Ghosts of Winter Read online

  “Of course you know this is a listed property?” she said.

  “Yes. Grade One isn’t it?” I was pleased I’d paid enough attention to what I’d read to sound as though I knew what I was talking about.

  “It is. That’s the most limiting category. It means we can’t make any changes to the appearance of the property on the outside, and the inside has to be very faithful to how it would have looked originally.”

  “So building a white UPVC conservatory on the back is out then?” I asked in a flat tone. The look she returned was withering. Without further comment she unfastened her briefcase and pulled out a file of paperwork.

  “Before she died, Edith had a structural survey of the property completed. I can tell you that it’s mostly safe and sound, although you might have to replace some of the floors and ceilings in the east wing, where the roof is also badly damaged.”

  “Oh. Well, I’ll let you—and everyone else who knows what they’re doing—guide me through. I’m not really an expert on historical properties.” I wasn’t even completely certain which part of the house was the east wing at this point.

  “What do you do?” she asked, startling me with her interest.

  “I’m a teacher. A history teacher. But I’m taking a break from it.” I wasn’t about to volunteer any more information.

  “I expect you’ll find the history of Winter Manor fascinating then.”

  “I think I will. I’m interested in it because it belonged to Auntie Edie and her family as much as anything.”

  “Of course.” She flashed the briefest of almost-sincere smiles before looking down at the paperwork in her hand. For the next few minutes her attention was absorbed in what she was reading, and with nothing better to do, I studied her. The coat looked like wool, possibly merino and certainly expensive, probably designer. Where she had loosened the buttons I could see a sliver of a white shirt and the suit jacket that matched the grey pinstriped trousers. I guessed they were designer as well. The unusual black leather brogues wouldn’t have been cheap either.

  I looked at her hands again, surprised to see her fingernails were less than immaculate and looked as though she was inclined to bite them. The evidence of such an undignified habit, a flaw in what was otherwise perfection, endeared her to me a little more. I started to examine her appearance for other positive signs she was, in fact, a human being and not simply a supremely turned out architect-robot. After all, I had a feeling I was going to have to work with her quite a lot in the coming months. She wore no make-up, managing to pull off a flawless complexion and defined features without artificial assistance. I wasn’t sure if that was a point in her favour or not. Her glasses suited her, and there was something intense about the way her blue eyes roamed over the writing in front of her, as if she was truly interested in the project.

  “So,” I began and she looked up, her expression not displaying the irritation at my interruption I had expected to see there, “is this just a job for you, or something you’re really into?”

  “I’m fascinated by buildings generally.” The truth of her words was evident in her tone, which was suddenly warmer. I gathered she appreciated my interest in her motivations. “Historical buildings are just the best of all. This one, for example. It’s a fine example of eighteenth-century Palladian design, but then you have the baroque clock tower. Those things just shouldn’t go together in one building, but clearly someone had other plans.”

  “I have no real idea what you just said,” I confessed with a small smile, sensing a slight thaw in the coolly professional architect and seeing a little more of a woman I could converse with informally. “I’m quite good at dates and political movements, the causes of wars, all that sort of thing, but my degree didn’t really stretch to styles of architecture.”

  “I’m sure you’ll pick it up as we go along.” Her words seemed earnest and not at all condescending. I was sure she was pleasantly surprised by my interest. Even her expression mellowed as she held my gaze for a moment longer than wholly necessary. As she glanced down at her paperwork, I watched the professional mask return with remarkable swiftness, as if self-control was something she was well practised in. “Now, will you be looking to start with the restoration right away, or were you thinking of waiting until the spring?”

  “It might as well be now. I’m living here anyway, and Auntie Edie made sure there was enough money to begin right away.”

  “I’ll get on to some of the builders I know then.”

  “You will? I thought you were the architect. Don’t you just, well, plan things?”

  “I do. But I promised Edith I’d take a more hands-on role in this restoration. She could see that I understood the importance of it, I think. I’m not going to project-manage per se, but I’ll do what I can. Since I’m local, I know the best firms to use, and I have a few useful contacts.”

  “Oh, okay then.” Apparently I had no choice in the matter.

  “You’re still in charge.” She appeared to interpret the slight disgruntlement in my words accurately and treated me to another smile, this one apparently genuine and wider than before. “You get to sign off on everything. But really, it will be easier for you if I take on some of the work.”

  “You’re very welcome to.” My pride was soothed by that smile more than the words. “Is there anything you want to talk about today?”

  “I just have an initial schedule to look through, if you have the time.” She actually looked hopeful, as though she could think of no better way to spend her morning. Impressed by her dedication to her work, I was also pleased to have induced some sort of relaxation in that stiff exterior. Curious to see more of what lay beneath it, I couldn’t help smiling back.

  “I have as much time as you need.” I moved closer to her so I could see the papers she was reading from. She smelled of a heady combination of citrus, rose, and fragrant tobacco. I’d never been much interested in my mother’s make-up, face creams, and fashionable clothes, but the beautiful bottles of her perfume collection had always fascinated me, and I’d developed quite a nose for the fragrances I liked. Anna smelled, I realised right away, of one of the more expensive, vintage perfumes my mother had been given as a gift, but disliked and had barely worn: Tabac Blond. I took an extra breath, just to inhale more of the scent I’d always been partial to and hoped, as she glanced briefly at my face, she didn’t notice my blush.

  *

  Anna showed me the basic plans she had drawn up for the restoration of Winter Manor. She managed to do so with a minimal amount of architect jargon, for which I was grateful. She was unceasingly professional and sounded so competent I felt largely superfluous to the project. As she talked me through some of the more costly aspects of the repairs needed to the roof at the eastern side of the house—which, she explained, had to be in keeping with the original design of the property to meet the planning regulations—I found my ability to concentrate on her words fading. Her voice was strong and precise, very clear. It wasn’t a voice you would argue with readily. I completely missed the figures she quoted to me, but had faith Auntie Edie had more than provided for whatever costs were necessary.

  She packed her papers away in her briefcase, refastened her coat, and slid her hands back into her leather gloves. I walked with her to the door.

  “I think I know where to go from here. I’ll contact you when we need to talk again,” she said.

  “Will that be soon?”

  “Most likely. If it’s necessary could you come into the office in Durham?”

  “Yes, absolutely. I’d love to see the city anyway.” I tried not to allow the unexpected burst of enthusiasm that inspired my words to creep into my tone.

  “Will you be available during normal office hours?”

  “Yep. I’m not working at the moment.” Her eyebrows drew together slightly above the rims of her glasses, as though she was trying to fathom why I wasn’t currently employed. I let it pass.

  “Right. Good. Well, I’ll be in touch. It
was good to meet you,” she said, reaching out to shake my hand.

  I returned the pressure firmly, finding myself oddly frustrated she was already wearing her soft leather gloves. I could feel the surprising warmth of her hand even through that barrier. It was odd she’d put her gloves on already if she intended to shake my hand. I couldn’t help wondering briefly what made her shy away from informality and flesh-to-flesh contact. I had to admit the air of mystery was intriguing. She squeezed my fingers in hers and we made the briefest of eye contact, looking away with an apparently equal measure of discomfort at the same moment. “You too,” I said through a tight throat. “It’ll be interesting working together.”

  “Yes.” The warmth faded from her eyes quickly, but a vague flush lingered on her cheeks and made me smile before I thought about it. She turned and went out of the door. I watched her walk, straight-backed, down the steps to where her car was parked next to mine. Her car was a dazzlingly shiny red Audi sports car. I stared at it and wondered how the hell she had so much money. Architects weren’t that well paid, I was certain. Maybe her husband’s income kept her in designer clothes and expensive perfumes. My stomach stirred uncomfortably with that thought, and I put it out of my mind.

  Several minutes after I had watched her car disappear down the driveway, I lingered still on the front steps, staring open-mouthed at the parkland in front of me, trying to comprehend the idea that it was mine. The bright morning light made it inconceivable. I glanced at the statue woman halfway down the stairs, still staring after her crumbled lover. I felt the moment I turned my eyes away she would be watching me, wondering. She probably didn’t know what to make of Anna either. “Morning,” I said to her pleasantly. “Interesting woman that, wasn’t she? I’m Ros by the way.” The stone face was unmoved. “I think I’ll call you Phoebe. You look a bit like a Greek goddess, you know.” She gave no indication if she approved. I heard the sound of another vehicle making slow progress along the driveway. The white electrician’s van pulled to a stop in front of me moments later.

  *

  The electrician took an hour to restore power to half the house. The other half, the troublesome east wing again, was apparently a lost cause until the entire property could be rewired. He assured me he’d be available to do the job early in the new year. I realised I was going to need to buy a diary to keep track of the schedule of the various works that needed to be carried out here. As I watched the electrician drive away, I found myself grateful someone like Anna was involved in this project with me. Her detached professionalism was exactly what was necessary. We didn’t have to be great friends.

  The electricity working—partially at least—I set out to explore my new domain. My first priority was the bathroom, where I was assured I would find a functioning lavatory and at least one tap with running water. Having ducked around the corner of the building to relieve myself in the undergrowth last night, I was anxious to begin living a little more like a civilised human being. A wash would be beneficial too.

  I stood in the middle of the entrance hallway, in between the front doors and the foot of the magnificent staircase. I looked down at the very basic floor plan I’d been provided and turned to my left towards where I thought the bathroom should be. A doorway led into a short, wide corridor with a very damp carpet and striped wallpaper hanging in ribbons from the walls. From this corridor opened three doors. I entered the closest one first and found myself in an almost square chamber with windows in two walls. I frowned at my plan and realised I was actually on the opposite side of the house to the bathroom. The shape of the room made it clear this was the Blue Drawing Room. An ornate marble fireplace drew my attention immediately, though it was shrouded in dust. There was no indication as to why this room could be described as “blue,” but the light which streamed through the filthy—though intact—windows was certainly a good enough reason to choose this room as somewhere to sit with friends. I assumed that to be the function of a drawing room, having never possessed one before. I almost laughed at this latest twist in my life, but the heaviness resting in my heart prevented the mirth from escaping. What had I taken on?

  Curious and hoping to reassure myself a little, I suspended my search for the bathroom for a short while. A door led from this room into the next chamber. This one had no windows at all and was smaller and narrower than the Blue Drawing Room. My plan told me this was once known as the Music Room. There were fine plaster covings, another impressive fireplace, and, to one side of the room, an old armchair mouldering quietly. For the briefest of moments I tried to hear harpsichord or pianoforte music in there, but the smell of damp coming from the floor made it hard to imagine anything but hours of work.

  I left the Music Room and returned to the corridor outside. The other doorway led into the Saloon, which had clearly been a very fine room with a high ceiling. It was a room large enough for dancing, or large-scale entertaining. Alcoves on either side of an even more spectacular fireplace contained shelves, and old, heavy, moth-eaten curtains still hung at the large, Italianate windows. Instantly, I pictured this room renovated to its former glory, full of friends and family. It took me a moment to remember I didn’t have enough friends and family to fill the small Blue Drawing Room, let alone this airy space. A twinge of regret pushed the image of the renovated room out of my mind and brought me back to its present dereliction. Could I rebuild my life and an abandoned country house simultaneously? Or would they soon prove to be mutually exclusive tasks, demonstrating how foolhardy it had been to take this on when I was still feeling so fragile?

  Another door in the Saloon opened back into the hallway. I went through it and crossed to the other side of the house, the east wing as Anna had referred to it, determined to find the bathroom this time and stop dwelling on anxieties and regrets. Downstairs, it more or less mirrored the pattern of the other side of the house, with what was described as the Common Parlour at the front of the house, and a sad, empty, oak-panelled library the exact opposite of the Music Room. The biggest difference was that instead of the Saloon towards the back of the house there was a small antechamber which finally led me into the bathroom. I wrinkled my nose automatically as I took in the old—probably circa 1910, if the scant history of the house I’d read was to be believed—lavatory with its pull-chain flush and the enamelled bath. Everything was draped with cobwebs and the chill in the damp air made me shiver. A small black fireplace was full of twigs from a birds’ nest which had fallen down the chimney. The floor was filthy. However, as I stood for a moment and assessed the potential of the room, I began to feel more excited. The dark indigo tiles on the walls were highly glazed and would be beautiful once cleaned. People paid a fortune these days for freestanding bathtubs such as this one. The checkerboard tiles of the floor appeared to be in perfect condition beneath the grime. I smiled to myself. There was hope yet; I could do this.

  I knew from a note in the paperwork I’d been given that the stopcock for the water supply to the whole house was located in the bathroom. I opened what looked like a storage cupboard beneath the ceramic washbasin and found what I assumed was the tap in question. I gripped it firmly and turned, taken by surprise when it moved easily. I heard a hissing and gurgling sound, a metallic creaking as water flooded back into the old pipes. I prayed nothing would leak. After about thirty seconds the noises subsided. I straightened up and turned one of the taps on the wall above the bathtub. It spluttered for a moment, and then slowly at first, water began to flow into the tub below. The stream was rust coloured and irregular, but still, running water was real progress. Pleased with myself, I reached for the flush of the toilet and pulled. The toilet flushed as though it had last been used only days before. I decided this would be the first room I put my cleaning skills to use. A fully functioning, clean bathroom would make the whole place more like home instantly.

  Smiling at my achievement and my enthusiasm refreshed, I left the bathroom, keen to see the rest of the house. A small door led from the antechamber outside towards
the rear of the property. I opened it tentatively consulting my plan. I found myself at a landing of a narrow stone staircase which went both up and downwards. This was the servants’ staircase. I stopped in my tracks: I owned a house with a servants’ staircase. It was astonishingly difficult to believe, even as I stepped onto the staircase in question. The plan told me that downstairs was the old kitchen and upstairs I would find a doorway onto an upper landing.

  I peered down towards the kitchen and saw nothing but shadows and cobwebs. I shivered and decided I would wait to explore the bowels of the house for a day when I felt more comfortable here. I didn’t have to see everything today, after all, and I wasn’t sure my fragile optimism could take a dank abandoned kitchen. I had a lot of time to become familiar with Winter. Instead I followed the narrow staircase upwards. I reached a doorway which opened onto the first floor and went through gladly. The stairs continued upwards, to the attics, but that prospect was no more tempting than the downstairs kitchens. I didn’t believe in haunted houses but I wanted to feel more confident in myself before I made my way into the gloomier parts of Winter.

  I emerged from the narrow doorway and found myself on one side of the landing at the top of the grand staircase, in a sort of upstairs hallway. The nearest doorway took me into the Red Bedroom. Surprisingly, the bed still stood in the centre of the room, with its tapestry canopy intact and a stained yellow pillow crumpled against the headboard. The idea it had been there since someone had last slept here, at some point in the early twentieth century, was unnerving. Forgetting entirely it was kindly Auntie Edie’s family who had lived here, I indulged visions of Byronic lords and swooning heroines. Next to the bedroom was a small dressing room. I peered through the doorway, caught a glimpse of my reflection in a dusty full-length mirror on one of the walls, and retreated.

  Most of this floor was taken up by high ceilinged bedrooms—twelve in all—and adjoining dressing rooms. An exceedingly functional lavatory, bathtub, and washbasin were fixed in one of these rooms and another small toilet and basin in one of the corner rooms. There was no other furniture in any of the rooms. In the eastern part of the house the ceilings were stained and in various stages of collapse, as Anna had warned me. The culprit was the damaged roof and it was here the most serious structural repair was needed. It did not look to be an insurmountable challenge.