The Winter Secret

by Lulu Taylor

  ‘What is it?’ Buttercup asked, suspecting she knew the answer.

  ‘Where’s the damn plate?’ Charles spluttered, pointing at the gap on the wall where it had hung. ‘I came to put my new acquisition in the cabinet, and I saw at once that it’s missing.’

  Carol glanced at Buttercup, opened her mouth to speak and then stopped.

  Buttercup stepped towards Charles. ‘Don’t get upset, darling. There was an accident. The plate was broken. Everyone is terribly sorry and Steve has taken it to a specialist repairer in Exeter, they say they can mend it—’

  ‘Broken?’ Charles hissed. He whirled round to face Carol. ‘Was it you?’

  ‘It wasn’t Carol,’ Buttercup said quickly.

  He turned to stare at her, his eyes hard and accusatory. ‘It wasn’t you, was it?’

  ‘No, no!’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘Does it matter? It was an accident—’

  But he cut across her. ‘Of course it matters. No one is allowed to touch the things in this room, let alone break them. Who was it?’

  Buttercup couldn’t lie, but didn’t want to throw the blame on someone less able to defend herself. She glanced at Carol, who looked nervous now.

  ‘Who?’ shouted Charles.

  Buttercup said in a small voice, ‘It was one of the cleaners. Agnieska. But it was an accident, she was devastated!’

  ‘Is she here?’ he asked brusquely.

  Carol said, ‘She’s cleaning out the boot room—’

  Charles strode out of the room, heading downstairs. The two women followed, Buttercup feeling powerless to restrain him and desperate that he shouldn’t take it out on Agnieska.

  But it was a vain hope. He found her in the boot room; she was on her knees, scrubbing the floor, the boots and shoes in a pile outside. Agnieska looked up at him, her eyes wide and bewildered.

  ‘There’s no room for mistakes in my house. Collect your things and go, your services are no longer required.’

  Agnieska seemed to understand, a look of horror going over her face. ‘Please! I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘That’s it, I’m afraid.’ Charles’s voice was steely and Buttercup suspected there was little chance of his changing his mind. ‘Carol will pay you a fortnight in lieu.’

  He turned and marched away down the corridor, his shoulders set.

  Agnieska turned anguished eyes to Buttercup. ‘No? I have to go?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, putting out a hand towards her. ‘If only I’d got the plate back before he noticed. It’s such bad luck that he went in there before it got back from the mender!’

  Agnieska didn’t understand all of it, but she knew it was hopeless. ‘I get my things,’ she said dully.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Buttercup said again. She looked at Carol, whose mouth was set in a grim line. ‘Can you sort Agnieska out? Please give her two months’ wages. I’ll give you the money myself.’

  ‘Fine,’ Carol said quietly. Her expression was difficult to read. ‘Come with me, Agnieska.’

  Agnieska followed her out, her grey eyes filling with tears. Buttercup watched them go, then marched back up the stairs to Charles’s study.

  He was sitting at his desk monitoring his computer screens as she came in, looking up coldly as she stood in front of him. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Charles, that was unforgivable! You can’t sack her for breaking a plate!’

  ‘I can and I have.’

  ‘She’s a single mother with two small children and three cleaning jobs to keep it all going! It’s completely disproportionate to fire her for one mistake.’

  Charles was staring back at her, his blue eyes icy. ‘That’s my decision. She’s my employee, not yours.’

  ‘But she’s got so little and you’ve got so much! What does one plate matter?’

  ‘It matters a lot,’ he said in a quiet tone.

  Rose’s words in London suddenly came into her mind: I’ve seen what the boss is like. He won’t be disobeyed and he doesn’t like mistakes. She could see it now: that steel-trap ruthlessness Rose had described but in which she hadn’t quite believed.

  Charles was still staring at her. ‘Trust, you see. I wouldn’t be able to trust Agnieska any more. I gave her access to my most precious possessions, and she’s shown herself unworthy of the trust. Do you understand?’

  ‘I honestly believe you’re being unfair. I can’t believe you would be so unjust!’

  Charles stood up and went to the window. For a moment, he gazed out over the parkland, grey and spikily bare under the winter sky, then said in a tone that was now calm but still measured, ‘Let me try to explain. Life here is special. You must know that. Inside my circle, life is lovely. It’s safe and comfortable. When someone crosses me, they move outside my circle. Outside, it’s cold and miserable and unpleasant. Sometimes, very sadly, someone who has been a trusted and valued insider must be put out – like a sinner being shut out of heaven. And once you are out, you can never come back in. That’s how it is with Agnieska. She’s out, and can never come back. That’s my decision, I’m afraid.’ He turned back to look at her. ‘Now, darling, I must get on, if you don’t mind.’

  Buttercup opened her mouth to protest again, then realised that there was no point with Charles in this mood. She had never seen him so cold and resolute, and she didn’t like this side of him at all. ‘Fine. I’ll see you later. I’m going for a ride.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Xenia was in the front garden looking for Petrova the cat, although it was also a good opportunity to stare down the lane at the comings and goings at the pub. The obvious preparations for the hoped-for influx of new customers bothered her. She had grown accustomed to the pub sitting in quiet desolation with an empty car park and a silent beer garden. It had not been particularly noisy when it was occupied, apart from the occasional party, but she couldn’t help fretting.

  That awful thing they had last week – the bangs and crashes! Poor Petrova was so frightened! What will all these cars mean for her? It will be their fault if she’s killed.

  She had received a note pushed through her letter box only the day before:

  Dear Princess Arkadyoff,

  We are writing to apologise for not warning you in advance about our Bonfire Night event. We thought our posters advertising it had provided notice, but we understand that we should have personally let you know what to expect when we held our Bonfire Night party. We are usually considerate and intend to stay on the best of terms with all our neighbours, so we are mortified at this lapse. Please accept our sincere apologies and we hope you will come in to visit us for a complimentary drink and have a look at our new venture.

  Yours sincerely,

  Cathy and Wilf Tranter

  She had read it over twice and then laughed at the idea that she might go into a pub. She had never visited a public drinking establishment – no lady did – and she was not about to start. If they were as considerate as they claimed, they could begin by cancelling their outdoor events forthwith.

  She considering ringing up the pub to give the Tranters a piece of her mind but decided against it. Still, she was more vigilant than ever about what they were up to down there, and on the lookout for an opportunity to tell one or both of them exactly what she thought. Standing in the cold garden, she craned her neck over the top of the hedge to see if she could make out what was happening, but her eyesight was no longer up to it.

  The sound of soft sobbing made her turn her head. Squinting through the black fuzzy hole in the middle of her vision, she saw Agnieska coming through the gates of Charcombe Park, wheeling her bicycle as she went.

  ‘Agnieska, what’s wrong?’ she called out.

  The girl looked up, her grey eyes pink with tears. ‘Oh – nothing. I am fine.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, you’re crying. Come in at once.’

  Agnieska hesitated, then wheeled her bike over towards Hooke Cottage.

  Xenia hurried to open the gate, wishing she could move
with more agility. She was still fit, but her limbs were creakier and her back had a tiresome curve in it that kept her permanently bent. ‘Come on, come inside.’

  A few minutes later, she had the kettle on the stovetop while Agnieska sat weeping at the kitchen table, her face buried in her hands.

  ‘Sweet tea,’ Xenia announced, putting it down on the table. She sat down next to the girl. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Agnieska sniffed and looked up with large, watery eyes. ‘I am sacked. No job.’

  ‘From the big house? Why?’

  ‘Accident. Plate . . .’ Agnieska mimed dropping something from a great height. ‘Whoosh! Smash.’

  ‘Oh, you broke something.’ Xenia frowned. ‘They sacked you over a broken plate? That seems rather harsh. What kind of plate was it?’

  Agnieska looked at her sadly, uncomprehending.

  ‘Normal plate?’ Xenia asked.

  ‘No! Special. Old.’

  ‘I see. Oh dear. It still seems disproportionate, my dear. Did Mrs Redmain dismiss you?’ Seeing the look of confusion, she said slowly, ‘Missus gave you the sack?’

  ‘Missus? No – Mister. The boss. He is so angry.’ The grey eyes welled again. ‘He tell me to go.’

  ‘Ugh, that man . . . a Napoleon complex if ever I saw one. He’s always needed taking down a peg or two.’ Xenia broke off suddenly, remembering her attempt to take him down a notch and its consequences. ‘Well, you’re better off without it.’ She touched Agnieska’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, dear.’

  ‘The money.’ Agnieska sniffed. ‘The money, I need it.’

  ‘We’ll just have to think of something else, that’s all.’ Xenia hesitated and then decided to say what had been on her mind for the last few days. ‘You were kind to me the other night, with the fireworks.’

  Agnieska looked at her, nodding at the word fireworks. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I appreciated it. No one else would speak to me politely. You did. Your little boys are well behaved too. Here is my idea. Can you drive?’ She mimed moving a steering wheel to make sure Agnieska understood. ‘Drive?’

  The girl nodded. ‘Yes, I drive. I have licence.’

  ‘Good. I have a car, but I can’t use it because my vision is getting so bad. So – about how this. You drive the car for me. I will insure it. You can take me shopping or on visits, whenever I need to go somewhere. Perhaps you can even help me with shopping. And you can use it over the winter for you and the boys, when you need it yourself.’ Xenia smiled at her, realised what an unaccustomed expression that was these days. ‘There! Isn’t that a good solution?’

  Agnieska frowned, baffled.

  Xenia sighed with irritation. ‘Oh dear, let’s try again.’ She fetched a piece of paper and pencil so she could draw simple sketches of cars and people to explain, squinting to see the paper as well as she could. ‘Here – this is you and the children, two little boys. See? Good. Here is my car, and me. YOU’ – she scrawled arrows pointing the Agnieska figure to the car – ‘drive ME to the shops. And YOU and the BOYS go to school when it’s cold . . .’

  When Agnieska understood what was being said, her face cleared like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. ‘Ah! You give me car!’

  ‘Well, not quite, but—’

  ‘Oh thank you, thank you.’ She leaned over and put her arms around Xenia and hugged her. ‘Thank you so much. I understand. I use it for you, and for me. You are so kind.’

  Xenia stiffened under the girl’s touch, and then relaxed. ‘You’re welcome,’ she said formally. ‘We will have to draw up some terms, but yes . . . you can use the car and I hope it will help you.’

  The feeling of having done something good and useful stayed with her all afternoon after Agnieska had left. It reminded her what it was like to feel wanted and needed, the way she had when she’d had Mama and the house to look after.

  ‘My darling Xenia,’ her mother would say, gazing at her with soulful eyes. ‘You are a saint. My angel. I don’t know what I would do without you.’

  But that was before I betrayed her.

  She pushed the voice out of her mind. What good did it do to think of that now, when it was all so far in the past? The image of Mama’s grave floated before her eyes and her mind went to Luke and Gwen.

  She had not thought of them for years, and yet they had come to mind twice in a few days. Perhaps it was because she’d been thinking about Agnieska’s sons, who had seemed such nice, well-behaved little boys at the fireworks party. It had occurred to her that she could give Agnieska a Christmas gift: some nice treats, and presents for the boys. What did little boys like, besides chocolate? She had only ever known one small boy, and that was Luke and Gwen’s son, Gawain. Luke had loved Arthurian legend: his huge round table that sat thirty was a tribute to it. The name of his boy, and that of his daughter, Isolde, were also Arthurian. She tried to remember Gawain as he’d been when Luke and Gwen had lived at the house thirty years before: a small, solemn thing with coppery hair and eyes of almost the same colour, freckles and skinny legs. He’d bicycled, and played with a football and read books.

  They won’t do that now. It’s video games, I think. And television.

  She had dreaded the thought of children at Charcombe but in the end she had grown fond of both the drifting Isolde, who was thirteen and always falling in love with the young carpenters and blacksmiths, and Gawain, who was like a curious puppy – constantly prowling and finding his way into places he shouldn’t be. He often got himself into mischief, plummeting out of trees, tripping over and grazing his knees, getting entangled in something. One day, he picked up something in the workshop and cut himself, and Harry had brought him to the kitchen to be cleaned and bandaged. Xenia, washing up at the sink, had tended to the cut and decided it wasn’t bad enough to need stitches.

  ‘We don’t have to take him to the doctor,’ she’d said firmly. ‘He’ll be fine.’ She was relieved that he hadn’t been badly hurt, especially with Luke and Gwen away for the day. She’d looked sternly at the little boy, who hadn’t cried but had been fascinated with the ruby blood that spilled from the cut on his hand. ‘Don’t play with the tools, Gawain. They’re not toys!’

  ‘That’s what Dad says,’ the boy replied.

  ‘Keep out of the workshop, young man,’ Harry cautioned him. But when the boy had run off, proud of his bandage, he’d smiled at Xenia and said, ‘I like him around, really. He’s good company. I’ll make sure I keep the tools out of his reach next time.’

  That was the first time she and Harry had properly spoken to one another.

  I mustn’t think about that. It does no good. She shook her head. I’m considering Christmas presents for little boys, not dreaming about Harry. I shall get them chocolate, then. I can’t go wrong with that.

  She didn’t want to feel melancholy; she had enjoyed the warm inner glow that came from helping Agnieska.

  I will do something that makes me happy.

  That was a cup of tea, a large slice of coffee cake from the tin, and settling down on the sofa with the electric heater beside her while the television played one of her favourite programmes about people buying houses in the country. She liked to shout loudly at them, and tell them in no uncertain terms that they were making a mistake, either for buying or not buying, although her fuzzy vision was spoiling her enjoyment.

  Petrova sprang up beside her, turned around a few times, then settled down to snooze beside her while she watched a useless couple refuse a perfect property and yearn after quite the wrong one. She finished her cake, put her empty teacup to one side and before long, her eyes were drooping and she snoozed, then slept.

  When she woke, she thought she was still dreaming. She was in a familiar world, peopled by voices she recognised. She heard one voice in particular that fell into her ears like the sweet strains of a long-forgotten but beloved piece of music.

  ‘Well, Sam, if that’s the way you feel about it—’

  ‘I do. Goodbye. Forever.’

  The slam of a d
oor. A sigh.

  Xenia blinked and tried to focus on where she was. She looked at the screen, which was a fuzzy black mass in front of her.

  ‘Oh, Sam,’ said the sweet voice. ‘You fool. If only you knew the truth.’

  Slow footsteps. Another voice, not sweet this time. Horrible. Smoothly repellent and bringing the bitter taste of sickness to her mouth.

  ‘Well, well, Delilah. It looks as though you’ve finally managed to shake him off.’

  ‘It’s your fault, Julius! You’re the one behind all of this. Why won’t you let me tell him the truth?’

  ‘You know why.’

  Xenia moved her head to the side so that she could focus on the screen.

  Mama.

  So beautiful! In her prime – the lustrous curling hair, the eyelashes, the flawless complexion . . .

  False lashes, pancake make-up. But still . . . nothing can dim her beauty.

  And next to her, that horrible man. She could feel his tongue in her ear, hear the heavy rasp of his breathing and it sent a shudder of revulsion through her as powerful as the one she had felt so many years before.

  There he was on the screen, suave and neat, his tiny moustache perfectly trimmed – except that I know how it felt, the coarse hairs on my skin – his manicured hands – on my chest – his small sharp eyes bright with intelligence.

  ‘You’re mine, Delilah. You’re my creature. My creation. The sooner you learn to accept that and put that lunk out of your mind, the better.’ He smiled as the music rose. ‘You’ll understand that the only possible way is to do as I command.’

  She was overcome with disgust.

  I hate him. I hated him then, and I still hate him. He was the beginning of the end.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  1950

  ‘I don’t want to go to the studio, Mama,’ Xenia whispered. She lay in bed and pulled the covers right up to her chin, staring at Mama over the top of the apricot-coloured sheets.

  ‘Not go?’ Mama looked bewildered. ‘But you love going! We’ve almost finished the film now. Today I’m filming the car crash, don’t you want to see that?’