A Winter’s Tale

by Trisha Ashley

  ‘It was the staff toilet until Sir William put in that nice cloakroom under the backstairs, and the teashop used to be the laundry and brewhouse. But we don’t need a laundry now we’ve got the utility room, and the only brewing is what Miss Hebe does next door, and better not to ask about most of that,’ she said darkly.

  ‘Definitely not,’ I agreed. ‘When we’re open, who does the teas?’

  ‘The Friends serve them, but I cook the pastries and scones.’

  ‘That must make a lot of work for you?’

  ‘I like to do a big bake, and Grace comes in extra and cuts the sandwiches, but we don’t get so many visitors.’

  ‘I’m surprised you get any, because there isn’t much of the house open to see, is there?’

  ‘No, but they come for the garden mostly. It’s a picture in summer, though Seth says the terraces are still a work in progress. Gardening clubs and so on—they like to keep coming year after year to see how it’s going on.’

  ‘Surely it must be nearly finished by now? They’ve been at it for years, from what Mr Hobbs was saying!’

  ‘Oh, yes, I think there’s only the bottom terrace to do, though it seems to me they spend as much time maintaining the garden as they did making the thing in the first place—all these grown men snipping and clipping! Miss Hebe seems able to manage the whole walled garden on her own, apart from getting one of the gardeners to do the heavy digging, or clean out the hens, which makes Seth mad. He thinks of nothing but his blessed restoration scheme and your granddad was just the same.’

  ‘I’ll look round the garden as soon as I’ve got the chance, but it sounds as if it’s had enough time and money expended on it and getting the house back in good order will be what’s important now. Things are going to change.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. When we heard how Sir William had left things, we did wonder if you would come back or just sell the place.’

  ‘I wondered too, at first, but once I’d seen Winter’s End again I knew I was back for good,’ I said firmly, though somewhere inside I was quaking at the thought of explaining that to Jack…

  Charlie gave a sudden snort and opened his eyes, then got to his feet and ambled over, tail wagging. I bent down to stroke his matted head. ‘Do you know where Charlie’s brushes are?’

  ‘The cleaning room, two doors down the passage on the left. I doubt you’ll get a brush through that mess, though, but I’ll tell Jonah to give it a go, shall I?’

  ‘No, I think you might be right about not being able to get a brush through it. He’ll have to be clipped, and I’d say from the way he’s walking that his claws need cutting too. He can’t have been getting out and about enough to wear them down, while he’s been moping. In fact,’ I decided, ‘what I really need is a dog grooming parlour!’

  ‘Milly’s Mutt-Mobile,’ Mrs Lark said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Jonah’s sister’s husband’s brother’s girl. She has a mobile dog parlour. Shall I ring her?’

  ‘Oh, would you? Ask her if she could come up and do something with Charlie as soon as she has time.’

  ‘I’ll be glad to. I feel that bad for neglecting the poor little thing, though I kept trying to coax him to eat, and Miss Hebe tried one or two of her potions on him. But he’s just had a huge dinner now, so he’s on the mend.’

  Yes…Aunt Hebe’s household-book-derived potions.

  ‘Mrs Lark,’ I said, sitting on the wooden settle facing her, ‘I expect you know about Alys Blezzard’s book, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, there’ve always been copies of what you might call the everyday recipes in circulation, and they were used in the kitchens here, but of course not nowadays…though come to think of it, I do still use the one for medlar cheese. Your aunt got her recipes for the lotions and potions and stuff she brews up from the original, though they’re not Christian to my way of thinking, because it’s well known that Alys Blezzard and her mother were both witches. Lots of people locally, they come up here of nights and buy them. I use the rose face cream and hand cream myself,’ she added reluctantly. ‘There’s no harm in them.’

  ‘My mother always said Alys was a witch. She liked to think she took after her, brewing up charms and spells, but she didn’t really. It was just a pose.’

  ‘Alys Blezzard was distantly related to the Nutters through her mother, and they were witches,’ Mrs Lark said. ‘Some of them were burned for it, I think, a lot later. Alys was took—betrayed by the family, some say.’

  ‘Took?’

  ‘Gaoled her for questioning, but she died before they could do anything. Just as well, though Seth says she probably wouldn’t have been burned as a witch back then; the burnings was later. But ducking would likely have been just as fatal, especially in the wintertime, if they got carried away.’

  I shivered. ‘What a horrible thought! And didn’t they sometimes tie suspected witches up and throw them in the water, and if they sank they were innocent, but if they floated they were guilty? They had no chance, did they?’

  ‘Before she died Alys entrusted the book to a servant, to give to her daughter when she was old enough,’ she said, with a bright-eyed look at me. ‘I overheard Miss Hebe saying so to Jack—and that it was full of treasures. Alys had said so herself on the flyleaf.’

  ‘She told Jack that!’ I exclaimed, because Mum had definitely led me to understand that the ancient, handwritten book with all its recipes, was some great and precious secret handed down only to the women of the family—and if there was one thing certain, it was that Jack wasn’t one of those.

  ‘Of course, that was enough to get him going, seeing the way he’s been treasure-hunt mad from a little lad—and he turned the place upside down looking for the book in case your mum hadn’t taken it after all.’

  ‘But the treasures are just the recipes!’

  She shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘Miss Hebe couldn’t even remember properly what Alys had written in the book because it was Ottie that had charge of the key to the box, and she’d rarely let her look at it. And when Ottie found out she’d told Jack, she was right mad! They haven’t spoken since—but then they were forever falling out, so that’s nothing new. When Ottie married the gardener they didn’t speak for five years, Hebe was that disgusted—only it was probably all down to jealousy because he was a fine figure of a man, though she’d never of married him herself, of course.’

  ‘You know, I thought they weren’t speaking. But how did Ottie find out that Hebe had talked to Jack about it in the first place?’

  ‘Because he tried pumping her about the book and got a right flea in his ear for his trouble. Ottie told him straight it was nothing to do with him.’

  ‘That explains a lot. I was surprised Jack knew about the book at all, when he came up to see me in Northumberland, but I can see now that of course its existence was bound to be generally known about within the family and copies of some of the recipes in circulation. But Aunt Ottie was right—the rest is no business of Jack’s.’

  I got up. ‘I think I’ll just bring the rest of my bags in, then move the van round the back. It lowers the tone of the place, standing out there.’

  ‘You can park it in the courtyard or the barn, if you like,’ she said. ‘Leave your bags in the hall and Jonah will take them up for you. Your other stuff that came, we stored it in the attic nearest your old nursery. You remember where that is?’

  ‘Yes, Aunt Hebe showed me, but more and more is coming back to me anyway.’

  ‘Your mother’s things that were returned with her, they’re all in her old room—the Rose Bedroom. Mr William wouldn’t let us change a thing in there after you both ran off. It’s just the same as the day she left and it’s never been used for visitors.’

  This was unexpected of Grandfather, and rather touching. And I’d never given a thought to what had happened to any of the luggage Mum took to America with her—but of course it would have been returned to Winter’s End.

  ‘I expect you’ll want to go
down to the graveyard in a day or two, pay your respects,’ Mrs Lark suggested. ‘It’s got a nice stone angel—looks a bit like your mum did the last time I saw her. Mr William had fresh flowers sent down every week.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll do that,’ I said, getting up. ‘Thank you, Mrs Lark.’

  ‘Come back for a bit of tea later, if you want. If I’m not here, there’s parkin and gingerbread men I made special—they’re over there cooling on the rack.’

  I ate one right there, hot and bendy though it was, and then, with Charlie still following me like a small shadow, I brought in the rest of my bags and piled them at the bottom of the staircase. Then I drove round the back, past the tower and through an arch into a flagged courtyard. A pair of doors opened onto a barn that already contained a battered sports car that I somehow knew was Ottie’s, and the Volvo estate that had been Grandfather’s. But there was still plenty of room, so I put the van in there and then walked out into the yard again.

  One side of the courtyard was formed by the old coach house, now transformed into a home and studio in which, through a large glazed door standing ajar, despite the cold wind, I could see Aunt Ottie standing motionless in front of some monstrous shape, smoking a cheroot, her back to me.

  I pushed open the door and went in. Without turning, she said: ‘Well, Sophy, what do you think?’

  Chapter Nine: Lost in Translation

  Tomorrow I will be marryed. Fond though I am of Thomas, to embrace him will be to embrace death itself—yet there is no escape. I look to the future and see only dark shadows closing in on mee.

  I asked one bride gift only—that my mother’s maid, Joan, be sent for, since my father hath turned her off, and this boon was granted to mee. Though seemingly a simple creature, she is of our old ways and was devoted to my mother. She brought with her my mother’s household book, which I mean to continue with, and some other things I have hid to be safe.

  From the journal of Alys Blezzard, 1581

  I wasn’t surprised that Ottie knew who was there without turning round, because I can often do that myself. I think it’s a Winter thing—like the way I frequently have a flash of foreknowledge that something good or bad is heading in my direction. That was partly why I didn’t go to America with my mother, though it turned out that the dark shadows were gathering for her, not me.

  I examined what looked like a cross between a cow and a giant bat, the clay seemingly slapped on over the armature with a giant paddle, and said cautiously, ‘It’s a very interesting interpretation.’

  I mean, what do I know of modern sculpture? My knowledge of art comes from dusting several miles of old pictures in a freezing Scottish loch-side castle, or Lady Betty’s collection of pseudo-antique Egyptian relics; and if I never see another washy watercolour of Highland cattle, or crumbling alabaster Canopic jar, it won’t cause me any grief whatsoever.

  ‘Interpretation of what, exactly?’ Ottie enquired with interest.

  ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ I confessed, and she laughed.

  ‘Good—I hate humbug.’ She regarded her monstrous creation with complacency. ‘It’s called Folded: 25 and it’s the final one for an installation in Swindon. This could be the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to the place.’

  She turned her bright blue eyes on me and asked, ‘Settling in all right?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. I’ve just unloaded the van and put it in the barn, and Aunt Hebe gave me a quick tour of the house to remind me of the layout, before she had to go down to the church. Aunt Ottie…’

  ‘Just call me Ottie, everyone does.’

  ‘Ottie,’ I said firmly, since she had seemingly lost interest in me again and gone back to contemplating her sculpture through a haze of sweet blue smoke, ‘Aunt Hebe appears to have told Jack all about Alys Blezzard’s book and now he thinks it might hold a clue to finding a hidden treasure.’

  That regained her attention. ‘My sister’s a fool—always was, always will be. She said she thought he ought to know, since there were no female Winters left after us. But of course there were—you! And I knew you would come back one day, because I’ve got a dose of the family second sight, while Hebe just inherited the skills to whip up potions and charms.’ She looked at me sharply. ‘You’re like me, I think?’

  ‘A bit. Not so much second sight as more of a vague sense of good or bad coming my way—either as a light on the horizon and my spirits lifting, or dark shadows closing in on me.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘You’ll probably get a stronger dose when I’ve popped my clogs. That’s what happened to me when my grandmother died. I suppose it’s only the Winter tendency to marry second or third cousins that has kept it so strong in the family all these centuries.’

  I remembered Jack’s joke about that and also, guiltily, that he was still entirely unaware of my transition from reluctant heiress to Homecoming Queen. I had an uncomfortable suspicion that ‘consort’ wasn’t in his vocabulary…

  Ottie ground the stub of her cheroot out under the heel of her boot. ‘That Hebe’s daft as a brush, wittering on about things she knows very well she shouldn’t, and putting ideas into Jack’s head. Not that there aren’t enough twisty little cunning ideas in there already,’ she warned, with a sharp look at me.

  ‘Is that why you and Hebe aren’t speaking to each other?’

  ‘Partly. I suppose Susan told you all about the book?’

  ‘Yes, and everything that her mother told her, but she thought you knew more than she did.’

  ‘William’s wife was giddy, like Susan—sweet, but no substance to her—and she died young. It put me in a bit of a dilemma, to be frank, though I had great hopes of you. Did you ever see that series on TV, Buffy the Vampire Slayer?’ she added, with disconcerting abruptness. ‘“Into every generation a vampire slayer is born”?’

  ‘No, we never had a TV. And where do vampires come in?’ I asked uneasily.

  ‘They don’t—but into each generation or so of Winter women is born one to be trusted to keep Alys Blezzard’s secrets safe, and pass them on to the next, like an endless game of tag down the centuries. There have been Regency belles, disapproving Victorian misses and twenties flappers, but they’ve all kept the faith. I’m the Buffy for my generation—but there seems to have been a slight glitch with the next two. However,’ she added more cheerfully, ‘since I also had a bit of the magic about me, I knew it would all come right in the end! You’re here, and here to stay, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well…yes—but I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to manage it!’

  ‘You’ll find a way,’ she said confidently.

  I would have to. Losing Winter’s End again simply wasn’t an option. I went back to what Ottie had been saying. ‘So Mum was right and you do know something more—and maybe Alys’s references to treasures mean more than I thought, too?’

  ‘The book is itself a rare treasure—a household manuscript of that age, written by a woman,’ she said evasively. ‘There have always been copies of the more useful, everyday recipes circulating within the family, but when Hebe showed an interest in the more esoteric side, I let her go through the original book to look for others—more fool me! Now she’s blabbed about things she had no right to, and Jack’s been creeping about searching the place like something out of a Secret Seven novel, looking for buried gold. Seth found him using a metal detector in the grounds just after William died and threatened to wrap it round his neck if he caught him digging holes in the beds again. Then I told him he needed the permission of the owner to do it anyway, which made him even more furious, of course.’

  ‘I suppose it would, since apparently he’s been brought up to think himself the heir all these years,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s a difficult situation for him. But I can’t understand why Hebe told Jack in the first place.’

  ‘She doted on the child from the moment he came back from New Zealand and spoiled him to death, so I suppose it was on the cards that she would tell him everything she knew eventually. But
goodness knows why, because he isn’t showing any sign of getting married again, so there’s no wife to take the secret on to the next generation.’

  ‘Oh? I saw Melinda Christopher this morning as I was arriving—her horse tried to sit on my car. Aunt Hebe said Grandfather thought she and Jack seemed to be getting close when she first moved back here, until he showed that he disapproved.’

  Ottie thought that one over. ‘I don’t think so. They are just old friends and move in the same circles. But she’s a rich widow, so now William isn’t here to put his oar in, perhaps Jack will see her in a different light. He’s always found money powerfully attractive. He and Melinda have got that in common.’

  I returned to our original subject with an effort. ‘I still don’t see why Aunt Hebe had to tell Jack anything.’

  ‘Nor me. She just said she thought he ought to know, now he was the last of the Winters.’

  ‘Only the last of the male Winters, and he’s not actually a Winter at all unless he takes the name by deed poll, is he? Still, all he seems to know is that Alys mentions secret treasures on the flyleaf of the original book.’

  ‘That’s right, and luckily she couldn’t even remember the exact wording of that. In fact, there’s only me who knows everything now—custodian of the family secrets, as you might say.’ She paused. ‘When I realised Hebe had blabbed, though, it did make me wonder if I should confide in someone, too. Especially someone who could keep an eye on Jack’s treasure-hunting when I wasn’t here.’

  She looked at me and away again. ‘You see, I knew you were going to come back, and since the key and the book vanished when your mother did, I assumed you had them. I mean, you have got them, haven’t you? It would be terrible if the book was lost for ever!’

  I ignored that, staring at her, aghast. ‘Ottie, are you saying that you told someone else the family secrets too?’

  ‘Well, I’m no spring chicken any more,’ she replied defensively. ‘I knew you would return, but not when. What if you came back too late? So I told someone I trusted exactly what Hebe had told Jack, and left a letter with the solicitor to be given to you when you turned up, telling you the rest.’