Page 20 of The Christmas Retreat
Swags of greenery hung everywhere which, together withthe tree, probably accounted for the scent of pine that mingled with other, familiar seasonal aromas, like spices and baking … and something indefinable that reminded me suddenly and sharply of home.
The woman turned and smiled at me.
‘You must be Ginny! I’m Nerys Matthews, but just call me Nerys. We’re all on first-name terms here.’
I don’t know what I’d expected Nerys Matthews to be like, but it certainly wasn’t this. She was perhaps in her mid-sixties, not much taller than me, but slim as a wand, with very long black hair, heavily streaked with silver, like a badger, or perhaps a benign Cruella de Vil, for her dark blue eyes were kind and her ruby-red lips curved in a warm smile.
She was wearing a long black knitted tunic over leggings, and a pair of enviable black Doc Marten boots that had been custom painted in a swirling, brightly coloured marbled pattern.
I immediately felt shabby, and also a trifle grubby, after my long day.
I was gazing, in a mesmerized way, at the huge, clear, rock-crystal pendant that hung on a heavy silver chain around her neck, when I suddenly realized she was still speaking to me and I hadn’t taken in a word.
‘I’m sorry – what did you say?’ I apologized. ‘I’m so tired I’m not hanging together very well at the moment. I madly chose to drive across country and it took so much longer than I expected.’
‘These little roads always do take twice as long as you expect,’ Nerys said sympathetically, ‘especially when you are unfamiliar with them. You must be quite exhausted. Never mind, you’ve lots of time to settle in and relax before dinner, which will beat seven. Come down to the sitting room at about twenty past six – it’s the last door on the right at the back of the hall – where we are all gathering for a drink and to introduce ourselves.’
That sounded like my idea of hell, but I thought I might feel braver once I’d had time to unwind on my own for a bit.
‘Come on, I’ll take you up,’ she said, picking my holdall up again. ‘Is this all your luggage, or is there more?’
‘I’m afraid there is quite a bit more,’ I confessed. ‘Several boxes and my easel and stuff. But I can bring those in tomorrow.’
‘Oh, no need – give me your keys and Tudor will fetch the rest of it and bring it up to your room. There is a small lift at the back of the hall, so it’s no problem.’
‘That’s great, thank you. And my car is the little Fiat at the front. I hope it was OK to leave it there?’
‘Fine, although he could move it into the courtyard, which is more sheltered. There’s ice and possibly snow forecast.’
‘I’m glad that didn’t start before I got here or I’d probably never have made it,’ I said, and she laughed and led the way upstairs. At the top was a large, book-lined landing with a row of long, curtained windows at the back.
‘Architecturally, the house is a total and confusing hotchpotch,’ she said, turning down a corridor to the right. ‘The central part is very old, but the two main wings, a large studio and a room at the back they grandly called a ballroom, were built on in the mid-Victorian era by one of my ancestors, who must have had more money than good taste, then re-modelled in the nineteen thirties. But don’t worry, you will get the guided tour tomorrow.’
‘I’ll look forward to it,’ I said, although I was now so spaced out with tiredness that the floor was undulating up and down.
We turned a corner and Nerys opened a door. ‘Here we are. You’re in the Chagall room – they’re all named after artists – and yours looks out over the back garden towards the sea. We don’t quite run to en-suite bathrooms, but there is one directly opposite your room on the other side of the corridor.’
I love the paintings of Marc Chagall, so I took that as a good omen. The room itself was much bigger than I had expected, the walls a Wedgwood blue and the cornices and ceiling white.
Nerys put down my bag. ‘If you give me your keys, Tudor will be up with your other stuff in a few minutes, so I’ll leave you to it. I’m sure you’re longing to be left to yourself for a bit – I would be!’
She gave me her warm smile again when I thanked her, then said she would see me in a little while and left. I put down my case and looked around the room that was to be mine for the next couple of weeks.
The furnishings were an odd mix of the antique and modern. The headboard of the bed, two wardrobes, a dressing table and a tall chest of drawers were of some light-coloured wood, with intricate marquetry inlays in a vaguely oriental style, and were obviously old and, probably, valuable.
The desk in the window embrasure, however, was large and functionally modern, and so was the table bearing tea- and coffee-making equipment.
Other than this, there were two small, shabby and comfortable-looking armchairs on either side of a round brass tray on knobbly black tripod legs, which clearly did service as a coffee table.
You can tell how big the room was because all this still left acres of blue carpet. But it was warm and, despite the size, somehow cosy.
I caught sight of myself in the long wall mirror and thought how out of place I looked – a pale young woman with dark shadowed eyes, medium height but looking chunky in an old and well-worn padded jacket that had seen better days, most of them over ten years ago when I’d bought it.
I have an old-fashioned hourglass figure, totally unlike Evie’s tall, spare one, which I expect I inherited from my father’s side of the family, along with my weird caramel-coloured hair. Any garment that didn’t pull in at the waist made me look globular.
I shrugged the jacket off – the old rainbow-striped jumper and jeans I was wearing underneath weren’t a huge improvement – and took off my boots. They were Doc Marten’s, like my hostess’s, but since I’d hand painted them myself, the flowery design was half worn away and indistinct.
*
