The Secrets of Winter

by Nicola Upson

  Instinctively, she glanced over his shoulder at the museum, knowing that surely now he would realise as soon as Emily’s body was discovered who was to blame for her death. He already sensed that something was terribly wrong, and it was only a matter of time before concern turned to shame and then to hatred. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to face it just yet. ‘I’m sorry, but they kept me late,’ she said. ‘Then there was something I forgot to say to Emily when I saw her this morning, so I thought I’d call in and do it now. I was looking for a light upstairs, but she must have gone to bed.’

  ‘Of course she’s in bed. It’s after midnight. Don’t lie to me, Nora.’

  ‘What do you mean? I’m not lying.’

  ‘Yes, you are. This is about Jenna again, isn’t it?’ Not even in the depths of her depression could Nora have imagined that her daughter’s absence would be a convenient excuse for something still worse, but she didn’t correct him. ‘I know it’s hard, love, but we’ve got to get used to it. This is how it has to be from now on – just the two of us. Is that really so bad?’ Suddenly it was all she wanted, but one moment of madness had made it impossible. They had no future now, she knew that, and she couldn’t bear the idea of going back with him, taking the lie into the house and getting into bed next to him. ‘Come on, love – let’s go home. You’ve got a busy day tomorrow.’

  He touched her arm and she flinched, trying not to dwell on the hurt in his eyes. ‘I can’t, Tom. I need some time to myself after the day I’ve had. Go home to bed. I won’t be long.’

  Nora headed up the path before he could argue, turning back once to see him still standing there in the snow, watching her. She had no idea where she was going. Someone was invariably up late in the staff quarters, and no doubt they’d be talking long into the night about the guests, squabbling over who was going to take the German her tea in the morning. She couldn’t risk any of the family rooms in this state, just in case she was seen and forced to explain herself, and it really was too cold to stay outside, even if catching her death, as Tom had put it, felt like the easy way out. In her panic and grief, she knew that she was only a breath away from confessing what she had done and taking the consequences; nothing, surely, could be as bad as this constant fear. She saw Tom’s face again, knowing how ashamed and disappointed he would be, then thought of Jenna and how untouched she would be by her mother’s fate, closeted away with her new beliefs and her new family, hiding behind a different name. In that second, her fear turned to anger again, but the urge to speak was still overwhelming. The only answer lay in the dark silhouette up ahead of her.

  She let herself into the castle by the west door, which was further from the bedrooms, and made her way through the downstairs rooms, thankful for her familiarity with the house and the moon for guidance. The church was always left open at Christmas so that the staff could go at any time if their duties prevented them from attending the regular services. Miss St Aubyn was a Christian woman whose faith was important to her, and she encouraged everyone who worked for her to take the Mount’s sacred past as seriously as she did. Nora ventured out onto the terrace, noticing instantly that the storm was more reluctant to admit defeat at this altitude. There was a sound of desperation in the moaning wind as it hurled itself across the terrace, and it seemed to chime with her feelings.

  Other people had obviously visited the church that evening, because there was a path of trampled snow leading to and from the entrance, but she was relieved to find it empty. She closed the door gently behind her, only to come face to face with the nativity. The sight of Melchior, innocently offering his gold at the crib, sickened her to her stomach and she nearly turned back. Even here, she couldn’t escape from what she had done – but that was her punishment, and it was less than she deserved. Her hands were shaking as she lit a candle and walked up to the altar with every intention of praying for forgiveness, but the words wouldn’t come. She knelt for a long time on the cold stone floor, finally giving in to the tears that had threatened all day. Never in her life had she felt so alone.

  And then she heard a noise behind her. It came from the tower, one loud clatter followed by another and then another, as if something metal had been dropped down the staircase; next came footsteps, shuffling and uncertain, unmistakably the sound of someone coming slowly down in the dark. Nora blew out her candle and listened, trying to decide if she had time to leave before whoever it was came out into the church, but already he or she was fumbling with the handle to the tower door, and in her mind’s eye she saw it turn. Perhaps it was her own guilt, perhaps simply the ill-fated presence of strangers in the house, but something told Nora that her unseen companion was dangerous. Quickly, her heart racing, she hurried down the steps to the hermit’s cell.

  She stood in silence in the musky darkness, willing the intruder to leave and wondering why anyone would want to go up to the tower at this time of night. Any minute now, surely, she would hear the main door open and it would be safe to leave her hiding place, but instead the footsteps came closer, soft but definite across the chapel floor, stopping near the family pews which hid the entrance to the underground chamber. Feeling trapped now, Nora held her breath and moved further back into the shadows, but the sleeve of her coat caught the silver chalice which stood ready for the morning service. It fell to the floor before she could catch it, ringing out against the stone and announcing her presence as surely as if she had spoken. More frightened than ever, she waited to see what the footsteps would do.

  CHRISTMAS DAY

  1

  Josephine made sure she was back in her own bed well before the eight o’clock curfew and braced herself for another strained encounter with Mrs Pendean, but her early morning call came from a young housemaid she hadn’t seen before. The girl wished her a happy Christmas and put a tea tray down on the bedside table, then went over to draw the curtains, flooding the room with winter sunlight. Josephine waited until she was alone again, then pulled her dressing gown on and drank her tea by the window. The morning laid out before her was radiantly beautiful, with every ounce of the blizzard’s nocturnal ferocity replaced by an unshakeable sense of peace and hope: the ideal expression of Christmas, but so rarely its reality. The castle’s turrets and terraces were blanketed in a fairytale white, and down below in the village she could see tiny figures scurrying about their business in the snow, like a scene from a Bruegel painting. There were no boats coming or going from the mainland, she noticed, and it was as if the causeway had never existed: its cobbles were invisible beneath an ever-changing palette of greens, blues and greys – but it was hard to resent being cut off in such a magnificent place, particularly when every conceivable luxury had been catered for. The isolation that had seemed so unsettling under cover of darkness now felt like a magical protection from the outside world, and Josephine was more excited by Christmas morning than she had been since she was a child.

  She allowed herself another ten minutes to enjoy it, then dressed quickly in the perfectly pressed woollen suit that somehow looked better than on the day she had bought it. There was no reason to think that the church would be miraculously warmer than the rest of the castle, so she took her coat from the wardrobe and checked her bag for the envelope wrapped in tissue paper that was Marta’s Christmas present; as far as she could gather, the day’s itinerary was packed with communal activities and they were unlikely to find any private time together until the evening, but she wanted it with her in case the right moment came. It looked a poor thing next to the collection of presents that Marta had brought with her, but Josephine knew how much the gift would mean, and she couldn’t wait to hand it over.

  The gathering on the terrace outside the church was in high spirits, and the small crowd took her by surprise. There were lots of people she didn’t know, as well as one or two familiar faces from the household staff, and she guessed that most of them were islanders who had come up from the village for the service. The terrace had been efficiently cleared of the night’s snow, whi
ch now rested in large, manmade drifts against the outer walls, proving an irresistible temptation to the Mount’s children, who lobbed great handfuls at each other, laughing and shouting when they scored a direct hit, and ignoring their parents’ half-hearted instructions to behave. The sheer joy of the game brought the whole scene to life, and Josephine was suddenly conscious that the festivities so far had been strangely muted without the childlike excitement of Christmas; the adults were going through the motions and making the best of it, but there was something missing from the party – some vital element of innocence and sparkle and wonder – that even a Hollywood star couldn’t conjure into being.

  Two footmen passed among the congregation with trays of hot coffee, rum butter tarts and spicy pepper cakes, and Josephine accepted a cup gratefully, glad of both the warmth and the stimulant. The coffee was laced with brandy, and she took it over to the far side of the terrace to enjoy the views out to Penzance and Newlyn, and then to Land’s End. There was no sign of Marta or Archie yet, but Hilaria – a picture of restrained elegance in a tailored burgundy suit that stood out against the snow – was talking to a couple with two young children. She waved when she saw Josephine, and broke away from the group to join her. ‘I’m so pleased to see you,’ she said, after the flurry of Christmas greetings. ‘Everyone must be sleeping late this morning. I was just beginning to wonder if all my guests had defied the tides and fled in the night.’

  ‘I think it’s more a case of sleeping off the festive spirit. You looked after us far too well at dinner.’ She glanced round the terrace again. ‘Am I really the first to arrive?’

  ‘All but Mr Fielding. He’s around somewhere, taking more photographs.’

  ‘Of course he is.’ They shared a smile, which reaffirmed Josephine’s liking for Archie’s childhood friend. ‘There’s plenty to keep him busy here,’ she said. ‘This is really lovely – a proper traditional Christmas. We could be anywhere over the last two hundred years.’ It was true: the scene in front of her, framed by the church, had a timeless simplicity about it. There was a balcony outside the door, accessed by a set of steps on each side, and it had been beautifully decorated with garlands of greenery. Holly berries glinted in the morning sun, picking out shards of colour from the stained glass wherever the church was lit from within, and the peal of bells cut through the air with a gentle civility; although she was no churchgoer herself, Josephine wondered why they all worked so hard each year to smother the heart of Christmas with more elaborate preparations. ‘Does everyone on the island come to the service?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, except for one or two of the older residents who find the climb too much these days, and we make sure we have a concert down in the village for them so they don’t feel left out. I know we all sigh when Mr Fielding enters the room, but this is the main reason I was happy to let the newspapers in – not for the glamour of Hollywood and not even for the money they’re donating to the fund, but for the chance to show off what we do here. I wanted the islanders and the family to have something to be proud of. It feels like the end of something, this Christmas, so it will be nice to have it on record.’

  ‘Were you hit badly by the last war?’

  ‘We lost our fair share of men.’

  ‘And grief resonates in a small community, over and above the personal sense of loss.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that’s true, but we’re a resilient lot. Most of the families on the island have lived here for generations, and there are a couple with connections that go back hundreds of years. They’re sea-faring people and their ancestors sailed all over the world, so they’re no strangers to danger and tragedy. And they’re fiercely loyal to the Mount. We’re lucky to have them.’

  ‘And they you, I suspect,’ Josephine said, admiring the unsentimental respect in Hilaria’s words. ‘How long have you been here?’

  She misunderstood the question and answered on behalf of the family. ‘The St Aubyns bought the Mount in 1659, but they were stewards here even before that.’

  ‘And you personally?’

  ‘Oh, I see – sorry. I came in 1908, when I was fourteen. I’ll miss it, when the inevitable happens. Two griefs for the price of one.’

  And a heavy price, Josephine thought – for Hilaria and for the island. It seemed deeply unfair that St Michael’s Mount would be deprived of someone who obviously ran it well and cared so deeply about the people who depended on her, but it wasn’t the time to discuss the injustices of inheritance and Hilaria didn’t seem the type to wallow in self-pity or the sentence of her departure. Even so, the two of them were roughly contemporaries, both at an age when the pleasures of Christmas were also its sadness, and Josephine knew that Hilaria’s everyday concerns must have been magnified a hundredfold by the intense melancholy of the season.

  They were saved from venturing any further down that route by Marta’s arrival, followed shortly by Archie. ‘On your own this morning?’ she asked mischievously as Archie bent to kiss her, but her hopes for any whiff of scandal were instantly dashed by a disappointing response.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, without any hint of coyness. ‘Marlene’s decided to have a late breakfast in her room, so I can enjoy a brief suspension of duties.’

  ‘What an arduous task you’ve set yourself,’ Marta said teasingly. ‘I really don’t know how you’re putting up with it.’

  Archie grinned. ‘It’s a sacrifice, I know, but all in the course of a day’s work.’

  ‘What a shame that Miss Dietrich won’t be joining us,’ Hilaria said, a little crestfallen from his news. ‘As you can imagine, the carols and prayers aren’t the only things that have brought people out this morning – and talking of prayers, I must just go and check where Richard’s got to.’

  She was saved the trouble by Angela Hartley, who came out of the vestibule to the drawing room with a length of black silk cloth in her hand. ‘Richard’s forgotten this,’ she said, looking at Hilaria with a wry smile. ‘It’s not often I get to remind him of something these days. Can I take it in to him?’

  ‘He’s not here yet. I rather hoped he’d be with you.’

  ‘No, I haven’t seen him for a while. He went off to talk to someone.’

  They were the same words she had used the night before, Josephine recalled; either the vicar had a lot of people to catch up with or his wife was getting confused, but Hilaria seemed reassured by the explanation. ‘Then I dare say he’ll be here any minute. Are you still happy to play for us?’

  ‘Of course, if you’d like me to.’

  ‘More than that. We’re relying on you. Why don’t you come and make yourself comfortable, and we can start getting everyone in out of the cold.’ She turned back to Josephine and Marta. ‘Come in whenever you’re ready, and sit in the family pews on either side of the altar.’

  They finished their coffee and made their way over to the entrance, just as the organ music began inside the church, something rousing by Pachelbel or Bach. ‘I’m not sure “Von Himmel Hoch” is the most sensitive piece she could have chosen in the current climate,’ Archie said dryly, ‘but she plays it beautifully. Personally, I’d have avoided the Germans altogether and stuck to Elgar.’

  ‘Perhaps she planned it in Marlene’s honour.’

  ‘All the more reason to be careful. Still, at least it’s not Wagner.’

  The church of St Michael and All Angels was stunning inside, its impact all the greater because of its modest, unshowy exterior. It was filled with light and beauty, a place worthy of the pilgrimage for which the island was so famed, and Josephine paused on the threshold to look round, taking in the glorious rose window and delicate stained-glass panels, the gilt chandelier and its many candles, whose soft, flickering light enhanced the golden stone. She would have found it hard to say what moved her so deeply – the man-made splendour or a rare, less tangible spirituality which she felt as soon as she stepped through the door – but there was no doubt that it was seductive, a gentle nudge of encouragement for optimistic doubters like h
erself.

  ‘What a beautiful nativity,’ Marta said, crouching down to look at the arrangement which stood just inside the door. ‘Come and look at these. They’re works of art, every one of them.’

  The figures were about eighteen inches high, and Josephine touched the nearest – one of the three kings – to see what it was made from. The wood had been skilfully carved, as Marta said, and Josephine marvelled at how naturally the folds in his cloak fell and how convincing the artist had made the texture of the fur. ‘They’ve obviously been in the wars over the years,’ she said, noticing the scuffs and imperfections in the wood that only added to the figures’ authenticity. The scene was lit from behind, and the gilt paint on the wise man’s crown and his gift to the newborn baby shone with a dazzling radiance, but it was the facial expressions that distinguished this from most nativities, the emotion that hovered between joy and reverence and incredulity. ‘It’s all so natural,’ she said, standing up. ‘Mary actually looks like a real woman for once.’

  They rejoined Archie, who had been talking to an elderly couple near the back of the church. ‘Which side is the hermit cell?’ Josephine whispered, as the three of them weighed up where to sit.

  ‘It’s on the right,’ Archie said. ‘We used to play in it all the time as kids. I’ll show it to you when the service is over.’

  ‘If it ever starts. There’s still no sign of the vicar.’

  ‘That’s the best sort of church service, if you ask me,’ Marta said with feeling. ‘A few nice carols, then home for lunch.’

  Marta had her own issues with the church, and Josephine didn’t argue. They sat in the pews that Archie had indicated, and she turned round to look for the entrance to the underground chamber. All she could see were some steps leading down into shadow from a half-open door, but it was enough to make her shudder at the thought of being enclosed in such a confined space.