A Christmas Letter: Snowbound in the Earl's Castle

‘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.