A Week in Winter: A Novel (23 page)

‘And I’ve only enough supper for one,’ he said. ‘Never mind. We’ll share.’

‘I happen to have a delicious home-made steak and kidney pie in the hamper in my car,’ she said demurely. ‘As well as some fruit and chocolate and a rather good bottle of Chablis.’

He stared at her. ‘You really meant to spend the evening here?’

She shrugged. ‘I meant to stay as long as I could. So I came prepared. I saw that the stove was working and when I touched that woodburner in the study it was hot, so I thought I’d manage quite well.’

He stared down at her, serious now. ‘You didn’t think you’d be frightened? Not all on your own out here on the moor?’

‘I didn’t expect to be alone,’ she said candidly.

He took a deep breath. ‘I could be a madman,’ he told her, almost crossly. ‘A psychopath.’

‘But you’re not, are you?’ She smiled at him. ‘You just love Moorgate. So do I. For a moment in time we could enjoy the house together.’

‘Melissa.’ It was as if he were tasting her name, experimenting with it—then he frowned. ‘But where on earth is your car?’

She laughed. ‘It’s hidden up a little track a hundred yards down the lane, just before you get to the trees. I was going to unload it when it was dark, just in case anyone saw me.’

‘How very intrepid you are,’ he said admiringly. ‘Are you afraid of nothing?’

She turned away towards the fire, lest he should see the involuntary flicker of sadness. ‘I’m afraid of being cold,’ she said lightly. ‘I do so feel the cold, which is why I was so pleased to see the Esse and the fires.’ She touched the beanbag gently with the toe of her leather boot. ‘I never thought about beanbags. What a clever idea. You sleep on them beside the fire?’

‘Yes,’ he said quickly, too quickly, visited suddenly by an intimate image.

There was a silence.

‘I have some rugs,’ she said at last. ‘Nice warm rugs. Perhaps I could trade one of my rugs for one of your beanbags?’

‘We’ll manage somehow,’ he said, glad to be free of the awkwardness. ‘We’ll pile the fire high with logs and tell each other ghost stories until we fall asleep. How does that sound?’

‘It sounds perfect.’

He thought he saw the glint of tears in her eyes but decided it was simply the firelight.

‘Shall we get the car unpacked, then?’ he asked. ‘Then we can really settle in. Close the shutters and batten down the hatches.’

‘I have a picnic chair and a table,’ she offered, ‘and some knives and forks and things.’

‘We’ll go and forage,’ he said cheerfully. ‘The chair will be useful. I’ve only got one. Let’s go before it gets too dark.’

She followed him out through the hall, into the kitchen. Outside the back door they paused. The night was cold and clear, stars twinkled frostily and a thin sickle moon was caught in a delicate net of black, bare branches. Their breath smoked in the icy air and he felt her shiver beside him.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be cold tonight. Thank heavens we’ve got plenty of logs. Whatever happens, at least we won’t freeze.’

Much later, giving Polonius his last outs, Maudie huddled into her shawl and stamped her feet.

‘Hurry up,’ she said. ‘Just get on with it, will you. I’m freezing.’

Polonius ignored her, scenting rabbit and possibly fox. As she waited for him, she watched the frost-rimed grass sparkling, ghostly white, and listened to the creaking of the trees and the stealthy rustling of the birds roosting in the hedge. An owl called, down in the woods, answered by another closer at hand, and Maudie was suddenly aware of the presence of the trees, tall and dark beyond the gate, massed and silent, waiting and watching.

‘Don’t be fanciful,’ she said, ridiculing a foolish trickle of fear. Polonius thrust a cold wet nose into her hand and she jumped violently and swore
loudly. Back inside, she made up the woodburner and boiled the kettle so as to fill a hot-water bottle.

‘Snow is forecast,’ she told Polonius, who was enjoying his bedtime biscuit. ‘But I think it’s too clear to snow. Still, I’m glad Posy is safe in Winchester.’

Polonius wagged his tail obligingly, snuffling about for any missed crumbs, waiting whilst she filled the bottle and went away to put it in her bed. As she settled Polonius for the night, built up the stove and prepared herself for bed, Maudie was brooding on Selina. It was odd that now she was in a position to call the tune, she was getting very little pleasure from it. Thus far their battles had been pretty evenly matched—and there had been Hector in the role of referee—but, for the first time, she was holding all the cards.

‘He who pays the piper calls the tune,’ she murmured. ‘Moorgate is mine, whatever Selina likes to say about it, and I shall do what I like with it. It would be madness to encourage her to buy it.’

For once, however, there was none of the sense of triumph she’d experienced in the tiny, bitter fights when she’d managed to score a point or two. Now there was a sense of—Maudie frowned, trying to identify this new sensation. It was a kind of dissatisfaction, edged about with irritation and guilt. She climbed into bed, pulling her silk shawl about her shoulders, cross with herself. Why couldn’t she simply sell Moorgate and have done? Why not enjoy herself, thinking of the repairs that could be made and the car she might buy? Most of the money would be invested, anyway, against future emergencies but chiefly—she hoped—for Posy. Naturally, if Selina were to have a severe financial problem then she would help her but Hector had been generous to his daughters and such help shouldn’t be necessary. As usual, when she arrived at this point in her reflections the question of Hector’s investments slid unbidden into Maudie’s mind. What could have happened to such a large sum of money?

Resolutely she pushed the thought away, concentrating instead on the plans for Daphne’s visit later in the year. Excitement pulsed in her heart; what fun they’d have together. Selecting a tape from the pile in her bedside drawer—Schubert’s
Winterreise
cycle—putting on her earphones, Maudie prepared herself for sleep.

In the kitchen at Moorgate, Rob and Melissa were sharing their supper. Sitting at the table, they discussed how the kitchen should be furnished. Melissa had the caned chair—the deckchair was too low and even with a rug folded on the seat, Rob had to reach a little to manage his pie—and they’d placed the table as near to the Esse as they could.

‘It would make such a difference to have rugs on the floor,’ Melissa said, watching as Rob dealt with the wine, ‘and curtains, of course. Much more cosy. I’d have a really big kitchen table and a huge dresser.’

‘I’ve often wondered whether it would be possible to find a dresser large enough.’ Rob poured the wine into the glasses from the hamper. ‘I think that it might have to be a built-in one, along the whole of the back wall.’

‘Yes.’ Melissa didn’t sound too sure about it. ‘But then it would look new, wouldn’t it? Bright and shiny and rather horrid.’

‘Not necessarily.’ Rob settled himself on his folded rug. ‘It could be made from old, reclaimed wood. Then it would look old but it could be made the right size for the room. Same thing with the table.’

‘That would be terrific’ Her eyes shone as she looked at him and then glanced at the wall, imagining it. ‘Oh, I can just see it. With lots of lovely bits of china on it. Not matching, you know, and Grandmama’s old Victorian tat, but really treasured pieces that all seem to go together because they’ve been specially saved or bought. Because they’re loved and because you simply couldn’t live without having them. Do you know what I mean?’

‘I’m beginning to think I do,’ he said—and raised his glass to her.

She blushed fierily, colour washing beneath the fine pale skin, and she lifted her own glass to hide her confusion.

‘It’s the only way,’ she said, ignoring the meaning behind his words, ‘to make old and new live happily together. The trouble is with a dresser that size, the shelves would be practically empty for ages until the pieces built up over the years.’

‘Sounds OK to me,’ said Rob comfortably, attacking his pie. ‘It would be a lifetime’s work.’

He looked at her, surprised at the sudden silence. She was frowning down at her plate, lips pressed tightly together; almost, he thought for a mad moment, as though she were trying not to cry. This was so foolish he rejected it even as he thought it, deciding, instead, that his remark must
have been too near the mark again. Of course, it was madness to feel so immediately happy with her, so content; that it was absolutely right that they should be planning how to furnish the kitchen and contemplating a lifetime together. Even if she felt the same it was unfair to put her in a position where she was obliged to admit it. He must give her space, allow her some dignity and pride. As for himself, he had no need of either; he was floating on a cushion of wellbeing and happiness.

‘I’ll show you the ford, tomorrow,’ he said. There’s a lovely old clapper bridge for wheeled traffic but we’ll splash through the water properly. I hope you’ve brought some wellies with you?’

‘Oh yes.’ She seemed to have recovered herself. ‘As you’ve seen I’m always well prepared. I would have been a first-rate girl guide if my mother would have let me join.’

‘Why wouldn’t she?’

Melissa put her elbows on the table, the glass cradled in her hands. ‘My mother was a recluse,’ she said. ‘She couldn’t possibly imagine anyone wishing to join anything. She made us feel inadequate if we asked to have friends to stay, if you know what I mean. It was odd, in her eyes, to need anyone.’

‘“Us”?’ he questioned gently. He had an overpowering need to know everything about her.

‘I have a brother,’ she said, after a moment. ‘In the end, my father sent us both off to school together. It was the only way we could make friends properly or have any kind of social life. My mother died quite young, when I was fourteen. My father is still alive. He married again, a much younger woman, and had another family. He gave me and Mike twenty thousand pounds each and told us not to expect anything else from him. It was fair enough—very generous, in fact—but we’ve drifted a bit. His second wife isn’t that keen on us. She feels she has to protect her own children, I expect.’

‘You and your brother are close?’

‘Oh yes.’ Melissa smiled warmly. ‘Very close. He’s a dear. He has a small boy called Luke. And you?’ She raised her eyebrows enquiringly. ‘Tell me about you. Apart from loving Moorgate, I mean.’

‘Oh, I come from quite a big family.’ He leaned back in the little chair, which creaked warningly. ‘All scattered about, though. We stay in touch at a distance. My mother is a Scot, a formidable woman who went to live
with her sister in Inverness when they were both widowed. We’re all very fond of one another but none of us is very close. Moorgate has been the only great passion of my life.’

They looked at one another a long heart-stopping moment. The words ‘until now’ drifted unspoken in the air and, quite involuntarily, Rob stretched out a hand to her across the table. After a moment, she laid her own hand in his and he held it tightly for a few brief seconds.

‘You’re cold,’ he said sharply, coming to his senses.

‘“My tiny hand is frozen”,’ she sang, laughing at him. ‘I told you, I’m always cold.’

‘It’s a bitter night,’ he said worriedly. ‘Let’s make some coffee and take it in by the fire. I piled the logs halfway up the chimney. It should be roasting in there. If only we had comfortable chairs …’

‘Big, squashy armchairs,’ she said dreamily, watching him push the kettle on to the hotplate. ‘And a sofa, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, definitely. Perhaps two, facing each other, either side of the fireplace?’

She wrinkled her nose, shaking her head. ‘Too formal. It’s not a Regency drawing room, is it? What have you done with the chocolate?’

‘Still in the hamper.’ He peered inside. ‘Goodness. That’s quite a selection.’

‘I love chocolate,’ she told him. ‘The only great passion of my life, until,’ she hesitated, smiling to herself, ‘until Moorgate.’

‘Take the chocolate,’ he said, wrapping her ruana about her, ‘and go and get warm. I’ll bring the coffee.’ He held the soft wool together under her chin and then kissed her lightly on the forehead. ‘Go on. I shan’t be long.’

She sat on the beanbag, her knees drawn up to her chin, staring into the flames, the chocolate forgotten, wondering if they were both quite mad.

She thought: What would Mike think if he knew what I was doing?

He would be desperate with anxiety, of course. ‘Are you crazy?’ he’d shout. ‘He sounds an absolute nutter. Get out as quick as you can.’

Melissa hugged her knees. It would be useless answering that Rob was so terribly sane that someone called Lady Todhunter trusted him with her house, that Mr Cruikshank liked him. Mike would be able to list at least a
dozen personable, delightful homicidal maniacs—and he’d be right, of course. Yet she was not afraid. Perhaps it was because she had so little to lose; perhaps it was because her instinct told her that there was no need of fear. When he’d raised his glass to her she’d been filled with a wild elation; when he talked as though he’d already calmly accepted that they would share a lifetime together she’d wanted to weep. How right it had sounded, how natural, but how differently he would behave if she were to tell him that her lifetime was at best six months long.