Читать книгу Winter’s Children: Curl up with this gripping, page-turning mystery as the nights get darker - Leah Fleming - Страница 10

It was raining in Bradford when the travellers slipped off the M62, and sleeting on the road to Skipton, but the intrepid driver ploughed on northwards along the A65. The snow was settling on the pavements in Settle as they made their way cautiously upwards where the snowflakes floated as thick as goose feathers onto the windscreen.

Trying not to panic, thankful that gritters were already ahead clearing a path, Kay Partridge continued to climb upwards over clanking cattle grids in the dusky light.

‘Are we nearly there?’ said Evie, her daughter, with thumb in mouth, eyeing the snow with fascination.

‘Last lap, muppet,’ she answered, not daring to stop in case they slithered to a halt and found themselves stranded halfway up the hill. The Freelander was stuffed to the gills with bedding, toys, books, the contents of her mother-in-law’s freezer, radio, video, plastic bags full of clothes. There was plenty of ballast.

Within days of deciding to rent a cottage in the half-term break, everything slotted together so neatly that surely this impulsive decision was meant to be?

She plumped for Wintergill House the minute she saw its details on the screen. Perhaps it was the name that caught her attention. It was as close to her dream home as she could find, and she wanted a place for winter. Wintergill looked old, remote and on a hillside. The details were just right. There were three bedrooms and it was part of the old estate, now a working farm. Kay also ran off loads of bumf about the district, just to be sure. It wasn’t far from Bankwell and Gran’s old place, although no one would remember her now. Even the village school had its own website. It was familiar territory, and even if she’d not been back for years, she felt a lightening of her spirit to be back in Yorkshire.

Now they were in another world and the wheels scrunched on pristine snow. It was all very exciting but scary. November was a little early for a blizzard, surely? Soon the lights of Wintergill would shine out like beacons guiding them forward. The weather could close them in for weeks and she wouldn’t care.

‘We’ve made it,’ she sighed, turning to her daughter, but the child had snuggled back under the blanket and gone back to sleep. It was time to stop the car, light up a ciggie and draw a deep breath, blowing the smoke out of the window, ashamed at her weakness but it gave her time to savour the moment. Was this real or was she dreaming? Would she wake up back in Sutton Coldfield, with her mother-in-law bending her ear?

Poor Eunice! She’d swept into Kay’s bedroom without knocking, waving tickets in her hand. ‘I’ve got front seats in the dress circle on Boxing Day … won’t that be fun?’

‘That’s very kind of you but I’m afraid we’ll not be here for Christmas this year,’ Kay whispered. ‘I’ve booked a country cottage away from it all.’

‘Without telling us first?’ Eunice snapped. ‘For how long? I suppose I can exchange them for January.’

‘We’ll be leaving after half term … it’s a six-month winter let,’ Kay said, not wanting to see the horror on Eunice’s face.

‘You can’t be serious … just packing up and leaving us on a whim,’ screamed Eunice. ‘It’s nearly Christmas … What about Evie’s schooling? You can’t just bundle her off like a parcel into the middle of nowhere. Whatever has got into you? After all we’ve done. I think you should speak to your counsellor.’

‘I’ve had it up to here with grief counselling,’ Kay answered. ‘I’ve been sensible, not done anything in a rush. I’ve been ricocheting off the walls like a pinball. You’ve both been more than kind, and we do appreciate all your advice, but it’s nearly a year since Tim died and I can’t go sponging off you both for ever, living in your house. We have to move on, Eunice. I have to pick up my career again.’

‘Nonsense. This is all part of the upset. Poor little Evie, doesn’t she have a say in all this? She’s so looking forward to Christmas. She’s settled in the school now with a trip to the panto arranged. Daddy and I are going to give her a special treat. I know we can’t make it up to her for not having her own daddy here.’ Eunice Partridge’s eyes were brimful of tears and Kay felt a monster for spoiling all her plans.

‘No one can bring Tim back. It’s going to be an awful Christmas for you too, remembering last year and the upset, as you call it. So I’ve decided to do something different. I did wonder about a holiday in Africa, a safari, or Morocco where there’s no Christmas to remind us …’ she suggested.

‘You can’t take a child from her Christmas.’ Eunice was horrified.

‘Christmas is not compulsory, you know. Lots of people escape from it. But then I got a better idea. We can take a country let for a few months and I’ve found something on the internet in Yorkshire.’ She paused, knowing Eunice would not understand.

‘Yorkshire! It’s miles away!’ Eunice spat out the words as if they were rancid.

‘Why not? It was good enough for my mother to be brought up in. The Dales are beautiful. It’s quiet and safe, with friendly people. They’ve been through a bad time. I want to show some solidarity with my kinfolk,’ Kay replied, deciding not to tell them the real reason or the dream that had given her comfort and the courage to make this move.

For months the grief of Tim’s sudden death in that motorway crash on Christmas Eve had lain upon her like a hard frost, nailing down her resolve, leaving her unable to make the slightest decision. Cocooned by his parents, cosseted from reality by their smothering kindness, she had let them organise their lives to suit their own need of Evie. She could hardly breathe for their kindness and fussing. Now was the time to break free or go under before that first anniversary came round.

‘It’s cold and wet up there, and they’ve had foot-and-mouth.’ Eunice sniffed. ‘You should be going up there in summer, not in the middle of winter. What about Evie’s schooling?’ Eunice was not going to give up easily.

‘They do have schools up there too. It’s not exactly Antarctica.’ It was hard to be polite but Kay bit her lip and tried to breathe deeply.

Eunice decided to call in the troops, shouting to her husband, who was cowering in the conservatory under a newspaper. ‘Dennis! Come and hear this. You’ll never believe what Kay is dreaming up for Christmas. How will we manage without Evie? She’s so like Tim, with those grey eyes, his nose.’ The floodgates were opening again but Kay had her arguments well rehearsed.

‘I’m sorry but she’s not Tim. She’s not a substitute for your son. She has to get over his death in her own way. Pretending he’s not dead doesn’t help either.’ It was out in the open at last, the resentment that had been building up for weeks.

‘What do you mean?’ Eunice screeched, going pink in the face.

‘You talk about him as if he is still alive, suspended in midair somewhere, waiting to descend when he’s finished his business trip. Evie thinks he’ll come home for Christmas. She wrote a letter to Santa asking him to send her daddy back. I don’t want her deceived.’ Kay paused. ‘I should have said something ages ago. I know you mean well–’

‘How can you be so cruel? We’ve been trying to protect her. She’s too young to understand about death. It will give her nightmares. She’s only seven.’

‘You’re never too young to learn that death is part of life, that sometimes terrible things can happen. Every time I try to tell her about Tim’s accident, she covers her ears and says he’s gone away to make more pennies. We mustn’t turn him into some plaster saint or pretend he’s just in some other place.’ Kay paused, seeing the look of pain on Eunice’s face, but the truth had to be spoken.

‘We’re only doing what we think best for Evie,’ Eunice muttered uncomprehending.

‘Of course, I know … we all miss him but he was so driven sometimes … I wonder if it was worth it,’ came the weary reply.

‘You wanted for nothing, my girl. He gave you both a good life. He died for his family.’ Eunice’s eyes flashed with accusation as she spoke.

‘If only he hadn’t tried to squeeze too much into his frantic schedule. He was belting down the motorway in bad weather, late as usual for his next meeting, when he should have been spending time with us. He died as he lived– in the fast lane. It’s so unfair, and I just don’t want to be here … on Christmas Eve. Can’t you understand?’ Kay argued.

‘I have to go now before we get sucked into everything.’ There was nothing more to say.

‘You’ve grown so hard these past few months. I might have known you’d something up your sleeve. I hope you’re not filling Evie up with bitterness.’ The gloves were off now.

‘Someone has to be there for Evie. I gave up my career gladly to bring her up but I’ll not stand by and let you fill her up with the notion Tim is not dead. How many times have we moved to further his career? How many uprootings and refurnishings were there to organise? Have you forgotten that all our furniture is still in storage and that we were in the middle of a move when he died? Or that he wanted us to move over Christmas so as not to miss that sales conference in Frankfurt? I’ve been stranded with you ever since, rootless, paralysed by shock and inertia. He worked so hard – too hard – and what appreciation did he get from that bloody company? Hardly any of his work colleagues turned up for his funeral. They just threw money at us to salve their consciences … I need never work again … Don’t you think I’d love nothing more than for him to walk through that door? But I’ve seen his body … I can’t bear to go through that day again in this very same place … I’m sorry.

‘What was it all for, Eunice, tell me? One day he was there and then he’s not, and I’m left neither one thing nor the other. I’m not single, I’m not divorced but I am a widow with a child.’ All the bitterness was pouring out in a torrent. She looked at Eunice’s crestfallen face but she couldn’t back down now.

Kay reached out her hand in a gesture of conciliation and whispered, ‘One minute life was hunkydory, waiting for the Christmas jamboree to begin, cake in the tin, pudding on the shelf, turkey in the pantry, Evie jumping up and down waiting for Father Christmas, and then the balloon was burst in our faces and we were left to wipe our tears, smile to protect Evie, trying to pretend Tim was delayed. We’ve been doing that ever since. It has to be different this year, for all our sakes.’

She looked up to see Eunice nodding in silence. Dennis was standing by the door and he put his hands on Kay’s shoulder.

‘The girl’s got a point, Mother. Evie needs something to look forward to. We’ve got our memories and she’s got her mum. They have to do what’s best for them. I don’t know how you’ve coped all this time, Kay.’ Dennis Partridge was not one for long speeches and Kay felt mean to have upset them both.

‘What’ll we do, Dennis?’ Eunice looked up shaking her head.

‘We’ve got each other and a chance to visit your friend in Bath, who’s been begging us for years to come and stay. It’s time we moved on too. They’ll come and see us when they’re settled, won’t you?’ Dennis pleaded.

‘Of course, and you can come and visit us in the New Year,’ Kay said, relieved that her decision was out in the open. There was no turning back from this strange impulse to get the hell out of Sutton in time for Christmas, to find somewhere to hide from the festivities, where no one knew her as ‘that woman who lost her hubby on Christmas Eve'.

They were lucky. There was insurance money enough for choices and treats and distractions. Now she was going to follow that dream. That was enough for now.

Kay stubbed out her cigarette, peering into the darkness. She was taking a ridiculous gamble in renting a house she had never seen, but it felt right. Wintergill sounded so solid and the perfect spot to hide for a few months until she rethought their future. It would be a bolt hole. The darkness of the season would shield them from view. No one knew their business here. Few would remember her mother, who left home when she was a student. If only her parents were still alive but, as an only child, she’d no family of her own for support.

The move would give her time to sort Evie’s understanding of why Daddy could never be on her Christmas list.

She wound down the window further and sniffed the air. The snow had turned back to rain, dowsing her face with stinging droplets. It was time to make her way down the track. Time to test out her fantasy and the four-wheel drive.

Nik was soaking in the bath when he heard the doorbell ring in the hall and Muffin barking wildly. There was no expecting his mother to answer it for him for she was down in Wintergill, not due back until she had caught up with all the doings down the dale.

The keys for the Partridges were waiting on the hall table. The couple were late, very late and Nik had hoped with all the rain Yorkshire had been having lately they might have called off their holiday. The barometer was looking grim. Townies were soft when it came to bad weather. He tried to ignore the ringing but it carried on. Nik grabbed a towel and sloshed his way downstairs, leaving a trail of drips on the dark oak.

‘Yes?’ he answered gruffly.

‘This is Wintergill House?’ said a woman, shivering in the doorway, trying not to stare at his shrunken towel. ‘Yes.’ He tried to look casual.

‘I’m sorry we’re so late but we got held up. I’ve come for the key. Sorry to disturb you.’

‘No problem,’ he replied, muttering oaths and curses to himself. ‘Come inside while I change.’ He left a trail of drips up the stairs when he left her standing in the hall examining the old prints and the black oak panelling. Damn and blast, he’d have to get dressed and sort them out. Why couldn’t they have arrived at a civilised hour? This was just the sort of nuisance holiday lets invited. His quiet evening in was spoiled now. He searched for his keys in the clutter on the table.

Time was when they could leave everything unlocked on the farm – doors, tractors, pickups. Now it was getting like Fort Knox. Only last month some spark took a length of coping stones from the tops of their boundary walls; hundreds of them, to be sold for a fiver a time on some car-boot sale miles away, no questions asked. The quad bike had to be locked in the barn or it would go walkabout.

Nik pulled on his jeans and sweater, his ragged Barbour and old flat cap out of habit. Muffin jumped in on the act, thinking they were going out into the fields in the back of the pickup. The moon was rising now in the dark sky. The storm had abated as he guided the Land Rover towards the Side House. There was only a woman and a child in the car. Where was the couple Mother was expecting? She would not be well pleased at a child in tow.

The courtyard was in complete darkness, only the working dogs barking at the arrival of strangers. He took them down the track to Side House Barn and brought out the keys from his pocket. It was usually Mother’s job showing lets around the house, pointing out switches and timers and points. He just about knew about the fuse box and the fuel store. This was women’s work.

‘The storage heaters are on. The place is warm and aired. Mrs Snowden will see to the rest in the morning. She’s left a welcome basket on the table so help yourself,’ he answered, standing in the darkness, not thinking of anything else to say. Be damned if he was going to make a fuss.

‘Thank you,’ nodded the redhead in a bobble hat. ‘Say thank you, Geneva.’

The child surveyed her surroundings suspiciously. ‘Is this it?’ Evie was half asleep. ‘It’s dark. I don’t like–’

‘That’ll do, Evie. She’s so tired. I thought we’d be staying in Wintergill House itself,’ ventured the woman.

He could feel their disappointment and shrugged his shoulders, towering over the two strangers. ‘Oh, not another one … You can thank Bruce Stickley’s website for any misinformation given to you. He puts our house on the website and describes the cottage but omits to say they’re separate. You can have him for trade descriptions but this is what’s on offer. It’s all brand new. I’ll leave you both to it then, Mrs Partridge.’

He backed off towards the courtyard and his own back door with relief. He’d done his good deed for the day and now it was time for a whisky and some Bach.

Kay was in no mood for arguments when Evie started whingeing, sniffing the stale farmyard aromas of disinfectant, old manure and mud in the sharp air.

‘I don’t like this place, it smells.’

‘We’re here now. Let’s unpack what we need for tonight and have some cocoa. It’s late and we’re both tired. We’ll take stock in the morning.’ Kay was trying to keep the disappointment out of her own voice when she looked at the barn conversion. It smelled of pine and fresh paint, of emptiness and newly lined curtains, hardwood windows and a Radoxy smell of artificial cleansers.

Their accommodation was pristine, neat, perfectly appointed but soulless: neutral with sea grass carpeting, ubiquitous pine furnishings, very nineteen eighties décor. The kitchen was spotless, well fitted with basic utilitarian units. What had she been expecting? A clutter of dark oak, stone-flagged floors, ancient beams and a large inglenook fireplace. This was not how her granny had lived in their Bankwell cottage.

This house could be lifted up and transported to any suburb. Even the pictures on the walls were tasteful prints, discreet old maps and villagey scenes. Suddenly Kay felt tears welling up. They were exiles in a foreign land at the mercy of strangers. The man could not have been more gruff and begrudging. Perhaps his wife would be more helpful. Her heart was sinking with weariness. What have I done, uprooting us into this soulless place?

She poured the cocoa for her exhausted child, made up her bed with the plastic mattress cover. Since all the upheaval Evie was unreliable at night. Kay rooted in the box for her daughter’s toadstool lamps and Beanie Babies. They would need no rocking tonight.

Then she poured a generous dollop of rum into her cup of cocoa from the booze box. There was no going back now. They were stuck up a track in a house on top of a hill. She was following that strange dream for better or worse, but why did things always seem worse in the dark?

Next morning Kay woke with a start, staring up at a beamed ceiling. The silence was unnerving: no town noises; brakes screeching, doors slamming, radio blaring or police sirens in the distance. Both of them had slept in late, and she pushed back the curtain to see the garden enveloped in a misty rain swirling like smoke. She could make out the white outline of Wintergill House itself, but no more.

She lay back again, making lists in her head. If they were going to make this their home then it needed customising a little: a throw over the tweed sofa, some gaudy coloured cushions, posters on the walls to cover the anaemic paintwork. They would find the nearest market town and find a few items to cheer up the place.

The two of them ate breakfast slowly at the breakfast bar, slices of toast and boiled eggs from the welcome basket. Evie retired to the sofa to watch children’s TV, surrounded by her latest Beanies, sucking her thumb while Kay inspected the barn conversion with closer interest. Why was the conversion so suburban in design? Where were the galleried upstairs and exposed rafters she’d seen in Country Living magazine? Even the great barn doors were walled in with stone, disguised rather than enhanced, ruining the spirit of the place, well crafted though it all was.

It was only when Kay put her head out of the door that she realised that the wind was whipping up the rain across the garden like smoke from a bonfire. She had forgotten how damp it was in Yorkshire. They were going to need some serious weather gear, Wellingtons and waterproofs. Their anoraks would hardly keep this onslaught from soaking them to the skin.

This was not exactly the picture of rural bliss Kay had in mind for an autumn arrival; no newspaper through the letterbox or pint on the doorstep, no bus passing on the way to market. How would she survive without her Guardian? There was so much she was going to have to find out from Mrs Snowden and she must thank her for the welcome pack. In the rush to offload her larder she had brought only frozen packets wrapped in newspaper. What if they were cut off by snow? Kay started to make a survival list of provisions for their store cupboard just in case they were stranded. She felt like a pioneer in the Arctic.

Once all their clothes were unpacked, they looked too flashy for country living. Evie’s books and toys would have to go in the spare room somehow. Kay was just slamming the door shut when a hooded apparition in a battered mackintosh, looking for all the world like the famous Hannah Hauxwell in a blizzard, came battling across the path carrying a tray covered with a cloth.

‘Glad to have caught you, Mrs Partridge. Sorry I wasn’t in last night but I hope you’re settling in. Not much of a weekend, I’m afraid, the forecast is dire … very unseasonal for the time of year,’ said a rosy-cheeked woman peering out from under the hood. ‘I’ve brought you some of my baking just in case you’re short. It’s just some parkin.’

‘Come in, come in, Mrs Snowden,’ ushered Kay with her hands full of videos. ‘We were going to come and thank you for the milk and eggs and bread.’

‘You’re welcome, lass. It takes a brave soul to land themselves up here for the back end of the year. You’re our first visitor this season. As you can imagine we’ve not exactly been the most popular of venues this summer,’ replied the older woman. Her voice was soft and low, an educated voice with only a hint of a Yorkshire accent.

‘Do thank your husband for coming out to rescue us last night,’ answered Kay, and watched the woman’s face burst into a smile out of which came a deep throaty laugh.

‘Just wait until I tell Nikolas. I know it’s been a rough year but my son hasn’t aged that much, I hope. It was my son who let you in,’ she replied.

‘I’m so sorry!’ Kay muttered. ‘It was dark, I was tired, I wasn’t really looking at him properly. Oh dear!’ The old lady laughed. At the sound of chatter Evie came to the kitchen still in her pyjamas, her fair hair straggling over her face. ‘This is my daughter, Geneva. Say thank you to Mrs Snowden, who gave us our breakfast and a tray of parkin for our tea.’

‘What’s parkin?’ Evie looked at the flat brown squares with suspicion.

The smile on Mrs Snowden’s face faded as she beheld the child.

‘I thought it was just your husband and yourself, Mrs Partridge, the two of you?’ she stammered, eyeing the girl with surprise.

‘We’ve got our wires crossed, I’m afraid. No, there’s just Evie and me, just the two of us now, come to have some peace and quiet for a while,’ Kay replied, not wanting to go into details.

‘So she’ll be off to Wintergill School then? The bus collects them at the end of the lane.’

‘We’ve not decided yet … I might teach her at home for a while until we go back to the Midlands. It’s a bit of an experiment, isn’t it, Evie?’ Kay turned to her daughter but she just shrugged her shoulders.

‘It’s a good village school, one of the best. Pat Bannerman runs a tight ship. Both mine went there when they were little …’ Then the woman stopped abruptly. ‘I’m not sure this is the right place for a kiddie.’

‘I’m sure it will be. She’s no trouble and we need a break from routine so I’m not sure I want to settle her into another school.’ Kay looked up as Evie disappeared back to the television. ‘We do need to gear ourselves up for this weather though. Where’s the best place to go?’

‘How old is she?’ asked the woman in a far away voice.

‘Nearly eight. She’s tall for her age but quite young in other ways.’ Kay was curious as to why Mrs Snowden wanted to know about Evie.

‘She’ll happen find it lonely up on these tops. There aren’t many children left on the farms. They’re all bussed to school. Do watch out for her – farms are not playgrounds. I don’t usually encourage families here. I thought you were a couple or I’d have said. We couldn’t take the responsibility if anything … not that there’s much farm work happening yet,’ said the woman whose eyes were darting to the little girl as she was talking.

‘Don’t you worry, Evie is a sensible child, used to dodging traffic. I’ll make sure she knows her country code. And thank you for the cakes. Baking is not something I’ve done for ages,’ she confided. Eunice had kept the pantry full of cakes and pies but her own appetite had still not returned.

‘It’s a way of life up here, or was, but now the young ‘uns seem to like shop-bought stuff. You never know what’s in it, do you? I’d better leave you to settle in. Is everything to your satisfaction? Anything else you’d like to know?’ Mrs Snowden made for the door.

‘I’d like to know more about your old house. I thought we’d be staying in part of it. I can see it’s got a history,’ Kay replied. There was no use in hiding her interest.

‘It’s got so many bits, added on and knocked off, you’ll have to ask my son about all that. It’s his interest. It’s been in my husband’s family since Queen Elizabeth’s day. Ask Nik to give you the tour, if you don’t mind the mess. We live back to back, so to speak. It suits us that way.’ Mrs Snowden smiled and, despite her forthright manner and stern visage, Kay liked the look of the woman. She must have been a beauty in her day with such high cheekbones and fine piercing blue eyes.

‘And your husband? Does he still farm?’ Kay asked.

‘Lord, no! Not unless he’s ploughing St Peter’s fields. He passed on years ago, before all this bother with the farming industry. He was a Maggie’s man and thought the good times would last for ever.’

‘I’m sorry. I can see the fields are empty. It must have been a terrible year up here,’ Kay nodded with sympathy hoping she hadn’t upset the widow.

‘Aye, lass, one I never thought I’d see in my lifetime. Tom had a good innings. I was younger than him and times were easier then. You could educate your children off the moor. He worked hard for his family – you can’t ask for more. I’m glad he wasn’t here to see his stock culled. Are you on your own by choice?’ Mrs Snowden paused, waiting for an answer.

‘My husband died suddenly last Christmas in a car accident. It’s not been easy.’ She always found it hard to spit out those words but it was better to be open. She wanted no misunderstandings.

The older woman looked her straight in the eye and something unspoken passed between them. ‘I’m sorry … You won’t be wanting much of a Christmas then, I reckon.’

‘That’s about the sum of it,’ she sighed. ‘But Evie is too young to understand this.’

‘I hope you don’t mind plain speaking,’ Mrs Snowden whispered. ‘Put her in the school. She’ll get a good Christmas there. Then you can step back and let it all wash over you. It might help. I hope you have a good stay though. A change is as good as a rest, but you never get over what you’ve been through.’ The farmer’s wife paused. ‘Get yourself down to Skipton market on the High Street. You’ll find your winter togs there at half the price. The weather here is unpredictable. Still, you know what they say about Yorkshire climate: it’s nine months winter and three months bad weather,’ Mrs Snowden laughed.

‘My granny Norton used to say that. She lived in Bankwell. It used to rain for England in my school holidays,’ Kay offered.

‘A Norton, indeed! Then we’re practically relatives, if that’s the case. There’s been plenty of them in this family way back … Should I know her?’

‘She was Betty Norton, married to Sam. My mother was Susan … she went to the High School at Settle.’

‘I’d be long gone by then … Fancy, it’s a small world. Was she in the WI?’

‘I expect so. She died many years ago though. Mum sold the cottage.’

‘Something small in Bankwell would suit me fine but that’s another story … I must shift myself. Just wait until I tell Nik you thought I was his wife!’ Mrs Snowden edged out of the room but not without pointing to Evie. ‘Mind that child and get her into school.’ She waddled back to the big house still etched in the mist shaking her head.

‘So what shall we do today, muppet?’ Kay perched on the edge of the sofa.

‘Get a video and a takeaway pizza,’ came the reply.

‘Dream on. This is the country so let’s go out for a walk and get an airing. I want to see the old house. There’s so much to explore. Let’s blow the cobwebs away and collect autumn bits for our windowledge. Come on, boots and anorak, it’ll do us good,’ Kay said briskly, trying to sound more positive than she felt. There was no harm in telling the old lady the bare bones of her circumstances but she hoped they would not be pestered. Perhaps the village school was not a bad idea.

Mistress Hepzibah watches over the tray bakes cooling on the kitchen table. The dog in the corner has his eye on the pepper cakes but dare not move for fear of her. It is the season for soul cakes but these are but a poor effort. Holy day cakes begin the little Lent at Martinmas, a time of prayer and fasting. Hepzibah sniffs for the scent of honey and milk, tokens of heaven and earth, for pepper, allspice and almonds. Where were her bakestone and griddle pan gone? The young know nothing of sacred culinary arts. How can the poor be fed and the sufferings of the dead be alleviated by such tokens?

She peeps from the window unseen as a dancing child skips across the courtyard like a puffed-up sunflower with tansy hose, jumping into a puddle. Oh, Mother, take heed! Hepzibah senses movement in the spinney that borders Wintergill Farm.

If only Cousin Blanche would but listen to reason and not come a-calling, but a child will draw her hither like a lode-stone. There will be no peace. Blanche is so careless with other people’s children. This season is ripe for mischief when darkness overcomes the light. Rise up, Wintergill, and keep watch. Danger is coming. Our prayer has been granted with the coming of a child but this time we must finish the business or be damned.

Why alone doth this season bring only sorrow to my heart? How can such a season of goodwill bring forth hatred and despair? It all begins again.