadne Burns than she had suspected. Part of May wished she could join the ladies in the room upstairs, with their music and drinks and lively conversation. And part of her was both terrified and bewildered by such women. Not just the one in her absurd man’s suit, but her American companion in her sparkling dress, like the night sky, who seemed to admire the one in the suit as if she really were a man.

May was a little nervous to speak to either of them. She was frankly rather intimidated by all of the women, even the plain, brown-haired one who looked at her with sharp eyes and spoke rather too abruptly.

The door which led into the back of the house from the kitchen garden, up a short flight of stone stairs from the kitchen, opened, and a gust of the warm, flower-scented summer air swept into the room.

“Evening all,” called a young man’s voice. Moments later, he came jauntily down the stairs. May blushed before his eyes even made contact with hers.

“Evening, John,” Cook said to the newcomer.

“Mr. Potter,” May said shyly, “it’s lovely to see you.”

“Please call me John, I’ve told you before, May.” He looked at her in a way that made her blush more. He had an earnest face, if not perfectly handsome, with very attractive curls in his brown hair, and strong shoulders.

“John,” May repeated, enjoying the way the syllable felt in her mouth. He smiled at her, clearly pleased.

“I’ve come to see if you’ll be wanting any extra milk this week, with Miss Burns having guests here.” He directed his words to Mr.

Hodges, though he quickly turned his attention back to May. She smiled at him again and felt her heart beat harder. Was this how falling in love felt? If it was, then it was even better than she’d expected it to be. She knew nothing about love, but it certainly seemed like John had a particular interest in her.

John farmed the land which bordered the Winter estate on its eastern side. The thought of escaping domestic service and

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becoming the wife of a farmer was a delightful daydream she dared to indulge. She watched him as he discussed the week’s order with Mr. Hodges. Some characteristic in his bearing reminded her of her beloved father, lost to the war when she was just eight years old.

From just that resemblance alone she knew him to be a good man, for surely no man who reminded her of her father could possibly be bad.

The drinks made, Mr. Hodges passed the tray to May, who, smiling a silent apology to John, picked it up carefully and made her way back up the servants’ stairs to take the refreshments to the women above.

❖

Several hours later, the faint sound of gramophone music had fallen silent. Cook had retired for the night, and May and Mr.

Hodges were in the kitchen, waiting with tired eyes for the party of women to go to bed, so they could clear the used glasses and empty the ashtrays. “Seems to have gone quiet. Go and have a look, May, see if they’ve finally given up,” Mr. Hodges said.

May climbed the stairs slowly, her feet and calves aching, hoping she would not have to do so many more times tonight. It was past midnight now, and she would be up at six to make sure the kitchen was ready for Cook.

It was quiet in the shadowy hallway, though the staircase creaked as if someone was standing on the upper stairs. She shuddered at the notion of being watched by someone, tiredness opening her imagination to run wild with ideas of spectres haunting this old house. She paused at the door to the Common Parlour. Hearing no voices, she felt hopeful, opened the door, and took a step inside. She froze as she took in the sight before her.

The central ceiling light in the room had been turned off, and the room was illuminated by a table lamp which stood on a small side table next to the sofa. It made a halo of light in the middle of the darkened room. In the centre of the yellow glow, a woman, the odd mannish one, reclined on the sofa, her head tilted back and her

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eyes closed, in seeming repose. The light sparkled from the crystal beading on the dress of the other woman, who knelt on the floor before the reclining woman, her head in the other’s lap.

Bewildered, not able to understand what she was seeing in that instant, May stared. Then she glimpsed the bare flesh of a thigh, and realised the woman on the sofa had removed her trousers and her legs were spread indecently wide. She heard a startling moan from that woman’s throat and took in the slight movements of the kneeling one’s bowed head. Comprehension dawned on her with a wave of heat, mostly the consequence of horrified embarrassment, but with it a confusing edge of intrigue. She lingered for a moment more, watching, unsure whether to announce her presence or to creep out of the room. Her heart pounded.

She took too long making her decision, because seconds later the seated woman opened her eyes and lifted her head slowly. She looked directly at May, as though she’d heard her enter and known she was there all along. The other woman tried to look up, but her companion placed an insistent hand on her curly head and returned it to its former position, an action which produced a shockingly deep, throaty moan from the one on her knees. The woman’s gaze locked to hers, and May suddenly felt she was fixed to the spot, unable to look away. The woman raised her eyebrows and smiled an amused smile. Her knowing expression returned May to her senses, and she turned and fled from the room, her cheeks burning, her mind grasping for ways to make sense of what she had witnessed. Why had she been so unable to tear herself away?

❖

In the Common Parlour, Clara ran her fingers lightly through Courtney’s waved hair, and directed her skilled mouth to where she needed it the most.

“Do you know we just had an audience, Courtney, dearest?”

she said softly, and felt Courtney nod her head, her mouth never leaving its task. “But you’re degenerate enough to like that, aren’t you, my darling?” She knew that every word she spoke encouraged

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Courtney and increased her lover’s arousal. Courtney nodded again and the pressure she was exerting with her tongue grew stronger.

Feeling the approach of her climax, Clara tightened her hold on Courtney’s hair and pushed her hips forward to increase the contact even more. “Yes, my darling whore, lick me, drink me, I’m all yours…oh…yes…”

Courtney did exactly as Clara asked of her, as Clara trembled with the release. Then, running her tongue over her lips, slick with the essence of Clara, she climbed up to sit astride Clara’s lap and brought her mouth to her lover’s. Clara’s fingers slid over her stockings, caressed her bare thigh, and crept beneath her panties, teasing her. “That poor girl.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Clara said. “She watched for rather a long time. If you ask me, she enjoyed the spectacle you provided for her.”

“I provided for her? You’re innocent in this then?” Courtney kissed her again, as Clara’s fingers slid inside her.

“It was nothing to do with me. I’ve always known you’re a terrible, corrupting influence, Courtney Craig. You’re a very bad girl.”

Courtney smiled. “Then you’d better teach me a lesson, my dear.” She reached down to push Clara’s fingers deeper.

Clara held Courtney tight, as she drove her fingers into her heat and wetness. Courtney moaned at every thrust, and Clara’s hand was soon soaked. Though making love with Courtney always brought her to new emotional peaks, tonight their connection felt especially intense. She had been strangely affected by this reunion with the friends of her girlhood, and their conversation of earlier in the night, the idea their generation would be the ones to transform the world. Had their own parents thought the same thing? When they were long gone would other people live out their own lives in these very rooms? Suddenly it all seemed so fleeting, so important to hold on to every precious moment. She ran her tongue over Courtney’s delicate ear, and then whispered, as her hand still stroked, “I love you, Courtney baby, I have always loved you, and I will adore you forever.” In response Courtney wrapped her arms around Clara’s body, and gripped her as though her life depended on it.

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Seated on a step, near the top of the grand staircase, Evadne and Edith watched May’s hasty departure from the Common Parlour below and laughed gently together.

“Do you want to speculate on exactly what Clara and Courtney are doing in there?” Edith asked wryly.

“I think I’d rather not,” Evadne replied. “Poor May.”

“Indeed. I think we should keep our dear friends away from all corruptible young girls. They’re a danger to the morals of society.”

Evadne smiled. She stretched out her legs and crossed them at the ankles. “Do you remember,” she said, “when we used to do this at St. Hilda’s?”

“You mean creep out of the dormitory in the depths of the night and sit on the stairs?”

“Yes. The main stairs, at that. I never knew why only the mistresses were allowed to use them, and we girls had to creep around the back stairs.”

“I suppose sitting on them at night was an act of rebellion.”

Edith’s tone was light, but Evadne could hear the wistful edge remembering always brought to her friend’s voice.

“The best sort of rebellion we could manage anyway,” she said, hoping to lighten the moment. “We were never as good at that sort of thing as Clara and Courtney.”

“No. Do you remember how horrified Madge was when she discovered it was those two who’d smeared Vaseline all over the blackboards so the chalk wouldn’t work?”

Edith giggled, a sound which had not changed since those distant days. “I do. She was furious. She was a sub-prefect then wasn’t she? Just couldn’t believe that her friends would do that to her when she was supposed to be responsible.”

“She still looks just as disapproving,” Evadne said. Madge had retired to bed already, and she felt free to make her the subject of their conversation.

“Yes, but happy too, I think,” Edith replied. “I’m glad she’s happy. Before the war her choices wouldn’t have seemed like a disappointment at all, would they?”

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“No. You’re right, of course. I’m glad she can be content with things the rest of us can’t. I think it makes her lucky, actually.”

Evadne sighed. “And who’d have ever imagined Courtney and Clara would still be so mutually devoted?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I think we always knew they were made for each other. The only hiccup would have been if Courtney had chosen to stay in New York.”

“True. There was never really any danger of that though, not really.” Both women grew silent then, and Evadne knew their thoughts were moving in parallel.

“Do you ever think we could have been like that?” Edith said quietly.

“Like Courtney and Clara?” Evadne knew she was avoiding the question. “Hardly.”

“I don’t mean precisely like them. I don’t think there are two women in the world that could be anything but pale imitations.

But you know what I mean, Evvie.” Edith slipped her hand into Evadne’s and gripped her fingers lightly. “There was a time once, in that last year, when I thought…”

“I know, Edith,” she said, squeezing the fingers resting in hers.

“And then with losing Clive, and Mummy needing me so terribly…”

“I always understood what happened, Edith. We’re not so brave as Clara and Courtney, anyway. Do you think we could live as they do? I’m not sure I could bear the scrutiny and gossip myself. And even if we could, life simply took us in different directions, didn’t it?” Tears rose in her eyes. “I think that, maybe, some things aren’t meant to be.”

“Do you ever wonder if we’re missing something wonderful?

That we should try?”

“I do, Edith. Every day. But life has given us a different path.

I can’t explain it, but somehow I know it’s not our time. Not in the stars, I suppose.”

“You make us sound like something from Shakespeare. Star-crossed, like Romeo and Juliet.”

“Not so tragic, I hope,” Evadne replied dryly.

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“Well, I have no intention of killing myself.”

“I’m glad of that. There’s so much to live for, don’t you think?

Only we were never destined to experience it together.”

“I wish I didn’t, Evvie, but I feel it too,” Edith said. “My mother still needs me. She’s never really recovered from losing Clive. And I’m not sure I have either. My life is with her now. For the future, who knows? I can never feel so certain of things as Clara.”

“I think the unexpected is always lurking around the next corner.”

Evadne considered for a moment and then took a deep breath in preparation for her next words. “I want to tell you something, Edith.

I won’t tell the others, just you. You’ve always known my secrets.”

“Since we used to sit on the stairs at school. What is it, Evvie?”

“I’m going to have a baby.”

“What?” Edith’s shock was apparent in her tone and her expression. “But how? I mean, who? What are you going to do?”

“I’m not going to do anything. Believe it or not, I’m happy about it.” Evadne replied, feeling the relief of having shared her secret with the one person she felt she needed to, the only person in the world who had ever truly known her heart.

“The father?” Edith pressed.

“In a very stupid moment, with rather too much gin inside me, I seduced a handsome young farmer, here to make a delivery of cheese.” Evadne shrugged to indicate it was unimportant. “I won’t tell him. I suspect I have rather a lot more money than he does, and I have no desire to marry him. I have no desire to marry anyone.” In another world, in another time, if things were different, she thought wistfully as she looked into Edith’s eyes. Edith’s pupils flickered, and Evadne wondered what she was thinking. She did not, at least, appear to be offended by Evadne’s revelation.

“I think you’re right, of course,” Edith said. “I will be happy to die a spinster.” Her fingers pressed Evadne’s a little harder, an unspoken acknowledgement. So much of what passed between them years before had been unspoken, the words sticking in their throats while their eyes, hands, and lips had proved more eloquent.

Edith seemed to shake herself and she smiled. “I hope, at least, that you enjoyed yourself with the farmer.”

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“It was fleeting. I believe I am perfectly ruined for enjoyment of that kind,” Evadne said. After you, after that one perfect, surprising night she wanted to add, but knew she could not. “But I’m rather glad of the outcome, I find.”

“Are you sure, Evvie, darling?” Edith asked, holding Evvie’s hand between both of her own.

“Perfectly. I’m quite content to be a mother, and I’m so very glad there will be someone after me to inherit Winter. I’ve grown rather attached to the place, I’d hate to see the house empty. Owning this place is like being part of something, you know. And it’s bigger than me. Somehow, I find that comforting. I can forget I have to be modern here, and just live. Ancient though it is, Winter inspires me to stay alive. I hope very much my child will take that on into the future.”

“It sounds such a tempting prospect.” Edith sighed. “To be here with you.”

Evadne was moved by the directness of Edith’s words into an equally honest reply. “You’re always here with me, Edith. I always keep you in my heart, for the sake of what might have been.”

“I don’t believe anyone will ever mean to me what you did for those few months,” Edith said, in a voice hoarse with emotion.

“Do you know, Edith, I think love can exist, even when it’s not acted upon,” Evadne said, daring to express what lay deep in her heart. “In some ways it’s more perfect, since it will never be tainted.”

“Oh, Evvie.”

“There’s something else I want to tell you,” Evadne said, before either of them grew too melancholy. “If my baby’s a boy, I want to call him Clive. For you.”

“Oh, Evvie,” Edith said in an awed whisper. “That would be the most wonderful thing. What if it’s a girl?”

“Then I’ll call her Edith,” Evadne replied simply.

“You will?” Edith was crying now.

“Yes. Edie for short, to tell her apart from her Godmother.”

“Me?”

“Of course. Who else?”

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“But I live so far away.”

“We can see each other often enough. And even if we don’t, I’ll know you are there, just as I always have. We’ll always have the memories, nothing can take them away. And I have faith, Edith, my child will find fulfilment in a way we couldn’t. There won’t be a war to tear her life apart and catapult her into all this drive to be modern, whether she wants it or not. Who knows what a woman will be able to accomplish on her own in the future without even having to fight? I have the most wonderful dreams for her, doing what we could not.”

“It might be a boy.”

“I feel it’s a girl. I can’t explain it.”

“Don’t you worry it might all go wrong again?” Edith asked.

“Life is so wonderful at the present. It frightens me sometimes we might lose it all, so easily, like all those people who died in the war and of the ’flu. Death seems so close by.”

“Not if you don’t give in to it. And I don’t see how we could lose this life we have,” Evadne replied. “If we can, then what was all that death and destruction for? So much sacrifice has to count for something. It’s that sacrifice that we’re building our future on.” She tried to have faith in her own optimistic words, but felt her hands begin to tremble at the thought of the life growing inside her.

Edith pulled Evadne closer until Evadne’s head rested on her shoulder. Evadne closed her eyes. They’d spent so many nights like this at school, and just for that moment, Evadne felt herself to be a girl again with all of her potential still to be fulfilled. Then she opened her eyes again and saw the carved banisters, the fine hallway of Winter, the house she was mistress of, and knew herself to be an adult now, with chances snatched away from her, but still a hope for a bright and shining future. An impossible love that would never die, and a child she would call Edith, to honour that love. Though her eyes filled with tears, she smiled.

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chapter tWelve

I opened my eyes to darkness and dust. I felt I’d just dragged myself out of a deep chasm, but still had no idea what had really happened. I knew I was on the floor, but it was an odd place to be, and I couldn’t quite recall how I’d ended up there. When I blinked, my eyes felt gritty and dry. Then the pain coming from my left leg hit me full force, and I cried out loud, my cry becoming a cough through a throat full of dust. The coughing made my side hurt. I tried to press my hand to the place and found my left elbow was also on fire. I groaned and lay still, trying to make sense of this peculiar predicament.

“Oh my God, Ros, are you awake?” said a relieved, disembodied voice in the darkness. I couldn’t see anyone anywhere near me, but I could smell a familiar scent, of leather, tobacco, and creamy vanilla.

I closed my eyes again, sure I was still unconscious, for both the voice and the smell were of Anna. Anna. If only she were here now, everything would be fine. I wanted her badly. If I was still alive—and since I’d not seen any white lights, long tunnels, or pearly gates, I was inclined to think I was—I would get Anna back, whatever it took.

Fierce resolve cut through my confusion. If the first thing my mind did on recovering consciousness was to imagine not only her voice but also her fragrance, unquestionably I was meant to be with her. In my bewildered mind, that one thing was perfectly simple and clear.

The scent grew perceptibly stronger, and I felt a pressure on my right shoulder. “Ros? Can you hear me?” The anxiety in the voice

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was its most notable tone. It was definitely Anna’s voice. But what was that pressure on my shoulder?

“Ros, wake up, come on.” The pressure became a grip which shook me gently. I dragged my eyes open, determined to discover the sense behind this mystery. When I opened them it was to find a human form leaning over me in the dark. I couldn’t make out the person’s features, but I could see the dark outline of her square glasses. Anna.

“Anna?” I tried to say, but it was more of a groan than a real word.

“Yes, I’m here,” she replied, trying—I was sure—to sound reassuring, but actually sounding rather frightened and tense.

“What’s wrong with me?” I said stupidly.

“You falling through the ceiling might have something to do with it.” She took hold of my hand in a warm grip.

“Am I dead?” I asked, just to be sure.

“I hope not, since I’m having a conversation with you.”

“I fell through the ceiling?” The memory crept back in gradually, but it was such a ludicrously melodramatic thing to have done.“I presume so, at least. I arrived to find you here on the floor.

I’ve called an ambulance.”

“I don’t need an ambulance.” Surely she was overreacting. The idea of needing an ambulance as a result of falling through a ceiling was embarrassing.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You were unconscious. And don’t tell me nothing hurts.”

“My leg hurts.” My ego hurts. My heart hurts.

“See. The paramedics will be able to give you something for that I’m sure.” I became aware of her stroking the back of my hand.

It felt good.

“Why are you here?” I asked her, still suspicious this might be a deceptively good hallucination.

“I came to see you. You called me twice today, do you remember?”

“I think so.”

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“I didn’t answer.”

I remembered all too well then. She’d ignored my calls and left me pondering just how much I’d hurt her, frightened I’d lost my chance. But she was here now. And she was still talking.

“Then, after I didn’t answer the second time, I wished I had.”

“You did?” I asked hopefully.

“Yes. I was being childish not answering the phone when we had to talk about things. It didn’t help anything to keep us both hanging in that way.” Her tone was slightly awkward, and I knew she was struggling to articulate her emotions. But that there were emotions to articulate I took as a positive sign. “Anyway, I decided I had to come here and see you. Good job I did, I would say, since I found you like this.”

I smiled at her tone, and felt a pleasant, pain-soothing flood of warmth at her words. “You wanted to see me?” I pressed the point, hoping desperately she wasn’t going to say she’d only wanted to see me to explain more clearly why there would never be anything between us.

“That’s what I said.”

“In a good way?”

“I don’t know if it was in a good way, Ros. I knew I would have no idea until I got here and we talked.” Her reply was not as warm as I’d hoped for, but I knew the honesty was necessary. Emotion welled inside me.

“I’m sorry, Anna. I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.” I couldn’t keep my words from wavering. I inhaled deeply and pain shot through my side. Anna’s fingers were warm on mine still. She’d not let go.

“I’ve already accepted your apology, Ros,” she said. “I don’t resent the way you reacted like I did at first—”

“At first?” I echoed.

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry I seemed like I didn’t trust you.” I drew another deep breath and gasped with the pain.

“I said I’ve accepted the apology, Ros.” She’d accepted my apology so easily, I felt oddly cheated out of the resolution I wanted.

I needed to talk about it more. Happily, so did she. “I realised I was

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stupid feeling hurt and angry over something you really couldn’t do anything about at that moment. Over something you needed. And now I think you should stop talking and rest until the ambulance gets here.” Her tone left no room for argument. The subject was closed, and as pain jolted through my body once more, I knew I didn’t have the strength to discuss these issues now. I had it from her own mouth I had hurt her. I bitterly regretted her pain. I still needed her to let me apologise properly, needed her to tell me more about how she felt. But however much she’d been hurting, she was here now, still holding my hand.

“But what happens now?” I asked.

“We wait for the ambulance.” I was sure she knew what I really meant.

“Anna, I—”

“We’ll see what happens, Ros. I came here tonight because I wanted to see you. You need to recover from this before anything else happens at all.” Her words were wonderfully soothing because they contained hope. That she wasn’t overly enthusiastic only lifted my spirits more, since I knew that she was being genuine and not merely speaking platitudes because I was lying injured on the floor.

Then a horrible recollection came to me. There was one thing I needed to know at once.

“What about Sam?”

“Forget about Sam.”

“What do you mean?” I wondered if my dazed mind was playing tricks, and I’d imagined Sam’s interest in Anna. Or maybe even invented Sam. I hoped so.

“I was never interested in Sam. Does she seem like my type?”

“Well…not really. I mean she didn’t seem like your type to me, but I don’t know you well enough—”

“You know me well enough to know she’s not my type. Sam’s great and all, but I’m not into her like that.” My positive feeling grew stronger again.

“So, what about—”

“Shush, Ros. Sam’s a good friend of mine, if you must know. I asked her to come with me for your benefit.”

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“You mean you were trying to—” I was interrupted by a loud knocking at the front door.

“That’ll be the ambulance,” Anna said, hurriedly getting to her feet. Despite my giddy headache, I couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d just said. She wanted to see me. She’d wanted me all along, even enough to try to make me jealous. She’d admitted I’d caused her pain, but she was still here. Even lying in the dark, in a heap of rubble and wood, my leg throbbing agonisingly, I felt wonderful.

More talking was needed, but the door was still open, not slammed in my face as I had feared.

The paramedics, wearing head-torches, came into the room and bent to examine me. I knew Anna was close by.

“Where does it hurt, darling?” said the first paramedic, a middle-aged man who introduced himself as Gerry. I tried to explain to him as best as I could, and Gerry moved around me to examine my leg, while his colleague, a younger woman who told me her name was Fiona, informed me I would feel a sharp scratch as she inserted a needle into the back of my hand.

“Have you blacked out?” she asked me.

“Yes,” I told her. “I don’t know how long for.”

“Does your head hurt, or your neck?”

“No, but I feel a bit dizzy.”

“Okay, my love.” She shone a bright light into each of my eyes, and I felt dazzled. “I’m going to put a neck brace on you, just as a precaution.”

I was about to protest when my attention was drawn elsewhere.

“Ouch!” I exclaimed in protest, as Gerry pressed my leg.

“I think you’ve broken it, darling,” he said. He had a wonderfully calming, deep voice, but his words alarmed me nevertheless.

“It’s not that bad, surely?”

“Afraid so.” He adjusted his position to palpate my abdomen. I couldn’t help but cry out sharply as he pressed a particularly painful spot. “And I would say you’ve got a broken rib or two as well.” He lifted my torn T-shirt and held a cold stethoscope to each side of my chest. Apparently satisfied with my breath sounds, he turned his attention to my elbow. “I think you’ve just bruised it,” he said, much

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to my relief, “but you’ll have to have an X-ray to be sure. Anywhere else particularly sore?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Their attentions to me were bewildering, as Gerry did something to my leg, and Fiona adjusted the neck brace.

It made me feel my whole body was injured, as if the thought of a broken leg wasn’t frightening enough. “Anna?” I called.

“I’m here, Ros.” She came closer and reached for my right hand, despite the IV line embedded in it. Her firm grip soothed me like I knew nothing else could.

“Don’t leave me.”

“I have no intention of doing so.”

“I’m so glad you came to see me,” I told her. “Sorry about this.”

“I don’t think you need to apologise for falling through a ceiling,” she replied. “Though if it was a bid to win my sympathy, I think it was going a bit far.”

“You think?” I smiled, even as Gerry adjusted the splint on my leg, and pain shot through my body.

“Just a little.” Her tone was as coolly beautiful as it was every time she expressed her humour. I loved to hear that tone back again.

“Worked though, didn’t it?”

“Absolutely.”

❖

Anna was good to her word. She travelled in the ambulance with me, and I was very glad of her company as we bumped along the road. Kindly and efficient though Gerry was, with Fiona driving, it was blindingly bright in the back of the vehicle and overwhelmingly clinical. I couldn’t help being a little frightened. Though I was strapped down flat on my back, I looked around me and observed all the trappings of the paramedics’ work. The defibrillator and oxygen mask were chilling reminders of the much more seriously injured and sick people who were carried in the ambulance. A broken leg and rib and a bruised arm really weren’t so bad. It struck me just how lucky I’d been. Already holding Anna’s hand, I gripped it more firmly, and she returned the pressure, reaching over to stroke my

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forehead, as if she sensed I needed the reassurance. Anna’s touch made me feel I was the luckiest woman alive, even with the broken leg and rib.

At the hospital, I was examined, I waited for X-rays, and then I was examined again. The verdict was I had indeed broken my leg, but only a simple fracture. I had actually cracked two ribs, and my elbow was bruised and swollen, but otherwise intact. There was more medical concern about my having lost consciousness for a short time, and the doctor ordered that I stay in hospital overnight for observation, because of the danger of a possible concussion.

Anna waited patiently with me through all the examinations and delays. My leg was plastered, my arm put into a sling, and a bed finally found for me on a ward. I told Anna at that point she should go home, but to my secret pleasure, she steadfastly refused. I was given pain medication which made me drowsy, and I managed to talk to her very little that evening, before I fell asleep. I was awoken regularly by a nurse throughout the night—to check for concussion and make me wiggle my toes—and every time, Anna was still in the chair next to the bed. I am sure I slept more soundly, in between the nurse’s visits, and was far less frightened than I would otherwise have been, because I knew Anna was with me. Whatever was going to happen between us, her presence now was comforting.

When morning came and I was up for the day, Anna rose from her chair and came to stand beside the bed, taking hold of my hand once again. Though I still had a vague headache and the pain in my ribs was actually overpowering the ache in both my elbow and leg, the world was clearer in the light of day. I was no longer confused by the events of the night before. And Anna became more than a hazy, reassuring presence. I saw her in all of her striking detail, and felt even luckier she was with me this morning.

“Good morning,” I said to her, smiling and trying to pretend I wasn’t in pain

“Good morning, how are you feeling?”

“Not so bad. Thank you so much, Anna.”

“You don’t need to thank me.” She pressed my fingers more firmly. I gazed sleepily at her, luxuriating in her standing so close,

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holding my hand, with tenderness in her expression. Though she’d spent the night in a hospital chair, her hair, tied back in its ponytail, was mostly in place. A stray few strands had escaped and fell down the left side of her face, softening her appearance and bringing back some of that girlish quality I’d seen before when she removed her glasses. She was dressed more casually than I’d ever seen her, in a V-necked red pullover over a white T-shirt, with blue jeans. If I’d thought before much of her magnificence came from her immaculately tailored clothes, I’d been wrong. She was just as strikingly beautiful in such casual attire. “I’m just so glad you’re here,” I told her.

“I’m very glad I found you.”

“Me too. I guess I owe you one.”

“Most definitely. I’ll keep you to it.” She smiled and her eyes filled with warmth.

“Anna?” I felt inspired to boldness.

“Yes, Ros?”

“I think you’re beautiful.”

Her eyes registered the compliment and its implications, but all she said was, “Well it’s a good job the feeling’s mutual.” My heart filled with so much happiness I thought it might actually burst out of my chest.

“It is?” I asked, just to be sure.

“It is Ros. And it’s more than just that I find you beautiful.

You make me feel…well…” She hesitated. “I’ve never felt this way before Ros.” Anna sounded almost frightened. The words were more of a confession than an endearment. I was moved by her sudden emotion, by the evidence that some change had taken place in her since that cold day in Durham when she’d seemed so cynical about relationships. But what did it mean? Emotions pulsed through me, and I wanted her to go on, to explain her feelings, acknowledge such a change if there was one. But her words faltered as she spoke them. “There are things I need to talk to you about…I mean…I think…I don’t just accost every woman I meet with huge bunches of mistletoe, you know.” Though her concluding words made me smile, what actually passed between us was a kind of frustrated understanding. There was more to say, but now was not the time.

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“You don’t?” I let her off the hook, focused on the happiness engendered by her acknowledgement of her feelings for me. I was still in too much physical pain to pursue this now.

“No. Flowers are usually more appropriate, I find.” The corners of her mouth twitched in the way I found so adorable, as she maintained her deadpan expression while trying not to laugh. The humour could eclipse the questions for now. But not for long.

❖

Later that day, I was relieved when the doctor, having examined me once more, allowed me to go home, albeit with strict instructions to call my GP if I felt at all sick, or had any other problems. I was given an outpatient appointment for a month’s time and wheeled out of the hospital by a nurse.

Anna took the handles of the wheelchair after we left the foyer of the hospital. I was at once embarrassed by my helplessness and pleased to have her aiding me. She’d taken a taxi to Winter and found me a change of clothes, and returned in her car. I was a little doubtful the crutches and wheelchair would fit into her Audi, but having assisted me into the passenger seat, she folded the chair, fitted it deftly into the back, and managed to find room for the crutches too.

“I have no idea how I’d have managed any of this without you,” I said as she slid behind the steering wheel and turned the key in the ignition, making the engine purr.

“Well, you’d most likely still be on the floor, so I doubt you’d have had to think about it,” she replied. “You know, you frightened me to death when I came in and found you there.”

“Sorry. How did you know to come in?”

“I knocked for ages. I even tried your phone. You’re such a recluse I knew you had to be home, and you’d left the door open. So I just went in. I couldn’t find you anywhere and you didn’t answer when I called. Then I saw this strange dark shadow in the middle of the floor, surrounded by the remains of the ceiling. I checked you were breathing, and I called the ambulance.”

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“I might have died without you,” I said, the realisation making me nauseous.

“I doubt it.”

“Thanks anyway.”

“I’ve told you, you don’t need to be grateful. Just owe me one.”

Anna put the car in gear and pulled out of the parking space.

“Okay.” I wanted to say more, but decided to spare her the discomfort of any more heartfelt sentiments for now. I could see we were going to have to take things a small step at a time. “Wait, did you just call me a recluse?”

“Is there another term for it?”

“Eccentric?”

“Don’t tell me I’m involved with a true old-fashioned eccentric?”

“Doesn’t it suit your designer image?”

“Hardly. I might have to change my mind about you.”

“What, I’m not good enough for you? Now just because I don’t know Bollinger from lemonade…” I grinned across at her.

“That is something we can definitely work on.” Anna smiled as she checked her rear-view mirror. “When you’re off the painkillers anyway.” We drove out of the hospital grounds, and Anna accelerated in the direction of Winter.

❖

When we arrived at Winter, Anna helped me—with remarkable ease—to my chair in the Blue Drawing Room, and made sure I had everything I could want within reach.

“You’ll spoil me,” I told her.

“You’re an invalid, make the most of it. If I ever fall through a ceiling, I’ll expect the same.” Her tone was withering but her eyes danced.

“I don’t recommend falling through ceilings.” I adjusted my position awkwardly. “Especially if it involves broken ribs. They hurt every time I breathe.”

“Do they hurt too much to eat?”

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“I think I could manage something. But I haven’t got all that much in.”

“I noticed. That’s why I went shopping too.” She pointed at a cluster of shopping bags I hadn’t spotted before.

“Oh. Were you born this capable, or is it something you’ve developed?”

“I think it’s a natural talent I have. Maybe it’s genetic. My brother’s pretty organised too. My parents used to joke they’d never known two tidier teenagers.”

“So neither of you is actually quite normal then?”

“Exactly. And proud of it.” Anna reached into one of the shopping bags and brought out a packet of mushrooms. “I’ve got gnocchi. How does that and a mushroom sauce with fresh grated parmesan sound? Good comfort food, I thought.”

“Your idea of comfort food sounds more sophisticated than most people’s fine dining, I hope you realise. But it also sounds delicious. I suppose you’re a wonderful cook too?”

“No. Those genes definitely went to my brother. I’m average really.”

“There had to be a weakness somewhere!” I exclaimed triumphantly. “What’s your brother’s name?”

“Richard. He’s two years younger than me.”

“You said he lives in Cambridge?”

“Studies and teaches there actually. He’s reading for his PhD

in philosophy.”

“So you’re the family underachiever?”

“That’s me,” she replied, gathering her ingredients and regarding my camping cooker with curiosity. “I have no idea how this contraption works, you better tell me.” I smiled and pointed out how she should turn on the gas. Anna was fun to talk with, her quick wits igniting all kinds of sparks in my mind. I wanted to keep chatting and joking—flirting—with her all night. But as she focused on the cooker in front of her, I knew she was still holding something back. Part of her was uncertain still. About me, or herself and what she wanted, it was hard to tell. She wasn’t at all cold, in fact this was the most casual our interaction had been, but there was still a

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barrier between us, the remains of the one I had erected so solidly that fateful morning. I knew it wouldn’t collapse all at once, but I hoped it would at least begin to erode now, little by little.

“Anna?” I hoped to begin on that process now.

“Yes?” She adjusted the flame on the cooker as the water began to boil and did not turn to look at me.

“Thank you.”

“Stop thanking me, Ros. I’ve said it’s unnecessary.” She glanced at me and smiled slightly.

“You don’t know what I’m thanking you for. I don’t mean for being my knight in shining armour and rescuing me. Or for cooking dinner for me.”

“You don’t?”

“No. I mean for not ignoring my calls in the end. For wanting to see me again.”

Anna turned back to the pan of water, although it didn’t need her attention. She appeared to consider before she spoke. When she did, her words sounded like an effort. “Like I said, we couldn’t just leave it like that, Ros. Or I couldn’t anyway. You…you…make me feel…different. I couldn’t let it go.”

“Different?” I picked up on the word eagerly. “Is that good or bad?”

“If it was bad I wouldn’t have come to Winter to talk.”

“No. So I make you feel good-different?”

“Yes, you do.” Finally she looked me in the eye, and I felt the strength of the emotion she was having such difficulty explaining.

“Different from what?” It was all very well having caused a change in her feelings, but I was hazy as to how she’d felt before anyway. Apart from that brief revelation in Durham, her fear of losing her freedom, I knew so little of her.

I saw the tension come into her expression and worried I’d pushed too hard, too soon. But she didn’t look as though she resented it. Just as though she wasn’t sure what to say.

“I’m sorry, Ros. I know it’s hypocritical after everything you’ve explained to me. But I don’t know how to tell you what I mean right now.” Her features softened and I saw her real affection

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for me there. My heart beat with yet more hope. “Just please know that you make me feel in a way I didn’t know I could. And that it frightens me.”

The tone of her last words forbade further questioning.

Besides, what questions could I ask? She’d already told me she didn’t know how to explain it. “I don’t want you to be frightened, Anna,” I said.

“I know. It’s my problem, Ros, not yours. We will talk about it.

But not now. Now I want to concentrate on our dinner.”

I let her take that route out of the conversation. We’d made some progress and both of us were tired after the night in the hospital. I was elated to hear I made her feel “different” since it seemed to be a change she welcomed. She’d changed me too, already. I looked forward to the coming days, the chance to explore the way we felt further.

Anna’s food was as delicious as it sounded and she made the process of cooking it look remarkably easy for someone who claimed to be only an average cook. Soon after we had eaten, I began to feel drowsy, but fought the heaviness in my eyelids, not wanting to lose one moment of my time with Anna.

“Why don’t you sleep now?” she asked, when she noticed me trying to blink the sleep away.

“I want to stay awake and talk to you.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” She laughed gently. “I’m going to help you into bed.”

“If you must.”

“I must.” She got to her feet, offered me her hand to help me rise onto my one good foot, and wrapped her arm around my shoulders to assist me in hopping the few feet to the bed. Once I was perched on the edge she helped me remove the flowing skirt she’d selected from my small collection of clothes because it fitted easily over the plaster cast on my leg.

“I kind of thought the next time you undressed me it would be different to this,” I said.

“Oh, but think how much better it will be because you’ve had to wait.”

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“Is that a promise?” I was delighted she’d not just passed over my suggestive comment. Her words were the strongest confirmation I’d had so far of the direction she wanted our relationship to progress in. I felt a rush of relief, quickly followed by a nagging trepidation.

This was a path I’d been terrified of taking just a few months ago.

I couldn’t help a flutter of nervous tension I did my best to mask.

“Of course,” Anna replied, as though there had never been any question. “Lie down.”

I did as she said, and allowed her to pull the blanket over me.

“I’m going to sleep here, on your camping bed,” she told me. I was too tired and grateful to argue. She leaned closer to me. “And this,”

she said, “is a taste of what’s to come, when you feel better.” Her hand caressed my cheek as she pressed her lips lightly to mine.

Her kiss was tender as it deepened, her lips parting and her tongue stroking over my own. My body, broken though it was, responded quickly and hotly to the kiss. I reached up with my good hand and grasped the back of her neck, pulling her closer, pushing my tongue into her mouth. Her kiss banished every doubt from my mind in those moments.

“I want you so bad,” I whispered into her mouth, pulling back just a little. The way she returned her mouth to mine left me in no doubt the feeling was mutual.

“When you feel better you can show me,” she said when our lips parted.

I groaned at the lascivious expression on her face. If my ribs hadn’t been aching already, I’d have pulled her down on top of me, broken bones or not. “I think you should sleep now,” she told me.

“Do you really think I will after that?”

“Yes, and I think you’ll have the pleasure of some very interesting dreams.”

“I’m sure I will.” I sighed. “Okay, you’re right. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Ros.” She bent to kiss my forehead, as my eyelids began to close. “Sleep well.”

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chapter thirteen

Repair of the floor—and the ceiling I’d plummeted through—was well underway when I awoke the next morning, in my own bed in Winter. There was no question of anyone being to blame for my accident, except myself, since the danger area had been clearly marked off by the tape, and as I recalled now, one of the workmen had warned me about an area of the floor he considered to be unsafe. I’d just not listened properly.

I spent the day in bed, propped up by pillows, while Anna took care of both my needs, and those of the workers. One moment I watched her making cups of tea and coffee, and the next she was finding her plans for the renovation and becoming the professional architect as she went to consult with the builders. She was extraordinary. I was very happy and grateful she was with me, not only because I was practically helpless, but also because the renovation of Winter progressed remarkably in the few days that she was constantly there. A few times I wondered if her lingering in the house with me was entirely for my benefit, or if she had become so devoted to the restoration of Winter’s glory that she simply wanted to be at the house all the time.

Anna stayed overnight with me for three days. My bruised elbow mended quickly over that time, which made it possible for me to begin to balance on the crutches, at least as far as the bathroom, about the farthest I could make it before the pain in my ribs became too much to bear. I was glad of the greater degree of

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independence and told Anna I’d be fine if she went home, at least at night. Whatever was happening between us, I was viewing our reunion after my accident as a fresh start, a more honest and open beginning. I didn’t want the early days of our new relationship to be based on her caring for me, helping me walk to the bathroom, and cooking my meals. I wanted to retain some sense of mystery and glamour, for a short while at least. She tried to protest, but I was insistent. I satisfied her concerns by calling Maggie Potter, telling her what had happened to me, and securing her promise to call in on me the next day. Reassured, Anna left in the late afternoon, bound first for her neglected office and then home, with a lingering kiss that almost made me pull her back inside.

As I reflected on everything that had happened over the last few days, my first thought was that I was very glad indeed to be alive. Life was finally something to enjoy again, and I hadn’t needed to fall through a ceiling to bring that feeling home to me. But the picture wasn’t quite complete. I knew all too well what the missing piece was. Anna. She was part of my day-to-day life now, and I was getting to know her on a far more relaxed basis than I had up to this point. Everything about her stirred emotions in me, tender and lustful, amused and trusting. I wanted her, there was no doubt in my mind about that.

At the same time though, there was so much unspoken between us. She knew my story but I did not know hers. She said she was frightened, but of what? Was she experiencing those kinds of doubts about commitment now? Was that the cause of the distance that remained between us? How did she feel “different” from before?

Why did she feel that way? I had more questions than answers where Anna was concerned.

If that distance was erased would I now be strong enough in myself to be able to deal with the intensity of a full relationship?

I was happier and had a far better sense of myself than I’d had for years. I had Winter as a solid and hopeful presence in my life. But relationships involved being able to give some of yourself, to be able to compromise, to take on elements of another person’s self as part of your own existence. Was I ready for that? Would Anna be

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prepared to give it to me? I’d thrown her invitation to trust back at her once. What if she wouldn’t go there again?

I looked forward with undeniable excitement to seeing her again, but I couldn’t help the mounting tension, deep down. Just how did Anna and I, seeing each other every day as she tended to my invalid’s needs and to my ramshackle house, advance any further in our relationship if we were both afraid of where that next step would take us?

❖

Anna came to Winter daily for the next two weeks, to check how I was coping, and to have some personal input into the renovation. The more times I saw her, kissed her hello and goodbye, the more I wanted to touch her. Every look we exchanged contained the promise of what we could share. Her kisses were satisfying and teasing all at once. The slight touches of her hands were never enough. I smelled tantalising traces of the sweet spice of her scent in every room.

Moreover, I sensed Anna’s desires were equally frustrated. I hoped they were. I contemplated her desire often, as I watched her.

Did she want me as much as I wanted her? There was a pink flush on her cheeks and a spark in her eye, which made her ever more beautiful. Every kiss and embrace we shared left us both breathing hard. I was convinced she desired me, there seemed to be evidence enough. Knowing she reacted that way to me made me feel more confident about our relationship, and my mind knew no rest from thoughts of Anna. Just watching her walk across the hallway, jacket off and shirt sleeves rolled up, brushing her hair back behind her ear, or biting her nail as she bent over her plans, could make my heart pound. But how on earth did we go about acting on it?

The connection and the attraction between us were undeniable.

Yet the more I desired her—that desire increased by frustration—the more I grew anxious. What if all of this longing and teasing came to nothing because neither of us ever took that next brave step? I couldn’t stop pondering the situation and trying to find answers.

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Was she keeping her distance—both physically and emotionally—

to protect me? Had she taken my point that awful morning and come to the conclusion I was too vulnerable for more than flirting and kissing? Or was she nervous of any further entanglement with me for herself? Already open about her uneasiness with commitment, my own uncertainties and outright rejection of her would not have soothed her concerns. Was that the root of her fear? We needed to talk, as she had acknowledged herself. But it was a difficult conversation to know how to start.

The more I watched Anna, the more kisses we shared, I knew I had to get closer to her. My desire grew unbearable to the point it was beginning to eclipse some of my concerns. I knew that could be a mistake, but craving Anna became all consuming and made me prepared to take risks. I couldn’t help but think intimacy with her might propel us forward before either of us realised we’d taken the step. She was too tough to resist anyway. Initially my cracked ribs were prohibitive, but after about a week and a half of gazing at her and wanting her, the urge was too much. In tightly tailored grey trousers, long jacket, and a white shirt which accentuated the pink of her skin, she bustled around the house with a determined look in her eye, and there was no way I could watch her and resist her any longer. And so, I devised a strategy.

I was already on my feet when she came to check I had everything I needed, and made a feeble attempt to trap her against the wall of the Blue Drawing Room with my crutches. Admittedly, the attempt would have failed had she not co-operated. Emboldened, I pressed myself to her, kissing her hard with all of my pent-up desire.

Relief washed through me when she met my kisses with enthusiasm, and I began to burn with arousal for her. From the way her hands rapidly slid under my clothes to explore my skin, I knew finally her frustration matched mine, and I kissed her harder. I wobbled on my one good leg, and she pulled back gently. “I’m not sure this is safe.”

“I don’t care,” I gasped, unable to bear it any longer.

“I don’t want to have to take you back to the hospital and explain how I damaged you.”

“I’m not that fragile.”

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“But your ribs…”

“I don’t care about my bloody ribs! God, Anna, I want you.

You drive me crazy. If you don’t let me have you, I’ll do myself a real injury when I spontaneously combust!”

“Do you think you might be overreacting slightly?” She wanted to smile, I could see it, though her mouth barely twitched.

“No, I don’t. Kiss me, please.” She still hesitated slightly.

“Please, Anna, I need you.”

Anna did as I asked, moving her lips lightly and teasingly over mine. I didn’t miss the sparkle in her eyes or the lust that crept into her expression. “Hmm, are you begging me?”

Heat pulsed through me at the hungry way she was looking at me. I smiled and licked my lips. “Yes, I am. I want you, Anna, please, come to bed with me. Now.”

“It’s the middle of the day.”

“Who cares?”

“I might not be responsible for my actions.”

“Good.”

Our progress towards the bed was awkward and faltering, and it proved impossible to undress and walk with crutches at the same time, though we tried. Eventually, I was sitting on the bed as Anna pulled my top over my head. I watched as she removed her tailored jacket and began to loosen the buttons of her shirt. Every layer she peeled away revealed a different aspect of her. The perfectly cut jacket made her imposing and professional. With it removed, in her shirt sleeves, she took on a more practical, solid appearance. As she unfastened the buttons and revealed her pink skin and plain bra, the barriers collapsed too, and she lost all the traces that made her intimidating and became purely sensual, a faint blush spreading over her chest and reaching the gentle swell of her breasts. I watched as she reached behind her back to unfasten the bra and let it drop to the floor. Her nipples hardened with the touch of the air, and I felt sweat prickling all over my skin. I was able to enjoy the wonderful spectacle of her nakedness in all of its detail this time, not so blinded by the sheer excitement of our first night together, and I watched her hands as she unzipped her trousers and stepped out of them.

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She approached me as I sat, entranced by her and largely helpless to move anyway. She bent to kiss me and her firm nipples brushed against mine as the kiss grew more intense. I pulled her towards me, tried to urge her on top of me, but she resisted.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered.

“You won’t.”

“I’m not taking any risks.” She slid her hand underneath the hem of the long denim skirt I was wearing and rubbed up my calf to the inside of my knee.

I groaned with pleasure and anticipation. “God, I want you, Anna.”

Her hand stopped and she kissed me lightly, before pulling back, her eyes full of light. “Are you sure?”

“For God’s sake, please.” She ran her hand a little higher along the inside of my thigh, and I felt the electric intensity shoot from the place she touched to gather low in my abdomen. She paused again.

“You really want me to?”

“Anna, please.” I gritted my teeth. This time her hand made it all the way to rub over the cotton of my underwear. “Off, take them off.” I endured her doing so with excruciating slowness, a knowing smile on her lips.

She traced her fingers over her previous path all the way up the inside of my thigh, but more quickly this time. Her lips made soft, moist contact with mine just as her fingers reached my centre, and I moaned into her mouth with the relief of her touch.

“You’re so wet for me, Ros.” She pushed her mouth back against mine. Her fingers were exploring, teasing, stroking, and I pushed my hips towards her to increase the pressure, running my other hand over the smooth skin of her back. I pulled my lips away from hers to kiss her jawline, her throat, and the soft flesh of her breasts, and heard her breathing deepen. I ran my tongue up the muscle at the side of her neck and grasped her hair to pull her ear to my mouth, so that my breath caressed her there.

“Fuck me, Anna, I want you inside me.” She moaned, a deep, feral sound, and her fingers slid lower, teasing still.

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“Ask me again.” She kissed my open mouth. I breathed in the air she exhaled and let the anticipation take me over.

“Please fuck me, Anna. I need you to—” My words evaporated as she did exactly as I asked and slid her fingers into me. I drew in a deep breath and pressed my forehead to hers, and gazed deeply into her eyes.

“God, Ros,” she moaned against my lips, her breath coming harder and faster.

“I’ve never wanted anyone so much, Anna.” She slipped her fingers virtually out of me and then drove them back in powerfully.

I rocked my hips with the movements of her hand and pushed my mouth back onto hers. I gave myself up entirely to the heat of her mouth, the slide of her tongue over mine, and the wonderful stretch of her fingers inside me, the way she skilfully caressed my most sensitive spot with her thumb. I knew I was digging my fingers into her shoulders as I felt the pressure building between my hips.

I threw my head back and felt her mouth on my throat, knew the caress of her teeth there had left a mark. Then there was nothing but dizzying intensity, as all of the sensations became one and found their focus where her hand continued to move, meeting there and exploding so powerfully tears came into my eyes, and I couldn’t see as I cried out loud.

Anna’s fingers remained inside me, and as my vision cleared she was trembling and panting for air as hard as I was. In awe of her arousal, and the idea it was a reaction to me, I reached for her, sliding my hand to her slick sex, and pressing where she needed the touch to send her over the edge. For a moment she stopped breathing, and then she was shuddering, a deep sound of satisfaction in her throat. She wrapped her arms around me and held me close to her hot body. When I looked up into her face, she was flushed and her eyes shining, her expression one of slight surprise.

“Fucking hell, Ros, I didn’t know that was possible.”

“What?” Still breathless, I eased back so I could see her expression.

“So easily, so quickly. I don’t know how you did that. It’s never been like that before.”

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“Never?”

“Never. It’s usually much more…drawn out, if you remember.”

“Does that make me special?” I smiled, filled with pleasure she’d experienced that with me.

“Absolutely. You really don’t know, Ros.” Her words sounded deadly serious. “But don’t let it go to your head.” She laughed gently.

“Too late, it already has.” I was intrigued. There was still so much to learn about Anna. Maybe we could start properly on that journey now. “Come to bed with me,” I said, trying to tug her down next to me.

“It’s the middle of the afternoon, Ros, and insatiable though you might be, some of us have work to do.”

“I’m paying you, you have to do what I say.”

She looked back at me with her arousal very apparent in her eyes. “Ah, but it doesn’t work like that, sweetheart. If you don’t let me go and do my job now, I won’t spend the night with you tonight.”

“You’re going to stay overnight?”

“If you want me.”

“You know I do.”

“Then let me work now, or I won’t show you what I’ve got in mind for you.”

“Even if I beg?”

“I could be persuaded. But are you going to take that chance?”

I considered, then smiled. “No. Go on, go and do architect things to my house. I’ve got to look at some colour schemes the interior designer sent me, anyway. I’ll save my energy for later.”

“You’ll need it.” She grinned wickedly, and then began to dress. “I’m going to nip back to the office for a short while, shall I bring some food back from Durham with me?”

“Sounds good.” It did sound good. Yet part of me was unsatisfied still. The thought of Anna spending the night with me, of more fabulous sex, was exciting. Even just a night chatting with her was a thrilling prospect. But when was I going to get more? When would I finally be able to connect completely with the real Anna?

Understand what she expected this relationship to be? Did she want to confide in me on that level? She’d seemed to tell me she would.

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I felt the change in her, dared to hope her fears had mellowed. But when would she assure me? Was I brave enough to ask?

“Any preference? I was thinking maybe Thai?” Anna’s expression gave no clue she felt there was anything unspoken between us. She had to feel it though. She’d admitted it herself. I was certain there were things she wanted to say and hadn’t quite worked out how. I wanted to create the opportunity for her to tell me. Not just to ease her mind. I needed her to tell me.

“Excellent.” I looked at her speculatively. How on earth did I begin such a conversation? I didn’t want to risk the happiness of the place we were in now.

“How’s it going with the interior designer, by the way?”

Businesslike Anna was reasserting herself. Now wasn’t the time to ask. But it had to be soon. For now I would enjoy the moment, but I knew the nagging feeling wouldn’t go away until I had answers.

“Oh, she’s excellent. More down to earth than I thought she would be. She’s got some interesting ideas involving keeping most of the period style but adding a modern twist so it’s not like a museum.” I thought back to my meeting with the designer, a woman in her mid-thirties with bobbed black hair, who had arrived wearing a startling canary-yellow dress teamed with scarlet tights. “She’s an interesting character. Is she really called Marigold?”

“I have no idea,” Anna replied as she buttoned her shirt. “If she is, then her parents clearly had some idea of how she was going to turn out. Or maybe she moulded herself to fit the name. I’ve always known her as Mari, but I never asked if it was her real name. She’s probably called Doris or something.”

“You know such a lot of interesting and useful people.” How well did any of them know Anna? Did she let anyone in?

“I keep hold of contacts once I’ve made them, that’s all,” she replied with a dismissive shrug. “You never know when you might need someone with a particular talent.”

“Is that why you’re attracted to me?”

“Well, show me some more of what you’re talented at tonight, and I might decide to keep your number handy,” she said, bending to lace up her shoes. I couldn’t help but laugh, though in doing

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so I overrode the part of me that wished she wouldn’t joke about her attraction to me so much. I shut out the doubts. For now. She shrugged her way into her jacket, retied her hair into its ponytail, and removed her glasses, polished them with a soft cloth from the case in her pocket, and put them back into place. My efficient, tailored, intimidating Anna was back, but still smiling at me.

“Do you know you’re slightly frightening when you’re in professional mode?”

“Not frightening I hope,” she returned. “I aim for efficient and maybe a little unapproachable.”

“You actually aim for unapproachable?”

“Yes. Makes my appointments shorter I tend to find. People are less inclined to chat with me.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Didn’t work on me.”

“No. I must have done something wrong.”

“I guess I find unapproachable sexy.”

“Are you saying you find me sexy, Ros?” Her mouth was twitching with amusement again.

“Is that what I implied?”

“Yes.”

“Then that must be what I mean.”

Her teasingly hard face relaxed into a warm grin, and she came to me and kissed me. “I’ll show you how sexy I find you later,”

she said softly, kissed me again, then picked up her briefcase and left the room. I watched her go, and smiled to myself with the knowledge she would be back later. These were still early days.

Anna showed no signs of losing interest, and the spark between us seemed to be igniting a flame. I could content myself with that for a while. Besides, the sex was great. I could linger on those thoughts instead of worrying about how to get Anna to talk to me. Perhaps she would open up in her own time without me probing. Thinking of Anna, of all that had just passed between us, it took me a while to rouse myself from my pleasant repose to pay attention to the colour schemes Marigold the interior designer had left me to consider.

❖

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By the middle of February, the pain in my ribs had faded to a dull ache, and though my leg was still in its cast, I’d become so used to it I could get around easily. The renovation of Winter had hit no unforeseen problems and was progressing well. Anna had drawn up plans for the conversion of the attics to guest accommodation and a studio space, along with the addition of an extra staircase to access that floor, incorporating much of the east wing into the guest area.

It was, as she said, perfect if I did want to start a business at Winter, but an excellent use of the space even if I did not. I trusted her professional judgement implicitly.

The rest of the house had become a huge blank canvas. The plumbing and electric systems had been overhauled and updated and the walls re-plastered by Anna’s friend Sam, who was, it turned out, delighted Anna and I were together. I found my hostility towards her vanished now she was no longer my rival, and even managed to laugh with her about my previous reaction to her performance, as we took a break together on her first day working at Winter.

“You’re a braver woman than me,” she’d said, laughing and patting my arm as though she had sympathy. “I wouldn’t go near Anna as a date myself.”

I looked over at Anna who was smiling wryly as she reclined in my armchair, drinking a cup of coffee. “She is rather terrifying,”

I said conspiratorially to Sam.

“Scares me to death,” Sam replied. “It’s the only reason I’m friends with her. I want her on my side in a fight.”

“I know what you mean—”

“I’ll have you know this is a carefully cultivated image I’ve had to work very hard at creating,” Anna said. “And you didn’t have any complaints last night, Ros.” Then she winked at me. I was so astonished at the brash gesture and blunt words, I was lost for an articulate response and burst out laughing, blushing at the memories.

Though my ribs ached with my laughter, it felt so good to share a light-hearted moment with a friend and the woman I was convinced I was falling head over heels for, the pain was worth it.

The evenings Anna did not stay with me were the worst times.

Though I was left with a lingering warmth every time I saw her,

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when I was alone in the huge rooms, I missed her. Missing her, I began to think about our relationship carefully, and that was when doubts resurfaced. We were in a good place. There was flirting and good-natured conversation, the sex was undeniably hot. But we’d not made the progress I’d hoped for, and I couldn’t help the feeling there was still something missing. There was still part of Anna I didn’t know.

I’d become increasingly confident that my own sense of myself was here to stay. I didn’t doubt my own judgement, and I was finally able to understand just why Anna wanted to be with me. If I was still dubious about accepting I had been brave to take on the challenge of Winter, I could at least understand why Anna saw it that way.

But I still couldn’t read Anna completely. Our relationship was still new, and neither of us had laid any ground rules at all. I didn’t want to push while we were still feeling each other out. But I was increasingly certain I needed to reach out to that hidden part of Anna if I was ever going to understand her fully, if we were ever to truly be together. Was she still frightened? What of? I resolved to make sure my actions demonstrated the strength of my feelings. And I would look for a moment to begin the difficult conversation. That I had the strength in myself to even consider it was something I was inclined to be proud of myself for, and that was a very good feeling indeed.

❖

Nervously, I invited Jeanne to visit at the end of February.

Winter was tidier and less dusty by then, most of the remaining heavy-duty work located in the attics and the basement kitchen.

The bathroom had been completely refurbished, the facilities fully functional. I’d managed to make the Blue Drawing Room into something like a respectable living area, with the addition of a small sofa, a coffee table, new curtains, and some real cupboards to get my possessions out of cardboard boxes. It still needed to be fully decorated, but I could light the fire in the fireplace and at least offer guests a seat other than my bed. Though it was tempting to wait to

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invite Jeanne until all the work was done, I soon realised how keen I was to see her again.

She came, with her husband Phil and six-year old Madeline, on a Saturday morning. Anna left me early that morning to return to her own house. She told me she wanted me to have private time with them, but I couldn’t help wonder if she was wary of the connotations of meeting my family and facing their reaction to our relationship.

More commitment than she was ready for? In truth, although part of me was keen for her to meet my sister, I wasn’t entirely sure how the encounter with Jeanne would progress, and I wasn’t convinced I wanted Anna as a witness if it did not work out as well as I was hoping.

My fears were unfounded. Jeanne’s visit was more than smooth, it was fun and encouraging. By the time she left I felt my new optimism had been replenished. Seeing my sister again, little changed since the last time we’d met, reassured me there were constants in my life that the last year could not take away from me. I should cherish my baby sister, however different our personalities were.

In addition, Jeanne and her husband Phil’s admiration of Winter had made me so proud of everything I’d achieved here so far. I was pleased the house was now fit to be admired, a daunting remnant of the past no more. Jeanne’s visit allowed me to see it through fresh eyes.

When Anna returned to Winter, Jeanne and Phil had only been gone for about half an hour. She found me seated on the front steps, my plastered leg stretched out, still smiling in the aftermath of the happy visit.

“I’m guessing it went well then?” she said, as she closed her car door and walked over to perch on the step next to me.

I leaned over to kiss her briefly before I replied. Even that slight touch of our lips, however many kisses we had shared, sent a pulse of heat through my whole body. I’d never felt about anyone the way I felt about Anna. But how did I convey the strength of my feelings without causing her to back away? I was almost certain her sentiments were as strong. Every touch and kiss and glance reassured me. But how to get her to open up to me? To let me truly

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know her in the way I needed to? I was falling in love with the woman. But how could that be when I still understood so little of the way she worked? Anna’s air of mystery had intrigued me to begin with. Now I knew I needed answers.

“It did go well,” I told her, trying to gauge her mood. “In the end it was just so nice to see Jeanne again—in happy circumstances—

we forgot a lot of the bad things. And she was so impressed by Winter—”

“Who wouldn’t be impressed by this?” Anna gestured at the parkland spread out in front of us.

“True. But it was more than that. She was impressed by what we’ve done with the place too. How we’ve rescued it.” I paused and hoped Anna had noticed that I said we and not I. “And she thought the idea of using it as a venue for retreats of some kind was really exciting too.” I added. Anna’s idea. I was still so grateful for every bit of input she’d had in Winter’s resurrection. “She said Mum would be proud.” I added the last words more quietly. Of all the things Jeanne had said today, that had been one of the best.

Anna’s arm circled my shoulders, and she pulled me closer to her. I rested my head on her shoulder, sighing with the peaceful pleasure of being so close to her, feeling her warm and solid next to me, filling my nostrils with her scent. “Your mum would be proud of you. And I know it must have meant a lot to you for your sister to think so too.” I loved how well she understood me. How could we have these moments of perfect understanding and gentle intimacy and still have so much unspoken between us?

I was quiet for a moment, contemplating this. “She asked if I thought the place was haunted.” I said it idly, as if I wasn’t actually pondering the entire basis of our relationship and wondering how to make her talk to me more.

“And do you?” she asked, with laughter in her tone.

“I haven’t changed my mind about believing in ghosts. But I told her how I feel like I’m looking after a legacy. Like the people who lived here will always be here, somehow. Not their spirits or anything like that. I don’t know. Just something of their essence or their energy.”

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“It’s a beautiful thought, Ros,” Anna said, squeezing my shoulders tighter. “And I think you are looking after a legacy. Even in the most practical and solid sense. Winter was designed and built by living people, it was remodelled internally, the trees we’re looking at now were planted, the furniture you have was brought to the house. Winter does bring a little of all the people who were here before into our present, just by existing.”

Anna’s eloquence moved me, especially because it gave me yet another glimpse of the aspects of her character I was still learning about. I wondered if there was any chance of drawing out further, more personal insights while she was feeling this expressive.

“You know I couldn’t have done any of it without you, don’t you?”I saw a slight tension come into her expression. “You could have done it with any half-decent architect.” She shrugged and looked away from me.

“You know I don’t mean that,” I said. “You’re not only the best architect for this kind of project I could imagine, you’ve also been there for me. Even after…what I did…” I hoped some direct honesty of my own would draw more truths from her. “I’ve not said it properly before, Anna, but I need to. I’m really sorry for the way I behaved at Christmas.”

Anna shifted uncomfortably, but her face was tender as she looked into my eyes again. “It’s in the past now, Ros. You don’t need to dwell on it. I understand why you reacted like that.”

“But I hurt you, Anna. And after everything you’d done you didn’t deserve that.” It felt good to be finally so honest about my own regrets. I hadn’t realised I was carrying so much of the residual tension on my shoulders. Maybe this was what was needed to draw out Anna’s confidences, me to be entirely relaxed and confident in our relationship. Maybe she’d been sensing the lingering strain.

“I was only hurt I couldn’t convince you to trust me, Ros. I felt like you weren’t seeing me at all. Just a random woman you were beginning a relationship with. You were frightened of the idea of a relationship, but you didn’t pay any attention to the fact that I was prepared to understand that, to give you time and space. To give

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a relationship a chance to develop.” She hesitated, as though she wondered if she’d said too much, revealed the source of her pain too honestly. I wanted to stop her checking herself in that way. This conversation was already a step in the right direction. What she told me was not a total revelation. I’d known it was my inability to trust her which had hurt her most, but now I came to understand how I’d done exactly as she described and not seen Anna for the good and kind, but also very perceptive, woman she was.

“I am really sorry, Anna. I’ll always feel so lucky we got a second chance.”

“So will I,” Anna was quiet, and she appeared to be contemplating her shoelaces. When she looked at me again I saw very real emotion in her gaze. “You know, when I saw you on the floor that evening…Oh God, Ros, I thought you…well…you know. And the thought that I’d been indulging how hurt I was instead of trying to understand where you were coming from…

God…it made it so I couldn’t breathe for a moment.” Anna’s emotion was so vivid in her tone as she spoke. I could even see the gloss of tears forming in her eyes. I didn’t like having made her recollect something so distressing for her, but I felt the relief in my own heart when I saw those emotions break through the surface and show themselves.

“It’s okay, Anna,” I said. I leaned in to kiss her briefly on the lips and took her long, cool fingers in both of my hands and held them tightly. “I’m here. You got there in time to be sure of that. And now I can really work on getting to know you…I really want to know everything there is to know about you, Anna.”

She looked at me, and I saw something like hope in her expression. A vulnerability that was unusual in Anna. She appeared to be assessing whether she believed me or not.

“You do?” she said. Her voice carried a heavy strain.

“Of course I do. You’ve come to mean so much to me Anna. I want to understand you. I want to know—”

“You know a lot already.”

“I know you’re a brilliant architect. I know what turns you on.

I know that you cook wonderful Italian food and like to listen to

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both Mozart and the Eurythmics. I can make you laugh, and I know which perfume I should buy you.”

“Isn’t that enough?” Anna shrugged and ended her question with an awkward laugh as though she wasn’t enjoying this focus on her.

“You know it’s not, Anna. I want to know what makes you cry.

I want to know what frightens you.” I’d said it and felt a rush of relief. I waited for a response, pleased she didn’t look at all upset.

Just uncomfortable. As though there was something she wanted to say but wasn’t sure how. Was she going to trust me and take that step now?

“You know…” She faltered.

“Yes?”

“I sometimes find sharing hard.” I gripped her hand to comfort her and persuade her to go on. I wanted to hear what she had to say so desperately. “What I’ve said about commitment—I didn’t mean to make it sound like I never want to commit to anyone again. It’s not even really commitment that worries me. That’s just the easiest way of explaining it. What frightens me is losing myself.” She paused and pursed her lips as she considered what she’d said. “Or rather, not being seen for me. I’m not good at sharing and I know it makes it hard for you—or anyone else. And it’s just that—”

Anna’s attention was suddenly drawn away from me and her revelation, towards the driveway. She fell silent, and I was reluctant to force more words from her. Seconds later, I heard what she had: a car approaching. Inwardly, I cursed whoever it was who had chosen that particular moment to arrive. But my heart felt lighter too. Anna had begun to reveal how she really felt. I’d heard enough to begin to be reassured. To want to comfort her and ease her fears. What had happened to make her feel that way? I knew it was more than simply my rejection of her at Christmas. Now we’d begun the conversation, we would find time to continue it. But not now. Anna’s expression was a confused mixture of relief and frustration. Now she’d started to talk, and she wanted to go on. I hoped the urge remained with her until we were alone again.

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“We’ll talk more later,” I said to her, hoping she would hold on to the need to confide in me. She blinked, as though she was a little surprised she’d said so much already, and smiled her acknowledgement briefly. I looked to the driveway as the car appeared. I recognised it at once as Maggie’s little blue runabout.

“It’s my neighbour Maggie,” I told Anna. “I’m glad you’re going to have the chance to meet her.” I smiled as Maggie pulled up, her car an odd contrast to Anna’s sleek model, and Anna gave me her hand to help me to my feet. Maggie was one visitor I couldn’t resent, however bad the timing.

Maggie climbed agilely out of the driver’s seat, glancing at Anna’s Audi as though there was nothing remarkable about it at all.

“Hello, pet.”

“Hi, Maggie. Perfect timing! You can meet Anna.” Maggie turned keen eyes on Anna’s tall figure and smiled warmly.

“Anna Everest, the architect,” Anna said, shaking hands with Maggie.

“And my girlfriend,” I added, feeling a flush of pleasure, which only deepened when Anna smiled warmly in response. Maggie grinned broadly at me.

“Good for you, pet,” she said, patting my arm. “Lovely to meet you, Anna. Nice to see more than just Ros here at the old place.”

“You have to come inside and see what we’ve done. It’s looking fantastic now, Maggie, I think you’ll be pleased.” My pride and excitement surged through me.

“Miss Everest is clearly a very good architect in that case,”

Maggie said. “And I have every faith in you, Ros, to make sure everything is in keeping.”

“Thank you. It means a lot that you trust me like that,” I said.

“I’m so glad you’re here Maggie, we even have some lemon cake left from my sister’s visit this morning. Not homemade, I have to add.”

“No doubt good with a cuppa though,” Maggie said. I saw her pleased reaction to the news Jeanne had been to Winter, and we exchanged a private smile. I felt as though she was proud of me too.

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“That’s decided then,” I said, turning to make my slow progress up the steps towards the front door. “Come on in.”

We made our way up the steps. When we reached my stony friend Phoebe, I paused. “Maggie, do you think this statue looks happy?” She didn’t seem to think my question was at all odd.

“Not happy, exactly,” Maggie replied. “But content. Like she’s looking for something else, maybe missing something, but satisfied.”

“I think she looks expectant,” Anna put in. “Like she knows something we don’t.”

“Do you think so?” I pondered Phoebe’s expression for a moment longer. “Knows what, though?”

“I don’t think she’s going to tell us, pet,” Maggie said, laughing.

“Now we’ve demonstrated we’re as crazy as you, Ros, how about that tea?” Anna said in an amused tone. We all laughed and headed into the house. I noticed the way our mirth-filled voices echoed in the hallway, and my spirits soared, knowing I had brought life back to Winter. My interrupted conversation with Anna gave me hope that happiness could finally be restored to my life in a similar way. So the architect needed a little guidance on this particular restoration. But I felt it now for the first time in months: I had the strength inside me to be there for her too. I had that to offer her, and more. Now I just had to make her understand that if we were to truly have a happy relationship, she would have to trust me with her heart, reveal what was holding her back. She could trust me, and she could depend on me. I had to understand just why she was so reluctant.

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Ghosts of Winter

chapter fourteen

I did not induce Anna to talk about her feelings again on the night of my sister’s visit. Maggie stayed well into the evening, admiring everything we’d done to Winter, and by then, it was far too tempting to simply succumb to Anna’s invitation to join her in bed.

In the morning, as we ate our breakfast, I watched her closely. I knew she hadn’t forgotten the conversation we’d started. The tension in her body language suggested to me that she was both looking for an opportunity to resume it, and hoping I wouldn’t press her on it. If I’d had all day to wait, I might have made myself content with the step we’d already taken, of how much more I already knew about Anna. But she was leaving after breakfast to meet with a prospective client. I wanted to take the opportunity of talking to her before her professional mask descended once more.

“Anna?” I saw her flinch at my serious tone.

“Yes, Ros?”

“What you said yesterday. About being seen…” Anna’s eyebrows drew together and she looked down into her mug of coffee.

“Anna, please, look at me.” She did so, and I saw how vulnerable she felt with her heart exposed. “I see you Anna. I don’t understand all of you yet, but I’m not going to let it stop me seeing you. Not the wealthy architect in the designer suit. You. Anna.”

The colour rose in her cheeks and she looked down at her fingers as they trembled. I didn’t know precisely how I’d done it, but

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I’d hit a nerve. Was this really the cause of all the distance between us?

“Ros.” She drew in a shaky breath. “No one’s ever said that to me before. No one’s ever tried to see me. They’ve all just believed what they see on the surface.”

“That myth you’ve constructed so very well, you mean? That Anna is unapproachable, coolly intelligent, maybe a little decadent in her tastes but otherwise restrained? I never believed it Anna.”

“I know.” She managed to look at me again. “It’s one of the reasons you’re so special to me, Ros.”

My heart swelled. I knew in that moment that we did have a future. More talking was needed yet. But now we had something to build on. Now the connection we shared was explicit. I saw her pain and wanted to soothe it. Why did she hurt so much? Why had she constructed this myth of herself when it only seemed to cause her to suffer?

“What happened Anna? Why do you hide?” I asked, before I could think too much about it.

“I didn’t always,” she said. “It just seems safer. Since my last relationship.” Tears welled in her eyes. Then she appeared to shake the emotion away and glanced down at her watch. “Look, Ros, thank you. I don’t have the right words to tell you how much what you just said means to me. And I do want to talk to you about it. But I have to work today, and I need to keep it together.” She stood up and came to me and kissed me tenderly. My pulse sped up as it always did. “I promise we will talk. You are so special. You make me feel I don’t need to hide.” With that she left the room. Minutes later she was rummaging through her briefcase and ensuring she had the paperwork she needed for her meeting. I watched her thoughtfully, my heart alive with emotion. Professional Anna was back. But I saw beneath it now, I knew I would soon understand the whole woman at the heart of the superficial image, her joy and her pain. And, as spring came to Winter, I could begin to allow my surging love to blossom.

❖

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Some of the trees between the house and the river at Winter were ornamental cherries. I hadn’t noticed them in the depths of winter, but once April arrived, their pink flowers emerged and the graceful, serene beauty was breathtaking. There had been snowdrops, crocuses, sunny daffodils, and now tulips and bluebells in colourful waves, reminding me there had been life at Winter all along, stored away in those bulbs under the ground, just waiting for the plentiful spring rain and warming sunshine to bring it forth.

Buds were unfurling into fresh green leaves all over the park, and just the day before, a white butterfly had strayed into the hallway.

The dark depression of the winter months was almost impossible to remember with so much life stirring all around.

The grassy area beneath the pink canopy of the cherries was relatively flat and sheltered. It proved to be the perfect place for Anna and me to practise yoga together. On one warm day I sat cross-legged on a mat and watched her demonstrate the routine she’d devised for us with the particular design of strengthening my leg.

I was no longer wearing the plaster cast, but my leg still felt weak and ached occasionally. With my doctor’s blessing, Anna had taken matters into her own hands and prescribed yoga lessons.

The mild spring air was laced with the floral scent of the cherry blossoms and filled my senses until I couldn’t help but feel calm and energised. Dressed in loose cotton, the gentle breeze touched all of my skin. Before me, Anna moved slowly from pose to pose.

She began with her knees bent and her arms straight up by her ears, her back perfectly straight. The muscles and tendons in her bare, toned arms showed the strain as she held the position. I glanced from her fingers over those slender arms and down her body to her taut backside. Her muscles didn’t tremble at all as she breathed in deeply, perfectly balanced.

“Utkatasana,” she said softly, giving the pose its correct Sanskrit name. It sounded as though she was chanting magic words, as she began to move into the next position, murmuring,

“Garudasana.” She straightened her back until she was upright, arms still overhead. Slowly, she wrapped her right elbow under her left, pressing the backs of her hands together, pulling her forearms

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tight to her body. Bending at the knees, she lifted her right thigh over her left, wrapping her foot around the back of her calf. She lifted until her back was perfectly straight, every muscle in her torso taut. She closed her eyes and breathed slowly. I recognized the Eagle posture but found my gaze drawn to her calm face, the way she parted her lips as she exhaled. Her balance was perfect. Just watching her was relaxing.

From the Eagle she moved into the Tree posture, standing straight with her right foot on the inside of her left thigh, her palms joined in front of her chest. Her heel was right at the top of her thigh, demonstrating her flexibility. I saw the muscles in her supporting leg twitch slightly, and watched as her smooth stomach rose and fell with her deep breaths.

With a slow lunge, turning her hips and shoulders to the side, extending her arms, and looking over her fingertips, the Tree became the Warrior, which merged into the King Dancer, as she extended her sleek leg backwards, catching hold of her foot and balancing, free arm outstretched, in the most elegant pose I could imagine. I was transfixed by Anna before me, astonished by her calm, the grace and flexibility of her long, sleek limbs, the obvious muscular strength. And though the exercises were physical, I felt Anna really connected with the spiritual essence of yoga, and this drew me to her powerfully, another part of her mystery laid bare in front of me.

She returned to a solid upright position, before she moved seamlessly into a position where her right hand was on the ground and her left leg extended parallel to the ground, opening her hips and looking to the sky. “Ardha Chandrasana,” Anna said, between deep and controlled breaths.

She held the pose for nearly a minute before folding forwards and resting, bent double with her face against her shins.

Eventually, she stood up straight and looked at me with a hint of challenge breaking through the perfect serenity of her expression.

“Care to join me this time?”

“I would,” I replied, “though you’ll have to remind me what comes after what, and I’m going to wobble a lot more than you.”

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We went through Anna’s routine, and I had to admit I could feel the strength returning to my injured leg. But it was far more than the health benefits that reignited my love for yoga. Sharing these moments of relaxation, of near meditation, with Anna, moving in synchronisation with her, was so very intimate. I found it extraordinary how focused Anna could be on simply the act of relaxing. I supposed her martial arts training helped her mental focus, but some of her studied serenity infused easily into me. I never felt more connected with her than when we moved through our poses and meditations together. I began to hope that this new bond would advance our relationship further still. She’d told me so much already. I understood the basis of her reluctance now, but we’d still not had the completely honest talk we needed. In case any of her fear remained, I assured her of my affection and desire for her as often as I could, and didn’t feel any lack of those sentiments in return.

But there was still a last layer to strip away. Why was Anna so afraid she wouldn’t be seen? Why did she put up a wall that almost ensured she would not be? I’d given her some time and space, wanted her to begin that conversation herself, but it was getting to the point that I knew I would have to broach it again. My feelings for her were growing too strong, and I needed the barriers gone.

One day, at the end of a yoga session, unable to concentrate on emptying my mind as we relaxed, I opened my eyes and looked at her. She’d removed her glasses and her eyes were closed. Her face was perfectly smooth and calm. She was dressed in simple white cotton, her skin pink in the outdoor air. Her breathing was slow and steady, her shoulders only rising slightly with every deep breath.

She’d rested her hands on her knees, her legs crossed, and her fingers curled in relaxation. The breeze caught her hair slightly and rippled through it. She was perfect, and she was mine. I didn’t need to meditate to find my inner peace, gazing at Anna was all that was necessary. I hoped she was finding the same with me. I was more or less certain she was happy, that she was secure and committed in what we shared. I just needed her to allow me to understand her.

To tell me what had happened in the previous relationship she’d mentioned. In that I was sure she would find reassurance too.

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❖

Eventually, it was the yoga that gave me the breakthrough I was searching for. One day, with the promise of early summer in the air, we ended our session in the Corpse pose, flat on our backs, relaxing into the ground below us, allowing the muscles to feel heavy, the eyes to close, to feel at one with the solid earth below. I breathed in deeply and tried to meditate, concentrating on visualising a white light shining in my core and spreading out through my whole body, cleansing, healing, and bringing peace. I was only partially successful.

What I could really sense was Anna, on her mat just a few feet to my right. I’d never really believed in the ability to see auras, but in those moments I felt, even seemed to see in my mind’s eye, an energy wavering between red and pink, emanating from my right side. The risk of losing the beautiful colour made me reluctant to open my eyes.

The blossoms had almost drifted completely from the trees now, replaced by fresh green leaves, and a final falling petal brushed over my cheek, tickling, and the colour in my mind faded. I sighed, still contented. I felt pleasantly drowsy, dappled sunlight reaching through the trees to warm me. The air around me shifted gently, and the heat increased, as Anna’s breath stroked my lips, and she kissed me gently. I opened my eyes, and she was a blur above me. Her face came into focus gradually, and she looked at me with so much tenderness it reached right into my heart. I lifted my hand to stroke her hair and sucked her lower lip between mine. She lowered herself until she lay half on top of me, her leg wrapped around my hips, and the kiss intensified.

Eventually we paused to catch our breath. “Feeling relaxed, sweetheart?” she asked softly.

“I was feeling very relaxed thanks to my excellent yoga instructor. However, now my girlfriend has me feeling rather worked up again.”

“You make it sound like I’ve got multiple personalities.”

“You can add outrageously talented architect too. But it’s all one wonderful personality. You’re just ridiculously good at too many things.”

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Anna’s eyes grew serious suddenly, and she moved slightly back from me, as though she wanted to see me properly. “I’m not good at everything.”

“No?” I said, smiling. “I’ve yet to discover anything you’re bad at.”

Anna looked, as she often did, as though there was something she really wanted to say, but didn’t know how to articulate. Her expression grabbed my attention at once, snapping me out of my lazy contentment and into hopeful alertness. Did she finally feel it was time to confide in me? “I know you’ve noticed,” she said.

“Noticed what?” I saw the tension return to her body and attempted to lighten the mood. “Admittedly I’ve not heard you sing, or played chess with you yet. You might be terrible at those things.”

“Well, you’re right, I can’t sing. And I don’t have the patience for chess.”

“See, I knew we were meant to be together.”

“There, that’s exactly what I mean.”

“What?” I asked, confused. From her expression I knew she was telling me something of great importance to her, but I couldn’t quite work out what she meant.

“You say things like that so easily. It just doesn’t come so naturally to me.”

“Like what, Anna?”

“Like expressing the way you feel. You’re always saying things that make me feel special, and sometimes I think I’m letting you down because I don’t.”

“Are you saying you’re bad at talking about how you feel?”

I saw that trace of vulnerability in Anna, that edge of insecurity behind the confident façade.

“I guess so,” she said, shrugging awkwardly. “I’ve never been able to really tell you how much you mean to me.”

“You just did.” I tried to pull her close again. She looked so frightened of what she had revealed.

“I want to explain something to you,” she said.

“Go on then,” I said gently. I knew instinctively this was the moment Anna had chosen to tell me her story. She didn’t need my questions, just my attention.

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“My last serious relationship ended two-and-a-half years ago,”

she said abruptly. I knew at once I was being allowed into the place in Anna’s past and in her heart she had been scared to allow me before. I stayed silent and allowed her to continue. “It was with a woman called Louise, and we’d been together for nearly two years.

We got together very quickly. I suppose I couldn’t help myself. She was just so into me, showering me with compliments and attention.

And pretty good sex too. She even talked about getting married.

When I told her I wasn’t sure, she got so angry. I’d never known anyone to lose it with me like that. So I reassured her how much I loved her, that I would be happy to marry her. But even when I said it, I knew it was a lie. I loved her, but not enough. What I really loved was how she made me feel. Successful, beautiful, and powerful. She played to my ego so very well.

“A few months later, all the passion had died. I felt as though she was punishing me, not wanting sex with me because I’d suggested that I might not commit to her forever. But I didn’t dare complain and risk another explosion of all that pain and anger.

“She was still so wonderful when we were in public, with friends. She would hang on my arm and look so very interested.

She was pretty, you know, and everyone told me how lucky I was.

I thought I must be, and I tried to believe it. But when we got home she was so cold with me. It dawned on me that she liked me for my money, my job, for the image we could present to the world together. But that she’d never really seen me. I felt used, but I felt trapped too. I was frightened of her anger, and I was frightened what people would say. I thought they would blame me.

“And a big part of me still wanted to make it work. I thought that maybe if I let her see a little more of the real me, bit by bit, she could learn to love me. How stupid is that?”

Anna paused and took a deep breath, looking at me for a response. I stroked my hand over her back. “It’s not stupid at all.

Trying to make a relationship work. It’s love and it’s commitment Anna. What happened in the end?” I waited for her to go on.

“Every part of me I revealed seemed to just make it worse. It was as though I was destroying her image of me. She actually told

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me that I’d lied to her when we met and pretended to be something I wasn’t. In the end I almost thought she was right. I’m awful at making it clear how I feel, so perhaps it was my fault that she’d not understood me.”

“That’s not how it works, Anna.” I felt so much compassion for her, so much anger at the woman who could have treated her this way.

“I know that now. I didn’t then. And I didn’t think I could leave.

I’d committed myself to her, and she told me how much it would hurt her if I left. Then one day everything changed. She came home and said she’d met someone else who wouldn’t lie to her. She dumped me. After all that, she dumped me. Even worse, she spent the next month telling all of our friends it was my fault. More of them believed her than you might think. She had a way of convincing people.

“And so I suppose I decided it was better that I didn’t look for committed relationships. It took me a long time to persuade myself it wasn’t all my fault. I thought the only way to protect myself from that again was to avoid the situation altogether. Because I really am bad at talking about how I feel. Sharing my real self in the early days of a relationship even though there’s nothing I want more. To be intimate in that way. Maybe I’m not made for it.”

“You came here with a bunch of mistletoe on Christmas Day and seduced me, and you’re worried you’re not made for intimacy?”

I asked, smiling and hoping the memory would make her return my smile.

“I didn’t say sex, Ros. I can do sex. It’s really being close to someone I’m less sure about. Letting them know how I feel. If I don’t do that, how will anyone ever see the real me and want to be with me? I mean I really feel like I’m close to you—but what if I can’t ever show you in the way you deserve?”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned lately,” I said, moved by the emotion in her words, “it’s that you can’t define yourself by your history. Stuff happens, and a lot of it hurts. But you keep living, you learn from what happened in the past, but you have to think a lot more about the future. And you have to live in the present, as well.

You taught me that.”

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“I know, I’m a hypocrite,” she conceded. “It was partly why I found it difficult to deal with everything you were suffering, of course. When you told me about Francesca, it made me confront some of my own ghosts. I was so ready to throw myself into a relationship with you, I was taken aback when you weren’t too. And then I began to wonder why you ended things, if it was really all about your own insecurities. I guess I was angry with myself as much as hurt by what you said. Hurt enough to avoid your phone calls. Here I was, prepared to enter a relationship, and you weren’t ready to even risk beginning.”

“You were prepared to take a risk on me?” That revelation meant more than anything she’d said. Careful and intellectual, frightened, Anna had been prepared to venture onto uncertain ground on my behalf, having only encountered me those few times. No wonder rejecting her had hurt her more than I had expected.

“I was. I thought that you saw me. Truly saw me.”

“I did. And I’m so sorry I didn’t return the favour, Anna. I was so frightened of myself at that point.”

“It’s okay now, Ros. We’re in a different place now. Thank God for rotten floors.”

“Are you still prepared to take a risk on me?” I looked at her earnestly.

“Absolutely. But I have to tell you, Ros, it doesn’t feel like a risk. I’ve never had that before. I don’t feel I have to pretend to be anything with you.” Her trust in me moved me so very greatly.

Finally I knew I could tell her the true extent of my feelings for her.

“You don’t. Anna, I see you as you are. That image never fooled me, and I don’t care about your car or your money or being on your arm in public. None of that’s important to me. What’s important is that I love you.” My heart soared as I said the words and knew it was safe to say them, a step forward, the final proof I was back, alive and in control of my emotions. Happiness wasn’t something I needed optimism to envisage now. I was happy, and the main reason for that was next to me on the spring grass bathed in dappled light. I finally felt I knew her completely. I was safe, and I was in the happy future I’d longed for. I grinned at Anna who once more looked as though

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she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. I pulled her head towards me and kissed her, hoping to make the reassurance more complete. “And you know, you’re very eloquent without words,” I said softly.

“Really?” Anna asked, starting to smile but still seeking my affirmation.

“I promise. But just so we’re sure, tell me how you feel now.”

I knew it was okay to make the demand. She wanted to tell me, everything in her expression spoke of the words just waiting to be said.

“I love you, Ros,” she said, and my heart soared high above the trees and into the blue sky above. “You’ve come to mean everything to me.” Her tone was so heartfelt, I couldn’t help but hold her even tighter and kiss her again, hoping to tell her I felt the same without words.

“Was that so hard?” I asked her, in between kisses.

“No,” she replied. “But you knew anyway, didn’t you?”

“I had my suspicions,” I teased. “But thank you, Anna. For telling me as well as showing me.”

“Are you happy, Ros?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied, delighted to be able to give such a simple answer to her question. “Are you?”

“Completely.” The blissful expression on her face left me in no doubt she meant it.

She kissed me with more intent now, shifting so her body covered me and sliding one hand under the waistband of my loose trousers. “Shall I show you now?”

“Anna, we’re outside!”

“So? I don’t think anyone’s going to disturb us.”

“I thought you were respectable.” She slid her hand lower, apparently undeterred by my protests.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Her fingers found their target.

“Besides, it doesn’t feel as though you’re thinking respectable thoughts.”

“You have me on that one.” I inhaled the fragrant air as she began to massage me with her fingers. I groaned and looked up at

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the criss-cross of branches above our heads, the patches of blue sky between the fading blossoms. Her other hand reached for my breast, caressing softly. Arousal surged through me at her touch. I turned back to Anna, her desire very apparent in her expression, still hardly able to believe she was mine, she wanted me. Feeling wanted by Anna turned me on every time I thought about it. I gave myself up to it, covering her hand with mine and encouraging her to press harder, as our tongues twined together, as I undulated my body against hers as she lay above me.

She noticed when my whole body tensed, and I virtually stopped breathing, so close to the edge, and she slowed her caresses.

“Oh God…” I moaned, and she teased with her fingers. I gasped for air and pushed my hips towards her hand. “Anna, please, oh God, I’m going to…Oh God.”

She slowed her touch even more, until she was stroking me so lightly I could hardly bear it. “Anna…I have to…please.”

“I love you. Come for me now, my love.”

The breeze stirred in the trees, and I did exactly that.

❖

By early June, Winter had a fully functioning kitchen downstairs, with the original range and huge table still in place.

The bathroom was completely finished, in an art deco style. Much of the decorating was still underway, but the Blue Drawing Room had become a perfect living room, with powder blue walls to suit its name, the white marble fireplace and beautiful moulded ceiling restored to their original bright purity. The furniture was all dark wood and royal blue upholstery, including an antique chaise longue I’d fallen in love with in an antiques shop in Durham. Anna insisted on buying it as a house-warming gift. I’d only accepted when she’d informed me that she fully intended to help me put it to good use.

Anna was spending a lot of time at Winter, although by mutual agreement we were in no hurry to move in together. She loved her own little cottage, and I wasn’t lonely at Winter when she wasn’t there, though I was always keen to see her again. Our

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mutual agonising over our relationship potential might have eased, but we were both aware that small steps were safer than great leaps forward. For me, I was growing accustomed to the new feeling of being happy in my existence, and having finally made choices I truly felt were right. Anna, I knew, was growing used to the idea that I would not judge her silences as lack of caring, and that, when a relationship was based on real love, commitment did not mean being trapped. She visited nearly every day, and she stayed more nights in the week than she was away. For now, the situation suited us perfectly, and the lack of pressure about domestic arrangements left room for our relationship to flourish.

I’d also made one of the upstairs rooms a priority, and I finally had a real bedroom. One sunny Saturday morning I relaxed in my bed, thinking how much I loved the delicate green swirls of the wallpaper on the wall above the wrought iron headboard. Anna had climbed out of bed early, returned shortly afterwards with a cup of coffee for me, and informed me I wasn’t allowed to leave the bedroom or look out the window until she told me I could.

She’d been unmoved when I’d tried to make her tell me what was happening with promises of a most improper nature if she did so, and left me mired in my curiosity.

I was still smiling now, an hour later, as I thought about the look in her eye as she’d blown me a kiss and slipped out of the bedroom.

I’d heard a vehicle pull up outside the house and men’s voices, but I’d not been able to make out the words. I stretched contentedly in the soft cotton sheets and sat up in bed. I was smiling to myself a lot these days, and probably appeared like some sort of lunatic to many people I met.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror of the rosewood dressing table, which faced the bed. The Ros who looked back at me appeared much the same as a year ago, the frizzy curls hadn’t changed. But so many other things had been transformed. I knew myself now, and I knew what I wanted from my life. I could see a new determination in my own expression, a confidence I’d learned from Anna. My past still had its painful memories, but I knew now that it was the past. Wounds healed and life went on. A scarred heart

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didn’t stop beating. I looked forward to my future with real hope, knowing Anna was a fixture in it, and I belonged here at Winter.

A few minutes later Anna came back into the bedroom. Even dressed in her faded jeans and baggy white shirt, her hair loose and almost—by her standards—unruly, she was stunning. She lay by my side on the bed and propped her head up on one arm, grinning mischievously, then leaned down to kiss me. “Good morning again.”

“Good morning again.” I pressed close to her. “Mmmm, you smell different,” I said appreciatively. She smelled of orange blossom, violets, and freshly cut grass.

“I wondered if you’d notice.”

“Is it the one I bought you? Vent Vert?”

“Of course. You have impeccable taste.”

“It smells better on you than it did in the bottle.”

“That means you chose perfectly.” I smiled in satisfaction that my first exclusive perfume buying expedition had been a success.

“You smell of summer. Hints of what’s to come.”

“Oh, there’s so much to come, sweetheart.”

I turned to kiss her again, feeling the heat beginning to pulse through my body. But I wanted to know what the big mystery of the morning was. “Am I allowed out of the bedroom now?”

“If you really want to get out of bed,” she said, her hand sliding over my body.

“It’s Saturday,” I said, smiling and forcing myself to resist the temptation for now, “we can come back to bed later. Right now I want to know what you’ve been up to this morning.”

“In that case, come with me,” she said, springing out of bed like an excited child. I followed her, pulling on a purple cotton robe from the end of the bed. We went down the stairs, now re-carpeted in a beautiful crimson, and crossed the hallway to the front door. She stopped and grinned at me. “I bought you a present.”

“Another one?”

“It’s my prerogative to spoil you if I want to. Besides, this one’s for Winter too.”

“Come on, put me out of my misery!”

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“Okay, come here.” She pulled me to her, stood behind me, and put her hands over my eyes.

“Is this some sort of new kinky game?” I asked, giggling.

“No, but we can try it later if you want. For now, just reach out and open the door. We’re going out and down the steps, and I don’t want you peeking.” I did as she said, and we went out into the warmth of the early summer sunshine. The stone of the steps was warmer than the tiling of the hallway floor beneath my bare feet.

Anna guided me down some of the steps, turned me slightly, and then we stopped. “Are you ready?” she asked.

“More than ready,” I replied. She removed her hands from my eyes, and I opened them to come face to face with a statue, in smooth white marble. A woman, with a classically beautiful face and flowing hair, bare breasted, her remaining modesty protected by a cloth she held to her stony body. She appeared to be looking—with a most provocative expression—straight at me. Then I comprehended she wasn’t looking at me, but rather straight through me. At someone behind me. I took a step back and saw how her gaze connected perfectly with Phoebe’s, on her opposite plinth. Phoebe no longer stared wistfully at an empty space, but lovingly at her own carved goddess.

I smiled broadly and threw my arms around Anna, holding her tight to me. “Thank you so much. She’s perfect. And only you would think of it. You found Phoebe a girlfriend!”

“Well, you see,” Anna said quite seriously, “Phoebe and I had a chat, and she told me she looked so sad because she’s never found the right person. She wasn’t much impressed by the fine Greek gentleman she had to stare at for so many years, and she was secretly quite pleased when he, well, fell off his pedestal. I suggested she might prefer some female company, and she was very enthusiastic about it, I must say.”

I considered Phoebe’s expression. “She looks happier, don’t you think? I thought she was missing her true love, but it turns out she’d just not found her yet.”

“Definitely happier. Funny how things turn out, don’t you think?”

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“What’s her name?” I asked.

“She’s modelled on Aphrodite.”

“The goddess of love?”

“That’s the one.”

“Lucky Phoebe. I guess we have a lot to live up to.”

“I don’t think it will be a problem.” She grinned seductively.

I took Anna’s hand, and we walked back up the steps into the house, leaving Phoebe to enjoy her new view. “It might not be finished yet,” I said, “but Winter feels complete somehow, don’t you think?” We entered the hallway. “Finding Phoebe a girlfriend is just the icing on the cake.”

“It did feel like there was something missing,” Anna said,

“though I wouldn’t have known how to describe it.”

“Just like the place wasn’t quite at rest—but not really alive either—half stuck in the past but existing in the present. Almost like a ghost of a building.”

“You’re right,” Anna said. “It was in limbo. It doesn’t feel like that anymore. You’ve brought it back to life.”

“No,” I said, “we have.” I wrapped my arms around her, pulled her warm body close to mine, and let my lips melt into her kiss. “Do you think we’ll haunt this place one day?”

“If being here’s always this good, I can’t imagine something small like death stopping me from staying,” she replied.

“I love you, Anna,” I said softly. Her kiss was her eloquent reply.

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About the Author

Rebecca S. Buck has lived in Nottingham, England most of her life. Keen on the academic study of both history and literature, since graduating from the University of Nottingham in 2004, she has been contemplating just what she is going to study next. She is fascinated by the relationship between literature and culture and the importance of fiction for representing the human experience. This is partly what inspires her to write. Writing fiction is also her outlet for an overactive imagination and a propensity for spending far too much time absorbed in her own thoughts.

When she’s not writing, Rebecca is usually to be found reading (any book anyone recommends to her) or listening to music (the louder the better). She also loves to travel, especially to the beautiful cities of Europe and has, since 2005, spent much of her time in Slovenia in central Europe, where she worked as a private tutor at the same time as trying to renovate two houses. Now back in the UK

full time, Rebecca is working hard on her next novel and several short stories, as well as trying to settle on which career appeals to her most.

Find out more at www.rebeccasbuck.com.

Books Available from Bold Strokes Books Blood Hunt by L.L. Raand. In the second Midnight Hunters Novel, Detective Jody Gates, heir to a powerful Vampire clan, forges an uneasy alliance with Sylvan, the wolf Were Alpha, to battle a shadow army of humans and rogue Weres, while fighting her growing hunger for a human reporter, Becca Land. (978-1-60282-505-5) Loving Liz by Bobbi Marolt. When theater actor Marty Jamison turns diva and Liz Chandler walks out on her, Marty must confront a cheating lover from the past to understand why life is crumbling around her. (978-1-60282-210-8)

Kiss the Rain by Larkin Rose. How will successful fashion designer Eve Harris react when she discovers the new woman in her life, Jodi, and her secret fantasy phone date, Lexi, are one and the same?

(978-1-60282-211-5)

Sarah, Son of God by Justine Saracen. In a story within a story within a story, a transgendered beauty takes us through Stonewall-rioting New York, Venice under the Inquisition, and Nero’s Rome.

(978-1-60282-212-2)

Sleeping Angel by Greg Herren. Eric Matthews survives a terrible car accident only to find out everyone in town thinks he’s a murderer—and he has to clear his name even though he has no memories of what happened. (978-1-60282-214-6) Dying to Live by Kim Baldwin & Xenia Alexiou. British socialite Zoe Anderson-Howe’s pampered life is abruptly shattered when she’s taken hostage by FARC guerrillas while on a business trip to Bogota and Elite Operative Fetch must rescue her to complete her own harrowing mission. (978-1-60282-200-9) Indigo Moon by Gill McKnight. Hope Glassy and Godfrey Meyers are on a mercy mission to save their friend Isabelle after she is attacked by a rogue werewolf, but does Isabelle want to be saved from the sexy wolf who claimed her as a mate? (978-1-60282-201-6)

Parties in Congress by Colette Moody. Bijal Rao, Indian-American moderate Independent, gets the break of her career when she’s hired to work on the congressional campaign of Janet Denton—until she meets the remarkably attractive and charismatic opponent, Colleen O’Bannon. (978-1-60282-202-3)

Black Fire: Gay African-American Erotica edited by Shane Allison. Best-selling African-American gay erotic authors create the stories of sex and desire modern readers crave. (978-1-60282-206-1)

The Collectors by Leslie Gowan. Laura owns what might be the world’s most extensive collection of BDSM lesbian erotica, but that’s as close as she’s gotten to the world of her fantasies. Until, that is, her friend Adele introduces her to Adele’s mistress Jeanne—

art collector, heiress, and experienced dominant. With Jeanne’s first command, Laura’s life changes forever. (978-1-60282-208-5) Breathless edited by Radclyffe and Stacia Seaman. Bold Strokes Books romance authors give readers a glimpse into the lives of favorite couples celebrating special moments “after the honeymoon ends.” Enjoy a new look at lesbians in love or revisit favorite characters from some of BSB’s best-selling romances. (978-1-60282-207-8)

Breaker’s Passion by Julie Cannon. Leaving a trail of broken hearts scattered across the Hawaiian Islands, surf instructor Colby Taylor is running full speed away from her selfish actions years earlier until she collides with Elizabeth Collins, a stuffy, judgmental college professor who changes everything. (978-1-60282-196-5) Justifiable Risk by V.K. Powell. Work is the only thing that interests homicide detective Greer Ellis until internationally renowned journalist Eva Saldana comes to town looking for answers in her brother’s death—then attraction threatens to override duty. (978-1-60282-197-2)

Nothing But the Truth by Carsen Taite. Sparks fly when two top-notch attorneys battle each other in the high-risk arena of the courtroom, but when a strange turn of events turns one of them from advocate to witness, prosecutor Ryan Foster and defense attorney Brett Logan join forces in their search for the truth. (978-1-60282-198-9)

Maye’s Request by Clifford Henderson. When Brianna Bell promises her ailing mother she’ll heal the rift between her “other two” parents, she discovers how little she knows about those closest to her and the impact family has on the fabric of our lives. (978-1-60282-199-6)

Chasing Love by Ronica Black. Adrian Edwards is looking for love—at girl bars, shady chat rooms, and women’s sporting events—but love remains elusive until she looks closer to home.

(978-1-60282-192-7)

Rum Spring by Yolanda Wallace. Rebecca Lapp is a devout follower of her Amish faith and a firm believer in the Ordnung, the set of rules that govern her life in the tiny Pennsylvania town she calls home. When she falls in love with a young “English”

woman, however, the rules go out the window. (978-1-60282-193-4)

Indelible by Jove Belle. A single mother committed to shielding her son from the parade of transient relationships she endured as a child tries to resist the allure of a tattoo artist who already has a sometimes girlfriend. (978-1-60282-194-1) The Straight Shooter by Paul Faraday. With the help of his good pals Beso Tangelo and Jorge Ramirez, Nate Dainty tackles the Case of the Missing Porn Star, none other than his latest heartthrob—

Myles Long! (978-1-60282-195-8)

Head Trip by D.L. Line. Shelby Hutchinson, a young computer professional, can’t wait to take a virtual trip. She soon learns that chasing spies through Cold War Europe might be a great adventure, but nothing is ever as easy as it seems—especially love. (978-1-60282-187-3)

Desire by Starlight by Radclyffe. The only thing that might possibly save romance author Jenna Hardy from dying of boredom during a summer of forced R&R is a dalliance with Gardner Davis, the local vet—even if Gard is as unimpressed with Jenna’s charms as she appears to be with Jenna’s fame. (978-1-60282-188-0) River Walker by Cate Culpepper. Grady Wrenn, a cultural anthropologist, and Elena Montalvo, a spiritual healer, must find a way to end the River Walker’s murderous vendetta—and overcome a maze of cultural barriers to find each other. (978-1-60282-189-7) Blood Sacraments, edited by Todd Gregory. In these tales of the gay vampire, some of today’s top erotic writers explore the duality of blood lust coupled with passion and sensuality. (978-1-60282-190-3)

Mesmerized by David-Matthew Barnes. Through her close friendship with Brodie and Lance, Serena Albright learns about the many forms of love and finds comfort for the grief and guilt she feels over the brutal death of her older brother, the victim of a hate crime. (978-1-60282-191-0)

Whatever Gods May Be by Sophia Kell Hagin. Army sniper Jamie Gwynmorgan expects to fight hard for her country and her future.

What she never expects is to find love. (978-1-60282-183-5) nevermore by Nell Stark and Trinity Tam. In this sequel to everafter, Vampire Valentine Darrow and Were Alexa Newland confront a mysterious disease that ravages the shifter population of New York City. (978-1-60282-184-2)

Playing the Player by Lea Santos. Grace Obregon is beautiful, vulnerable, and exactly the kind of woman Madeira Pacias usually avoids, but when Madeira rescues Grace from a traffic accident, escape is impossible. (978-1-60282-185-9)

Table of Contents

chapter one

chapter tWo

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eiGht

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter tWelve

chapter thirteen

chapter fourteen