Ghosts of Winter Page 7

  I watched her now, in her blue-striped shirt sleeves, as she tried the handle of the door one more time. The sleeves were long, with large turned-back cuffs secured by silver cuff links. Tailored close to her slim body, the shirt was tucked into a black leather belt at her waist. I followed the lines of her body lower, and couldn’t help but appreciate the way the quality fabric caressed the slight curve of her buttocks. I tightened my lips together and worked to ignore the throb low in my body.

  Having failed to open the door conventionally once more, Anna twisted slightly sideways and braced her shoulder against it. She turned the handle and pushed with her whole body, this time bending her knees and straining hard. I watched, fascinated, wondering whether I should try to help and feeling quite useless that I could not. When she must have felt the door budge slightly, she rolled back on her feet and flung herself, shoulder first, at the door. It gave way with a loud screech of wood against wood, and Anna fell forwards into the room.

  I simply stared, astonished and impressed. Then I came to my senses and went to investigate if Anna had hurt herself. She was in the middle of the opened room, brushing dust from her arms and not apparently injured. The only real evidence of having just won the battle with the door was the vaguely dishevelled state of her hair and her slightly irregular breathing.

  “That was pretty impressive,” I told her.

  “Do you think so?”

  “I couldn’t shift it on my own.” I was unable to work out if she was being modest or sarcastic. Did she want me to be impressed? I wished she was easier to read. “You must be stronger than you look. Do you go to the gym or something?” I didn’t disguise my brief glance over her figure since it seemed appropriate to my observations. Part of me wanted her to notice me looking, just so I could see her reaction.

  The shadow of a smile tightened her lips at my interest. I wondered again what she was thinking. “I do go to the gym now and again, but I find it bores me,” she said. “I practice tae kwon do several times a week, which helps build strength. I also swim, but that’s mainly for fitness.”

  “Wow, martial arts?” I was genuinely impressed and interested. “That explains it then.” The discipline required for martial arts clearly came naturally to her. I could see her in a white uniform, hair tied back but a few strands coming loose, the black belt—which she would undoubtedly have achieved—tied tight around her waist. “I used to play tennis,” I said, so that she didn’t think I was entirely inactive and to divert my thoughts from further picturing Anna involved in physical exercise. “Not so much lately. I’m not a fan of the gym either.” Common ground, that had to be a good thing. It would be necessary if I was going to work with her in the future. Not for any other reason.

  “I played mixed doubles for my school,” she said, indulging my interest in the one sport I was good at. “I had a mean double-handed backhand.” I should have predicted she’d be good at it too. I wondered if there was anything she was bad at. It would be a fun challenge to find out.

  “I played doubles myself. I was known for my down-the-line serves,” I replied, unable to resist a little boasting of my own. “So we’d probably be a good team.” I decided to take a risk. “Though, if I’m honest, I think the main reason I played was that it was a good way of meeting girls.”

  I waited for a reaction. Anna’s eyes showed she registered my words and their implications. That spectre of a smile flickered over her mouth again, but otherwise she was inscrutable. She gave no sign of surprise at least. Taken aback by her complete lack of response, I faltered and found myself smiling stupidly at my own light-hearted comment. How could she not react? What the hell was she thinking?

  “Well, it looks like you’ve found some chairs at least.” She gestured to the collection of old furniture that was piled against the wall opposite the windows. I wasn’t sure what to make of the change of subject, but whatever reason she had for backing out of that conversation, I had enough sense not to press and make her uncomfortable. We were going to have to work together. The restoration of Winter would also give us a long time to get to know each other. Why rush that now? I turned my attention to the furniture. At once I wondered when this room had been locked and how old the furniture was, since it looked very old indeed. A white sheet was draped over one part of the heap of dark wood, but the rest was exposed and dull with dust and cobwebs. Despite the build-up of dust, I was excited to make out a set of six beautiful dining chairs, with elegantly curving feet, their crimson upholstery still intact. An old armchair with a huge winged back, upholstered in mustard brocade, showed signs of age but appeared redeemable.

  “That looks Edwardian to me,” Anna said, approaching the chair. “Possibly a little later. Those dining chairs are Victorian, I would say. They’re too fancy to be Georgian.”

  “You know about antiques too?” I was no longer remotely surprised at her expertise. Again I wondered if there was anything she didn’t know something about.

  “Not so much,” she admitted, and I admired her honesty. “It’s just an occupational hazard really. Spend a lot of time in old houses and you’ll pick up a lot of knowledge about styles of the interiors and furniture, as well as the architecture.”

  “It must be fascinating.”

  “It is.” She flashed that smile at me again. “I have to admit to being lucky enough to love my job.” Her attention was diverted from me as one piece of furniture caught her eye. “Oh, look at this bureau! Now this is classic Regency design. It’s mahogany, and you see this Greek-style pattern here? So simple and linear. It was such an elegant time.” She actually sighed with pleasure. I understood in that moment, complex as Anna appeared, her pleasures were really rather simple and not hidden as well as some of her emotions seemed to be.

  “It’s that old?” I asked, running my hand over the dusty writing surface of the bureau.

  “I’d say so. Since Winter’s been here since the early seventeen-fifties, we shouldn’t be surprised really. There’s some damage, which is probably why it was left behind, but there’s a good restorer in Durham I can put you in touch with.” Anna’s fingers briefly caressed the places where the wood was wounded. An instant later I became aware we were both stroking the bureau at the same time. I felt an odd connection with her, which rapidly grew uncomfortable, ravaged as I was by my confused emotions. I removed my hand from the bureau but kept my eyes on the places her fingers touched.

  “I quite like the damage.” I said reflectively. “It’s like battle scars, or the traces of the people who used it before. It reminds you that Winter wasn’t always empty and derelict. There were living, breathing people here, laughing, crying, dreaming— ”

  “Damaging the furniture.” I grinned at the way she killed my romantic ramblings and was delighted when she matched my mirth with another smile that reached all the way to her eyes. “For an academic historian—a teacher—you seem very inclined towards a romantic view of history.” I felt my cheeks colour at her interest in me, and her accurate judgement.

  “I suppose I am,” I replied. “And I don’t apologise for it. I know the truth of it all, of course. But I fell in love with history when I was a child because of that sense of connection, of someone having lived and loved in the same space as I’m living now. Maybe they even felt some of the same things as me.”

  Anna smiled and her eyes were soft now, regarding me with more apparent contemplation than she had before. “You teach your pupils that view of history?”

  I laughed lightly. “No way. I taught them to remember dates and about cause and consequence. I grabbed their interest with the grisly facts and smashed all signs of them getting romantic about it to pieces.”

  “It doesn’t sound like teaching history is really what you want it to be.” I was impressed by her insight and flattered she’d paid enough attention to form it.

  “No.” I looked into her eyes and felt safe enough to reveal a little more. “That’s why I got out of it.”

  “You got out of it?”<
br />
  “Yeah. Before I even knew Winter Manor existed. I just knew it wasn’t the job for me. I thought I liked it, but then stuff happened—”

  “Stuff?” Anna’s enquiry was more gentle than I would have expected. Could she see the pain the memories stirred in me?

  “It’s a long story.” I wasn’t quite ready to share it yet. “But the conclusion of it was that I took time to think about whether I really wanted to be a teacher. And I don’t. I wasn’t totally sure what I was going to do next. But it wasn’t teaching.”

  Anna nodded. I was astounded at how easily she’d drawn the confidence from me. I’d not intended to tell her anything about my situation quite so soon. But her expression was mild, and I sensed no judgement. Maybe Anna didn’t expect everyone to be as professional and apparently career-minded as she was. I was wrong to assume she would. I appreciated deeply that she had the tact not to press further.

  “And then Winter came along?” she asked, clearly looking for the conclusion of the tale.

  “Yep. Completely out of the blue.”

  “Must have been a shock.”

  “It was. But I’m just starting to understand what a good sort of shock,” I replied, with a smile I hoped included her. I wanted her to know I already thought meeting her was one of the good consequences of my inheritance of Winter.

  When she said nothing further, looking actually a little lost for words, I turned to the white sheet covering some of the other objects closer to the corner of the room. I wanted to know what was under it, and the time for any further personal revelations had apparently passed for now. I took a step towards the sheet. Then I realised I still had Anna’s jacket folded over my left arm.

  “Oh, here you go, I forgot I was holding it.” I offered it back to her with some reluctance. Holding on to it had been a sort of connection between us. I watched her slip it back on.

  “I want to know what’s under that,” she said, gesturing towards the bulging sheet.

  “Come on then, so do I,” I said, enjoying sharing the moment of curious suspense with her. “But if it’s a body, we’ll just put the sheet back and forget about it, agreed?”

  “Absolutely,” she replied.

  We pulled the dusty sheet away from the pieces it concealed and let it drop to the floor. Underneath were a table, once clearly French polished, which was obviously meant to go with the dining chairs; a chest with what looked like rosewood inlays on the fronts of the drawers; a low footstool with a moss-green velvet cushion; and a trunk covered in brown leather. On top of the trunk rested a small chest. I looked at it more closely, somehow more drawn to that than anything else in the collection.

  “It’s a Victorian writing chest,” Anna told me, noticing where my interest was focused. “If you look inside you’ll find places for ink, pens, and paper, possibly a blotter and sealing wax too.”

  I reached for the chest. It was made of dark wood, with a design in brass on the lid. Just below the clasp were two letters, also inset in brass: M.G. “I wonder if they’re the initials of the person who it was made for.”

  “Most likely I’d say,” Anna said. “It looks like a lady’s to me.”

  I opened the lid, trying to imagine what the owner of such an item would have been like. Was she rich? Was she born at Winter, or did she marry a man who lived here? Would we be friends if she was to walk into the attics now and introduce herself? M.G. What was her name? Margaret? Mary?

  Inside the box, lined with dark blue velvet, we found a crystal inkwell, a set of three pens and nibs, and a tablet of sealing wax. There was a space for paper and for the blotter Anna had predicted. I took the inkwell and held it up to the beam of light shining through the dormer window. The cut crystal glittered perfectly, though a slight residue inside suggested it had once been in use.

  “That’s a very fine piece,” Anna said knowledgeably. “You should get it valued.”

  “I wouldn’t sell it though,” I said, balking at the idea. “I’m guessing it’s been here for over a hundred years. It would feel like I was betraying someone if I sold it.”

  “For insurance at least then,” she replied sensibly. I liked the way she looked at me as though she really understood why I wouldn’t sell the writing case.

  “Yes, for the insurance.” I knew she was right.

  “Do you want a hand moving some of these chairs downstairs?” Anna asked then, shattering my reflective mood.

  I tucked the inkwell back into its place in the chest. “Oh no, it’s okay. I’ve got nothing better to do over the next few days, I might as well spend an hour or so moving chairs.” I couldn’t imagine Anna, in her tailored suit, helping me move dusty furniture. She’d already virtually broken down a door for me—there was only so much I could demand of her in one day. “Besides, it’s more important that we talk about your plans for the house. Tell me what you were thinking for the attics.”

  Anna’s expression became instantly professional, but with enough eagerness that it was not a disappointment to see the architect return. “Well, it’s unusual to have a house of this pedigree with only two storeys. It feels like it should have a third floor, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” I said, though I’d not thought about it up until she mentioned it.

  “And I’m going to assume you don’t need to use the attics as servants’ quarters—”

  “No, I’ll keep the maids in the cellar.” Anna’s face showed a brief flash of amusement, but it did not reach her voice. I decided Anna the architect wasn’t quite as ready to joke as Anna the woman. I wondered how she kept the two so separate.

  “You already have the dormer windows too. Normally, in listed properties, converting the attics into living space can be a problem because of the need to put in windows or sky-lights, which of course alter the way the property looks from the outside. But I don’t think you’ll have any problems with planning permission if you want to convert this to bedrooms.”

  “More bedrooms?”

  “Or whatever sort of rooms you want. An office or a home gym. Up to you.”

  “I’m not used to this sort of space. And it’s not like I’ve got a huge family living with me.”

  “You don’t need to plan every detail now. And anyway, we’ll have to fix the problem in the east wing first. Shall we go and take a look?” Anna set off in that direction before I had a chance to answer. I followed in her wake, watching the way her hair swayed slightly as she strode across the landing and into the rooms on the other side, tracing the lines of her slender shoulders, the linear jacket. I felt my hands grow sticky and an undefined ache build deep inside me.

  Winter Manor, 1862

  Catherine Richmond shifted her crinoline uncomfortably and perched on the edge of the window seat. The bones of her corset pressed painfully into the underside of her bosom, and she adjusted herself to ease it. The tension had been just too excessive to bear, she had simply had to escape from the family gathering downstairs. The Long Gallery was soothingly quiet, though the oil paintings which covered the walls glared disapprovingly at her. In the flickering yellow of the candlelight she gazed at the artistic reminders of the people who had inhabited Winter before her. A fine lord of the previous century, with a ludicrous powdered wig, oozed arrogant self-confidence, even from his formal portrait. There were several beautiful but sad-eyed ladies, and a cluster of portraits of children, all with angelic faces, but no nameplates. However, it was her grandfather’s eyes that locked on to her from his heavyset face and made the hair on the back of her neck bristle with fear. It had been almost a relief when he’d died last year, though she saw the echo of his stern disapproval in her father’s countenance. Her father was a far kinder man, which she knew she should be thankful for.

  Her mother emphasised continually how grateful they all should be to her father, Edward Richmond. Catherine’s mother, Kitty, had been born to a poor but respectable family and forced to work as a governess at Winter Manor, to Edward Richmond’s young cousins, Fanny and Eliza. Ed
ward had spotted her walking in the grounds with the girls one day, and claimed to have fallen for her unusual beauty in that first instant. They had married within the year, despite Edward’s father’s disapproval. Father and son were eventually reconciled, the father won over by demure Kitty’s polite manners and keen sense of propriety, and when Edward’s father had inherited Winter Manor, ten years later, upon his uncle’s death, he had moved there with his son and his family, by then including Francis, aged nine, and Catherine, aged five. She’d been too young when they’d come to Winter to remember the smaller town house they’d lived in before.

  Yet she had never settled into her home at Winter. There were too many rooms and too much parkland and she felt at once suffocated and overwhelmed. To make the days pass quickly, she had become a dedicated student of every conceivable subject, even branching out into the sciences, with the help of the books in the well-stocked library. She searched for some truth, some authentic foundation to build her world upon. In the books about biology and the natural world, she had found facts which truly interested her and inspired her to take on more advanced texts, but never really the understanding of the world she craved.

  It was this queer interest in the sciences that her grandfather had so disapproved of. Her father allowed her to indulge her curiosity, but did not encourage it. Any questions she put to him were dismissed easily with words she barely understood. Her grandfather, a devoutly religious man, had been of the opinion that the sciences were at best a waste of anyone’s time, and at worst a crime against God himself. They were to be avoided by respectable gentlemen, let alone young women, being wholly unsuitable for more delicate and impressionable brains. Catherine had never understood, yet had not dared question, why his library was so well furnished with such texts if he truly held the convictions he claimed.