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.
*
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 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 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 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 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 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.
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 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.
“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.
Ghosts of Winter Page 2
