Page 56 of One More Christmas at the Castle
I chose the top of the final flight of stone steps that led down to the lake and temple as my turning point, but paused there for a moment, looking out across the water.
Today the surface was rippling, as if stirred by a giant, invisible hand, and it was the same dull, cold-porridge grey of the sky.
I leaned against a stone pillar and all kinds of random thoughts chased themselves through my mind … How much I was growing to like Xan, for instance, now I knew him a little better. In fact, from the day we first talked, down by the lake, I’d kept forgetting he wasn’t just one of Henry’s friends.
My sixteen-year-old self had simply cast him as a romantic hero without knowing the least thing about him. It was so lucky he hadn’t remembered me.
This assignment was proving a little tricky anyway, without that complication, what with Xan knowing Henry and being so friendly, which I’m sure our employer wouldn’t like in the least.
Mrs Powys was a bit scary, but very much a product of her age and background, though with a slight bohemian edge that was presumably due to her years in Greece.
I suspected she was turning into the autocrat her mother had probably been – but now she was so ill, it was natural that she should long for the comfort of the Christmases of her childhood, and Henry and I would do our best to give her what she wanted.
Of course, quite a lot would depend on what the guests were like, and I only had the bare bones of the list she’d given us, to go on.
I shivered, suddenly realizing how cold I was and began to retrace my steps up towards the house, my thoughts now turning more cheerfully to the Christmas baking to come: the cake and pudding, the first batches of mince pies. I loved theseasonal smell of spices and the heady aroma of dried fruit soaking in rum!
I was just wondering if I’d ordered enough marzipan to make stollen, too, when I emerged from a clipped holly arch into the Winter Garden and found Mrs Powys standing in the middle of it, looking lost in thought.
Her hands were thrust into the pockets of her long fur coat and the shawl collar pulled up high around her neck.
I always imagined I could see the ghosts of the creatures killed to make fur coats circling them, but this one was obviously an antique, perhaps her mother’s, and, if the ghosts of the mink were still hanging around it, they had faded to invisibility.
I’d stopped when I first spotted her and would have gone back to find another way had her eyes, below her Russian-style hat, not suddenly focused on me.
‘Excuse me – I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ I said quickly. ‘I’ve been getting some air before the supermarket delivery arrives and this part of the garden, with all these amazing winter-flowering shrubs and plants, is irresistible.’
‘My mother created the Winter Garden. She loved to find plants that would bloom in the middle of winter, supposedly the dead time, especially so far north. She said this terrace was a magical place, because it was so protected.’
‘It does somehow feel much warmer in this part of the garden,’ I agreed.
‘I recorded some memories of my early childhood for Xan, and it brought my mother back to me so clearly. This spot was very special to her.’
She was almost talking to herself and I hovered uncertainly, not knowing whether to go or stay.
‘I’m not surprised, because it feels somehow other-worldly,as if I’d strayed intoA Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ I said tentatively.
She looked at me more intently. ‘Youfeel that, too?’
‘I should think everyone lucky enough to see the Winter Garden at this time of year must feel the same.’
‘Perhaps … but I didn’t expect it ofyou,’ she said, rather bafflingly.
A silence fell, apart from the warbling of a few birds. Then, from way above, came the sound of car wheels on gravel.
‘Lucy must be back again, with the papers,’ she said. ‘She’ll be happy tomorrow when Henry relieves her of yet another duty, though I expect she’ll still spend a lot of time in Wallstone.’
‘She does seem very involved in the village activities,’ I agreed.
‘Yes, her friend Daphne appears to organize most of what goes on in Wallstone. I’ve met her and she’s almost as silly as Lucy.’
I thought that would be difficult, but didn’t say so.
‘The Land Rover needs using, though, and Henry will also need it to fetch the Christmas tree for the Great Hall.’
‘Where does that come from?’ I asked.
‘The estate. There’s a small plantation of fir trees beyond the lake. He may cut a smaller one for the staff sitting room, too, if you wish.’
