In the Shadow of Winter: A gripping historical novel with murder, secrets and forbidden love

“Eleanor?”

“Um?” I responded sleepily, blinking myself out of my stupor.

“You didn’t get a doctor, did you? Last night I mean.” Matthew had turned slightly awkwardly against the arm of his settee to look back at me.

“Er…?” My brain was struggling to get into gear.

“These bandages,” he gestured to his chest, “did you fetch someone to do them?”

I glowered at him, “No, Matthew, I didn’t. It was snowing in case you’ve forgotten and we’re cut off again for the moment; I did them with my own fair hands. I’m sorry if they’re not up to scratch.”

“No, no,” he corrected hastily, “they’re very good.” He paused, “So no one knows I’m here?”

“No, Matthew, no one knows you’re here,” I said tiredly, concealing the shiver as I realised that his fears had not just been a symptom of his confused ramblings in the night.

I climbed stiffly to my feet without looking at him, concentrating instead on straightening the cushions of my chair; “Do you want anything else? Only I’m going to bed now.”

“No, nothing, thank you,” he said, but then, as I opened the door to the stairs, added; “Eleanor?”

“Yes?” I demanded curtly.

“Just …” A pause. “Thank you,” he finished gently.

As if to compound my exhausted frustration, the handle to my bedroom door decided this was the ideal moment to come off in my hand. Crossly, I slapped it down on the dresser and as I bent to wedge the door shut with a small pile of books, I had to wonder whether the house had it in for me too.

Very wearily, I peeled off the five or so layers of clothing that were my defence against winter. My fingers were stiff as I fumbled with the buttons and then, as I gave in and drew the shirt off over my head, I suddenly realised that my wrists were aching with far more than just tiredness.

I looked down and it was with a kind of fascinated horror that I observed dark marks encircling each one. They were ugly and tender and I had to spend some minutes just sitting on the edge of my bed. Somehow in the preoccupation of being offended by his determined silence, the whole shocking truth of my discovery out in the snow had faded in my memory to become nothing more than a product of my uneasy imagination. But the bruises were indisputable and, allied with his refusal to make any kind of explanation, I found that as I finally slipped into bed, I was actually trembling.