Читать книгу A Christmas Letter - Shirley Jump - Страница 9

MARCUS stayed silent when they reached the drawing room, while Bertie insisted Faith have another cup of tea before she continued on her journey. She perched on the edge of the sofa again, and began to explain carefully what she’d found.

He noticed that she worked up to breaking the bad news, and he was grateful to her for that. He was pleased she hadn’t just blurted it all out as soon as she’d walked into the room. As far as he’d seen Faith McKinnon had a gift for bluntness. It was reassuring to know that a little sensitivity lay underneath.

He brushed beads of moisture from his shoulders as he stood by the fireplace. Fine flakes of snow, almost dust-like, had fallen on them on their walk back from the chapel and now melted from the warmth of the flames. He looked out of the window over the lake. Snow. That was the last thing they needed right now. Hadsborough lay in a dip in the land, and it was always much worse here than in the nearby towns and villages. Still, it was ten years since they’d had anything but a few inches. He was probably worrying for nothing.

He found himself doing that a lot these days. Churning things over in his mind. Wondering in the middle of the night if there was anything he had missed. It was as if he tried to outrun his own personal cloud of doom all day by keeping busy, and then it would settle over him while he slept, poisoning his dreams.

Some nights, in a half dream-state, he’d travel further into the past, endlessly trying to relive moments that would never come again. He’d try to make the right decision this time, hoping he’d prevent the coming tragedy, that he could save his father from both disgrace and the grave, but when the sun rose in the morning all his nocturnal fretting hadn’t changed anything.

He should have done more. Foolishly trusting his father, he’d seen it all happening and yet stood by, believing his father’s assurances when he should have doubted them. But he wasn’t going to make that mistake again; he had his eyes open now.

And not just when it came to family; when it came to everything. He should have realised that the woman he’d trusted with everything he’d had left—which hadn’t been much—would eventually sit him down and tell him it was all too much for her, that she would leave him on his own to bear all the new responsibility that had come his way while she skipped off to a life of freedom. He’d given himself completely to a woman who hadn’t known the meaning of loyalty, who hadn’t known how to stand by the people she loved. How had he been so blind?

At least his relationship with Amanda had taught him something important, something the storybooks and the love songs failed to mention—love was always an unequal proposition. One person always gave more, always cared more, was always ready to sacrifice more. And that person was the weaker, more vulnerable side of the equation. One thing he was certain of: he was never going to be that person again.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t find what you were looking for,’ he heard Faith say, and he realised he’d missed some of the conversation.

He lifted his head to look at her. Her face and eyes were totally expressionless. Too expressionless. A casual observer might have thought she didn’t care, that she was handing out platitudes, but he recognised that look on her face. It was the one he saw every morning in the mirror when he made sure his own walls were still securely in place. They were more alike than he’d thought.

His grandfather nodded, trying not to look despondent. There was a flinch, a moment of hesitation, and then Faith reached over and covered his hand with hers. And then she smiled. It was the first hint of a smile he’d seen from her all day, and rather than being brassy and bright and false this one was soft and shy. Something inside his chest kicked.

But then the smile was gone, and Faith sat back on the sofa with her mask in place. His grandfather didn’t seem to mind. He chatted away about old times while Faith sipped her tea and nodded.

He knew what she’d done—checked into that little place inside her head with its thick, thick walls. He lived out of a similar place himself. But for that soft smile of hers he’d never have guessed those intriguing walls were even there. She hid them well with her on-the-surface frankness and direct words.

She reminded him of Amanda, he realised. Maybe that was why he was reacting so strongly to her. It was another reason he should be doubly wary.

Faith had that same deceptive, ready-for-anything candour that had drawn him to his ex. Remember that word, Marcus. Deceptive. Not on purpose, but perhaps that just made the fraud all the more deadly—because it added that hint of honesty that made a man believe in things that just weren’t there.

Just as well Faith McKinnon would be off their land and out of their lives before the afternoon was out.

As if she’d read his mind, Faith put down her empty cup. ‘Thank you so much for the tea, Bertie,’ she said, ‘but I have to get going now. I’m renting a cottage down on the coast for the next few weeks.’

‘On your own?’ His grandfather looked appalled.

Faith nodded. ‘It’s going to be wonderful.’

It seemed those walls were thicker than even Marcus had guessed.

‘I need to go and pick up the keys by three,’ Faith said as she collected her bag and other belongings. ‘I’ll send you the results of my research in a couple of days.’

Bertie raised his eyebrows. ‘You might be late picking up those keys,’ he said, focusing on the window behind Marcus.

Marcus turned round just as Faith stood up and gasped.

No dusty snow now. Thick feathery flakes were falling hard and fast, so thickly he could hardly see the gatehouse only a hundred feet away.

‘I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere for a while,’ his grandfather said, doing his best to look apologetic, but clearly invigorated by the surprise turn in the weather—and events. ‘It’s far too dangerous to drive in this.’

‘What kind of car have you got?’ Marcus asked hopefully.

‘A Mini.’ Faith sighed and took a step closer to the windows. She didn’t look as if she believed what she was seeing. ‘An old one.’

Well, that was it, then. She’d be hard pressed to make it out of the castle grounds in a car like that, let alone brave the switchback country roads to the motorway.

‘It’ll probably stop soon,’ he said, leaning forward and pressing his nose against the pane. ‘Then you can be on your way.’

‘In the meantime,’ he heard his grandfather say, ‘can I interest you in another cup of tea and possibly a toasted crumpet? Shirley makes the most fabulous lemon curd.’

While they drank yet more tea they listened to a weather forecast. Marcus’s prediction was soundly contradicted. Heavy snow for the next couple of days. Advice to drive nowhere, anywhere unless it was absolutely necessary.

‘Splendid!’ Bertie said, clapping his hands. ‘We haven’t had a good snow in years!’

He was like a big kid again. But then his grandfather had fond memories of trekking in the Tibetan foothills, and he was going to be able to enjoy this round of snow from the comfort of his fireside chair. Marcus’s workload had suddenly doubled, and he was now going to have to tap dance fast to make sure all the Christmas events still went ahead as planned. When had this time of year stopped being fun and started being just another task to be ticked off the list?

He turned away from the window and looked at the other occupant of the yellow drawing room. Faith was back on the sofa again, but this time she wasn’t smiling or looking quite so relaxed.

‘I can’t possibly put you out like this,’ she said, looking nervously between grandfather and grandson. ‘And I’m used to snow—’

His grandfather straightened in his chair, looking every inch the Duke for once. ‘Nonsense! Your grandmother would have my hide if I sent you out in this weather—and, believe me, even after all these years, she is one lady I would not like to get on the wrong side of.’

At the mention of her grandmother Faith’s expression changed to one of defeat. ‘You have a point there,’ she said quietly.

‘You can stay here the night and we’ll see how the forecast is in the morning.’ His grandfather rang the bell at his side again and a few moments later Shirley appeared. ‘Miss McKinnon will be staying. Could you make up the turret bedroom?’

‘Of course, Your Grace.’ Shirley nodded and scurried away.

‘But I haven’t got any overnight stuff,’ Faith said quietly. ‘It’s all in the back seat of my car.’

Bertie waved a hand. ‘Oh, that can be easily sorted. Marcus? Call Parsons on that mobile telephone thing of yours and have someone bring Miss McKinnon’s bags in.’

Marcus’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’ll do it,’ he almost growled. His staff had better things to do than to trudge through half a mile of snow with someone’s luggage.

‘I’ll help,’ Faith said, standing up.

He shook his head. She’d only complicate matters, and he needed a bit of fresh air and distance from Miss Faith McKinnon.

She frowned, and her body language screamed discomfort. He guessed this didn’t sit well with that independent streak of hers. Too bad. At a place like Hadsborough everyone had to work together, like a large extended family. There was no room for loners.

She exhaled. ‘In that case the overnight bag in the back will be enough. I don’t need the rest.’

‘I’ll be back shortly,’ he said, and exited the room swiftly.

A couple of minutes later he was trudging towards the visitor car park with a scarf knotted round his neck and his collar pulled up. With any luck he’d be repeating this journey in the morning—overnight bag in hand and Faith McKinnon hurrying along behind him.

Faith stood at the turret window that stared out over the lake. A real turret. Like in Rapunzel, her favourite fairy story.

The almost invisible sun was setting behind a wall of soft grey cloud and snowflakes continued to whirl past the mullioned windows, brightening further when they danced close to the panes and caught the glow from the rooms inside. Beyond, the lake was a regal slate-blue, flat as glass, not consenting to be rippled and distorted by the weather. The lawn she’d walked across that morning was now covered in snow—at least a couple of inches already—and bare trees punched through the whiteness as black filigree silhouettes.

How could real people live somewhere so beautiful? It must be a dream.

But the walls seemed solid enough, as did the furniture. Unlike the part of the castle that was open to the public, which was decorated mostly in a medieval style, the rooms in the private wing were more comfortable and modern. They were also filled with antiques and fine furniture, but there was wallpaper on the walls instead of bare stone or tapestries, and there were fitted carpets and central heating. All very elegant.

A smart rap on the door tore her away from the living picture postcard outside her window. She padded across the room in her thick socks and eased the heavy chunk of oak open.

Marcus stood there, fresh flakes of snow half-melted in his hair. Her heart made a painful little bang against her ribcage. Quit it, she told it. It had done that all afternoon—every time she caught sight of him.

He was holding her little blue overnight bag. She always packed an emergency bag when she travelled, and it had come in handy more times than she could count when flights had been delayed or travel plans changed. She just hadn’t expected to need it in a setting like this.

Or to have a man like this deliver it to her.

He held it out to her and she gripped the padded handles without taking her eyes from his face. He didn’t let go. Not straight away. Faith was aware how close their fingers were. It would only take a little twitch and she’d be touching him.

Don’t be dumb, Faith. Just because you’re staying in a castle for one night it doesn’t mean you can live the fairytale. No one’s going to climb up to your turret and rescue you. Especially not this man. He’d probably prefer to shove you from it.

She tugged the handles towards her and he let go. A slight expression of surprise lifted his features, as if he’d only just realised he’d hadn’t let go when he should have.

‘Thank you,’ she said, finding her voice hoarse.

‘You’re welcome,’ he replied, but his eyes said she was anything but. ‘Dinner is at eight,’ he added, glancing at the holdall clenched in her hands. ‘We usually change for dinner, but we understand you’re at a disadvantage.’

She nodded, not quite sure what to say to that, and Marcus turned and walked down the long corridor that led to the main staircase. Faith watched him go. Only when he was out of sight did she close the door and dump her bag on the end of the bed.

She unzipped the side pocket, where she always stored her emergency underwear, and then opened the top drawer in an ornate polished wood dresser. Wow. The inside was even lovelier than the outside. Rich, grained walnut, if she wasn’t mistaken, with a thick floral lining paper and a silk pouch with dried lavender in it. She took one look at the jumble of bra straps and practical white cotton panties in her hand and dumped them back in her case. Maybe later.

She returned to the window once more.

We usually change for dinner …

A chuckle tickled Faith’s lips, but she didn’t let it out. Into what? she wanted to ask. Werewolves? Vampires? Oh, she knew what he meant, but it was another reminder that this was another world. One where people dressed up for dinner and had luncheon. Well, she hoped he wasn’t expecting ballgowns or fur stoles from her.

And the tone he’d used…We understand you’re at a disadvantage.

As if she needed his permission!

In the McKinnon household ‘changing for dinner’ meant putting your best jeans on—and that was what Faith intended to do.

The brightness behind Faith’s lids reminded her of where she was, and why, before she opened her eyes the following morning. She blinked and rolled over to face the window. Snow was piled high on the thin stone ledge. Not good news if she was planning to escape to her little seaside hideaway today.

The bed had been comfy, but she’d had a metaphorical pea under her mattress. Or in her head, to be more accurate—a brooding presence that had been at the fringes of her consciousness all night. As if someone had been looking over her shoulder while she slept.

It was hardly surprising. She’d been aware of his appraising eyes on her all the way through dinner last night, and it had stopped her enjoying what must have been amazing food. Suddenly she’d got all self-conscious about which silver-plated fork to pick up and what she should do with her napkin.

He didn’t know what to think of her, did he? Wasn’t sure if she was friend or foe.

She’d wanted to jump up and shout, Neither! It felt wrong to have been admitted into not only their home but their daily life. I agree. I shouldn’t be here.

Well, hopefully, if the weather had been kind overnight, she wouldn’t be for much longer.

She got out of bed and shuffled over to the window, the comforter wrapped around her, and groaned. It was still snowing hard. Enough for her to know she wasn’t going anywhere today, and possibly not tomorrow—not unless the Huntingtons had a snow plough tucked away in one of their garages.

Faith sighed as she watched the scene outside her window. She hadn’t seen snow this thick for years—not since she’d last gone home for the Christmas holidays. A little jab of something under her ribcage made her breath catch. Homesickness? Surely not. The bust-ups at Christmas were one of the reasons she’d avoided December in Connecticut ever since.

She glanced at her coat, hanging on the back of the door, remembering how Gram’s letter was still stuffed into one of the pockets. She still hadn’t read it properly. Now she felt guilty. She stared at her coat. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy Gram’s lively and warm narrative, but she knew there was always a price to pay for the pleasure.

Gram’s letters always seemed so innocent—full of quirky anecdotes about town life—but in between the news of whose dog had had puppies, complaints about the mayor and Gram’s book club gossip was a plea.

Come home.

Faith knew she should, and she planned to some time soon, but she really didn’t want to this Christmas. She was too busy, too exhausted. And if both her sisters and her mother turned up there’d be more than enough noise and drama and no one would need Faith there to keep up the numbers. She’d given up trying to be family referee a long time ago, so there was no reason for her to be there.

She walked over to the door and retrieved the crumpled lilac letter. She stared at it for a moment, steeling herself for the inevitable tug on her heartstrings, and then she pulled the pages from the envelope and read.

It was the same old news about the same old town, but it still made her smile.

When she’d finished she reached into her purse and took out the other item that had been in the envelope. Gram had got tired of hinting about her girls coming home and had just gone for the jugular: she’d sent plane tickets to each of the McKinnon sisters, and she’d also requested a ‘favour’ from each of them. So one sister was travelling from Sydney to Canada, the other had been summoned back to Beckett’s Run, and Faith had wound up here, at Hadsborough.

Crafty old woman, Faith thought, frowning. Gram was counting on the fact the sisters wouldn’t refuse her—the favour or the trip home.

But Faith didn’t think she could face it. It would be easier to hide away in her rented cottage until her next job in York. But if she was going to do that she needed time to work up the courage to tell Gram no.

She sighed and pulled yesterday’s sweater from her bag. Yesterday’s jeans, too. But before she went downstairs she had some internet research to do. Today she was not going to get caught out by Marcus Huntington.

It was still snowing hard when Marcus made the short walk from the estate office in the old stable block back to the castle. He prised his boots from his feet and left them by the kitchen door, then shook the ice off his coat before hanging it on a hook.

He’d almost forgotten about their unexpected guest until he walked into the drawing room and discovered Faith McKinnon sitting on the sofa she’d occupied yesterday. This time, instead of perching on the edge of the seat, she was sitting back against the comfy cushions, her legs crossed, drinking tea out of their Royal Doulton.

When she heard him approach she turned to look at him and put her teacup back on its saucer on the small mahogany table. The warmth that had been in her eyes faded.

‘Good morning, Lord Westerham,’ she said evenly.

Ah, she’d done her homework, had she? Discovered that as Bertie’s heir he had the use of one of his grandfather’s lesser titles. Not only that, she’d worked out the proper form of address for a courtesy earl. He wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or irritated. It would depend on whether she was trying to be polite or to butter him up. He could accept the former, but he detested the latter, and he didn’t know enough about her or her motives to guess which was true.

‘I’ve been talking to the landlord of the Duke’s Head in Hadsborough village,’ he said, looking at his grandfather. ‘He says the snow is drifting and it’s already more than a foot deep in some of the lanes.’

‘But the snow ploughs will be here soon, right?’ Faith stopped abruptly, as if she hadn’t meant to blurt that out.

He gave a rueful smile. ‘Oh, they’ll be here—eventually.’

‘And by “eventually” you mean …?’

Bertie reached over and patted her arm. ‘They’ll concentrate on the motorways and the main roads first,’ he said. ‘We don’t get much traffic in this neck of the woods. But don’t you worry…They’ll be here in a few days.’

‘That’s crazy! At home in Beckett’s Run the roads would be clear by the next morning.’

Marcus stepped forward. ‘Unfortunately this isn’t Beckett’s Run.’

She looked up at him, the look on her face telling him she was all too clear on that point. He met her gaze—the challenge she gave without even opening her mouth. And that was when it happened again. That strange feeling of everything swirling round them coming to rest. And this time they hadn’t even been touching.

Faith was sitting stock still, her face deadpan, but he saw the flash of panic in her eyes before the shutters came down.

‘Sorry, my dear,’ his grandfather said, looking less than crestfallen at the prospect of having an unexpected house guest. ‘It seems as if you’re stuck with us for a while yet.’

Faith tore her gaze from Marcus’s and fixed them on Bertie. ‘In that case,’ she said, in a very brisk and businesslike fashion, ‘is there somewhere I can plug my laptop in? I might as well get on with that research.’

She was meticulous. He’d give her that. Marcus watched as Faith wrote carefully in a large notebook with a pencil. She’d been at it since he’d returned just after lunch, pulling up research on her laptop and then recording it in her notebook in a clear, neat hand. He had the feeling she wasn’t the kind to scribble away furiously, no matter how excited she got.

He looked out of the window. The low sun was a pale glowing disc in a gunmetal sky. It had been snowing too hard most of the day for their guest to venture to the chapel, but now the weather had lost its fervour and flakes drifted lazily towards the ground. The forecasts had predicted clear skies tomorrow. He hoped they were right.

‘Haven’t you got other things you need to do?’ Faith asked quietly as she reached for the mouse once again.

He shook his head, and noted the glimmer of irritation that flashed across her features.

‘Are you sure?’

She didn’t like him hanging around watching her? Too bad. This was his family—his life she was carefully digging into before pulling it apart bit by bit—and today at least he had the luxury of being able to witness each new discovery. He needed to know before his grandfather if she unearthed anything significant.

‘You know what? If you’re so interested in what I’m doing—’ and the look on her face said she didn’t believe that for a second ‘—it would really help if you could check the estate archives for any mention of the window.’

‘I already have.’

She raised her eyebrows hopefully but he shook his head.

‘You’re sure? Finding some documentary evidence one way or the other would help me finish this more quickly.’

The eyebrows lifted again, but this time they had a slightly knowing air. She knew he’d like that suggestion.

He was ashamed to admit it was true. Something about her straightforward ‘don’t care’ attitude set his hair on end and raised his awareness.

He didn’t have the luxury of not caring. Once, maybe, he’d thought he’d be able to forge his own path, create his own life, but his father’s actions had scuppered those fantasies nicely. Now he had to care, whether he wanted to or not, and it irritated him that he’d been confronted with someone who had perfected that skill so perfectly.

He glanced over at her again. Her dark ponytail hung forward, draping over her shoulder, and she was lost in concentration. It didn’t stop him admiring the thick, slightly wavy hair, or her small, fine features.

No, not that kind of awareness, Marcus.

Well, partly that.

Okay, he found her attractive. But that wasn’t what he meant. Ever since she’d arrived and sent Bertie into hyper-drive about this window he’d felt like one of those big black guard dogs the security team used.

He’d spent two years trying to rebuild the family name after the crash of his father’s investment company and subsequent death, and now he’d discovered he couldn’t stand himself down when a potential threat appeared.

The current threat was crouched over her laptop on the antique desk, and he had no business noticing its thick ponytail or elegant nose. He didn’t want her digging around in the family’s past. Any skeletons lurking around in the Huntingdon closet—and he was sure there were many—should remain undiscovered. Maybe not for ever, but for now. He didn’t want to hide from the truth—just to wait until things were more settled.

As for his out-of-leftfield attraction to Faith McKinnon? He sighed. Well, maybe he didn’t need to worry about that. The fact that he’d ‘changed’ after his father’s death was one of the things that had sent Amanda running. She’d told him she was fed up with his snapping and snarling. Apparently women didn’t find it very appealing. And from the looks Faith McKinnon had been giving him all afternoon she’d joined that lengthy queue. Even if there was something strange humming between them, he was pretty certain she wasn’t going to act on it.

And neither was he. So that was all good.

‘Oh, my …’

Something about the tone of Faith’s breathy exclamation stopped him short. He leaned forward to look at the laptop screen. She was transfixed by an image of an oil painting of a richly robed redhead in a beautiful garden, her arms overflowing with fruit.

‘That looks a bit like the window,’ he said.

Faith looked up at him, her eyes shining. ‘It looks a lot like the window! Do you see that plant with yellow flowers in the corner?’ She used the mouse to zoom in on one section of the high-res photo, showing a low-lying bush. ‘It’s quite distinctive,’ she said, indicating the papery leaves and, in the centre of each bloom, an explosion of long yellow filaments with red tips.

Marcus blinked. He was having trouble concentrating on what she was saying. That shine in her eyes had momentarily distracted him. All day she’d been like a robot, hardly talking to him, interacting as little as possible, and all of a sudden she was zinging with energy.

He cleared his throat. ‘And this means something?’

‘Maybe!’ She ran her hand over her smoothed-back hair and stood up, let out a little bemused laugh. ‘I don’t know …’ Her face fell. ‘Darn! I forgot to take a photo of the window when we were in the chapel yesterday.’ She shook her head, excitement turning to frustration, then marched over to the window to inspect the weather. ‘It’s not snowing nearly as hard now. Do you think we could go back? I need to see it up close—compare the two side by side.’

Marcus was so taken with this moving, talking Faith that he forgot to question if he should be pleased about this new discovery or not. ‘I don’t see why not.’

She was almost out through the door before he’d finished speaking, running to get her coat and boots. He followed her out of the drawing room, only to be almost bowled over when she dashed back to pick up her laptop.

‘Come on,’ she said, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘It’ll be dark soon and I want to find out for sure.’

He nodded, not quite sure what else he could say, and then he wrapped up warm and followed Faith McKinnon out into the snow.

Marcus stood back, arms folded, as Faith walked close to the window, her laptop balanced on her upturned hands. She looked from screen to window and back again repeatedly, and then she sat down on the end of the nearest pew and stared straight ahead.

He went and sat beside her. Not too close. She didn’t register his presence.

‘Are you okay?’ His low voice seemed to boom in the empty chapel.

Faith kept looking straight ahead and nodded dreamily. Marcus was just starting to wonder if he should call somebody when she turned to him and gave him the brightest, most beautiful smile he’d ever seen. It was as if up until that moment Faith McKinnon had been broadcasting in black and white and she’d suddenly switched to colour.

‘You’ve found something?’ he said.

She nodded again, but this time her head bobbed rapidly and her smile brightened further. ‘I think this window might be Samuel Crowbridge’s work after all!’

Ah. That. Marcus breathed out. Nothing about a message, then. Good.

She twisted the laptop his way, showing him the zoomed-in picture of the little bunch of yellow flowers. ‘They’re identical,’ she said triumphantly, ‘and rather stylised. Rose of Sharon, the article says—although they look nothing like the ones in my grandmother’s garden. Anyway, the chances of two different artists representing them this way is highly unlikely.’

He frowned. ‘I thought you said Crowbridge had moved on from that style.’

A quick flick of her fingers over the mousepad and he was looking at the full picture once again.

‘I know,’ she said, ‘but I think I may have found the reason he returned to it.’ She clicked again and now a webpage appeared, dense with text. The painting was now a long rectangle down one side. ‘Crowbridge was commissioned to do three paintings for a rather wealthy patron in the 1850s— Faith, Hope and Charity—but only completed two out of the three before his patron changed his mind.’

Her lips curved into the most bewitching smile, and he couldn’t help but focus on her lips as she continued to explain.

‘Apparently they were modelled on his wife and two mistresses, and mistress number two fell out of favour.’

His eyebrows rose a notch, and he found his own lips starting to curve. ‘You don’t say?’ He glanced back at the screen.

‘Both paintings have been in a private collection for a long time—hardly ever seen, let alone photographed—but one recently went to auction.’ She paused and her lips twitched a little. ‘The original…inspiration for the trio of paintings came to light, and the family—understandably—decided to part with the picture that wasn’t of Great-Great-Grandma.’

He nodded at the screen. ‘Which virtue is she?’

‘Charity,’ she said firmly, and then her gaze drifted to the stained glass. ‘Oh, how I wish there was a photo of the other one …’

She stood up, set the laptop down on the pew in front and walked over to the window.

Even in the dull light of a winter’s afternoon the stained glass picture was beautiful. The pale sun, now on its way to setting, gently warmed the outside of the glass. As Faith drew near patches of pastel colour fell on her face, highlighting her cheekbones. Drawn like a magnet, he stood and walked towards her.

His throat seemed to be full of gravel. He swallowed a couple of times to dislodge it. ‘And how does that relate to our window?’

No. Not our. At least not in the way he’d meant it when he’d said it. It should be his and Bertie’s our, not his and Faith’s our.

He was standing opposite her, with the window on his right, and she turned to face him. The patchwork colours of the window fell on one side of their faces, marking them identically.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said, and closed her eyes for the briefest of moments, almost as if she was sending up a silent prayer.

Marcus took another step forward.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. Right into him.

‘I think Crowbridge may have taken the chance, years later, to finish his trilogy. But not in oils this time—in stained glass.’

‘I see.’ He looked back, not breaking eye contact, amazed that he could see layer upon layer of things deep in those eyes that had previously been shuttered. ‘So this one here would be …?’

‘Faith,’ she whispered.

No longer did their words seem to echo. They were absorbed by the thick air surrounding the pair of them. Her eyes widened slightly and a soft breath escaped her lips.

Faith. The word reverberated inside his head. But he wasn’t looking at the window. In fact he’d forgotten all about it. His gaze moved from her eyes to her nose, and then lower …

‘Yes,’ he said softly, leaning dangerously closer.