Golden Christmas

by

Helen Scott Taylor

*

Copyright © 2015 Helen Taylor

Cover design © Helen Taylor

*

The right of Helen Taylor to be identified as
the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with
the UK Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act, 1988.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters
in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the
author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same
name or names. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this
publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission
of the Copyright owner.

Music
pounded in Vicky's head in time with the thud of her feet on the
dirt path as she ran. She concentrated on the rhythm to fend off
the memories that circled just below the surface, like demons
trying to grab her ankles and drag her down.

Cold nipped her cheeks, and her breath
billowed in smoky plumes as she ran up the incline to the higher
path. The thermometer outside her rental property had indicated it
was around freezing, even though the sky was bright blue and the
sun was on her face.

As she reached the top of the ridge, the
rolling English landscape of the North Cotswolds lay before her.
Rosemoor Hall, a Jacobean manor house, presided majestically over
its twelve acres of manicured gardens, the golden hues of its
Cotswold stone walls shining in the sun.

Every year she rented an isolated country
property a week before Christmas, and this year she was staying in
the manor's gatehouse. She stocked up on groceries and if she were
lucky, could go for the whole time without seeing another living
soul.

Fifty acres of gardens, parkland, and
farmland lay around the manor house, and she had access to all the
land. Apparently the house was open to the public during the summer
season, but at this time of year it was closed up, giving her miles
of empty paths to run.

Vicky surveyed the historic house and briefly
imagined the interior—the huge fireplaces, the four-poster beds,
and the antiques the house likely contained. Once she had a passion
for old houses and loved visiting them. Her interest started at
school when she did a history project on the Victorians. She'd even
kept a journal of the visits she'd made to various historic houses
around the country. But that felt like a lifetime ago now.

Her feet slapped against the frozen ground,
giving a satisfying jolt with each step, and Vicky tried to focus
on her music again. She managed for a few minutes before her
attention wandered back to the scenery. Giving up on the monotonous
tune, she pulled out her earbuds. The sun was surprisingly warm for
December. Where it touched the whitened grass by the house, streaks
of green appeared as the ice melted.

As she ran on, the front of the house came
into view. A man with a golden Labrador stood on the half-acre
rectangle of frosted grass outside the front door. Tall and lean,
clad in jeans, a blue winter jacket, and a dark wool hat, the man
drew back an arm and hurled a yellow tennis ball.

"Go on, girl. Fetch it." His voice rang out,
deep and cultured, a note of enthusiasm and pleasure in his
tone.

The dog streaked off across the icy grass and
grabbed the yellow tennis ball in its mouth, then loped back to the
man, sat, and dropped the ball obediently into his outstretched
hand.

"Good girl." The man bent and smoothed the
dog's head, talking more softly so Vicky couldn't make out the
words. Then she realized her feet had stopped moving and she was
standing still, watching.

She blew out a breath of irritation with
herself. She didn't want contact with anyone who might be happy and
celebrating Christmas. She just wanted to be alone to mourn.

Pulling her attention away from the scene
below, she continued, focusing instead on the distant trees dotted
across the acres of parkland, huge old oaks and sweet chestnuts,
their bare branches skeletal against the blue sky.

Yet the strange attraction of the man drew
her attention again. In her peripheral vision, she saw him toss the
ball a couple more times and pet his dog, but she made sure she
kept running.

When she reached a fork in the path, she
decided to take the right turn, away from the house and the
unwanted distraction. Yet her feet went the other way, carrying her
along the route that circled the house, keeping the man and dog in
view.

She was closer to them now, only fifty yards
away. Elevated on the bank in her bright pink-and-blue running gear
as she was, he must have noticed her, but he didn't look her way.
He drew back his arm and tossed with incredible power. The tennis
ball arced through the air, bounced on the chest-high stone wall
surrounding the lawn, and hit a tree.

The Labrador took off after it, jumped up at
the wall a few times, then stood with its front paws against the
interlocking rocks and barked.

"Get the ball, Honey." The man stared after
the dog, but he didn't move to retrieve the ball. Couldn't he see
he'd thrown it too hard and it was lost outside the wall?

Vicky halted and stepped off the path to get
a better view. From up here, she could see the yellow ball was
stuck in a tree, wedged between a branch and the trunk.

Should she say something? She didn't want to
get involved and have to talk to anyone, but the dog was
frantically jumping up at the wall now. It had obviously seen the
ball but couldn't reach it.

"Go on, girl. Fetch it, Honey." The guy bent
and held out his hand to receive the ball.

What was he, some kind of idiot?

Vicky sucked in a chilly breath and shook her
head. She should have taken the other path. "The ball's in a tree,"
she shouted.

The man's head jerked up as if he hadn't seen
her. "Oh, thanks. I didn't know."

He reached behind him and grabbed something
resting against the wall at his back—a white cane.

Vicky pressed a hand over her mouth with a
burn of shamed surprise as he held the cane in front of him and
walked forward slowly.

No wonder he hadn't seen her. No wonder he
hadn't noticed the ball was out of his dog's reach. She felt bad
now for thinking he was an idiot.

"I know where the ball is," she shouted.
"I'll get it for you."

Vicky ran down some lichen-encrusted stone
steps to the lower level and jogged across the crisp grass to where
the dog was standing up against the wall, whining.

"Hey there, girl." She pulled off her gloves
and patted the dog's silky head. Then getting a firm hold on top of
the wall, she pushed her toe in a gap between the rocks, climbed
up, and worked the ball loose from the tree before dropping it to
the eager dog.

She jumped down and turned to face the man as
he reached her. He was a good-looking guy, his lips curved in a
friendly smile. His eyes were dark brown and looked perfectly all
right, except they didn't move normally. It was strange to be
standing here in front of him and know he couldn't see her.

"Thanks. I let rip a bit with that last
throw. Usually when I do that, it bounces back off the wall. I must
have aimed too high." He pulled off a glove and held out his hand.
"Jonathan Bramwell." He nodded back over his shoulder. "I have an
apartment in the house. I assume you're staying in one of the
estate cottages over Christmas."

The word Christmas stung Vicky as she slipped
her hand into his strong, warm grip. "Yes. I'm staying in the
gatehouse." To
avoid
Christmas, she added silently.

"This is Honey, who's very grateful to have
her ball back." Jonathan's smile widened as he stroked behind the
dog's ears. "Say thank you to…" His head came up, almost as if he
were looking at her. "You didn't tell me your name."

"Vicky Jones."

"Say thank you to Vicky, girl."

Honey nuzzled Vicky's hand, her tail wagging
and her intelligent brown eyes warm and friendly.

"It was my pleasure, Honey." Vicky stroked
the dog's velvet ears and realized it really was a pleasure to pet
this sweet dog. Not much touched her these days. She was surprised
such a simple thing affected her so much.

"Do you need to get back quickly?" Jonathan
asked.

Vicky shook her head and realized he couldn't
see that. "No. I was out for a run."

"Come inside and have a cup of tea, then," he
said, a hopeful note in his voice. "When you have time, I'll give
you the guided tour, if you like. I do that in the summer when
we're open to the public. I know Rosemoor Hall like the back of my
hand, so I can do it from memory. The place hasn't changed much
since I was a kid," he added with a laugh.

Vicky was already shaking her head again, the
motion instinctive as she stepped back to distance herself. The old
Vicky would have jumped at a private tour of such a beautiful manor
house, but since the accident that took her husband and son, she
couldn't summon enthusiasm for anything. She didn't want to have to
make small talk because it invariably got around to family.

"You don't have to stay long," Jonathan
said.

Honey pursued her, nudging Vicky's leg with
her nose, a pleading look in her eyes. Or perhaps Vicky imagined
that.

"Thank you for the invitation, but I don't
want to cause you any inconvenience."

"You won't. It'll be nice to have someone to
talk to." Jonathan pulled off his wool cap, revealing shaggy dark
hair, and rubbed at a scar on his forehead. "Actually, you could do
me a favor, if you don't mind. I have a migraine coming on and I
can't find my medication. If you could spare a few minutes, I'd be
eternally grateful if you'd take a look. I think the packet might
have fallen down behind the cabinet."

Vicky hesitated for a moment, but how could
she refuse?

• • •

Three steps up from the grass to the gravel, then
fifteen steps to the house. Jonathan counted silently, noticing the
change in temperature as he moved from the sunny lawn to the shadow
of Rosemoor Hall. He held his cane out and tapped the wall, a sharp
ringing sound against the Cotswold stone, once, twice, three times
before the corner, then he turned along the side and continued
until the hollow tap of his cane on the wooden back door.

He reached for the handle and turned it. The
fresh, clean, frosty air gave way to the familiar smell of polish
and seasoned wood inside the house. The footsteps behind him
stopped as he held the door open.

Jonathan felt bad asking a complete stranger
for help, especially a woman who was reluctant; he could hear it in
her voice and her hesitant steps. It went against every instinct he
had to impose on others, but it was a matter of survival. The
migraines were bad enough if he took the medication; he didn't want
to suffer twenty-four hours of even worse pain. He could call one
of his cousins, but they both led busy lives and he didn't want to
impose.

"I'm sorry," he said, catching Vicky's subtle
floral fragrance as she walked in and passed him. "It won't take
long."

"It's okay. I'm not in a hurry."

He noticed the embarrassment in her voice.
Even people he'd known before he lost his sight were uncomfortable
around him now. Some didn't know what to say, and he understood how
they felt. In the old days, he'd have probably been the same
way.

He caught Vicky's fragrance again, and it
summoned an image of a tall, slender woman wearing a yellow summer
dress with flowing dark hair over her shoulders. Of course, Vicky
wouldn't be dressed like this in December. She'd said she was
running. The image morphed, and the woman in his head now wore
form-fitting Lycra.

He pressed the side of his fist to his mouth
and cleared his throat as he banished the evocative image and the
flash of desire. It had been four years since a woman who wasn't
either a member of staff, family, or a medical professional had
entered his apartment. Sometimes he wondered if he'd ever meet a
woman who was interested in him again. Not that Vicky was here for
a social visit, of course. He was certain she'd much rather be
outside running.

Four steps along the flagstone corridor, the
grit on the soles of his shoes crunching. He'd forgotten to wipe
his feet, but it was too late now. He tapped his cane on the wall
and found the opening to the bottom of the narrow wooden staircase.
This used to be the servants' staircase when he was a boy—a
lifetime ago.

He gripped the handrail, the wood sliding
beneath his palm, polished smooth by thousands of hands over the
last four hundred years. Familiar with the run and rise of each
stair, he mounted them quickly and stepped onto the carpet in the
upper hallway.