The Winter Secret

by Lulu Taylor

  ‘Why would he want you to believe that about me?’ Buttercup asked, wretchedly. ‘When the thing I wanted most in the world was a family.’

  ‘I suspect he liked to sow the seeds of dislike between us, and make sure we wanted as little as possible to do with each other.’ Ingrid put her mug back on the table and began to trace the pattern with her fingertip. She sighed. ‘Divide and rule is his motto, and he does it even when it’s completely unnecessary. In his head, he would have wanted to keep us apart, for some unspecified reason, or simply because it makes sense to him. You see, he has so many secrets that he finds it hard to keep track of them all.’

  Buttercup felt strange, as if she were about to float free of her body. Dizziness flooded her brain and her vision blurred, cleared, then blurred again.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Ingrid’s voice sounded far away and fuzzy.

  Buttercup closed her eyes: they were stinging, prickling as though hundreds of tiny hot needles were punishing them. The grief came spiralling out of her inner self and engulfed her, the way it had in Norfolk on that windy beach. Her head drooped and she felt exhausted, soiled by all the lies, beaten. She put her hands to her face and wept.

  It was some time before she could speak, and when she stopped sobbing, she found that Ingrid’s arm was around her shoulders, and she was comforting her with murmured comments and soothing sounds.

  When Buttercup was calmer, Ingrid said quietly, ‘I’m so sorry. Are you feeling better?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Buttercup said, sniffing. Ingrid handed her a tissue. ‘I was destroyed when I found out about the vasectomy. That’s when I realised that everything was over.’

  Ingrid gazed at her solemnly. ‘I knew Charles didn’t want more children. He told me himself after we had Charlotte. Right from the start he was determined. Luckily, I agreed with him, but if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have given much for my chances of having another baby. I didn’t know how ruthless he’s prepared to be. Except . . .’

  She got up and went to the dresser, with its load of coloured china, postcards, and odds and ends, and opened a drawer. She took out a folder and came back to the table. Opening it, Ingrid poured out a shower of stiff confetti, the haphazardly cut-up remains of photographs.

  Buttercup looked up, questioning, but she already knew what she was looking at.

  ‘Whenever I’ve displeased him over the last few years, I’ve received another through the post. One of my family photographs, taken from my album and cut to pieces. They’re usually of me, but there’s always the threat that it will be my father, or my grandparents. The pictures that are irreplaceable.’ Ingrid smiled grimly. ‘I’m expecting one any day, actually. I always get one after I’ve been to visit Joachim. He always knows when I’ve gone, and when I get back.’

  Buttercup ran her fingers through the chopped-up photographs; they looked like a difficult jigsaw puzzle of hundreds of tiny pieces. ‘I’m so sorry. Joachim was the man you left Charles for?’

  Ingrid nodded. ‘I had to stay here, you see. Joachim couldn’t stay, his life and work are all over Europe. He’s a jouster.’ She laughed. ‘It sounds so ridiculous, but he is. My actual knight in shining armour. He attends events across the world, takes part in competitions. One day, perhaps, I’ll join him.’

  ‘It sounds extraordinary. Completely different to life in Charcombe.’ Buttercup smiled and picked up some of the photograph pieces, letting them fall in a spiky shower to the table. ‘But this is awful. I can’t believe he’d be so cruel.’

  Ingrid shrugged. ‘What you have to understand is that Charles carries his grudges to extremes. He’d almost rather hurt himself than give quarter to anyone who’s crossed him. He’s always threatened to destroy something I love – and do you know, sometimes I even worried about the children. I knew it would hurt him just as desperately if anything happened to them, and yet I also knew that the thought of condemning me to a lifetime of pain might prove sufficient enticement to make it worth condemning himself to the same.’

  Buttercup gasped. ‘But that’s terrible. It’s wicked!’

  ‘He didn’t do it. Chopping up photographs isn’t quite as bad.’

  ‘It all comes from the same place.’ Buttercup looked up at Ingrid, calm and serious. ‘Ingrid, can I stay here tonight? I’m going to get my things from the house and then I’ll make my plans for where I’ll go and what I’ll do. I’m afraid that I don’t have a knight in shining armour to escape with, but I’ll think of something.’

  ‘You’re more than welcome to stay here, I can lend you a nightdress and you can help yourself to any toiletries you need. There’s no need to go back to the house. I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Carol and Steve are there, for now. But there are personal things I must get, especially if there’s any likelihood Charles might take it into his head to destroy them.’

  ‘If what you say is right, he’ll be in an extremely strange place. I wouldn’t risk a confrontation with him, if I were you. Stay here tonight, then we’ll go up tomorrow once it’s all calmed down. We could even ask a policeman to come with us if you think there’ll be trouble.’ Ingrid put her hand on Buttercup’s arm, her expression earnest. ‘Seriously – don’t go. I mean it.’

  Buttercup gazed back at her for a moment, and said, ‘All right. I won’t go. We’ll go tomorrow instead.’

  ‘Good. I’ll make up the spare room for you.’

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Gawain and Xenia sat facing one another over her kitchen table, a pot of tea cooling between them.

  ‘What really brought you back to Charcombe, Gawain?’ Xenia asked. He was a fuzzy shape in front of her, spiked with starry lights and surrounded by a golden halo. My sight is getting worse. ‘I feel as though you had more of a motive to go up to the house tonight than you’ve confessed. Is it just this book you’re planning, or something else?’

  Gawain shrugged and smiled.

  ‘You took a particular pleasure in passing on your knowledge about Captain Redmain,’ Xenia said drily.

  ‘I did, it’s true,’ Gawain said a little sheepishly. ‘Perhaps that wasn’t very nice of me. But he’s exactly the kind of puffed-up pleased-with-himself individual it’s impossible not to enjoy deflating. And . . . I couldn’t bear his wife believing in him, or believing the tripe about the horrible captain.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Xenia gave him a meaningful look. ‘Is that your real motive, making the scales drop from her eyes?’

  She couldn’t make out Gawain’s features with clarity but she could hear the embarrassment in his voice and imagined a pink blush on his cheeks. ‘I wouldn’t go that far. It’s true that she’s far too good for a man like that. But I doubt I’ll see her again. I won’t be welcome in Charcombe Park after this. She kindly invites me to her party, and I repay that by giving her husband’s favourite fantasy a good kicking.’ He reached out and Xenia felt the smooth warmth of his fingers on her hand. ‘I came back because I owe you something, Xenia. I’ve been thinking about it: I’m sure we can try to find out what happened to your father. We might be able to track him down, locate him, wherever he is.’

  ‘He must be long dead,’ Xenia said mournfully. ‘You’ll never find him, I’m sure of it. I would have known years ago if he wanted to be found.’

  ‘There must be records somewhere. You can tell me everything you remember about his departure and his plans, and we’ll take it from there. If he sailed or flew, there’ll be passenger lists. Immigration records. There has to be a trace of him, and it’s much easier to find out now with so many records being put online.’

  ‘I appreciate it.’ Xenia shook her head. ‘It’s too late. I don’t even know if I want to find out what happened. It would break my heart if I discovered things I’d be better off not knowing.’

  There was a pause. Gawain squeezed her hand lightly and removed his own. He sighed again. ‘I’m sorry. I will try, but you’re probably right.’

  After a moment, Xenia
said, ‘I imagine you must need to get home now.’

  Gawain nodded. ‘I’ll head off tomorrow. I ought to get back, I’ve got some work commissions to finish. I’ll come back and visit you soon, though. I’m worried about leaving you alone.’

  Xenia laughed suddenly, loudly enough to make Petrova, snoozing on a chair, wake up startled. ‘Alone! I was alone for years, even when my mother was alive. Don’t worry about me.’

  ‘But you’re older. You shouldn’t be by yourself.’

  ‘I’ve got Agnieska. She’s helping me more and more. One day, perhaps, I’ll suggest that she comes and lives closer. I can help her with that. She’s a good girl and I think she’ll look after me for as long as I need her. I have no family, no one to leave my possessions to. Perhaps she and her boys can be my family.’

  Gawain’s voice sounded suddenly tender. ‘That’s a lovely idea, Xenia.’

  Looking at him, she could see odd waving lights around him, like pointed little flames dancing over his shoulder. Xenia hesitated and leaned forward, blinking heavily. ‘May I ask you a favour? Will you stay here this evening? The guest room is always ready. My eyes are bad tonight, and recently I’ve started to get some odd changes in my vision – strange things happening on the edges of what I can see. I find it happens less if someone else is around.’

  ‘Of course I’ll stay. I’ll pop down to the pub and get my things, and then I’ll be right back.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m grateful.’

  Gawain was back half an hour after he left, shuddering with the cold blast of the wind outside. ‘That weather is nasty. I don’t remember it ever being so bad this early in December.’

  ‘A Christmas present from Russia,’ Xenia said with a smile. ‘In the old tradition.’

  Gawain looked back towards the front door, closed against the freeze outside. ‘The lights were on in the house over the way.’

  ‘Fitzroy House? Ingrid Redmain must be back.’ Xenia looked away. ‘Shall we have something to eat?’

  ‘You should make your peace with her,’ Gawain said as he took off his coat. ‘Apologise. It would make you feel better about her. I can tell you don’t like thinking about her.’

  ‘I don’t do apologies,’ Xenia said stiffly. She began to walk through to the kitchen, keeping an eye on Petrova at the edge of her vision to avoid tripping over her.

  ‘Why not?’ Gawain said, coming up behind her. ‘A good apology is a noble thing. Nothing to be embarrassed by. Besides, you might discover that your guilt is completely out of proportion to your responsibility. Now that I’ve met Mr Redmain, I think that his first wife may even have been grateful to you for breaking the news. Perhaps you gave her an out.’

  ‘It is certainly a possibility,’ Xenia said with finality, determined not to talk about it. But Gawain’s words stayed with her as she spooned out the casserole they were having for supper.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said afterwards, as Gawain was washing up and she was boiling the kettle for her hot-water bottle, ‘I will see the lady tomorrow. Mrs Redmain. You’re right. It’s something I need to be free of.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Gawain said heartily, as though it was entirely Xenia’s suggestion. ‘Excellent plan.’ He looked suddenly thoughtful. ‘I wondered about taking another look at the old house, going around the grounds perhaps, but I don’t think I will. To be honest, I’ll be glad never to set eyes on it again, especially now we know its unsavoury past. I’m not an iconoclast but for once, I wouldn’t be sorry if that house disappeared forever.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Xenia said, ‘we would all be better off. Good night. Sleep well!’

  ‘I will. Good night, Xenia.’

  Xenia found it hard to settle. She wandered about her bedroom, picking up family photographs, squinting through her blurred vision and trying to make out the faces of her parents. It was easier, she realised, to remember them in her mind’s eye than to trust to her eyesight any longer.

  She went over to the bed and lay down, closing her eyes and conjuring them up from long ago. She saw Papa, his case packed. They were all standing in front of the house, the car ready on the gravel. It was icy cold, the sky a brittle blue as if ready to crack wide open. ‘I will bring back the Americans, I promise,’ he’d declared. ‘They’ll cure Mama. They’ll make everything better.’

  Xenia felt a spark of hope even through the dull certainty that no one could make Mama better. Maybe, just maybe there’s a way . . . But how could there be a cure for a brain irrevocably sliced by a blade, the fibres severed forever?

  ‘Trust me,’ Papa had said, as if reading her mind. His blue eyes gazed into hers. ‘I’m going to do my best.’

  Even though she knew so little, Mama had realised what was happening, from the sight of the suitcase and the car on the driveway.

  ‘No, Paul, don’t go, don’t leave us!’ she cried, tears running down her pale face, pudgy and ill formed since her operation. She put her arms around Papa and clung to him, snivelling wretchedly.

  ‘Natalie,’ Papa said firmly, unpeeling her arms from around his coat, ‘you must be brave. I won’t be long. I’ll be home before you know it.’

  ‘Come back soon, won’t you, Papa?’ Xenia had said, pulling Mama gently away to stop her from hanging on to Papa. ‘We need you here.’

  ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ He kissed her distractedly on the cheek. ‘Promise you’ll look after Mama. And stay here until I get back, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I promise.’

  She could tell he was eager to be off, excited to be away from Charcombe Park, heading to America for goodness knows what adventures.

  ‘Goodbye!’ she cried. ‘Goodbye!’

  Her last sight of him was of a hand waving from the window as the little car raced off down the drive.

  And we never heard from him again. He left us.

  She thought of the woman on the boat so many years ago, the one Papa had kissed that night after dinner, and how she’d realised then that his heart might one day leave them, her and Mama. He had the capacity to chase adventure, the desire to live his life to the full, and the need to be free of anything ugly and onerous.

  Mama and I became a burden. When Natalie Rowe was no longer beautiful, intelligent, desirable and able to earn a small fortune, he didn’t want her, or me. And that is the bitter truth.

  She knew, for sure, that the heart of all her troubles was Papa leaving them.

  Perhaps he felt it too. Maybe it was the house he couldn’t bear. Or maybe he simply didn’t love us enough.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Buttercup lay awake in the comfortable spare room in Fitzroy House. Like the rest of Ingrid’s home, it was cosy and colourful, with turquoise walls covered in paintings and thick red curtains shutting out the night.

  It was tempting simply to close her eyes, forget all the torment and pain of the world outside this room, and sleep. Tomorrow, perhaps, things would be better.

  No. They’ll never be the same again.

  She had left the house, and left Charles. She hadn’t switched on her telephone but it might already be jammed with texts and calls demanding to know her whereabouts and insisting she return.

  I don’t think he’ll guess where I’ve gone.

  How strange it was to have been so suspicious of Ingrid for so long – to have hated her in some ways – and to be in her house, sleeping in one of her bedrooms.

  They had talked until late, sharing stories of what it was like to be married to the same man. They shook their heads over the similarities of what they had experienced.

  ‘Except that maybe you had it worse than I did,’ mused Ingrid. ‘I think perhaps he was trying to ensure that you’d never leave him in the way that I did.’

  ‘But the irony is that the more he tried to lock me in, the more he brought about what he most feared.’ Buttercup shook her head. ‘I loved him. I would have given up so much for him – but I couldn’t give up my dream of becoming a mother. That was too big a pric
e to pay.’

  ‘Do you know what? I don’t even know why Charles had such a bee in his bonnet about it. He would probably have enjoyed fatherhood much more this time round, with his career so established and more time to spend at home.’ Ingrid smiled ruefully. ‘But we’ll never know.’

  Buttercup wondered what Charles was doing at this moment. She had fresh and vivid knowledge of how vicious he could be when he felt crossed, and she thought of the shards of photographs falling through her fingers.

  There are pictures of my father up at the house. Some precious things that belonged to Mum. Charles knows what they mean to me.

  She had visions of him smashing her mother’s watch with a hammer, along with the pieces of jewellery given to mark special occasions: her twenty-first birthday and her graduation. Perhaps at this moment he was ripping the treasured photograph of her father out of its silver frame and tearing it to shreds.

  I know he’s capable of it. He would know just how much it would hurt me.

  She had been tossing and turning for what felt like hours when she suddenly sat up in bed. She had told Ingrid she would wait but she had the strongest feeling that she couldn’t and must not wait to get up to the house.

  I’m so stupid. I should have taken my things when I had the chance. I didn’t think of it then, but I can’t risk losing them.

  Besides, she’d thought of something else she wanted to do there.

  It was easy enough to let herself out of Ingrid’s house, leaving the back door unlocked so she could get in on her return. Ingrid had lent her clothes for the morning – jeans and a jumper – and Buttercup was muffled up in her coat and scarf but the icy air was enough to take her breath away and set her fingers tingling on the first stage to numbness.

  She trudged as quietly as she could along the path, her boots crackling on the frosted snowy gravel. The light from the fanlight over the door illuminated the clouds of her breath and for a moment she wondered if she should give this all up and go back to where she was safe and warm, far from Charles’s rage.