The Winter Secret

by Lulu Taylor

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  He never wrote to me, or to Mama. Not once.

  ‘So you don’t know if he’s alive or dead.’

  Xenia shook her head. ‘I haven’t heard from him for twenty years. Perhaps he is dead, but someone would have let me know, I suppose, and there’s been nothing.’

  Harry turned to look at her, concern in his soft eyes. ‘Why don’t you leave here? Why don’t you both go?’

  ‘I couldn’t do that to Mama. It is all that’s left to her – the hope that one day he’ll come back. She still weeps and cries for him – you’ve seen her.’

  ‘And you, what about you?’

  She said quietly, ‘I’ve waited for so long, I don’t know what else to do with myself. Besides, I owe it to my mother to keep her here.’

  ‘But why? She doesn’t seem to know where she is.’

  ‘I can’t explain. I’m sorry.’

  He tightened his hand over hers and she returned the grasp, grateful for the solidarity it imparted.

  Because I told her it would be all right. And it wasn’t. I can never undo it or make it right. We can only wait and wait, for the day when Papa finally comes home.

  ‘There’s still time, Xenia. There’s still time for you.’ Harry lifted her hand to his mouth and gently pressed his lips to it. ‘If you want. There is still time.’

  Chapter Forty

  They stood facing one another in the bedroom, the great bay window like their own stage set, the stretch of carpet between them, the lamp on the dressing table glowing.

  This is it, Buttercup thought, her insides giving a lurch of fear. Then she remembered the smile on her mother’s face, and her utter determination to face him down and bring all the secrets out into the open.

  ‘Well?’ Charles said. He looked thinner after his illness but the determination in his eyes showed her that he still thought he could talk her into doing whatever he wanted.

  He’s going to fight me. He’s not prepared to give any ground.

  That realisation stiffened her resolve. She tried to remember how dear and beloved that face had been, what it looked like when it was open and merry, the blue eyes sparkling with vitality. But what did it matter now, when all that was over for good?

  He frowned impatiently. ‘I’m waiting. Are you going to explain this disappearing act of yours? I have to say, it’s not easy to understand it. What the hell were you playing at? Your phone was switched off. No answer to anything. You must have known how worried I’d be.’

  Buttercup said quietly, ‘I went to London. Afterwards, I was terribly upset. I needed some time to get my head together. I drove to the coast and had some long walks to think everything over. Then I made a decision. Then I came home to you.’

  There was a long pause while Charles absorbed this, his hooded eyes glittering in the lamplight. He was clearly pondering which of her statements to question. At last he said, ‘Why were you upset?’

  ‘Because I know for certain that you’ve been lying to me.’

  He tensed a little, like an animal who has sensed danger. ‘Lying?’ he said silkily. ‘What on earth are you talking about, darling?’

  ‘Stop it, Charles,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I mean it. It’s time to stop.’

  He stared at her.

  Buttercup straightened her shoulders, not prepared to quail under his stare. ‘Let’s begin by assuming that I know everything. So. What have you got to say about the parcel of lies you’ve told me?’

  She stared back at him, refusing to drop her gaze, meeting his blue eyes, which were now icy. He stood there, his hands in his pockets, the stretch of carpet between them like the ground between two opposing armies preparing for battle. He was, suddenly, a stranger.

  ‘This is a serious accusation,’ he said in a cool tone. ‘What lies have I told you?’

  Part of Buttercup felt removed from the whole thing, like an observer of the angry, deceived wife and the slippery, evasive husband, both intending to fight for each version of the truth.

  Here we are, batting the questions back and forth. He wants to know what I know before he admits to anything, and then he’ll only admit what he thinks I already know. All right then, let’s cut to the chase.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me the truth about you and Ingrid, for starters?’ she demanded.

  Charles seemed to relax just a little, as though he had worked out what she must have discovered and was now confident that he could manage the problem. ‘Has someone been talking to you about Ingrid? Or perhaps Ingrid herself has decided to put her irritating little oar in? Darling, don’t believe what jealous women tell you, or envious troublemakers who want to stir things up.’

  She stared at him and said again, ‘Why don’t you tell me the truth about you and Ingrid?’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Just tell me the truth!’ she yelled, her ability to stay calm deserting her.

  He took a step towards her. ‘Don’t get hysterical with me. I have no idea what you mean. The truth about what?’

  Buttercup took a deep breath and forced herself to let go of her anger for the moment. ‘All right. If you insist on playing these games – why not? It won’t make any difference in the end. Here’s an example. You told me that you were not in touch with Ingrid. You told me she was the one who insisted on living in Fitzroy House. That wasn’t the truth, wasn’t it?’

  Charles laughed, the sound making her feel sick and revolted: a patronising, mirthless noise that told her clearly in what regard he held her feelings. ‘So that’s it,’ he said, his tone with the edge of a sneer in it. ‘Rose let you into all the secrets, did she? I expect she’s the one who thought you ought to know, probably now she’s engaged and in some romantic haze of idealism, full of the wonder of pure honesty. You know very well that how I feel about Ingrid has nothing to do with you. How can it possibly matter to you? What concern is it of yours what was hammered out in our divorce before you were on the scene? That’s my business.’

  ‘It’s my business if you lie about seeing her and speaking to her!’

  ‘Why?’ Charles’s voice was cold now. ‘It doesn’t threaten you. I’m not going to leave you for Ingrid, I can assure you. It has nothing whatsoever to do with you.’

  ‘Of course it does, trust is part of the fabric of our relationship. You didn’t need to lie, I would have understood if you’d explained it to me. And now I don’t trust you. Not one little bit.’

  He blinked at her, expressionless. ‘You didn’t need to know. It’s not a question of lying. Omission is not the same as outright lying.’

  ‘I see.’ She stared at the carpet, her fists clenched, trying to keep control of the emotions surging through her. She could see how it would be: he’d blank and block her at every opportunity, beat her back with cold logic and refusal to move an inch. And the more he did that, the more she could feel her own version of events slipping, as though facts were uncertain things that could change according to who said them and why. Hold on, Buttercup, hold on to what you know to be true. You’re strong. Don’t let him beat you down. Let’s see how much he’s prepared to admit.

  ‘It is a question of lying,’ she said firmly. ‘Because you did lie, outright, many times. You’ve lied to me since the day I was unfortunate enough to meet you; you lied about Ingrid and the fact that you still see her and phone her often, and make her life hell with constant legal letters and quarrels. And you’ve kept her property, haven’t you?’

  ‘It’s obvious Rose let you see things that were not your concern,’ Charles said sharply. ‘Elaine was right, I shouldn’t have trusted her.’

  ‘Rose inadvertently helped me.’ Buttercup unclenched her fists and relaxed her shoulders. ‘But this is between you and me. Don’t take your anger out on her.’

  There was a long, loaded pause as they stared at each other. She sensed a shift in him. He was prepared to give some ground.

  Considering he’s been found out, he’s goi
ng to have to. He thinks this is all I know. Will he ever confess what he thinks I don’t?

  ‘All right,’ Charles said, at last. ‘You’re right. I haven’t been straight with you. I didn’t want to involve you in the morass of my divorce and what it did to me.’ He paused, went to the window and stared out, thinking hard. When he turned back, it was with the air of someone who’d come to a decision. ‘It’s hard for me to say I’ve been in the wrong, but perhaps I have. I’m a proud man and I find it hard to admit what Ingrid did, and how badly I took it. It was easier for me to pretend I’d thrown her out, and that I didn’t care any more. But I do care. I know it’s not mature, and that it’s unattractive. That’s why I didn’t want you to know – because I love you, darling, and I was too vain to want you to see that side of me. But I do love you. You must believe that.’ He held out his hands to her in supplication. ‘I’ll be honest with you from now on, I swear.’

  She gazed at him, not moving towards him. He seemed so sincere. ‘Good,’ she said simply. ‘I’m looking forward to that. It will certainly save a lot of time.’

  ‘I agree with everything you say,’ he said quickly, as if sensing weakness. ‘I mustn’t blame Rose, she’s not involved with this. You have every right to know what’s going on. I’ve been stupid over Ingrid, I can see that. I’ll make arrangements and she can leave whenever she wants. I selfishly wanted to keep the children near me.’ He smiled winsomely. ‘But they’re practically grown up. It’s right that things move on.’

  Trying to put a decent gloss on indecent behaviour.

  ‘Where are Ingrid’s things?’ she asked. ‘What are they?’

  He shrugged. ‘Her family photograph albums. They have photographs of her grandparents, her father who died . . . that sort of thing. I meant to give them back. I . . .’ He blinked hard and looked away. ‘Her affair hurt me so much. I wanted to hurt her in the only way I could. As long as I had them, I could still have some power over her.’

  ‘You had plenty of power over her without that,’ Buttercup said softly. ‘Don’t you think?’

  He nodded quickly. ‘I’ll return them to her. They’re in my study.’

  ‘So . . .’ She fixed him with a strong look. I want him to admit it of his own accord. I want him to prove he means what he says, even if it’s too late to make a difference. ‘Your honesty. Your new-found honesty. I’m interested. Can I really trust you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said at once, and smiled. ‘You absolutely can.’

  ‘That’s good. Because now we’ve cleared up the issue of your lies about Ingrid, what about what you’ve done to me?’

  His smile faded, his eyes unreadable. ‘What?’

  ‘The lies you’ve surrounded me with since the day of our wedding, probably before that. The watching eyes, the reports, the internet history, the roundups of my activities, the way you’ve cut me off from my friends and stopped me getting my old job back – controlling me and limiting me. Spying on me.’

  Charles stared at her and said nothing while he absorbed her words. Then he said, ‘I have no idea what you mean.’

  She shook her head, incredulous. ‘I think you do. You did exactly the same thing to Ingrid and she told you so, in no uncertain terms. What you don’t seem to realise, Charles,’ she said in a quiet but fierce voice, ‘is that when you create a culture of secrets and a culture of watching and a culture of lying, you’re not the only one who will watch, and lie, and have secrets. Others are watching you. They know your secrets. And you can’t always guarantee that they won’t tell.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Other people know!’ Buttercup shouted. A strange mixture of power and despair filled her. ‘They will always know! You will be found out, eventually! And I know all about you. I know what you’ve done.’

  He stared at her, implacable. He would admit nothing, she could see that. Fine. It only strengthened her resolve. ‘Tomorrow,’ she said calmly, ‘I’m leaving here. I’m leaving you.’

  ‘What?’ He looked shocked, outraged. ‘What are you talking about? You can’t leave! This is ridiculous. Why? You’re overreacting.’

  ‘It’s far from ridiculous. It’s what’s going to happen.’

  ‘Why?’ He moved out of the lamplight into the shadows, so that his face became gaunt again, his lips in a thin line, the hollows under his cheeks like caves.

  ‘Because of what you’ve done to me.’ You know what it is. You know and won’t say.

  He sighed impatiently. ‘You’re getting this wrong. Don’t you see how hopelessly naive you’re being? It’s true that my life is monitored. Everything is. You knew that before you married me. I’m a very rich man with a certain value to people who might wish me harm, and by extension, you. I’m sorry if you don’t like the fact that your privacy is invaded, I do my level bloody best to make sure you’re not inconvenienced, so that life is as normal for you as possible. And for that, I’m being punished. You want to leave me? Why? Because I care for you, protect you and make your life wonderfully safe and comfortable? Because I love you deeply and give you all I can? That makes absolutely no sense!’

  She stared at him, unable to find the words to reply. Everything in her was revolted by the way he turned things around so that she was the mad one, the unhinged one, behaving irrationally, when in fact, he was the one who had destroyed it all. She felt a wash of grief drench her: for all her hopes and dreams, the love she’d had for him, the life they might have had.

  He took her silence for wavering and stepped forward towards her, suddenly confident again. ‘Don’t leave me. You know you don’t really want to. I love you, darling, and we can put everything right. We can talk all this through properly. I can see that you’re deeply upset and that’s understandable after the mix-ups and confusions we’ve had between us. We’ll sort it out. I promise.’

  ‘Don’t even try, Charles,’ she said dully. ‘It’s too late.’

  ‘No.’ He moved towards her, reaching out towards her but she flinched away. ‘I don’t want that to be the case.’

  ‘You heard me.’ Her shoulders slumped a little under the weight of misery. She realised that Charles was never going to tell the truth: he’d fight her with lies and half-truths and persuasion, she could see that. ‘I told you, I know everything. It’s too late. I’m going.’

  He drew in a breath and, to her surprise, said, ‘All right. Maybe it’s good for us to have a break, a period of reflection, so we can try to sort all this out. But don’t leave tomorrow. Please. It’s our Christmas party, the whole village is coming. I want you to be there. Stay for that, and you can leave the following day if you want to. Please – will you do that? Not for me but for all our guests who want to see you there?’

  She stared at him, feeling numb. What did it matter, if it was tomorrow or the next day? He wasn’t going to talk her out of it.

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll stay till after the party. Then I’m going.’ She turned on her heel and went to the door, then looked back at him. ‘I’ll sleep in one of the guest rooms tonight.’

  Then she went out, shutting the door behind her, unable to bear looking at him for a moment longer.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Xenia looked at the snow, which had settled in a soft, powdery blanket over everything. She’d been worried about Agnieska cycling in this, because the car was at the garage having its road test, but Agnieska had arrived in a different car, driven by a man.

  ‘Who was that?’ Xenia asked her.

  ‘My friend from the big house,’ Agnieska said, and took off her coat to start work. Now Xenia wondered if the snow would have an effect on the party at Charcombe this evening. It was still fairly light and might well melt during the day. All morning, vans and trucks bringing all the equipment for the party had been making their way through the gates, but another snowfall would make the roads more dangerous and prevent people from venturing out. She stared up at the grey sky and wondered what was in store for them.

/>   Just then, she saw a tall figure huddled in a dark jacket turn in through her garden gate, and after squinting at him for a moment she recognised Gawain Ashley. She hurried to open the front door.

  ‘Come in!’ she called, beckoning him. ‘It’s freezing out there.’

  He quickened his pace obediently and hurried in, the end of his nose pink from the cold. ‘Brrr,’ he said, pulling off his scarf. ‘It’s a bit parky.’

  ‘How was your journey?’ she asked, pleased to see him again. It felt quite normal now, having people visit her. Gawain seemed like an old friend, even though it was only his second time in the house. ‘I’ll make you some tea.’

  ‘Thank you. My hands are cold, the heater in my car is hardly working. A cup of tea is just what I need.’ He smiled at her. ‘Lovely to see you again. Are you well?’

  ‘I don’t like this snow,’ she grumbled. ‘I hate the winter.’ He followed her to the kitchen as she bustled about making the tea. ‘I hate the snow even more.’

  ‘Careful, you sound a bit like Scrooge-like. You’ll be telling me you hate Christmas next.’

  Xenia shrugged. ‘I don’t care about Christmas much. It’s snow I hate. Cold and ice. Christmas is just a way of trying to lighten the darkness of the cruellest part of the year, when we suffer most.’

  ‘That’s rather gloomy,’ he said. ‘Some people like the cosiness, shutting out the darkness with firelight and warmth.’

  ‘Lucky them,’ Xenia said shortly as the kettle boiled and she filled the teapot. ‘That’s not my experience.’

  They took the tea back to the sitting room and settled down to drink it.

  ‘So you came back,’ Xenia said. ‘You’re still interested in the house, are you? I could see that when I told you it was cursed, you were more interested than ever.’

  ‘I’d had no idea of the civil war history of the place, so when you told me about that, I was even more fascinated. No one seems to have had a particularly happy time living in that house.’

  ‘My life is better now I’ve gone,’ Xenia said flatly. ‘I wish I’d left years ago. And I don’t much care what happens to that awful little man.’