A Christmas Letter: Snowbound in the Earl's Castle

CHAPTER FIVE

ONCE again Faith was following Marcus across the castle lawn and off the island. This time, however, their footsteps left six-inch deep impressions in the flawless snow. Here, near the lake, it wasn’t that deep, but Marcus had told her it had drifted quite high in some of the dips and dells on the estate.

Out on the road to the main gate a tractor was spreading grit, and up near the old stables a team of men with snow shovels were clearing the paths.

Faith peeked from under the brim of her knitted hat and cast her eyes upwards as her breath made little icy clouds. The sky was the most amazing blend of the palest pastels, from rose-petal pink at the horizon through lilac and lavender to crisp blue high above.

As she walked along a wide path that led away from the castle she could see that the water from the lake flowed underneath their feet and filled a second lake, longer and thinner. On the far side were fields and pockets of woodland, but she couldn’t see the nearest bank as it curved round the low hill where the stable block was situated.

In front of the stables the path forked. Faith prepared to leave Marcus, who was on his way to the estate office, and continue her journey to the chapel, but he stopped where the paths divided. ‘I’d like to show you something.’

Not exactly a request, but it wasn’t an order either. Yesterday she would have said no way, suspecting he had a pair of stocks waiting for the interloper, but she couldn’t quite wipe the memory of his unguarded laughter from the evening before, so she nodded and followed him under the arch of the redbrick building and into the yard beyond. Single-storey buildings framed the edges of a large cobbled square. Marcus led her to one on the right, unlocked the door and ushered her inside into a large bright space.

‘My mother had a fixation with watercolour painting for a while,’ he said. ‘We had this converted for her.’

Faith took a few steps into the airy studio and stopped.

Wow. What a view.

The wall opposite the door was all glass, with a stupendous view of the lake. Just outside was a small decked area, and then the land fell away. Beautifully kept terraced gardens, the shape now muffled with great dollops of snow, had been cut into the side of the hill as it dipped towards the lake. Geese floated aimlessly on the water and she watched silently as a low-flying swan made a rather inelegant landing, carving a wake on the lake’s surface and causing the other birds to flutter and scurry.

‘Will this do for a workspace?’

She looked back at him. Some people would have described his face as blank, but Faith knew better. She could see a difference in his eyes, in the set of his mouth. She knew instantly what this meant. This was his way of calling a truce.

Nothing as simple as a laying down of arms, though. Marcus was like those medieval castles that had rings and rings of walls and defences, and she understood that all he’d done was let her inside the first gate.

And she was quite happy to camp for the remainder of her time at Hadsborough. One notch down from frosty resentment suited her just fine. She’d be safe from those sizzling glares, but not close enough to be tempted by what she saw inside. This would be good. She could handle cordial but distant Marcus.

‘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 window 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.’