Ghosts of Winter Read online

  My smile faded as the car disappeared from sight. I noticed Phoebe looking stonily past me, as though she wasn’t at all interested. “Looks like it’s just us then,” I said to her. “I’d share the cake, but you know, I wouldn’t want you to risk that figure.” I patted her cold arm and returned into the house.

  I spent what remained of the afternoon cleaning the bathroom until it looked, though still a little uncared for, at least clean and functional. I scrubbed the sink, toilet, and bathtub until they shone in the light from the one electric bulb that hung, without a shade, in the middle of the ceiling. The water running from the old pipes was still distinctly rust-coloured, but I wouldn’t be drinking it—having brought several containers of bottled water with me—just washing in it. I guessed the plumbing of the whole house would have to be replaced at some stage. I’d have another look through the paperwork Auntie Edie had put together later and see what details I could glean. Now that I was here and able to see first-hand what needed to be done, the notes were more meaningful.

  The bathroom useable, I set to work establishing my small camp in the entrance hall. Having spent one night there, it seemed like the logical place to want to sleep and eat. It didn’t strike me until after I had moved the camp bed to one side of the room in the shadow of the staircase, and set up the camping cooker and its butane cylinder, along with a folding stool and a small collapsible table, that it would have brought me more privacy to have organised my new bedroom in one of the other rooms, away from the front doors. Somehow I didn’t feel comfortable in those other larger rooms with their faded finery. I felt I had made my mark on the hallway, but the other rooms were still very much part of history, part of Winter Manor before my arrival. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but I felt the thick, aged atmosphere of the house itself might keep me awake in the other rooms, whereas, with the front door allowing the air in and out and having already slept peacefully here for one night, I was quite comfortable in the hallway. I piled my bags, suitcases, and boxes containing my personal possessions and clothes beneath the staircase, mostly out of sight. I looked around at the small home I had established and almost laughed. I was pretty sure Winter Manor had never seen anything like it in its two-and-a-half centuries of existence.

  Once it started to get dark, there wasn’t much more I could do that day, and in truth, I was beginning to feel exhausted. That didn’t bode especially well for the days to come when renovation work was taking place all over the property and I was supposed to control the entire project. Still, I had time to get used to it, and I was sure Anna’s input would help steer things in the right direction.

  I recalled those vivid blue eyes accentuated by their designer frames, and my heart beat a little faster. Anna was an attractive woman, I had to acknowledge it. I found her an intriguing prospect too. The beautiful clothes had a certain distinct and stylish flare, the red car was showy, and she was certainly confident. Yet there was a wall—more like a sheet of ice—between her and the world. I’d felt it very strongly today. Sometimes it thawed a little, even cracked in places, but froze again with alarming speed. I wondered what she was hiding, or what she was afraid to show. Had she been hurt? Was her confidence all an act? It puzzled me to meet someone with such a warm smile and generous enthusiasm who was at once so reserved and distant. I wondered what it took to get behind those defences and if I would be lucky enough to manage it. I suspected friendship with Anna would be a privilege. I already knew she was intelligent, stylish, and dedicated; I imagined her to also be witty, charming, and loyal. The sort of person I would like in my life.

  I cut the thoughts off before they had chance to develop any further. I was inventing a personality for a woman I’d only just met and who was working for me. Fantasizing about friendship—or anything else—was a very bad idea indeed. I didn’t need disappointments and setbacks at this stage. I needed to be sure of myself and stop depending on other people for my happiness.

  Still, I wasn’t used to being alone. The isolation of Winter gripped tightly, and for a moment I felt like a lunatic in an isolated Victorian asylum, or the madwoman in the attic room. I was alone in a place where even if I screamed it wouldn’t be heard. A panicky tension fluttered through my stomach, and I took a deep, calming breath. I wasn’t going to scream, or even cry. This was nothing compared to losing my mother and ending my relationship with Francesca. Winter wanted me here, to help rescue it from the past and show it a bright future. If I could do that—and Auntie Edie had faith in my ability to do so—then I could at least find some optimism for my own existence too. Winter and I had both languished for a while, but we would face the future together. It would just take a little work.

  Wanting to infuse the air with my tentative optimism I fished about in my boxes of possessions for my oil burner, a stubby candle, and my small case of essential oils. I selected purifying clary sage and added a few drops, along with some water, to the well in the top of the burner. I lit the small candle and slid it underneath, waiting for the heat to vaporise the oil and for the aroma to begin to fill the room. The little glowing candle and the wisps of aroma were dwarfed by the size of Winter, but I looked at the bright flame, breathed the scent, and knew I had to start small, one glimmer of light at a time. It was possible to bring this place back to life. If I had no other definite direction in my life, at least I had that to aim for.

  Chapter Three

  Over the next days, which were pleasantly visitor free, I forced myself to become acquainted with the house, even if some days I felt it was trying to expel me from its chambers or frighten me away. A water pipe in the bathroom sprung a leak, which meant I couldn’t use the bathtub water supply until I called in a plumber. I tripped on the rotting carpet of the grand staircase and fell most of the way to the floor below, bruising my hip uncomfortably in the process. And as I was examining the damaged ceiling in the east wing, a huge chunk of damp plasterwork simply came loose and coated me in gritty powder.

  I took everything the house threw at me with an unperturbed sense of calm. Whether it was the house trying to tell me something, a reminder of the terrible condition of the building and the daunting task I had taken on, or the less likely possibility of poltergeist activity, I had to keep going. At least the physical process of going room by room and noting what needed to be done, consulting with Auntie Edie’s own notes, and taking photographs with my digital camera of spots I particularly wanted to ask Anna about gave me something to push away any doubts. By the end of the week, I had a good idea of what needed to be done and in what order, plus a list of people to contact in order to achieve my goals.

  After my inspection of the rooms I decided it would be advisable to consult the architect again. Surely Anna would have some constructive input into my plans. However, a week of total isolation and immersion in the house, concentrating mainly on avoiding the ghosts of the recent past, made the prospect of dealing with her, in all of her professional glory, quite frightening. I told myself I was merely intimidated by her confidence, a quality I’d always struggled to possess. Yet the prospect of meeting the equally assured and competent Maggie Potter again was something I welcomed. Maggie made me feel that if she could make the best out of life then so could I. No, with Anna it was something else too. I knew perfectly well what it was. Why did my architect have to be a stunning and compelling woman? Why not a bumbling old man who I wouldn’t feel remotely attracted to?

  Before I could think twice about it, and knowing I’d never get anywhere with the house if I didn’t consult her, I picked up my mobile phone and dialled her number.

  “Hello, Anna Everest.” She’d answered after just one ring. I was momentarily taken aback. I’d expected to have to leave a message with her secretary, not to get through to the great one herself. At first, her clipped tones were not comforting.

  “Oh, hello,” I mumbled, quickly gathering my scattered thoughts. “It’s Ros Wynne at Winter Manor.”

  “Hi, Ros, how’s it going there?” Her voice was wa
rmer now that she knew who she was talking to, and I felt encouraged.

  “Good. Well not much has happened, but I do have some power at least. I’ve spent the week looking everything over and going through what Auntie Edie had already prepared. I think we should get together and talk about it.” I paused and waited for a reply. “If you have time,” I added awkwardly when none was immediately forthcoming.

  “Yes. Hang on a second, I’m just looking at my diary. Do you want me to come there, so we can look at some of the work in question?”

  “That’d be great,” I replied, secretly dreading another visit to my disorganised squat in the hallway.

  “I can make it tomorrow afternoon, after lunch. How does half past one suit you?”

  “Perfect,” I replied, thinking how little time that was to prepare myself. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. See you tomorrow then.”

  “Yes, bye.”

  “Bye.” I pressed the button to end the call, left with the feeling there had been something else I wanted to say, but with no idea what it was.

  I discarded the phone and lay down on my camping bed, wondering when I’d grown so uncertain of myself in the simplest situations. I looked up, beyond where the staircase reached towards the first storey. The ceiling here above the hallway was the full height of the two storeys of the house, white plaster with dark wooden beams supporting it. A comprehension of the vastness of the house hit me full on, and I felt lost and small. What was my insignificant life in comparison with the years of this house? If I was Winter Manor, I’d be viewing my arrival here with some scepticism. The potential for me to screw up this new phase of my life was endless. And I really knew all too well where my unfamiliar insecurities were founded. For the first time in my life, I didn’t have family, friends, or Francesca to rely on. The fixed points, the guiding lights of my life, had all gone. I knew I’d still not come to terms with that. Now I had to meet new people, begin new friendships. Somewhere into that, I couldn’t help but hope, slotted Anna, my architect.

  Nervous tension built in the pit of my stomach at the thought of Anna coming to Winter Manor the very next day, and that feeling remained with me whatever I did and was still there when I woke up in the morning. I washed, dressed, and climbed into my car to navigate the five miles to the nearest supermarket. I had tea and coffee, but nothing else to offer at all.

  In the bright lights of the supermarket I felt like I’d been a hermit, now finally emerging from a cave after many years to find the outside world overwhelming. I wanted to return to my cave. In a shop I was unfamiliar with, the array of products, the bustle of shoppers, and the piped music were both dazzling and disorientating. I bought a few essentials to keep me going for at least another week, and then deliberated for five minutes as to whether Anna was likely to prefer chocolate cake or carrot cake. In the end I purchased both.

  I spent the remaining hours of the morning ensuring the part of Winter Manor that was now my home seemed as clean and tidy as it was possible for it to be. I’d still not found another chair, but I’d offer Anna my folding stool and take the bed myself. I placed the two cakes on plates on the low table, and then concluded it made me look over-prepared, so I returned them to their packaging and put them away in the cardboard box in which I was storing my food.

  Determined she wouldn’t think I wore clothes that looked as though I slept in them every day, I dressed in my dark jeans, an Indian embroidered top, and a mauve velvet jacket with the sleeves rolled up. I dabbed my lapels with patchouli oil, then brushed my hair and tied it back. I found my turquoise pendant and draped it around my throat. Turquoise, one of the more expensive stones, was very helpful to the throat chakra, coloured blue, which aided communication. I wasn’t sure I still held my old faith in the power of stones and crystals, but I figured a little possible help wouldn’t go amiss. If nothing else, turquoise made an attractive piece of jewellery.

  I suspected Anna would be punctual, and sure enough, it was exactly 1:30 when she knocked on the door. I’d been lingering just inside nervously awaiting her arrival, and I made myself pause before I opened it.

  She was not exactly smiling, but her gaze was friendlier than the last time I’d opened the door to her.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi, come on in.” I tried to match the tiny smile she offered me with an equally restrained one of my own. I couldn’t help a furtive inspection of her appearance. She wore her long black coat again today, but this time with a thinner scarf of green crushed velvet. Her pale hair was loose, hanging sleekly to just above her shoulders where it curled under neatly. I wondered if she had to style it to achieve the effect, or if her hair simply grew in that precise, tidy way. Nothing could have been much further from my own unruly frizz.

  “Can I make you a cup of tea or coffee?” I asked, as she came in looking around her keenly once more. I found myself burning to know what she was thinking. I wondered if she was expecting me to have achieved more, or if she was pleasantly surprised by the more organised appearance of the hallway compared with her last visit. Her expression was inscrutable.

  “Tea would be lovely please. Black, no sugar.” I turned on the gas burner below the already-filled kettle and put two tea bags into mugs. While I did so, Anna balanced her briefcase on the lowest step of the staircase, then removed her coat and hung it over the end of one of the banisters. When I looked back at her, I found she was less imposing without the coat. Still I stared at her, couldn’t stop myself. Anna was slim, in a beautifully linear way I couldn’t help but admire. Her suit, today a combination of dark grey woollen trousers and jacket, was perfectly tailored. There were no darts at the waist to give the illusion of a narrow waist and wide hips, rather it was cut in very angular, yet graceful, lines, defining her tall, lithe figure. The trousers were cut close to long legs and slim thighs. She wore those unusual flat black leather brogues again. Beneath the jacket was a wide-collared shirt, pale blue with thin dark grey stripes. Nothing was at all out of place, and it suited her perfectly.

  Anna was regarding me evenly with those ice blue eyes through the magnifying lenses of her square glasses. I turned red as I realised she was most likely wondering what the hell I was staring at.

  “Sorry,” I said, searching for an innocent explanation for my fixation with her appearance, “that’s a beautiful suit. I’m guessing it’s not from the high street.”

  She smiled more broadly than I expected at my compliment, showing straight white teeth. “Thanks. You’re right, not even off-the-peg, I have a tailor. I designed it myself actually.” She said it with no hint of bragging, and as if having a tailor was the most normal thing in the world.

  “You can design buildings and clothes?” I secretly wondered if there was anything this woman couldn’t do, and was even more impressed.

  “I studied design in general to begin with. It was a toss-up between fashion and architecture at university. The possibilities of working with historic buildings swayed me in the end. I don’t so much design new buildings these days as bring my knowledge to the renovation of old ones.” She gave me a slightly crooked smile and her eyes were inquisitive, as though she was feeling out how interested I really was in her career and what compelled her.

  “Like this one, I guess.” I hoped my expression showed my genuine enthusiasm for learning from her.

  “Exactly. Winter fascinates me actually.”

  “Does it really?”

  “Yes. It’s more like someone’s personal project than a large scale prestige property. Someone designed it exactly as they wanted to, with very little concern for architectural fashion.” The timbre of her voice grew warmer and deeper as her passion for her subject increased.

  “Like you and your suit,” I said, then flushed. “Not that it’s not fashionable—”

  “I hope it’s not actually.” She smirked slightly as though she rather enjoyed an element of the awkwardness between us. “Style and fashion are rather different things, don’t you think?
”

  “Absolutely.” I saw her brief examination of my own outfit and wondered what conclusions she drew. “Is it the same with this house?”

  “Yes. As I mentioned before, the façade is pure Palladian, but the clock tower is baroque.”

  “I think I know what baroque is, but you’ll have to enlighten me what you mean by Palladian,” I admitted. “But have a seat first.” Anna glanced at the small folding stool and the camping bed and elected to perch on the bed. I felt an odd twinge as she did so, the action feeling like an invasion of my personal space but not a wholly unwelcome one. The way she held my gaze as she lowered herself gave me the unsettling feeling she knew exactly what effect she was creating. I tried not to think about it, looking away as I settled myself onto the stool. But I felt strangely compelled to learn more of what was behind her rigid façade, so I forced myself to continue the conversation, looking back into those intense eyes. “I am interested to learn a bit more about architecture. I really know very little.”

  I was glad of my ignorance in the next moment because Anna’s entire expression lit up with enthusiasm at the chance to explain the architectural concepts she’d mentioned. With that fire in her eyes and a smile she barely seemed conscious of on her pink lips, she was transformed from striking to beautiful. I felt a dangerous heat creep through my body and willed myself to concentrate on her words.

  “Baroque bent all the rules. It was curvy and feminine.” Her eyes flicked to mine as if she was watching for a reaction. I wondered what she expected, and felt warm. Her smile curled wider before she went on. “Even the word itself is rather beautiful. It’s from the Portuguese meaning misshapen pearl. You had twisted columns, oval rooms, sculptural designs. Though it followed patterns, it didn’t seem precise. It was artistic and dreamy.” Her voice, infused with zeal for her subject, deepened further, while remaining within its clearly defined range of expression. I found my gaze drawn from our intermittent eye contact to those pink lips that curved and shaped with such appeal when she spoke. I made myself look back to her blue eyes, the ice entirely melted now.