Christmas At His Chateau
There was something in the woman’s face… Something about her expression of pure joy that made Faith want to lean in and touch her—see if she could absorb some of that emotion by pure osmosis. Truly, the window was enchanting.
She turned round to see what her reluctant host could tell her about it and bumped into something warm and solid. She’d been aware that he’d been standing behind her, but not that he’d stepped in closer.
‘S-sorry!’ she stuttered, finding herself staring into his chest.
‘Well?’ he asked, a hint of impatience in his tone.
She knew she really ought to step back, move away, but her gaze had snagged on a feathery piece of cobweb that was stuck in his hair just above his right temple. For some reason she was suddenly much more interested in reaching up and gently brushing it away than turning round and looking at the coloured glass and lead she’d been so desperate to set eyes on.
What was even more worrying was the fact that she’d almost done it anyway—as if she’d known him long enough to share that easy kind of intimacy. It seemed unnatural not to.
Breathe, Faith. Turn around. Just because he looks like a modern-day Prince Charming it doesn’t mean you should audition for the role of Cinderella. That would be a really dumb idea.
He frowned, followed her gaze, and discovered the cobweb on his own. He brushed it away with long fingers and then did the oddest thing: he chuckled softly. To himself, though. None of the humour was to be shared with her. But it changed his face completely, softening the angular planes, and made him seem younger, less stand-offish. Faith discovered she’d stopped breathing.
No. Don’t you do it, Faith McKinnon. Don’t you believe where there’s no hope. You learned those lessons young. You’re not that soft-hearted girl any more, remember?
She didn’t smile back at him, but turned abruptly and stared at the window again. He moved away, thank goodness, walked closer to the window to inspect it for himself. They remained silent for a few minutes, both focused intently on the gently lit glass picture in front of them.
Marcus came and stood beside her. ‘For a long time all the windows here were boarded up. I don’t think I’ve ever taken a really good look at this before. It’s actually quite beautiful.’
Faith nodded, still staring at the golden-haired woman. ‘If I lived here I’d come to see it every day.’
He folded his arms and looked around. ‘This chapel hasn’t been used by the family for decades. No one has been here much since—’ He stopped short, as if a jagged thunderbolt of a thought had just hit him, and then turned to look at her. ‘Since my grandfather was a small boy.’
She met his gaze. ‘You think there’s a link? Something to do with what your grandfather said earlier?’
He pressed his lips together. ‘There could be any one of a dozen reasons why the family has left this place alone. For a start, I don’t think any of my immediate ancestors were very religious.’
He wasn’t going to budge an inch, was he? On anything. He was right and everyone else was wrong. That chapped her hide. He reminded her so much of her older sister, always issuing orders as if they were divine decrees.
She folded her arms across her chest. ‘You don’t believe him, do you?’
He was silent for a few seconds, and then turned his attention back to the stained glass window. ‘I believe there was some big family ruckus—probably a storm in a teacup—but as for there being a secret message in the window… It seems a little far-fetched.’ He sighed. ‘I think it’s what my grandfather wants to believe.’
Faith chewed the side of her lip. No pressure, then. It was just up to her to confirm or crush an old man’s dreams. She stepped forward again and focused once more on the subject of all the controversy.
‘See anything out of the ordinary?’ he asked.
She tipped her head to the side. ‘It’s difficult to say. Despite the subject matter, it isn’t a very typical design for a church.’
She pulled a sheaf of photographs out of her bag and held them up so she could compare them against the window. They were images of various paintings and sketches of the supposed artist’s other lost windows. ‘It’s similar to Crowbridge’s earlier work, which was heavily influenced by the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.’
He nodded. ‘This window certainly has a touch of that style.’
Faith’s brows rose a notch and she swivelled her eyes to look at him. ‘You know something about art?’ What a relief to find he knew about something other than ordering people around, making them feel unwanted.
He gave her a derisive look.
She ignored it and cleared her throat. ‘But his work changed dramatically after the turn of the last century. This window isn’t anything like the paintings he was producing around the time this window was made.’
A lead weight settled inside her stomach. She hadn’t realised it, but she’d been dumb enough to let herself get excited about the window, to let herself hope. She turned away from it, wanting to block the image out for a second.
She should have been smarter than to get sucked in to the fantasy like that. But it was this place… Hadsborough was a like a fairytale on steroids. It was hard not to fall into that trap. She would just have to do better in the future.
‘I can see how an amateur might have made the error,’ she said, looking Marcus in the eye, ‘but I don’t think Samuel Crowbridge made this window.’
‘You know your subject, Miss McKinnon.’
‘Nice of you to notice,’ she replied. Really, the nerve of the man. She didn’t need his validation. ‘And it’s Faith.’
He blinked slowly, as if he’d registered her request and would think it over. Faith didn’t usually have a short fuse, but something about this man, his superior attitude, just drove her nuts.
‘Any sign of this message my grandfather mentioned?’
She shook her head, although she wanted to say, Yes, it’s there in letters three feet high, just to get up his nose. ‘Nothing pops out, but since it’s not a traditional church window the normal symbolic conventions may not apply.’
‘I need to know for sure,’ Marcus said. ‘My grandfather will just keep fretting about it unless you give me something more concrete.’
She thought of the charming old man, sitting by the fire, trying to read his newspaper while he waited for her to give him hope where there was none. But Bertie had asked for her professional opinion, hadn’t he? And she needed to honour that—stay dispassionate, objective. It wasn’t her fault if it had all been a dead end.
Don’t get involved…
Right. That was what she was going to do. Not get involved.
It wasn’t normally a problem in her line of work. The people intimately connected with the windows she worked on were long dead, shrouded in the mystery of another century. So this window was a little different, had a sad story to go along with it. That shouldn’t change anything. It didn’t.
‘I could do some further research,’ she said. ‘I should be able to send you a report in a couple of days, but I don’t think it’s going to turn up anything new.’
He breathed out, looking slightly thankful. ‘Maybe that’s for the best.’ He glanced over his shoulder to the open door. ‘Thank you, Miss McKinnon.’
Still with the ‘Miss McKinnon’. He used her name like a shield.
She took one last look at the window. It really was beautiful—so unusual. And apart from the bad repair job down at the bottom it was in good condition. It was sad to leave it that way, especially when it wouldn’t be a long job—not like the one she’d just finished…
Marcus moved towards the door. ‘We’d better go back and talk to the Duke,’ he said, not bothering to look over his shoulder.
Right. And then it would be time to get back to where she belonged—her own world, her own life.
CHAPTER THREE
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.