Page 37 of One More Christmas at the Castle
As I began to explore, I discovered that it had been artfully channelled into a series of small waterfalls and spreading pools.
The path I took meandered steadily downwards, but never far from the stream, where sometimes the rocky walls came in close, and at others moved outwards, to enclose a wider space, with lawns, shrubs and flowerbeds.
It all looked very natural, even though I was sure a lot of work had gone into creating this enchanted valley.
Shrubs climbed up the retaining walls and spread their branches through the pergolas and trellised arches. The stone heads of strange beasts spouted water and, at one point, the path ran through a short stone tunnel, pierced with lancet windows and framed in ferns.
All was quiet, except for birdsong, and as I made my way ever downwards, I felt as if I had strayed into another, enchanted world.
At every turn was evidence of loving care. Presumably Andy’s main purpose in life was to tend this little hidden Eden … or it had been.
I emerged from a short, clipped holly walk and suddenly found myself on a more open terrace, though the rocky walls still encircled it, protecting the plants within from the worst of the weather. The water pooled here, with a little bridge to take you across to the other side. I knew at once that this must be the Winter Garden Maria had mentioned, for it was full of flowers – somanyflowers for this far north and in December!
I loved gardens, but I only knew enough to recognize a few of the plants and shrubs there. Many blossomed in bold shades of yellow: winter daffodils, with their goblet-shaped cups of waxy petals, jasmine … and aconites, wearing ruffs of green leaves.
But it wasn’tallyellow, for there were clumps of purple heather, too, and witch hazel in shades of red and orange.
I stood in the middle of the bridge for ages, drinking it all in, before I tore myself away and took the path on the other side of the stream and down to the remaining levels, until a final flight of steps brought me out at the very bottom of the valley, by a small lake.
It was bordered by sloping lawns, with a little temple-style folly raised a short way above.
I huddled into my anorak, because it was more open to the elements here, the trees pushed back into a dark circle, and the temperature seemed to drop even further as the icy wind whipped strands from my braided crown of hair – lese-majesty – and blew them round my face.
Pulling my hood up, I headed for the temple, which was actually not that small, now I was close to it. The copper dome was patinated with verdigris and there were classically simple marble pillars at either side of the open entrance. I went up the steps to find inside a low barrier enclosing the Roman mosaic Lucy had mentioned.
The interior was lit by high windows and a mirror had been attached to the ceiling, presumably to reflect Mithras in all his glory.
The mosaic was circular, like the replica in the Great Hall, but of course, not perfect, for many of the tesserae were faded or broken. It was an amazing survival, all the same.
I walked all the way around it, but didn’t sit on either of the two inviting benches because I really needed to get back to the house again. I’d let myself be seduced by the gardens into going much further than I’d intended.
It was gloomy in the temple and when I went out and down the steps, the bright wintry sunshine made me blink.
Reflections of ice-blue sky and scudding white clouds sped across the surface of the lake and all was peaceful; even the birds seemed quiet now, as if waiting for something.
And then, quite suddenly, I was startled by the sharp crack of a twig trodden underfoot and, looking round, saw Xan emerging from the nearby trees, looking, in his long dark coat and rainbow-striped scarf, like the hero of an updated Jane Austen adaptation. One lock of his black hair, tousled by the breeze, even fell romantically over his brow, as if a make-up girl had just darted out and tweaked it there.
His light, strangely coloured eyes were abstracted and he seemed deep in thought as he came to a halt, looking out at the lake.
I was just wondering if I could very slowly edge back into the nearby path without him seeing me when Plum plodded out of the trees, his tongue lolling from one corner of his mouth, and immediately spotted me.
‘Woof!’ he said amiably, and waved his muddy flag of a tail.
10
Thin Ice
Xan seemed to be coming back from a long distance away. Perhaps, after a morning spent sifting through Asa’s papers, he had been mentally swimming in the azure Aegean Sea, in search of drowned civilizations? But as his eyes slowly focused on me, amusement dawned in their lilac-grey depths.
‘Hello,’ he said, before adding, as if he couldn’t help himself, ‘That’s a coat of many colours!’
I squinted down at my anorak, every quilted diamond a different, jewel-bright colour. ‘I got it in California, though I have to say, it didn’t look quite so bright at the time. But it’s very warm, that’s the main thing. Andyou’vesome need to talk. Your scarf is one long neon rainbow!’
Too late, I remembered that this was not only the godson of my employer I was talking to, but someone I’d really meant to avoid.
He didn’t seem to mind, though, he just said mildly, ‘I like a bit of colour. The scarf is knitted silk. Sabine gave it to me last Christmas, when she was staying with her friend, Nancy, near Oxford. She’s done that the last few years, since Asa died, but this time Nancy is coming here instead.’
I was glad to have my hood up, but he was wearing a long black, rather military-style overcoat and his head was bare. An icy breeze was running ghost fingers through his black hair.
