Page 82 of The Secret Mistletoe Promise
Then he held out his hand, and she slotted hers into it, and they made their slow, faltering way back to the centre of Mistingham, Felix trotting alongside them, entirely unconcerned about all the trouble he’d caused.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Imogen was treated like a hero by Sophie and Harry, Fiona, and especially Lucy.
‘You got him!’ She wrapped her arms around Felix’s neck, just like Imogen had done, then held Artichoke up so the puppy could greet her favourite friend.
They were standing outside, the snow still falling, because – although Birdie loved Felix – she refused to have him actuallyinsideher house. And Sophie and Harry needed to get him back to the manor, because they were in the middle of preparing it for the final rehearsal, which was happening the following day.
‘Goodbye, you mischievous little whatsit.’ Fiona ruffled Felix’s ears.
‘Now Dad can get back to his mince pies,’ Lucy said.
Dexter closed his eyes. ‘Crap.’
‘Where are the mince pies?’ Fiona asked. ‘They’ve not gone missing too, have they?’
‘They’re at the bakery. I trialled a new batch this morning,traditional but with a hot custard top, and if Mandy got snowed under with customers – pun not intended – they’ll be burned to a crisp.’
‘Come on, I’ll walk you back.’ Fiona pulled Lucy into a hug and tickled Artichoke under the chin. Dexter went with them, glancing back at Imogen, giving her a quick, secret smile.
‘You deserve some figgy pudding,’ Birdie said. ‘I made three, so it makes sense to start one now – especially for the woman who found Felix in a snowstorm and must be frozen to the bone.’
‘Could we do a jigsaw, too?’ Imogen asked. Maybe if she stopped thinking for a bit, the answer to her dilemma would land, like a snowball plopping into a snowdrift, right in the centre of her brain.
‘Jigsaw and figgy pudding it is. Come on, I’ll light a fire.’
The following day, Sunday, was the final rehearsal for the Snow Show. It was four days before Christmas, almost two months after Imogen had run away from her wedding, and for the first time waking up in her bedroom in the eaves, she knew what she wanted her future to look like.
She dressed in a swishy red skirt and black blouse, courtesy of her online shopping orders, and she wore her nervousness on her sleeve, even though she would have preferred to hide it under layers of confidence.
The snow had stopped late the night before. It was around the same time she had closed her copy ofNorthanger Abbey, only a few chapters from the end, and lowered it to her bedside table, her thoughts no longer churning, but sharp with clarity. She knew what she was going to do. It was for the best; the only thing that made sense.
Her mind had settled, like the snow over Mistingham. Outside, everything was covered in white and the ground was lost, but she wasn’t lost any more: she’d found herself, found the answers that had been eluding her for so long. Unfortunately, this certainty added to her nerves, rather than lessening them.
‘Good luck, darling.’ Birdie came to the door to see her off.
‘This isn’t the final thing.’ She pulled on two pairs of socks and her walking boots, the ballet pumps she had bought at Hartley Country Apparel in her bag for when she got there. ‘You’re coming to that, aren’t you? It’s not like school, when I was a sheep in the nativity and Mum couldn’t make it, so she came to the dress rehearsal instead and it was chaos.’
‘Of course I’m coming to the Snow Show! I wouldn’t miss it. And at least now it’s living up to its name, you don’t have to worry about someone from London coming to drag you home.’
‘I hadn’t thought …’ Except now of course shewasthinking about that. Edmund would probably hire a snowmobile if it could prevent him from being long-term embarrassed. She put on her green coat – which had become something of a talisman – then her hat, scarf and gloves, and stepped into the whiteout.
The roads, roofs and cars, every vaguely flat surface, had a layer of snow at least three inches thick. She had never seen so much of it. Even the sky was bleached of colour, apart from a vague amber hue, as if the clouds were preparing for round two.
Imogen picked up Jazz and Mary on her walk, everyone suitably bundled up against the cold.
‘It’s going to be a white Christmas,’ Mary said, by way of a greeting.
‘A grey-sludge Christmas if there’s no more snow between now and the big day,’ Jazz said. ‘Are you ready for your star turn with Dexter?’
‘Of course.’ Imogen was too nervous to acknowledge Jazz’s cheeky grin or have another conversation about how they would definitely be keeping their clothes on. It all felt so precarious, because even though she was sure of her decision, she couldn’t predict how everyone else would react. She didn’t even know who to tell first.
Mistingham Manor looked extra forbidding, the grey stone standing out against the white landscape, the trees surrounding the property laden with snow.
‘Woah,’ Jazz said, as they all paused in front of it.
‘It couldn’t look any more gothic.’ Imogen thought of the book she’d been given, which had set so many wheels in motion.
