A Winter’s Tale

by Trisha Ashley

  He apologised for not being able to get to Winter’s End more often. ‘I’ll make up for it at Christmas, and I’ll try to get down for lunch one day soon—I’ll let you know when. Just concentrate on getting the house looking wonderful. We’ll work out our future plans at Christmas, darling.’

  ‘I’ve already worked mine out. You should have listened to all my speech to the staff,’ I said drily, and though he laughed, I thought I had started to detect a note of impatience in his voice.

  Perhaps it was at last dawning on him that I hadn’t so much got a toehold on Winter’s End, as captured the castle.

  I finally received an answer to the letter I wrote ages ago to Mrs Dukes, the Blackwalls cook, asking if she knew how Lady Betty was.

  It had taken some time for my letter to be passed on because she resigned after she, too, was denied permission to visit her mistress in the nursing home. She said she thought Conor had treated his aunt disgracefully, especially in isolating her from her friends and staff.

  I had no other way of finding out what was happening, but by a strange coincidence I received an official missive from a solicitor only a day or two later, giving me the sad but not unexpected news that Lady Betty had died.

  Conor hadn’t thought fit to inform me of it, but I would have travelled up for the funeral, had I known.

  Mind you, I didn’t leave him a forwarding address, though Tanya at the caravan site was kindly sending on my mail, which is how I got the solicitor’s letter. But Conor did have my mobile phone number, from when I worked there.

  I admit that I had a little weep for Lady Betty, so it was a few minutes before I read on and discovered that under the terms of her will, all the permanent household staff would receive a keepsake, which she had personally chosen. Picking them out must have given her hours of pleasure!

  Mine was an Egyptian artefact, and the author of the letter enquired if I would I like the solicitor to arrange to have it packed and delivered to me. I wondered which item, from Lady Betty’s mainly bogus Egyptian collection, she had left to me. I only hoped it was not the stone sarcophagus, though when I told Seth while I was helping him plant the new rose bushes, he said that it would make quite a good display, planted up—so long as the mummy wasn’t still in it.

  I knew him well enough now to recognise when he was joking, even though he kept his face straight. It was a good sign, because he’d been a bit gloomy and preoccupied since the day Mel found us in that unfortunately compromising-looking clinch in the Great Hall. And though he still dropped into the parlour sometimes in the evening, his heart didn’t always seem to be in our arguments any more.

  I didn’t think Mel was good news as far as Seth was concerned. Can you have your heart broken twice by the same person? He could be infuriating, but I found I didn’t want him to be deeply unhappy, which I suspected was because I was starting to think of him as family, too.

  Mr Yatton was to write to the solicitor to arrange delivery of my Mystery Parcel from Lady Betty. I’d treasure it, whatever it was. Lucy said she hoped it was a mummified cat, a ghoulishly strange desire that would gain no endorsement from Mrs Lark, that’s for sure, and Gingernut, who seemed to have no respect for other people’s property, let alone his own ancient ancestors, would probably eat it.

  I wouldn’t like to see the mess that would make in his litter tray.

  *  *  *

  Apart from the sad but not entirely unexpected news of my former employer, there were no flies in my balm of bliss until the end of the week.

  Then the local rag came out again—and to my horror there I was, after all this time, headlined in the Sticklepond and District Gazette.

  ‘WINTER’S END FOR MRS MOP!’ it said in huge capitals, followed in slightly smaller type by ‘MYSTERY HEIRESS FOUND’.

  The meagre and unexciting facts of my inheritance had been used to support a huge edifice of speculation and possibility…a bit like what I was doing with the guidebook and display boards, come to think of it. Maybe I should have been a journalist.

  It was all very sensational, and accompanied by the photo of Seth and me that had been taken in the new rose garden. I looked startled and fat, as did Charlie—but then, he usually does. Underneath it they’d put, ‘To the manor born—the new Lady Winter with one of her gardeners at Winter’s End,’ and then quoted Seth as saying, ‘The new mistress doesn’t know her a** from her antirrhinum,’ which I imagine he might well have done in the first flush of fury after I arrived, though he says not. (And I’m not Lady Winter. Unless I married Jack, I would never be Lady anything.)

  Seth was furious, but I think it was mostly wounded male vanity, because he said the article and picture made him sound and look like a bucolic half-wit. Mind you, it was true that I didn’t know what an antirrhinum was, so I asked him and he said it was like a snapdragon.

  That should be his middle name—Seth Snapdragon Greenwood.

  The day after the horrible article appeared, Jack called in for lunch on his way somewhere. Though he’d let us know he was coming, he arrived much earlier than I expected, so that I was down on the lower terrace getting some air after a morning spent cleaning the furniture in the Chinese bedroom.

  Also, the footings for the retaining wall were in, and a couple of plain courses laid, and Seth insisted I put the first of the engraved stones into place.

  The stone was a lot heavier than it looked so he had to help, standing right behind me with my hands over his as he carefully manoeuvred ‘I like of each thing that in season grows’ into place.

  I turned in his encircling arms and smiled up at him as the other three gardeners clapped, probably more to restore some circulation to their cold hands than for any other reason, but his answering smile was surprisingly short-lived—then he moved away as if I was suddenly contagious.

  A familiar voice hailed me peremptorily from above. ‘Sophy!’

  It was Jack, standing at the top of the steps looking like an advert for smart men’s dressing. Then he ran quickly down, took a couple of strides and kissed me, though I turned my head at the last minute so that it landed on my cheek rather than my lips. It was instinctive, but I felt ungrateful. It wasn’t that long since any signs of affection from a dazzlingly handsome man, with no obvious defects or hang-ups, would have been received with loud cries of joy—and now here I was taking evasive action.

  ‘There you are, Sophy—and how nice to see you and Seth getting so close,’ he said lightly, but with an undercurrent of such unmistakable anger in his voice that it made me flush guiltily even though he’d misread the situation. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you. What’s so engrossing about a wall that made you forget I was coming?’

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten, Jack. You’re early. And this isn’t any old wall—some of the stones have got quotations from Shakespeare carved on them, to add to the whole theme of the garden,’ I explained enthusiastically. ‘I’ve just officially laid the first one.’

  ‘Isn’t that an unnecessary expense?’

  ‘Ma’s paying,’ Seth said briefly, looking up from sorting the next stones ready to hand to Derek, when he had finished fiddling with his plumb line.

  ‘Oh? I didn’t think Ottie was interested in gardens, any more than Sophy was.’

  ‘I love the garden,’ I protested, as Jack put a familiar and rather possessive arm around my waist and gave me a squeeze. ‘I just love the house more, even though I know they complement each other.’

  ‘Well, you can see them any time, but I’m only here for an hour, so come on, Sophy—I’m famished and it seems ages since I saw you.’

  To my relief he dropped his arm, so we wouldn’t have to make our way awkwardly back up the steps like conjoined twins, and instead took my hand.

  In the Great Hall the fire burned brightly, casting a rosy glow onto the subtle, faded colours of the newly washed rag rug and gleaming off the polished wooden furniture.

  Jonah was sitting on one of the settles in front of the fire, buffing up a
pair of halberds, like small axe heads on very long shafts, with Renaissance wax. I’d found them and their wooden mount in the attic, and the battered stag was about to be banished up there instead. The kitten, a ball of fluff the colour of a gingernut biscuit (hence his name), was curled up on a cushion at his side and Charlie was stretched out on the rug. I hoped this meant he was getting used to the usurper at last. At the sound of our footsteps on the stone floor he lifted his head high enough to see Jack, then emitted an indignant bark or two of disapproval without bothering to get up.

  ‘The place looks different,’ Jack said, ‘I noticed as soon as I came in. And it smells different too!’

  ‘I think it just smells clean and well-aired rather than musty, that’s what it is,’ I shrugged. ‘Come on, let’s go and find that lunch, if you’re hungry and in a hurry.’

  We were eating lunch of minestrone soup, accompanied by garlic bread and the cheeseboard in the breakfast parlour, rather than the kitchen, in Jack’s honour. Aunt Hebe was already there, ready to fall on her blue-eyed boy with all kinds of questions and anxious enquiries.

  Aunt Hebe indignantly told Jack all about the newspaper article, but he thought no one would take any notice of such a little local rag. He was bright and cheerful, especially on the subject of his wonderful self, telling us about some major property killing he had just made.

  But when I started telling him all about what I’d been doing at Winter’s End, he just shook his head sadly. ‘Cosmetic changes are all very well, Sophy, and you’ve worked wonders, but the place needs the sort of overhaul only money can buy.’

  The inference was clear: he had the money and I had the enthusiasm, so that together we would make a beautiful partnership. Aunt Hebe beamed on us benevolently.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think there’s much wrong with the house, Jack, and anything expensive will just have to wait until funds start to come in and the place pays its own way. And I’m sure that will be quite soon, once we get the visitor numbers rising steadily,’ I said with more optimism than I felt, because it was all going to be a huge gamble. ‘I’m going to open Winter’s End four days a week, from Easter until the end of September.’

  ‘Yes, and I will have much to do if my range of products is going to be ready to sell in the shop by then,’ Hebe said.

  He frowned. ‘I thought we’d agreed that we would discuss our plans for Winter’s End at Christmas? You know how I feel about opening it to the public, Sophy. I’d much rather just keep it as our family home and—’

  His phone, which he had laid next to his plate on the table, buzzed like a dying fly with an incoming text and he snatched it up, though it didn’t seem to be the message he wanted.

  ‘Where was I?’ he asked.

  ‘Eating cheese,’ I said diplomatically, passing him the board—my favourite one, with a china mouse attached to the cheese wire. ‘Your phone’s buzzing again.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, and ignored it after that, even though it went off about every ten minutes.

  When lunch was over he accepted, with every sign of delight, the completed snot-green knitted garment that an excited Hebe presented to him.

  It wasn’t just good manners—his acting was superb, which was quite an eye-opener and really made me think. I mean, he is caressing and affectionate and had given every appearance of falling in love with me—but frankly I am not that gorgeous; more of a penny plain than a tuppence coloured.

  When Hebe, with monumental tact and immense self-sacrifice, reluctantly tore herself away on some pretext, leaving us to have coffee together, he gave me his wonderful smile and said persuasively, ‘You really won’t make any more plans to open Winter’s End until we can discuss it properly at Christmas, will you, Sophy?’

  ‘I think I’ve probably already made most of them, actually, Jack. And you exaggerated the problems with Winter’s End, especially the deathwatch beetle, so I would sell it to you at a low price, didn’t you?’

  He actually laughed, as though he had done something clever. ‘Of course I did, darling, though it really could do with a bucket of money poured into it. But you don’t have to sell it to me if you don’t want to, because I meant it when I said I wanted us to live here together, happy ever after—and I suspect you’re a traditionalist, so we’ll get married eventually, if only to keep Aunt Hebe sweet. So, what’s mine will be yours and vice versa, won’t it?’

  I closed my eyes, but when I opened them again he was still there with that confident smile on his handsome face.

  ‘But, Jack, that’s never going to happen. I’m not going to sell Winter’s End, enter into any kind of partnership, or sign it over to you—and I’m certainly not going to marry you! I’ve quickly grown very fond of you, but I’m not in love with you and I don’t think I ever will be,’ I said frankly. ‘But I am growing to love you like a brother.’

  He looked absolutely flabbergasted, but that may have been the unintentionally Victorian sentiment of my last sentence, which just slipped out. Or perhaps he’d never even seriously considered it was possible that I could, in the end, refuse him anything. How could I resist him?

  Indeed, I thought, looking at him again—tall, athletically built, golden-haired, blue-eyed and reeking with charm and subtly expensive aftershave—how had I managed to fall for him and then un-fall, so quickly? I mean, what exactly was I looking for in a man?

  He still couldn’t take what I’d said seriously, but he was shaken a bit, I think, though he rallied. ‘I’ve rushed you, that’s what it is, and I think you’re still jealous of Mel, even though it’s Seth she’s got her claws into, not me, as I keep telling you. She just flirts the way other people breathe.’

  I wished she would stop doing both—but maybe that was a bit mean.

  I told him that I was not at all jealous of Mel, which unfortunately seemed to encourage him to think I just needed a little more time and persuasion. I was glad when he and his buzzing phone departed, though this time he managed to plant a kiss full on my mouth before dashing off in his sports car.

  After he’d gone I felt a bit restless and irritable, so I collected Charlie and went out into the crisp autumnal air, and we were just walking through the wilderness towards the rear drive when I heard a female voice, pitched rather high—Mel.

  Charlie and I seemed to have an unerring nose for her assignations and, like last time, I scooped him up and clamped his muzzle shut before he could emit any of his wheezy little barks. His tail flapped—he would much rather be carried than walk, any day.

  I supposed it would be Seth she was meeting, but instead of turning away I crept forward until I could see her big grey horse, tied to one of the posts of the stone shelter where the milk churns were once left.

  She was standing in the little clearing behind it, talking to Jack. I could see the bright red paintwork of his car further on through the trees, pulled off the drive. Was this a fortuitous meeting, or had they arranged it?

  ‘Did you have to keep texting me all through lunch, Mel? You knew where I was,’ I heard him say testily.

  ‘Just reminding you of my existence, in case other distractions made you forget me and our little business arrangements.’

  ‘That’s not very likely is it?’ he said bitterly. ‘And you shouldn’t keep coming up here. It could make it awkward. I don’t want Sophy to think there’s something between us.’

  ‘Why should she think that? There are other attractions at Winter’s End, you know. Seth is always glad to see me, even if you’re not.’

  ‘Look, Mel,’ Jack began angrily, ‘I don’t know—’

  She stopped his words with a kiss, one that went on and on, with her brown eyes wide open, looking in my direction. I don’t know if she saw me or not.

  Jack didn’t seem to be putting up much resistance. But then, I expect few men would. Did it mean anything? It didn’t really matter to me now, but it would, I was sure, to Seth…

  Then Jack suddenly pushed her away and stood there glaring at her and
breathing heavily, so maybe he, at least, wasn’t entirely putty in her hands.

  I backed away slowly until I couldn’t see them any more, not bothering too much about the noise.

  I circled the maze aimlessly for quite a while with Charlie, before going back to the house. There was no sign of Seth on the terrace, or in the kitchen, where Mrs Lark said she hadn’t seen him that day, so I wondered if he too had slipped away to meet Mel. If so, she might be a little late…

  But he knew what sort of woman she was; it was his own stupid fault if he had fallen for her all over again!

  To Mrs Lark’s delight I ate four chocolate brownies, then played with the kitten before finally going off to finish cleaning the Chinese bedroom.

  At dinner Hebe remarked that she had seen Mel’s horse tethered behind the lodge that afternoon, when she was looking for fungi in the dark trees that surrounded it. (No, don’t ask what she wanted them for.)

  ‘So you see, it is Seth that she comes to visit. Ottie was quite wrong about things. Jack and Mel are simply friends now.’

  ‘I’m sure they are. She seems a very friendly type,’ I agreed, and something in my voice made her give me a sharp look.

  ‘You and Jack haven’t fallen out, have you? I thought you were getting on really well at lunch.’

  ‘We were, Aunt Hebe, and I love him like a brother, warts and all.’

  ‘Jack hasn’t got warts!’ she said indignantly. ‘There isn’t a blemish on his body!’

  ‘Just a turn of phrase. I can see he is perfection personified.’

  I sat and sewed in the parlour that evening, as usual, but there was no sign of Seth. He probably had other fish to fry.

  But I wasn’t entirely alone, because apart from Charlie snoring on my feet, I once or twice looked up to glimpse Alys in the convex mirror on the opposite wall. It made her appear all nose—not a good look.