Wickham Hall: Part Four - White Christmas (8 page)

I peered out of my office window and couldn't help but feel all tingly at the perfect winter sight: the formal gardens were covered in a thin layer of undisturbed snow and the topiary trees looked magical with their sparkly white coats. It looked as though it was going to be a white Christmas at Wickham Hall both inside and out.

I hummed the tune to ‘White Christmas' under my breath as I skipped down the stairs, enjoying the sound of the bells on the hem of my tunic jingling as I moved.

The weather forecast had predicted a heavy snowfall for today and we had anticipated a quiet day at the hall with the possibility of cancelled bookings to see Santa. I'd trudged to work in my wellingtons, wrapped up in layers of wool, rather than attempting to drive. On the plus side, that meant that I would be able to treat myself to a glass or two of mulled wine this evening.

Much to my surprise and delight the snow hadn't had the predicted effect on our visitor numbers. The café, back to normal again after Daniel's visit, had been busy with lunchtime customers enjoying bowls of game soup and slices of Jenny's brandy-soaked Christmas cake and there had been a steady stream of visitors to see the White Christmas decorations in the hall all morning.

I had one last thing to do before joining Jim in Santa's workshop. I poked my head into Lord Fortescue's office to see Sheila.

‘Hello, have you got a moment?'

‘Holly, dear! My, what a picture!' Sheila Beckwith lowered her reading glasses and waved me in.

‘Thank you,' I said, jingling my way to the chair. ‘I quite like being an elf. Impossible to creep up on anyone in this outfit, though.'

‘A tiny bit of bad news, I'm afraid,' said Sheila, pulling a face. ‘The storyteller from Henley library has called to make her excuses. She slipped on her front drive trying to clear the snow and has twisted her ankle.'

‘Oh, poor thing!'

That was a shame. Now I'd have to find a last-minute replacement. Jim would have been perfect, but he and I would still be handing out presents in Santa's workshop.

Christmas stories around the Christmas tree had been one of our most popular events. Parents simply dropped off their little ones at four and collected them again at five, leaving them with a child-free hour to themselves to browse the gift shop or linger over a hot chocolate and a mince pie in the café.

‘But never fear!' Sheila declared. ‘I shall stand in myself and love every minute of it. I read to my grandchildren and I'm sure I can manage a larger group.'

‘Sheila, that would be a real help. Are you sure you're not too busy?'

‘As long as Her Ladyship doesn't start making last-minute changes to the seating plan for tonight's dinner as soon as she gets back from Paris, we'll be fine,' said Sheila with a wry smile.

‘Which brings me to the reason I'm here.' I brandished my diary at her. ‘Can we just run through the itinerary for tonight, please?'

The sun hadn't put in an appearance all day and the pale grey clouds overhead looked poised to deposit more snow at any moment. I was glad of the heavy fur-edged green elf cloak as I braved the elements to join Jim in the cosy Nordic cabin. Nikki's team had cleared the snow from all the paths and sprinkled salt to prevent any accidents, but even so I stepped gingerly across the courtyard, through the formal gardens and along the covered walkway towards Santa's workshop, musing on the wisdom of Lady Fortescue's plans.

The Fortescues' Christmas at Home reception would begin at six o'clock sharp and end equally sharply at seven thirty, according to Sheila. Then a second wave of guests – personal friends of the Fortescues – would arrive for a formal dinner party at eight o'clock. Why anyone would organize two social occasions in one evening was beyond my comprehension, especially as Lady Fortescue and Zara weren't due back from Paris until later this afternoon.

It was tradition, Sheila had explained simply. ‘According to Her Ladyship, there has always been a Christmas reception followed by a dinner as far back as she could trace in Lord Fortescue's ancestors' history. And Lady Fortescue would never break a Wickham Hall tradition.'

‘Even if it was inconvenient?' I'd asked, nonplussed as to why she would put herself through the stress. ‘Why not?'

Sheila fiddled with the chain on her reading glasses. ‘Because from what I understand when she married Lord Fortescue she didn't have any family traditions of her own and so she made sure all of his are strictly adhered to, to pass on to future generations.'

Tradition or not, I thought, the potential for plans to go awry was infinite and added to that I had just felt the icy flutter of snowflakes on my face. I cast my eyes up to the putty-coloured sky; sure enough it looked as if we were in for a heavy snow shower. I just hoped everyone made it home safely.

‘Hello, Santa!' I grinned as Jim opened the cabin door to me.

‘Just in time, love,' said Jim, nodding to the path I'd just travelled along. ‘Our first visitors are about to descend on us.'

‘As is the snow. This could be a fun afternoon!'

I made my best happy-elf face as two mums and their toddlers approached, the children shrieking with excitement at the snow and the impending encounter with Santa.

I darted over to the desk and sat down at my list of good children while Jim arranged himself next door in his chair. He and I had magical memories to create for thirty children and their parents in the next three hours before I could even begin to think about Benedict Fortescue.

At four o'clock Jenny sent a tray of tea and biscuits over to us and we closed the door to the cabin for a well-deserved twenty-minute break.

‘How have you done this every day, Jim?' I said, sinking on to the stool gratefully. ‘I've only been going for two hours and I'm exhausted. And I'm convinced that I'm going to say the wrong thing and shatter some poor child's illusions.'

‘You worry too much.' He chuckled, selecting a gingerbread man and dunking it in his tea. ‘All you have to do is check their name is on the “good list” and chat to them until Santa is free.'

‘Answering children's questions about Santa and the North Pole is a minefield! Every family has their own Christmas traditions and I have to tread carefully so as not to put my foot in it or contradict what their parents have already told them. The children this afternoon have quizzed me on where I live, what I do when it's not Christmas, what I eat for dinner and how Santa knows what time all the children in the world go to bed . . .'

‘And you enjoyed every second of it,' Jim said perceptively. ‘I can see it in your eyes.'

It was true. Seeing the wonder and joy on children's faces had been a pleasure to witness. Their excitement and absolute belief that Santa would bring them their hearts' desires on Christmas morning had rubbed off on me.

‘This time of year is so exciting for kids, isn't it?' I sighed happily. ‘We don't have any little ones in my family – no cousins or nephews and nieces – and I must admit, this afternoon has made me feel broody.'

Jim's eyes twinkled as he flicked crumbs from the front of his red suit. ‘Good grief, I'm not sure my role as Santa stretches to that.'

I laughed and waved a hand at his knee. ‘I'm serious, Jim, seeing Christmas through the children's eyes has really moved me. I can't explain it other than to say that there's an ache in my heart that I didn't have this morning.'

‘No. That'll be the biscuits.' He winked. ‘Heartburn. Ginger always does that to me.'

‘Will you stop making fun of me!' I laughed and began to turn around as I heard the outer door to the cabin open. ‘I'm pouring my heart out here. I've got love to give to—Ben!'

And there he was in the doorway, shivering in a thin jacket, his dark curls flecked with snow.

‘Then it looks like I've arrived just in time,' he said and laughed.

I didn't even stop to think about the right thing to do, or the fact that I was dressed as an elf sitting in Santa's grotto. I just took one look at his handsome sun-kissed face, his eyes crinkling with amusement, the line of stubble darkening his jaw and I leapt up and threw my arms round his neck.

Ben dropped his bag to the floor, scooped me up and swung me round in a circle.

‘You're back,' I gasped. ‘You're here and so tanned . . . and cold and I'm so glad, I've—'

Jim coughed and I felt my face heat up. ‘Nice to see you, Benedict.'

‘You too,' said Ben, lowering me to the ground. He gave Jim a manly hug. ‘Glad to see you looking so well after that bonfire business.'

Jim waved a hand nonchalantly, as though collapsing from smoke inhalation at his age was an everyday occurrence. Ben picked his bag up and took my hand.

‘Let's go through to the workshop and see what's in my bag.'

‘Don't mind me,' Jim called, ‘I've got another three custard creams to get through.'

We walked into the other room and Ben shut the door behind him.

‘So,' I said, trying and failing to keep my cheeks from executing their widest smile again, ‘when did you get back?'

I perched on the edge of my elf's desk and smoothed the green felt of my tunic against my thighs.

‘Ten minutes ago,' he smirked. ‘Sheila told me where to find you and I came straight here.'

The closeness of him was making my heart race; it was so good to see him after all this time.

‘You're grinning.' I laughed.

‘You're dressed as an elf. So it's quite hard to keep a straight face. That and the fact that it's fantastic to see you.'

We stared at each other goofily until I felt a bubble of laughter rise up from my stomach to my throat.

‘I've missed you,' we said in unison and then laughed.

‘How was Cambodia? Is everyone OK after the flood?' I asked belatedly.

‘Yes, the kids were fantastic, as usual, and the people are so resilient. I'll go back out next year. But for now I'm glad to be home.' He reached a hand to my face and stroked my cheek. ‘Coming back to Wickham Hall is always a pleasure. But this time . . .' He paused and I held my breath. ‘Well, this time it feels different, like this is really where I want to be.'

I exhaled happily. That was exactly how I wanted him to feel about the estate, maybe this time he'd stay. Especially when he heard about the plans I'd been working on. But work wasn't on my mind right now . . .

‘Should we hug again, do you think?' I suggested, missing the feeling of his arms around me already.

‘In a moment,' he replied, looking serious. ‘We need to talk.'

‘OK.' I waited, my pulse whooshing in my ears.

‘In November I wrote to Antonio Biancardi without your permission and—'

‘Ben,' I said, pressing a finger to his lips, ‘it's fine, you've apologized and anyway it's me who should say sorry; I overreacted.'

He removed my finger and caught both of my hands in his. ‘Holly, I need to explain my motives.'

‘OK,' I whispered, gazing into his earnest brown eyes.

He took a deep breath. ‘After you came with me to my exhibition, it felt as though you were distancing yourself from me and I couldn't understand why. We'd had such a good time, or at least I had, and I was confused, especially when you turned down all my attempts at enticing you on a second date.'

I opened my mouth to tell him how I'd felt, that seeing him in his art world had made me realize how hard it would be to give it all up for Wickham Hall, but he silenced me with his eyes.

‘I racked my brains to come up with a plan to show you what you mean to me. And in my own misguided, insensitive way I thought that the answer was to put you in touch with your father. I can tell how much family means to you by the way you've tried to persuade me to stay at Wickham Hall, so I thought that tracking down your father would prove to you how much I care.'

A lump had appeared in my throat. I swallowed and managed a smile.

‘Thank you, Ben, it was a lovely thought, I mean that,' I said shakily, ‘despite storming off and calling you rude names.'

Ben laughed softly. ‘I don't know what shocked me most: that I misjudged the situation so badly or that Miss Clipboard said the word “arse”.'

We both laughed and I covered my face with my hands. ‘Am I blushing?'

‘You've got rosy elf cheeks, remember?' He grinned. ‘Rather fetching, actually.'

He lowered his head to mine and my breath caught in my throat as he placed a soft kiss on my cheek, but just as I reached to thread my arms around his neck and kiss him back he straightened up again.

I bit back my disappointment as he searched around for the bag he'd brought into Santa's workshop.

‘The story of Antonio Biancardi continues,' he said hesitantly. ‘If you're happy to hear it.'

I nodded.

He exhaled out of one side of his mouth nervously, lifting his curls in the process. My mouth lifted in a smile; I'd missed those curls so much.

‘I sent the letter to him to the address we had from 1984: his father's business address in Bergamo. I had no idea if he'd even get the letter, but . . . he did. And he wrote back.'

I felt as if my heart was going to thump its way out of my ribcage. So I'd been right: the letter that I'd nearly managed to open in Lord Fortescue's office was from my father.

‘It didn't arrive until after I'd left for Cambodia, but Dad realized it might be important and . . .'

My eyes widened at that; perhaps Lord Fortescue had seen more than I thought that morning.

‘He forwarded the letter to me. Antonio was asking for information about your mum and you. At the time I didn't know if I was doing the right thing or not, especially after your reaction, but his letter seemed very genuine so I phoned him from Cambodia and we had a long chat,' Ben continued.