A Winter’s Tale: A festive winter read from the bestselling Queen of Christmas romance. Trisha Ashley
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spirit.
‘I’m afraid you are not on the list of permitted visitors,’ she said, pursing her lips, ‘though you have been before, haven’t you? I recognise that funny little brooch you’re wearing.’
‘My bee?’ I said, taken aback but thinking fast. ‘Yes, it is unusual, isn’t it? Lady Betty gave it to me—and I won’t be on the list of visitors because I’m just an employee. Mr Conor Darfield asked me to bring in a few things that she wanted.’ I lifted the carrier bag to show her.
‘Oh, right,’ she said, ‘perhaps if you leave—’ She broke off as an elderly gentleman, who had been shuffling about the foyer in a desultory sort of way, suddenly made a determined, if hobbling, sprint for the front door.
‘No, no, Colonel Browne, come back!’ she called—but too late, he’d gone. ‘Oh, blow—I’d better catch him before he vanishes,’ she said distractedly, lifting up the flap in the counter and coming out.
‘That’s all right,’ I assured her, sincerely hoping the poor colonel made it to wherever he was going, ‘I know where Lady Betty’s room is—I’ll just pop up.’ I don’t know if she heard me because she was off in pursuit, but I seized the opportunity to run upstairs.
I tapped gently on the door of Lady Betty’s room before going in, finding her in bed. As soon as I saw her I realised that this would be our last goodbye, for she seemed suddenly to have grown smaller, as if she was already shrinking away into death, and there was no recognition in her clouded eyes.
I sat quietly with her for ten minutes, feeding her bits of ratafia biscuits and sips of whisky and water from the supplies I had smuggled in (both of which she had always loved), and she took them with greedy eagerness, opening her mouth like a baby bird. She seemed to become slightly more alert then, and I talked to her, trying to raise some spark of recognition, but there was only one brief moment when her eyes focused on my face and she said my name and smiled. Then she closed her eyes and to all intents and purposes went to sleep.
I left the remainder of the biscuits in the bedside cabinet, but took the whisky bottle away with me. I had a feeling that anything remotely pleasurable would be banned in this sterile place.
The receptionist, looking distracted, was on the phone and only acknowledged my departure with a wave of the hand. ‘Yes,’ she was saying, ‘he’s gone again. Must have had a taxi waiting outside—and God knows which pub he’s gone to this time…’
I only hoped the colonel had a good time before they caught up with him.
The exterior of the VW was painted in time-faded psychedelic flowers, just as it was when my mother drove it, but I had made the interior over to my own tastes. Now, it was more like an old-fashioned gypsy caravan than a camper—deep, glowing colours, brightened with lace and patchwork and painted tables, ingenious shelves and cupboards, all sparklingly clean and smelling of roses.
There was a place in it for every item that was essential to me, so I felt as reassured as a snail in its shell once I was driving down to Lancashire, even though I was nervous about actually arriving.
But after all, if I got cold feet, I could always just get in my van and vanish again, couldn’t I? Though come to think of it, that’s what my mother always did, and that’s really not a pattern I want to repeat.
It’s a long way from Northumberland to west Lancashire, especially when you don’t drive at much more than forty miles an hour, and since my heater wasn’t working very well my fingers were frozen to the wheel most of the time. But the autumn colours were very pretty coming over the Pennines, and I noticed that, as I dropped back down towards Brough, all the bushes were covered with scarlet berries—supposed to be a sure sign of a hard winter to follow.
I made one overnight stop soon after that, near a village with a wonderful bakery, and then set out early next morning on the final leg.
It was just as well that Mr Hobbs had given me directions to Winter’s End, for I was lost as soon as I took the Ormskirk turn off the motorway and then drove into a maze of small, hedged lanes. And although as I reached the large village of Sticklepond everything looked vaguely familiar (except that the general shop had turned into a Spar and the village school into a house), I don’t think I would have easily found the right narrow road leading off the green.
I paused to consult the Post-it note I’d attached to the dashboard: ‘Half a mile up Neat’s Bank take the first right turn into a private road, by the white sign to Winter’s End. Fifty yards along it, you will see a car park on your left and the main entrance gates to your right…’
The tarmacked road had a ridge of grass growing up the middle and the walls seemed to be closing in on me. Surely they couldn’t get coaches up there?
I slowed right down and, sure enough, here was the sign and an arrow—but set back into a sort of clipped niche in the hedge so as to be almost invisible unless you were opposite it. I’d overshot a bit, so I reversed slightly and started to turn—then slammed the brakes on to avoid the tall man who leaped athletically down from the bank right in front of me and then stood there, blocking my way.
The engine stalled, and while we stared at each other through the windscreen a bird dropped a long series of sweet, high notes like smooth pebbles into the pool of silence.
The tall man had eyes the cool green of good jade, deeply set in a bony, tanned face with a cleft chin, a straight nose and an uncompromising mouth. His floppy, raven-black hair looked as if he’d impatiently pushed it straight back from his face with both hands and his brows were drawn together in a fierce scowl.
If he wasn’t exactly handsome he was certainly striking, and I had a nagging feeling that I’d seen him somewhere before…especially that scowl. A warning dream perhaps, half-forgotten?
Since he showed no sign of moving I reluctantly wound down the side window and, leaning out, said politely, ‘Excuse me, do you think you could let me past?’
‘No way,’ he said belligerently, folding his arms across a broad chest clad in disintegrating layers of jumpers, each hole showing a tantalising glimpse of the other strata beneath. ‘And you can go right back and tell the rest of them that they’re not welcome here. This is private property.’
‘The rest of them? Who?’ I asked, tearing my eyes away from counting woolly layers with some difficulty.
‘The other New-Age travellers. I’ve had trouble with your kind before, setting up camp on land I’d cleared for a knot and making an unholy mess.’
A knot? Wasn’t he a bit big to be a Boy Scout?
‘Look,’ I said patiently, ‘I’m not a New-Age traveller and—’
‘Pull the other one, it’s got bells on,’ he said rudely. ‘You’re not welcome here, so if you’re trying to scout out a good spot for the others you’d better turn right around. Tell them the car park’s locked up for the winter and patrolled by dogs, and if they come up the drive they’ll be run off!’
‘Now see here!’ I said, losing patience, ‘I don’t know who you are, but I’ve had a long journey and I’m too tired for all of this. My name is Sophy Winter and—’
‘What!’
He took an impetuous stride forward and I started nervously, banging my head on the top of the window frame. ‘Sophy Winter and—’
‘Good God!’ he interrupted, staring at me in something like horror, then added unexpectedly, in his deep voice with its once-familiar Lancashire accent, ‘Blessed are the New-Age travellers, for they shall inherit the earth!’
‘I’m not a New-Age traveller,’ I began crossly. ‘I keep telling you and—’
But he still wasn’t listening. With a last, muttered, ‘Behold, the end is nigh!’ he strode off without a backward look. I know, because I watched him in the wing mirror. His jeans-clad rear view was quite pleasant for a scoutmaster, but I still hoped