A Winter’s Tale: A festive winter read from the bestselling Queen of Christmas romance. Trisha Ashley
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the journal of Alys Blezzard, 1580
‘Anya!’ I said, when I finally managed to reach her. ‘My guardian angel is a golden Lucifer—diabolically handsome and slightly sulphurous round the edges. He’s hot—and I think I’m in love!’
‘How do you know?’ she said, sounding as if she was standing in a metal oil drum (which she might have been—you never know with Anya).
‘That I’m in love?’
‘No, that your guardian angel is a Lucifer.’
‘Oh—because he visited me yesterday,’ I said. ‘He’s sort of a cousin—a very distant cousin.’ Then I told her all about my grandfather’s death, my inheritance—and Jack’s offer.
‘And he was furious when he first turned up, because he thought I’d somehow managed to brainwash Grandfather into leaving Winter’s End to me. Once he realised I hadn’t he was really, really nice.’
‘I bet he was,’ she said, sounding unconvinced. ‘But after all you’ve told me about your childhood at Winter’s End and how you feel about the place, I can’t understand why you don’t sound delirious with pleasure.’
‘Well, for one thing I’m still stunned and wondering why on earth Grandfather did it; and for another, it isn’t the Winter’s End I remember, because it’s clear that Jack took my place soon after I left,’ I said slowly. ‘Apparently the house is really run down and there is a big outstanding bank loan against it too, which Grandfather took out to pay for his garden restoration.’
‘What were you expecting, a Shangri-La that always stayed the same?’
‘It did always stay the same, in my imagination—and part of me thinks it’s better left like that, and I should never try to go back there.’
‘Well, they always say, be careful what you wish for,’ Anya said breezily, ‘but actually, I always thought the only reason you started working in stately homes was because you were trying to recreate a bit of what you once had—and just think how useful all that experience will be now! Doesn’t the thought of doing such a major clean-up get your juices flowing?’
She knows me only too well.
‘I wish my angels would conjure something up like that, Sophy. I’m getting a bit tired of wandering around now,’ she confessed to my surprise, because she has been on the road since she was eighteen and left the commune. We did this sort of role-reversal thing. When I arrived at the commune I was tired of moving about and just wanted to settle down, while she was fed up with the whole thing and attracted to the kind of life I’d had with Mum.
‘I think when Guy gets a job I might settle somewhere near him,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘He’s got lots of interviews.’
‘I’m not surprised; he got a first-class degree.’
Guy is Anya’s son, a year younger than Lucy, and was always bright—and very determined. When he was eleven he insisted on staying with his grandmother in Scotland during the school terms and got grade A everything.
‘How is Lucy doing?’ Anya asked.
‘She seems fine, but I wish she wasn’t so far away. And some man keeps pestering her, which I find worrying. She says he seems fascinated by her being so tall and blonde. There have been a couple of cases of British women being stalked and even murdered in Japan.’
‘But Lucy is very sensible, Sophy. I’m sure she wouldn’t put herself at risk.’
‘Perhaps not, but if I did sell Winter’s End to Jack, she could come home and I would be able to pay off her student loan and buy a cottage somewhere. Then maybe we could start up a business together and—’
‘Don’t you do anything hasty,’ she warned me, ‘especially with this relative of yours. He doesn’t sound like any kind of angel to me, but he does sound the kind of clever, tricky, devious man you always seem to go for.’
‘I don’t know what you mean by “always”. I can count on one hand the number of men I’ve been out with since Rory left me,’ I said with dignity and some modesty, leaving one or two of my brief encounters with absolute no-hopers out of the reckoning. ‘And I can’t imagine what I’ve said to make you think that about Jack! He’s a really genuine, lovely person—and what’s more, he’s family. Anyway, I can’t do anything at all until the solicitor turns up. I’m still trying to take it all in, but I’m worried that Grandfather might have changed his will on impulse after arguing with Jack about spending too much on the garden, and then died before he could change it back. It does seem unfair that he should leave the house to me. Anya—’
There was a plaintive bleeping. ‘Blow—my phone’s almost dead,’ she said, and was cut off.
My belated rescue turned out to be a very belt-and-braces affair, for next day the cavalry, in the sober and suited form of the family solicitor, turned up too.
You see, I knew good things were on the way. My second sight was just a bit dodgy about when.
Mr Hobbs said he had already written to tell me he was coming to see me today ‘on a matter to my advantage’, but of course I haven’t had the heart to go back to Spiggs Cottage and collect my mail since I left. The new owners are probably putting it straight into the skip, anyway.
Any more strange men visiting my caravan and, as far as the village is concerned, I might as well hang a red lamp over the door, even if this one looked so old and desiccated that strong winds could have blown him away. I’ve learned the hard way that a divorced woman is always seen as a sexual predator, after everyone else’s menfolk (which is why, I suppose, I haven’t made many friends here and hardly ever get asked to dinner parties).
But I invited Mr Hobbs in, and he was surprised to find I already knew of the legacy, until I told him about Jack’s visit and his offer to buy Winter’s End. Then, over tea and rather overdone rock cakes (the caravan stove is a bit temperamental), I asked him if he knew exactly why my grandfather hadn’t left the estate to Jack.
‘After all, he was the obvious heir, wasn’t he, even if they had had one or two disagreements? It does seem unfair.’
‘He had his reasons,’ he said cagily. I suppose it was only natural that he should side with my grandfather—they were of an age and had probably been friends. ‘Jack is the only son of his cousin Louisa, now deceased, and was born in New Zealand. When his father remarried he was sent back here to school, about a year after you and your mother left…and of course he spent the holidays at Winter’s End and looked on it as his home. He is divorced with no children—another disappointment to your grandfather—and has a house in London. You know he is a property developer?’
‘He did mention that. Presumably a successful one, if he could afford to buy me out?’
‘Yes indeed: one cannot say that he hasn’t risen by his own endeavours. His father purchased a small house for him to live in when he was at Oxford, and then later he renovated it and sold it at a profit and bought two more on the proceeds…and so it went on. I suppose his enterprise is quite remarkable. Nowadays he specialises in buying large period properties cheaply and converting them into extremely upmarket and expensive apartments,’ he added meaningfully.
I stared at him. ‘But surely you don’t think he would do that to Winter’s End? He said he loved the place and wanted to restore it to its former glory—and he seemed so sincere.’
‘I am sure he did: his sincerity must be one of his greatest business assets,’ Mr Hobbs said drily. ‘And of course he has restored the houses he has purchased, which might otherwise have fallen into irreversible decay. They were all, like Winter’s End, within an easy commuting distance of thriving major cities.’
‘Oh,’ I said, digesting this. ‘But in the case of Winter’s End, that could be just a coincidence?’
‘Of