Ghosts of Winter (10 page)

“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. Edward 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.

As she recollected her grandfather’s diatribes on this topic, Catherine wanted to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it, yet her mirth stuck in her throat. Laughter was difficult these days. She sighed, and the shadows of the Long Gallery seemed to sigh with her. Anxiously, she ran her fingernail over the grain in the wood of her seat, carving grooves in the softer part of the wood between the ridges. Even the science books were of no real interest to her now. She’d pored over them looking for some sign what she was feeling was documented and possible, searching for sympathy in the printed word, the educated opinions of men who knew nothing of her. There had been no answers there.

Gloomy though Winter always was, it had appeared to be a brighter place very briefly, in the autumn of the previous year. The harvest winds had brought Maeve to Winter.

Her mother had been pleased there would be another young woman—just two years older than Catherine’s nineteen years—in the house, since she had decreed it was not healthy Catherine spent so much time alone in the library, and thought an acquaintance with a more
normal
woman would lift her spirits. Then Maeve Greville, who had recently come to reside with her uncle—who lived nearby and frequently went grouse shooting with her own father—arrived to take afternoon tea with Catherine and her mother.

When she entered the hallway, where Catherine waited to greet her, the breeze carried a flutter of brown and yellowed leaves in with her. Maeve could have been a pagan goddess of autumn. Her hair, swept loosely back in two braids secured at the back of her head, was flaming red, her skin pale and delicately freckled. She was an extraordinary sight. She removed a fairly conventional—though longer than was fashionable—outer jacket, and Catherine was astonished to see she appeared to wear no crinoline or hoops at all. Her gown hung loose and narrow. Though her waist was slender, it did not have the artificial dimensions of a corset. In contrast to Catherine’s richly dyed blue silk gown, Maeve’s was delicately coloured in shades of peach and simply styled, apart from the intricate embroidery which decorated the neckline. There was something archaic, almost medieval, about her appearance, yet to Catherine she was a revelation. She’d never seen a woman like Maeve in all her years. Catherine stared, open-mouthed, until alerted by the curious look of Rosie, the housemaid who had opened the door and taken Maeve’s coat, that her behaviour was not polite.

“You’re most welcome to Winter, Miss Greville,” Catherine said, attempting to collect herself.

“Miss Richmond?” Maeve enquired, and receiving an affirmative nod, said, “You must call me Maeve, of course. I’m sure we’re going to be great friends.”

“Of course. You may call me Catherine.” Catherine smiled broadly at such an open declaration of the desire for friendship. She felt her burden of loneliness shift almost instantly, and looking into Maeve’s clear hazel eyes, she was certain that they would indeed be friends forever. A kindred spirit was what she had always longed for. Maeve would be the person with whom she finally found that connection.

Catherine’s mother had been equally taken aback by Maeve’s unusual appearance when they had sat down to tea in the Blue Drawing Room, but her expression showed disapproval rather than admiration.

“You have a beautiful house,” Maeve said, after the introductions, and though Kitty Richmond had smiled graciously and thanked her, her immediate condemnation of Maeve Greville was evident enough in her countenance to make Catherine wince and hope Maeve, being unfamiliar with her mother, would not notice. The conversation was faltering, as they ate salmon sandwiches, buttered crumpets, and almond frangipanes. Catherine had watched Maeve as she ate, taking note of the delicate way she nibbled her sandwiches, how graceful her hands were, with their slender fingers. Now in the warmth, close to the blazing fire in the hearth, her pale white skin grew rosy.

Though naturally shy, Catherine did not usually struggle to make polite conversation with new acquaintances. However, words with which to address Maeve Greville had abandoned her entirely. It was so important that Maeve not think badly of her, that she notice the potential for a very meaningful friendship between them. The tension of creating the impression she desired made it difficult not only to talk, but even to eat the food in front of her.

While they were sipping their second cups of tea, Maeve caused the conversation to take an unexpected turn. “So, Catherine,” she began, leaning towards Catherine in a familiar way, “what do you do all day?”

“What do I do?” Catherine replied, startled, for surely all women of her age and class passed their days in a similar fashion. Avoiding the controversial topic of the science books, she said, “I like to read, and of course I sew. I practise my piano, and I like to take an occasional turn in the park.”

“Oh, I never sew and I can’t get a decent tune from any instrument,” Maeve replied flippantly. “I do read though, some wonderful books. Given the choice, I like to write too.”

“You write?” Catherine asked, surprised and impressed.

“Yes. Poetry mostly, but I am trying my hand at a short novel.”

“You must tell me about it.” Catherine’s enthusiasm was almost a surprise to herself. Her mother glanced at her disapprovingly.

“Miss Greville must have better ways to pass her time than talking about her hobbies with you Catherine,” she said, her smile stiff.

“Actually, no, I love to talk about my writing,” Maeve said. “And one day I hope it will be more than a hobby.”

“You intend to be published?” Catherine asked, excitement suffusing her features.

“I do,” Maeve replied. “I think it would be ever so thrilling to see my name in print and to know that people out there are reading my words.”

Catherine felt almost breathless. “I’ve tried to write, once or twice,” she replied impulsively.

“You must show me,” Maeve replied. That was when Mrs. Richmond interrupted their conversation again.

“Really, Miss Greville, you mustn’t encourage Catherine in such pursuits.”

“Oh,” Maeve said, pausing for a moment and looking thoughtful and knowing at once. “How about painting then? I’m rather fond of all the arts.”

“Do you paint landscape or still life?” Mrs. Richmond asked, apparently relieved.

“Actually, I prefer to study the human form.” Catherine did not miss the flash of defiance in Maeve’s eyes.

“How interesting,” Catherine’s mother said, failing to hide her dismay. “You don’t sew?”

“Not if I can help it.” Maeve shrugged her shoulders slightly.

“I assumed you had made your gown yourself. It is so…unusual.” Mrs. Richmond made the word
unusual
sound like the worst possible condemnation.