The Winter Secret

by Lulu Taylor

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Well, what do you know? A real princess. My very own Snow White. Let’s make you look gorgeous, Your Majesty.’

  It seemed to Xenia that she’d spent an hour having her face dabbed and stroked with brushes and pencils before the girl said, ‘You can look!’

  And Xenia opened her eyes to a completely different person. She looked like a grown-up, this stranger in the mirror, with her shimmering eyelids, thick dark lashes and bright red lips.

  ‘Oh!’ she said, astonished. She didn’t look exactly like Mama – no one could – but she looked glamorous and . . . pretty? Yes, I look pretty!

  ‘We don’t have time to do your hair, but I’ve got a wig or two we can try,’ the girl said confidentially, ‘and then we’ll get you into a dress.’

  Going out onto the set in her black dress – plain, apparently, but still the most glamorous and grown-up thing she had ever worn – and with her new face and hair, she had the tiniest inkling of what it must be like to be Mama, and it was terrifying. Everyone was looking at her. All over the set men turned to stare and a few of them whistled their appreciation. She felt as though every person on the huge sound stage was looking at her and evaluating her and how she looked. The cameras, large from behind, looked gigantic when standing before them, their staring single eyes focused directly at her, and the light from above was dazzling, filtered through cellophane squares of red, blue, yellow and green.

  And I’m not even the focus of their attention. No wonder Mama is so scared of it all.

  And yet it was heady. To be Mama – so beautiful, so desired and so important – must be lovely too. Xenia had nothing to do but take coats from extras as they came and went. She didn’t even take Mama’s coat, because that was a speaking role and she didn’t have the right to talk in the film, but she stood next to the girl who said, ‘Good evening’ and ‘Here’s your ticket’. She could only hope she didn’t look too stupid, because she had been stunned by Mama as she came by with the camera rolling. The strangest thing was that she didn’t seem to be her mother at all, but this haughty arrogant woman, Delilah, who drove everyone to madness with her beauty and her reckless, selfish behaviour.

  When it was all over and they carried on with the next scene, Xenia kept on her grown-up clothes and all the makeup, and hid in the darkness at the edge of the set to carry on watching, still somehow feeling like a part of Mama’s world. It had been terrifying and yet . . . utterly addictive.

  So that’s acting.

  ‘Hello, you beautiful creature.’

  She heard the voice deep in her ear, and felt a hand at her waist and then at her chest, where it stroked over the beginnings of her breasts. It was a man, with a low and growling voice. He was short and she could tell by the smell of his antique cologne – ancient leather and smoke – that he was old. He had an actor’s voice: over-pronounced, smooth.

  ‘You are exquisite. So young and so enticing. There’s so much I’d like to teach you.’

  The voice buried itself deeper into her ear and became a tongue, wet and tickling, sounding like a storm in her head. Revolted, she pulled away, pushed off the hand and ran off as fast as she could, not stopping until she was back in the make-up room, and in the comforting company of the gum-chewing girl.

  ‘You okay? You have fun?’ she said, dropping her magazine and standing up. ‘Want me to get that stuff off you?’

  Xenia nodded, panting. She wanted all the paint and artifice gone. It was too dangerous after all.

  No wonder Mama was so afraid, if this was what her beauty caused her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  On the way back to Charcombe, Buttercup made her usual detour to see her mother, glad of the time in the car when she could think without distractions. She was alone, just another anonymous vehicle on the motorway, without any watchful eyes upon her.

  Unless my car is tracked. Or maybe I’m being followed.

  She flicked her gaze up to the rear-view mirror as if she might see someone tailing her. A few cars back was a London taxi, despite their distance from the city, and she thought suddenly of Rich and his black cab – perfect for blending into the background.

  Would Charles get him to follow me?

  Then she shook her head and laughed at herself. ‘Watch out,’ she said out loud. ‘You’ll make yourself paranoid if you’re not careful.’

  Nevertheless, she couldn’t help thinking of that report, carefully compiled by Elaine and put in front of Charles every week, detailing all her movements and keeping a close watch on her. At least Rose had agreed to slip the clinic through. With any luck, Elaine wouldn’t notice and if she did, well . . . Buttercup would have talked to Charles by then in any case.

  She stayed with her mother for a couple of hours, talking some of the time of inconsequential things, reading to her, or just sitting in silence and watching her. Stacy had said Mum was on a course of antibiotics for an infection, and Buttercup wondered if the drugs were working. There was no way of knowing if Mum was in pain or felt out of sorts; she seemed, as always, deep in a dream world, far away from everyday reality. What was going on in her mind? Was she dreaming? Or could she hear and understand? Maybe there was nothing at all; perhaps she was drifting in darkness, just a step away from death itself.

  Buttercup reached out and held her mother’s hand. ‘Don’t die yet, Mum. Please.’

  When she’d been younger, she’d been tormented by the idea that she wanted her mother to die – partly so Mum could escape the monstrous encroachment of the disease as it robbed her of the life she had loved; and partly so Buttercup too could be free from the awfulness of watching it creep over her like gangrene up a limb, and the long-drawn-out grief as she was slowly taken away and yet remained. Now, though, it was dreadful to think of her slipping over the border and into oblivion, her light finally extinguished. Her mother was still here, warm, alive and existing, still tied to this world by a tiny thread. If it were cut, Buttercup would be entirely alone.

  Except, she reminded herself, there’s Charles.

  When she got back to Charcombe, the weather had turned again; rain exploded in a riotous patter on the windscreen, the wipers going full pelt. Autumn had taken a turn from crisp gold and orange to the slatey grey, chill dark of oncoming winter. It was getting cold. As she stopped outside the gates of the house and waited for them to slide open, she couldn’t prevent her gaze from moving to the right to where Fitzroy House stood obscured by neat hedges and the magnolia tree. It seemed to be in darkness and closed up. When had she last seen any sign of life there? The fact was, she tried not to look so that she couldn’t be caught attempting to catch a glimpse of Ingrid, and she couldn’t remember how long it had been since she’d seen a light in the window. Perhaps, with Charlotte away, Ingrid was on her own travels.

  It’s none of my business in any case.

  The gates were open now and she pressed down on the accelerator; the car shot forward to fly up the driveway to the house.

  Tippi came bounding out to welcome her back, excited and barking, her tail thumping against the car door as Buttercup climbed out, laughing. The rain had eased off but the whole courtyard was dripping and slippery with wet.

  ‘There, there, girl – did you miss me?’ She patted Tippi and lifted her bag out of the back seat.

  ‘Good trip?’ Phil was coming across the courtyard pushing a red bicycle, his hair damp and his puffy jacket rain-spotted.

  ‘Yes thanks. Are you off for a bike ride?’

  ‘What?’ He looked down, surprised, as though he hadn’t seen the bike before. ‘Oh this! No, I’m fixing a puncture for Agnieska.’

  ‘That’s nice of you.’

  ‘If the weather clears, I’m going to ride tomorrow morning if you fancy it.’

  ‘Yes please.’

  Phil looked up at the sky, squinting at the rain clouds. ‘Let’s hope it dries up a bit before the bonfire party at the pub. It’ll be a washout if it carries on like this.’ He wheeled t
he bike into the stables, and Buttercup headed inside, Tippi at her heels.

  Buttercup shivered. She was sitting in the drawing room trying to warm up and wondering why the heating wasn’t having any effect, scrolling through her social media. She saw that a notification had popped up so clicked on it and found that Caroline, the gateway to Ingrid, had accepted her friend request and sent a message.

  Hi! So lovely to hear from you. We must have you and Charles over for dinner soon. I’ll ping some dates. Hope you’re well. Caro. xxx

  Buttercup stared for a moment and realised she was holding her breath. It all depended on what security settings Ingrid had selected. She may have protected herself but forgotten that friends of friends could see more than she realised. Her fingers trembling lightly, she went to Caroline’s page and her list of friends. There was Ingrid’s profile picture. She clicked on it and was taken straight into her page. It felt like a mysterious door in the wall being opened and revealing a secret garden to her. She sat very still as she scrolled downwards, oblivious to everything but the pictures on the screen in front of her. Ingrid was not a prolific poster but there were occasional photographs with captions, and the comments underneath gave some clues as to what was going on.

  Buttercup found she was looking at a picture of Ingrid standing with James outside what must have been his school. Ingrid was without her sunglasses this time, and Buttercup could see the warm hazel eyes like James’s, crinkled at the edges, a round pleasant face, and shoulder-length dark hair that fell in soft waves. She was wearing a flowered tea dress that showed a slim figure, and high espadrilles that tied in blue ribbons around her calves.

  She looked nice, ordinary, a normal woman on the edge of middle-age standing proudly next to her young son. Nothing like the hard-eyed vamp or desperate flirt that Buttercup had imagined. The caption read: ‘My boy is all grown up. School is over, now he’s off to university. It’s still so hard to believe!’

  Underneath friends had written their comments agreeing how time had flown and how mature James looked. ‘You look lovely, Ingrid!’ wrote one. ‘Love the dress.’ Ingrid had liked all the comments.

  The next series of photographs were flowers and gardens. Buttercup passed quickly over them and stopped on a more curious picture: a knight in armour on horseback accepting some kind of prize from a woman dressed like something from a picture book in a red velvet gown and a cone-shaped hat adorned with a swirl of veil. ‘Winning all the honours at the tournament in Cologne’ read the caption.

  ‘Ooh, clever Joachim! Doesn’t he look handsome?’ was one of the comments.

  Who on earth is Joachim?

  Buttercup carried on downwards, past more pictures of garden flowers and then to a post that was only text. It read:

  Please understand that I cannot talk about recent events. My friends can contact me via email but I will not be commenting on this forum in any way. Thank you.

  Buttercup looked at the date and saw that it was almost two years before she’d met Charles. Ingrid must be talking about the divorce. There were several likes but only one external comment: ‘I can’t believe Charles is treating you like this after everything you did for him. What an utter shit. You’re so much better off.’ Underneath that, Ingrid had written, ‘Can’t say anything. Appreciate your support though.’

  Buttercup stared, reading it over and over again. What was Ingrid saying about Charles? Relations were civil, amicable. Had she been making up stories about her ex-husband?

  ‘Can I get you some coffee?’ Carol’s voice broke into her thoughts, and she jumped violently, pushing down her computer screen so that it was not visible.

  ‘Oh! Er – yes, thanks. Actually, I’m done here. I’ll come to the kitchen. I just can’t get warm in here, I don’t know why.’

  ‘It’s always icy everywhere, except in the kitchen, thanks to the Aga,’ Carol said, not appearing to notice anything amiss. ‘I’ll see you there then.’

  Did she see anything? Surely she couldn’t have. Buttercup let out a shaky breath. Anyway, Carol’s lovely, she isn’t a watcher. But she thought of all the times Carol had casually asked her where she was going and who she was seeing. Did she contribute to Elaine’s reports?

  She shook her head. I’ve got to stop thinking like this, I’ll drive myself mad if I don’t. But that was a close thing. I don’t want anyone to know I’m looking at Ingrid’s profile.

  In the kitchen, Buttercup at last felt some warmth seeping into her bones. ‘I think this is my favourite room in the house,’ she remarked, sitting down and picking up her mug of coffee. She wrapped her chilly fingers around it and savoured the heat.

  ‘It’s the cosiest, that’s why,’ Carol said, coming to join her. ‘How was London?’

  ‘Good, thank you. I popped in to see Mum on the way back.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘All right, as far as I can tell. Getting on top of her infection.’

  ‘Bless her.’ Carol gave her a sympathetic look. ‘It’s terrible to lose your mother to that awful illness, she’s still so young . . .’

  Buttercup nodded. ‘Thanks, yes it is.’ She sipped her hot coffee and looked at the other woman sitting across the table. Carol was always cheerful, ready to help, friendly without being interfering or over familiar. She was part of the house, an integral part of what made it home. I live with her as much as I live with Charles. Maybe even more. What an odd thought. ‘How long have you and Steve worked here?’

  ‘Oh, a long time. Eight years, I think. Ever since the children left home.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s gone so fast.’

  ‘So you were here when Charles’s previous wife lived here.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Carol’s demeanour and cheerful tone didn’t change and she held Buttercup’s gaze. ‘She was here for about two years after we arrived. James and Charlotte were still quite young then. Absolute terrors they could be, racing around like mad things. Out on their ponies half the time, thank goodness. In the summer, they were in and out of the pool, dozens of friends around.’ Carol smiled. ‘It’s quieter now, that’s for sure.’

  ‘It sounds nice,’ Buttercup said wistfully. She could almost make out the echoes of children’s laughter and hear the slap of wet feet running on the warm stone beside the pool.

  ‘Children always make a house a home,’ Carol said, and her smile instantly disappeared. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I know . . . Oh, I’ve put my foot in it.’ Her hands went to her face. ‘I’m an idiot.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Buttercup said, forcing out a smile. ‘It’s absolutely fine. It’s not your fault. And you’re right – houses like this do need children. I’m sure that will happen in time.’

  ‘Of course it will,’ Carol said, taking away her hands, two spots of pink on her cheeks showing her embarrassment. ‘Of course.’

  Buttercup went upstairs slowly. She had been on the brink of asking Carol about Ingrid: what she was like, how the marriage had imploded and what Charles had done. It seemed that some people thought Charles had behaved badly – had he? Could he be blamed for that when his wife had betrayed him? But she couldn’t ask Carol those things, it put her into a very difficult position.

  So how am I ever going to find out? And, in any case, should I want to know anyway? It’s the future that matters, not the past.

  When she arrived at the first-floor landing, she noticed the door to the Redmain Room was open and there were sounds coming from within. Going over, she looked in and saw Agnieska crouching on the floor, scrabbling about, gathering what looked like white triangles off the floor.

  ‘Agnieska? What are you doing?’

  The girl looked up, her eyes wide and frightened. ‘Sorry!’ she cried, even paler than usual. ‘It was accident!’

  ‘What happened?’ Buttercup went in and saw that a commemorative plate lay smashed into large pieces on the floor. ‘Oh no! Did you knock it off the wall?’

  Agnieska nodded, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Accident!’ she whispered. ‘I’m sor
ry.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Buttercup bit her lip. ‘Charles is so incredibly careful about all these things. Did Carol tell you to clean in here? I’m sure it’s best if she does it in future, just to be on the safe side.’

  Agnieska was looking back at the pieces, obviously no longer understanding her. ‘I throw away?’ she suggested.

  ‘No! No, don’t do that. Here, give the pieces to me. Maybe we can mend it.’ She picked up the largest piece of plate, looking at its rim of gold and the delicate painting at its centre. Around the edges were black letters. She dreaded the thought of delivering the news to Charles. Agnieska passed her the other pieces in silence, but her eyes were eloquent. She was afraid.

  Buttercup looked at her earnestly. ‘I’ll try and get it fixed. But don’t clean in here again, Agnieska. I’ll tell Carol she must do it. Okay?’

  The girl nodded, got to her feet and picked up her bucket of cleaning things. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, and fled.

  Buttercup stood looking at the broken plate in her hand and sighed heavily. It was ridiculous that they should be so upset over a plate. But it was most likely irreplaceable, or at least expensive. No doubt Charles was insured, but he wouldn’t see that as a comfort.

  She took the pieces and went downstairs to find Carol.

  Chapter Eighteen

  By the time the evening of the bonfire party arrived, the weather had cleared and it was crisp and cold again. Buttercup had arranged for Milky and the other horses to go down to the Herberts’ yard for the evening, to keep them well out of the way of the display. She put on a long coat and a woolly hat to keep out the chill and drove down to the pub, where dozens of cars were already parked. It was busy out the back of the pub. The villagers, no doubt curious about the newcomers, had turned out in a large number. Children were running about, excited, or lining up impatiently at the barbecue where Wilf was grilling burgers and sausages, to be laced with onions, stuffed into rolls and then smothered with ketchup. Grown-ups were keeping hold of jumpy offspring or clutching cups of mulled wine and hot cider while they waited for the main event: the bonfire and the fireworks in the field behind the pub. Lanterns hung at intervals on cast-iron poles, shedding a gentle yellow light, and the back of the pub was festooned with twinkling fairy lights.