by Fiona Harper
‘So this space will work for you?’ he said.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied, giving her best impression of calm and professional. Fake it, she told herself. Pretty soon the rest of you will catch up and it’ll become real.
If only she’d known just how wrong she was—just how the glimmer of humour in his eyes would be her undoing.
‘I’m sure you’d tell me if it didn’t,’ he said.
Faith blinked. Was Marcus—was the Earl—teasing her?
The jittery feeling she’d been fighting fairly successfully since the night before returned, but she lifted her chin and looked at him while she locked everything down. Made sure not a hint of a tremor showed on the outside.
‘You got that right,’ she said, and then she turned and headed back towards the door—away from the beautiful view, away from the beautiful man. Sensible gal.
‘Now, I’m off to see that window before we both freeze our butts off.’
She ignored the huff of dry laughter behind her and headed back out into the cold, hoping the chilly air would rob her cheeks of some of their colour.
* * *
‘That’s you? Standing on top of the Great Pyramid?’ Faith bent over Bertie’s old photo album on the coffee table in front of the fire. Her dark hair swung forward, obscuring her face.
The old man nodded and smiled the smile that she only saw when he was sharing his photo albums with her. One with a tinge of recklessness.
‘They used to let you do that in those days.’
‘You’ve been to so many wonderful places,’ she said, turning the page and finding more of Bertie and his wife, Clara, in exotic locations. ‘My youngest sister likes to travel. Gram says she never could sit still as a child either.’
‘Me, too,’ Bertie said, sighing and relaxing back into his wing-backed chair. ‘Still wouldn’t if I had the choice. Only do it now because I’ve got to.’
She nodded in mock seriousness. ‘But still an adventurer on the inside,’
There was that smile again—the one born of memories of exploration and exploits. ‘You betcha, as your grandma used to say.’
Faith’s eyes grew wide. ‘She did not!’ Gram had always been a stickler for proper diction and polite manners.
She’d been here five days now. Her preliminary observation and documentation of the window was complete, and tomorrow she would move the bottom of the section to the studio, where she could begin the painstaking work of removing all the old lead, gently cleaning the antique glass and putting it all back together again.
Five days? Had it only been that long? She and Bertie were already firm friends, and she looked forward to their after-dinner chats, when he would regale her with stories from his travels. From the occasional hoist of Marcus’s eyebrows as he sat in the other armchair, reading a thriller, she guessed some of the details had become more and more embellished as the years had gone by, but she didn’t mind.
‘My Lord?’ Shirley appeared at the door. ‘Telephone call for you.’
Marcus nodded and stood up, excusing himself.
The grandson? Well, he was another kettle of fish. Bertie had welcomed her warmly into his home, but she was still camped inside that first gate of Marcus’s defences. She reminded herself that was just what she wanted. Even if it was more like walking a tightrope than camping somewhere safe, at least she was walking it. Just.
Marcus returned from his phone call and took up his customary place in the armchair opposite his grandfather. He crossed his legs and picked up his book. ‘Parsons says they finished clearing the lanes of snow today. You’re free,’ he added, with a nod in Faith’s direction, ‘should you want to fly.’
‘Ridiculous,’ Bertie said in a dismissive tone. ‘I’ve told you what your grandmother will do to me if I toss you out. You’re staying here and that’s that.’ He closed his newspaper as if that was the end of the subject. ‘My grandson tells me you’ve been badgering him with ideas for the Christmas Ball,’ he said, moving on to another topic of conversation.
Faith knew it was useless to argue, so she went with the flow. ‘I’ve suggested lowering the ticket price, relaxing the dress code and inviting people from the village. You wouldn’t have to cancel if you did that.’
Marcus looked at her over the top of his paperback. ‘The number of people from Hadsborough village who have attended the ball in the past has been very small. I don’t think they’re interested.’
‘I mean something more accessible than an over-priced event that only a handful of rich outsiders can afford. I grew up in a small town, so I understand the mentality. Get them all involved, make them feel it’s their party, too, and they might just surprise you. Tickets would sell like hot cakes. They must be proud of the castle, of being linked with it—I know I would be if I lived here—so let them show it.’
The grim line of Marcus’s mouth told her he wasn’t convinced.
Faith shrugged. ‘Or you could keep going with your idea and lose money hand over fist. Up to you.’
Bertie chuckled and clapped his hands together. ‘She’s got you there, my boy!’
Marcus didn’t answer straight away. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he muttered, and he picked up his book and obscured his face with it once more.
* * *
Marcus whistled as he closed the estate office door behind him. He checked his watch. Four-fifteen. The sun would be setting soon, and he could already feel the impatient frost sharpening the air. It had snowed again over the last couple of days, as the forecast had predicted, but not as hard as it had when Faith had first got here.
Still, on top of the previous snow some of the surrounding lanes were once again blocked, complicating matters. Thank goodness they’d had a couple of clear days that had allowed for deliveries—including Faith’s supplies for the window restoration.
He crossed the courtyard and headed for the studio door. After a busy day at the estate office, dealing with all the extra work the weather had thrown up, he’d got into the habit of checking up on Faith near the end of the working day.
When the natural light began to fade she’d sit up from being hunched over the stained glass panel and rub her eyes, as if she was waking from a long and drowsy sleep. Tenacious wasn’t the word. If he caught her at just the right time he’d see the warm, vibrant Faith who’d visited the other day in the chapel—the one who only came to life when she was talking about or working on the window.
He knew he probably shouldn’t want to catch a glimpse of this other Faith, but she didn’t hang around for long. Once the tools were back in their box she disappeared, and temptation was safely out of reach. It wasn’t wrong to just look, was it? It wasn’t as if he was going to do something stupid and touch.
He knocked on the door to warn her of his approach, and then opened it without waiting for an answer. He found her just as he’d expected to—perched on a stool next to the trestle table, spine curved forward as she snipped the soft lead away from the antique glass with a pair of cutters.
When she heard his footsteps she put her tools down and then linked her hands above her head in a stretch that elongated her spine. Marcus stopped where he was, suddenly transfixed by the slight swaying movement as she stretched the muscles on first one side of her torso and then the other. That motion was doing a fabulous job of emphasising her slender waist through her grey polo neck jumper.
Forget stockings and corsets. It seemed that softly clinging knitwear was enough to do it for him these days. Had he been without significant female company for too long? Or was this just a sign that he was getting old, and cardigans and suchlike were going to float his boat from now on? Either way he answered that question it was a pretty sad state of affairs.
Faith stopped stretching and turned round to talk to him, which—thankfully—gave Marcus the use of his vocal cords once again.
‘Is it that time already?’ She pushed up a sleeve and checked her watch, frowned slightly at it, then got up to head off to the large wi
ndow that filled the opposite wall. The setting sun was hidden by the castle, but it had turned the lake below them shades of rich pink and tangerine. She sighed as he walked across the space to join her.
‘Ready?’ he said.
She turned towards him and nodded. ‘Sure.’
This, too, had become a habit. Just as his feet had fallen into taking him to the studio at the end of the day, he and Faith had fallen into a routine of meeting up and going down to the cellar when the working day was over. After more than a week of evenings dusting and sorting and tidying they’d made progress.
He knew he could have snapped his fingers and had a whole crew descend on the place and sort it out in a matter of days, but he was quite enjoying sifting through the debris of earlier generations bit by bit. A couple of hours of quiet each evening before dinner, when he was free to do something that interested him rather than something that had to be done, was doing him good.
She collected her things, put her coat on and looped a scarf around her neck, before turning the light off and shutting the door. Marcus pulled the key from his pocket and locked it behind them, then they strolled back down the hill towards the castle, its silhouette dark against the sunset.
She filled him in on her progress with the window.
‘It’s strange,’ she said, and frowned. ‘It’s obvious the bottom of the window has been repaired before. Quite soon after its installation, if I’m right about the age of the materials. I wonder what happened to it.’
He made a noncommittal kind of face. ‘Perhaps we’ll find an answer if we ever find some purchase records. Someone must have been paid to do the work.’
She nodded thoughtfully. ‘Let’s hope.’
They made their way down to the cellar and resumed their clear-out operation. Some of the ratty office furniture, which had obviously been dumped here a decade or two ago, when the estate offices had moved to the renovated stable block, had been cleared out, which left them with a little more space. A pile of sturdy lidded plastic crates stood near the door, and anything that might be useful was put safely inside, away from the dust.
They’d also found a lot of ‘garbage’, as Faith called it, a few treasures and a mountain of paperwork. Most of it, even the grocery ordering lists and letters of recommendation for long-gone parlour maids, they’d decided to keep. It would be the start of a rich family archive, giving glimpses of daily life from the castle over the last fifty years. Faith had suggested having an exhibition, and much to his surprise Marcus had found himself agreeing. In the New Year some time, though, when all this Christmas madness was over.
Faith pulled an old invitation for the Christmas Ball from the nearest pile and lifted it up to show the stuffed badger, who’d been released from his filing cabinet prison and now perched proudly on a wooden plant stand, keeping guard. His beady little orange glass eyes glinted in the light from a single bare bulb overhead.
‘What do you think, Basil? Worth keeping?’
Marcus put down the cardboard box full of cups and saucers he’d been moving. ‘Basil?’
Faith shrugged. ‘Basil the Badger. It seemed to fit.’
Marcus shook his head.
Side by side, they started sorting through piles of assorted papers, books and boxes, stopping every now and then to show each other what they’d found, debating the merits of each find.
It was nice to have someone to discuss things with—even if it was whether to keep a receipt for a peacock feather evening bag or not. It made him realise just how much he’d been on his own since he’d come back to Hadsborough to work. He only discussed the bigger issues with his grandfather, leaving him to rest. The remainder Marcus dealt with by himself.
It had been different in the City. He’d had plenty of friends, an active social life, a woman who’d said she loved him...
Better not to think of her. She was long gone with the rest of them. Everyone he’d counted on had deserted him when he’d needed them most. It seemed the family name had been more of a draw than he’d thought, and once that had been dragged through the mud they’d scattered. Whether it was because he was no longer useful or they thought they’d be painted guilty by association didn’t matter.
But now he was back home, with only an elderly relative for company. The staff kept a respectful distance, not only because he was the boss, but because of the family he’d been born into. He realised he hadn’t had much time to socialise with people who weren’t afraid to meet him as an equal, as a human being instead of a title.
Faith did that. Without being disrespectful or fake. Not many people achieved that balance, and he appreciated it. She wasn’t afraid to share her opinions, but she was never argumentative or rude. She just ‘called a spade a spade’, as his grandmother had used to say. In fact he had some news for her about one of their recent conversations when she’d done just that.
‘It’s been four days since we cut the ticket prices to the Christmas Ball and sent word around the village,’ he said nonchalantly as he dusted off a pile of old seventy-eight records.
‘And relaxed the dress code, of course.’
Faith stopped what she was doing and turned round. Her ponytail swung over her shoulder and he got the most intoxicating whiff of camellias and rose petals.
‘Yeah? Have sales improved?’
He nodded. ‘The locals are snapping them up.’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘See? I told you I understood the community spirit you get in a place like this. People just love to feel involved. You’re not their lords and masters any more, so it wouldn’t hurt to stop hiding away in your castle and mix a little.’
He snorted. ‘I do not hide away in my castle.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, no? When was the last time you went down to the village pub for a drink, then?’
‘I could name you a time and a date,’ he said, sounding a little smug.
Faith wasn’t fooled for a second. ‘Sock it to me.’
Marcus closed his eyes and smiled as he looked away for a second. ‘Okay, I was seventeen,’ he said as he met her impish gaze, ‘and I escaped down to the village with a couple of my schoolfriends who were staying over. The village bobby had to bring us back at two in the morning, drunk as skunks. I was grounded for a month. So I remember that occasion very well.’
‘It wouldn’t hurt you to get outside the boundaries of the estate once in a while, you know.’
He wanted to argue, to say he did—but hadn’t he just been thinking about being on his own so much? Had he turned himself into a hermit? Surely not.
‘You will come, won’t you?’ he asked.
‘To the village pub? Now, there’s an offer a gal can’t refuse!’ She gave him a wry smile as she took a vinyl record from his hands and inspected it.
‘No,’ he said, ‘to the Christmas Ball.’
She rubbed a bit of dust that he’d missed off the corner of the record sleeve with her fingers. ‘It would be lovely, but I...I can’t. I’m busy with the window, and a ball’s not really my sort of thing.’
‘You said you were making good progress,’ he replied. He looked around the darkening cellar. The sky through the narrow windows at the top of the room was indigo now. ‘An invitation is the least I can give you after all you’ve done to help resurrect the idea.’
If anything she looked sadder. ‘Maybe,’ was all she said.
He didn’t get it. He thought women liked balls and dressing up and dancing. So why had Faith sounded as if he’d asked her if he could gently roast the family rabbit for dinner? Perhaps he’d better change the subject.
He picked the next record up from the pile. ‘What about this Christmas-mad small town you come from? Tell me about your family.’
Faith shrugged and handed him back the first seventy-eight. ‘Gram is the only one who lives in Beckett’s Run now. One sister lives in Sydney, the other travels all over for work, and my mother just...drifts.’
She wandered off to the other side of the room and starte
d nosing around in a cardboard box over there.
Hmm... One minute she was spouting on about community spirit and getting involved, but the first mention of home and family and she was off like a shot. What was all that about?
He decided it was none of his business. He didn’t like people poking around in his family’s affairs, and maybe Faith didn’t either. Instead of pursuing the matter further he concentrated on the pile of records—a few of which he suspected were collectors’ items—and they worked in silence again after that. Not so comfortable this time, however.
He checked his watch again after he’d glanced up to see the sky outside was inky black. Faith saw his movement and stopped what she was doing.
‘Time to call it a day,’ he said.
She nodded from behind her high stone walls. ‘Good. I’m starving.’
He walked over to the plastic crates and put his most recent finds next to the old records in the top one. He snapped the lid back on, then made his way to the door. He tugged the handle, and it turned, but the door itself didn’t budge. He tried again. Not even a groan. The heavy oak door was stuck fast. Old Mr Grey had cautioned him to use the doorstop, and up until this evening he had, but Faith had been the last one in and he’d forgotten to share that vital bit of information with her.
And now they were trapped in here. Alone.
CHAPTER SIX
BEHIND him, Faith groaned. ‘Really? Stuck in the castle dungeons?’
‘They’re not dungeons,’ he reminded her calmly. ‘No leg irons or racks here. It’s just a cellar.’
‘Can we open a window? Yell for help?’
He marched over to the first high window and tugged at the metal loop. Also stuck. However, he had better luck with the next one along. The window was hinged at the bottom, and he managed to pull it open so there was a gap of four or five inches at the top. A small shower of crunchy snow landed on his arm and he brushed it away before dragging a smallish wooden table over to stand underneath. Once he was sure it would take his weight he stood on it, so his face was near to the opening and shouted.
