The Winter Folly (51 page)

The guests were called into dinner in the marquee and when it was over and the coffee was served, John stood up, took a microphone and called for order.

‘Delilah tells me that I oughtn’t to make a speech as it’s my birthday, but I want to say a few words. They’re not really about me so I think it’s allowable. About
a year and a bit ago, there was a wedding. I’m afraid not many of you came to it because it was a very small affair and held in London, and that’s why I want to take this opportunity to
say something about it.’ He gazed down at Delilah who smiled back at him. ‘I just want to say that I made the right decision that day, and with every day that goes by I’m more
aware of what a lucky man I am. In the coming weeks there are going to be a few surprises. I hope you’ll bear with us as we work out some of the changes that are coming. Don’t be afraid
– it’s nothing drastic. There will still be Stirlings here, trying to keep this magnificent place going. And the changes are good, positive ones. We’re looking to the future now
and not the past. But . . . well . . . I won’t say more at the moment. I’ve had a wonderful birthday and I’d like you to toast the woman who made that possible. Delilah. My lovely
wife.’

Everyone raised their champagne glasses and murmured, ‘Delilah.’

As John sat down, she said in mock indignation, ‘But it’s your birthday! They should be toasting you!’

‘It’s what I want,’ he said simply and put his hand over hers. ‘I don’t need anything else.’ He leaned over and kissed her as the room burst into
applause.

Alexandra felt as though the entire village was still asleep, as though the whole place was under a spell of slumber. Last night she had seen a riot of fireworks in the
distance exploding on the night sky, and had thought about the night on a beach in Goa years before when she’d given birth to John, and how happy she and Nicky had been. She’d imagined
the celebrations up at the house and wondered if Nicky knew what they were for.

She woke in her old room, though it looked quite different now. The flowered wallpaper was long gone, replaced by a tasteful shade of vintage-pink paint. This was where she had spent her
girlhood and she never expected to see it again. She still couldn’t quite believe that John had inherited this house – it had gone to Aunt Felicity after her father’s death, and
Aunt Felicity had left it to John. He had asked if she would like it to be her home in England for as long as she wanted it.

‘I should think you’re used to your own company after all this time,’ he’d said. ‘I don’t think it will suit you to be in the big house.’

He was right. But at first, she’d been afraid to come here. The memory of what had happened the last time she’d been in this house felt almost like a poison inside her mind. But, she
told herself sternly, she had to learn to stop thinking in that way. Places didn’t cause sadness, people did. There was nothing more evil about this place than there was about the folly on
the hill and she wanted to reclaim her old home from those nightmarish recollections. She’d insisted on coming here alone, even though John and Delilah wanted to accompany her.

She had stood on the front step for some minutes, her hand shaking as it held the key. Then she’d gathered her strength, turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open so that she
could step inside. It helped that everything looked different, with all the old possessions gone and the decor changed and modernised. It was a lovely family home now and rather wasted on her, all
alone. She hadn’t yet made any firm plans about how long she would stay in England or, if she went back to Patmos as she intended, how frequently she would return.
But
, she reminded
herself,
there will be grandchildren. Perhaps, if I’m here, they can come and stay, the way my children never did.
She tried to imagine being a grandmother. It was an odd yet
comforting feeling that she might yet get a chance to resume something of her interrupted motherhood.

That was a pleasing thought. She held on to that. Upstairs, she stood on the landing outside her father’s bedroom, remembering what had happened the last time she’d been here. She
could almost hear the sound of her father’s laboured breathing from inside and the sound of Emily moving about as she tended to him. Then she turned the handle and threw the door open to a
pleasant bedroom with a brass bed and pretty flowered curtains at the window. He was gone. He’d been gone forty years. And he couldn’t hurt her any more. Ever.

She decided to take her old room for herself. Yes, that’s where she wanted to wake up on her first morning. Somewhere she felt truly connected to her old self.

It was only just after dawn. Alexandra got up, dressed and let herself out of the front door. As she walked down the path to the main road that went through the village, she stopped, took out
some scissors she had brought specially and cut some roses from the bush that flowered by the front gate. Then she turned right and made her way towards the church. This was what she had promised
herself she would do first of all.

It was far too early for anyone to be up and about and she walked undisturbed along the main road, noticing that everything looked the same but subtly different. She wondered who lived in these
houses now and if anyone was left who might remember her from all those years ago. The old biddies who loved to gossip about her would be long gone.

You see
, she told herself,
only people can hurt you. And they can only hurt you if you let them.

She wished she’d learnt that lesson years ago. No doubt there would be plenty of chat about her and speculation about her return, but she wasn’t going to care about all that.

‘I’m going to look forward,’ she said out loud and was startled by the way her voice carried along the road.
I might have to get out of the habit of talking to myself so
much when I’m in England
, she thought.

There was the church gate just the same as it was the last time she was here on that terrible day. She unfastened it and went up the path to the churchyard, then made her way between the sloping
gravestones to the yew tree at the back. Her heart began to thump hard as she got closer. It was not fear but a strange kind of excitement. The grass was long under the tree as though the
caretaker’s mower had not been able to negotiate the awkward place, but she saw that it had been pushed aside not that long ago. A small square of grey lichened stone was clear to see among
the pale green fronds. She breathed in sharply and then knelt down by it, pushing the grass completely clear. There was the inscription. She’d never seen it before. When she’d left this
place the ground had been open, the white box still visible six feet down. Nicky must have arranged for this stone. She had a sudden memory. Nicky had said Elaine must be buried in the family vault
and she had sobbed that she couldn’t bear her little girl to be shut away in that dusty cold room with all those bones. So he had chosen this place instead, close to the churchyard wall with
the open fields beyond.

She read the words aloud slowly.

‘Elaine Stirling, 1969–1974. “In one of the stars I shall be living.”’

Reaching out, she stroked the stone and moved her fingers around the carved inscription. She closed her eyes and tried to create the most vivid picture of Elaine she ever had, from her soft
brown hair to the curve of her nose, her wide blue eyes, the body that was just losing its baby plumpness and growing strong. She heard her high voice again and her peal of laughter. She put all
her strength into creating the image, breathing life into her memory with everything her imagination could summon. She wanted to feel Elaine’s presence again and for a moment, she almost
did.

Opening her eyes, she smiled at the gravestone and began to put the roses she had brought into the marble flower urn. ‘I’ve come home to you, darling,’ she said as she slipped
the stems into the holes of the urn’s cover. ‘And I’m going to bring you back to life in the only way I can. We will talk about you and remember you. I will tell John everything
he’s forgotten. I’ll pass my memories on to him, and he will tell his children. I shan’t let you disappear.’

She sat for a long time at the graveside and when she left, the stone was clear of grass and the little vase of pink roses made a bright spot in the shade of the yew tree.

Alexandra had wondered if she would be strong enough for the walk up to the fort, remembering the hill out of the village, but it turned out that her climbs up to the monastery
on Patmos had kept her fit and the way to Fort Stirling felt almost gentle. It took a while, though, and by the time she was on the brow of the hill and looking down towards the house where it sat
on its green cushion, as beautiful as ever, the sun had risen high in the sky. So there it was, that house. It was for that house that she’d made her sacrifice, so that Nicky could stay there
and pass it on to John. She’d let Nicky keep his son and heir, partly to compensate him for the daughter he’d lost and partly so that the great house would not be lost for John. Nicky
believed in it all so wholeheartedly, she hadn’t been able to destroy it.

But perhaps Nicky would have been happier if she had told him the truth and let him choose between her and the house. But, she reminded herself, it hadn’t been possible. She’d
believed that they were related. Their relationship had to stop no matter what. But if she took the secret away with her, the house could go on, move from Nicky to John, and no one would ask any
questions.

Thank goodness for Delilah
, she thought. Delilah had told her that all of them were more important than the house, and Alex had the feeling she meant it and would stick by her guns.
This place will never destroy her the way I let it. And she has John’s love. That will help her.

It was almost mid-morning but no one had yet surfaced. A large white marquee sat brightly in the garden, and in nearby fields were rows of cars and a collection of tents. There were not many
signs of life but it would be busy here later. Perhaps she’d ask John to take her back to the Old Grange and return when it was quieter.

She continued on, down the long curving driveway, the house growing larger and more imposing as she approached. A place like this was so immutable, designed to outlive centuries of owners,
sheltering them one after another but always waiting for the next custodian. Her time here was over and she did not feel like this house had once been hers but rather as though she’d stayed
in it a long time ago as a guest. As she crunched across the gravel at the front, she went to the side of the house and began to walk around it to the back, where she could rest a while in the
gardens. There was party detritus everywhere: burnt-out lanterns, abandoned glasses, cigarette ends. The marquee came into sight, looking empty and abandoned, its opening flapping a little in the
morning breeze. She didn’t want to sit among the remnants of the celebration so she kept moving along the paths, through the formal garden and past the red-brick walls of the kitchen garden.
She was approaching the old coach house and she stopped to examine it, frowning. It looked different somehow, smarter and more modern. There were proper windows and a front door.

Of course. The realisation broke on her. John had told her that Nicky lived here now. The old place had been converted for him.

Just as she thought that, she saw him. Her heart lurched. He was in the garden at the side of the coach house, sitting on a bench that was bathed in morning sunlight. His face was turned up to
the sunshine, his eyes closed, and he appeared to be asleep.

She stared, her heart beating rapidly. So there he was. The last time she had seen him, he’d been the Nicky of her past: tall, dark-haired, good-looking, alive with easy charm. Now he was
stooped, thin and his hair was reduced to a short brush of white over a shiny scalp. His wild energy had gone but it was still him. He was still handsome, and he sat with the same grace he’d
always had.

She wondered what to do. Should she approach him? Was it right – or fair?

As she stood there, he opened his eyes, turned his head and looked straight at her.

She smiled, although it was a struggle to make her mouth do what she wanted as her lips were trembling. ‘Hello, Nicky,’ she said, her voice shaking.

He said nothing but only stared. She began to walk towards him, stepping carefully as she felt so weak.

‘Do you remember me?’ she asked gently. ‘It’s been a long time. A very long time.’

He was frowning now and his grey eyes, lighter than she remembered, were puzzled.

‘I went away after Elaine died. I thought there was a reason why you’d be better off without me but I was wrong. I’ve come to say that I’m sorry for everything you
suffered.’

She was near to him now, and could see every detail of his face. It was an old man’s face and yet, to her, it looked strangely young. Nicky was there – her vibrant lover, her
incredible husband.

Nicky pushed himself up onto his feet. Now she saw that he was still tall, despite the stoop. He spoke at last. ‘Alex. Is that you?’

She nodded, smiling. ‘Yes. It’s me.’

He scrunched up his face, closed his eyes and opened them again. ‘Is it really you?’ he said. ‘Or am I dreaming you?’

‘You’re not dreaming.’ Her eyes filled with tears. She could see that it was her Nicky but he was not the same. That old Nicky was gone now and she would never see him again.
But this Nicky was still here and she loved him too. She held out her arms to him. ‘I’m here. I’ve come home.’

Acknowledgements

I’m so grateful to everybody who helped me with this book, in particular Wayne Brookes, my wonderful editor, Louise Buckley, Katie James, Jeremy Trevathan and all at Pan
Macmillan. Thank you to Lorraine Green for a brilliant copyedit and to Myra Jones for splendid proofreading.

Huge thanks, as always, to my magnificent agent, Lizzy Kremer at David Higham, who worked so hard with me on this book, and to Harriet Moore, who helped enormously with many excellent
suggestions.