Winter Sunlight
Page 2
So when the bombshell fell on the morning of her eighteenth birthday she was armoured against it.
She was not their daughter, they told her gravely. She had been adopted as a baby when they'd given up all hope of a child of their own. Now that she was adult, they felt she had a right to know.
Strangely she had felt nothing. Once the initial shock had passed, she had not even been surprised. It explained so much, making sense of so many things that had bewildered her in childhood. And she recognised their great kindness to her. But for her adoptive parents, she might have been brought up in an institution without home or family, and she knew how difficult it must have been for them to keep her after Hilary was born.
Three years later their sudden deaths within a week of each other had left Sophie with a strong feeling of responsibility for Hilary, and she had hoped the loss might bring them closer together. But it had not happened, and the undercurrents of hostility remained. Was it her fault? Sophie wondered. Did she still envy Hilary her beauty and good fortune—a husband who adored her, a beautiful home and children? She didn't think so. And lately she had sensed that all Hilary's advantages had not brought her the happiness she wanted. But still she wondered if somehow she had failed her sister.
The loud clanging of the handbell brought Sophie out of her reverie as the white-coated waiter appeared to announce the first dinner sitting. Sophie didn't want a meal, and settled for a crisp ham roll and coffee from the trolley that stopped at each compartment.
She felt suddenly tired. The last two days in England had passed in a whirl of activity, the details of packing and preparation giving her little time to rest. She looked at her serviceable watch with its wide leather strap. It would be totally dark by the time she reached Kitzbühl. Finishing her coffee, she leaned back and closed her eyes, not knowing what might await her on arrival at the von Hartog villa.
She woke abruptly as the conductor announced Kitzbühl to be the next stop.
Outside it was pitch dark, and the white blanket of snow lay thick and silent, sweeping up to the mountain peaks now in darkness. Lights twinkled from small villages perched high on the steep slopes and from isolated farms dotted here and there in the muffled landscape.
The air was clear and icy as she slithered in her suede boots down the narrow steps of the train on to the platform, dragging her suitcase behind her. All round her were crowds of people calling to each other, laughing and arguing as they made their way to the trolley where the luggage was being unloaded. Sophie hung back and waited.
As the train slid quietly away from the station, a young man wandered along the platform towards her. Slight and slim, he wore the usual skiing gear of trousers, ski boots and hooded anorak. His face she couldn't see in the dim lights from the station buildings.
'Miss Carter?' He stopped.
'Hello,' she said and held out her hand.
'Grüss Gott,' he responded, and they shook hands before he picked up her case. 'My name is Peter Kroner. My sister and I look after the Villa Hartog.'
'I'm grateful you came to meet me,' she said as they made their way to the exit. 'Oh, my skis!' she remembered.
'You have your own?' he asked in surprise.
'Yes.' She turned back. 'They were in the luggage van.'
'Wait here. I'll get them.' A flashlight flickered on in his hand.
Minutes later, having stowed her luggage, Peter Kroner handed her into a luxurious sleigh waiting in the station forecourt. He removed the blankets from the back of the two horses, their breath steaming in the cold night air, and Sophie curled up under the thick fur rug as he jumped into the driver's seat and they were off.
The snow lay banked on both sides of the road, muffling the normal sounds of the night. And the silence was intensified by the tiny bells tinkling lightly on the harness of the horses as they clipped along, the rhythmic hiss of the sleigh the only other sound as they swept through the crisp snow towards the lights of Kitzbühl.
'Lisl, we're here!' Peter Kroner opened the front door of the villa and ushered Sophie into the warmth of the hall just as a sturdy figure emerged from the back of the house. 'My sister,' he introduced.
'Welcome,' said a young voice.
'How do you do?' Sophie smiled and held out her hand to the young girl. About eighteen, with a round face, she wore her blonde hair braided round her head, accentuating the widely smiling blue eyes. She was formally dressed in the Austrian dirndl, the dark skirt, white blouse and close-fitting black knitted waistcoat with its thread of green and silver buttons, the traditional costume still worn by many Austrian women.
'Please take up the suitcase before you put the horses away,' Lisl instructed her brother, and Sophie wondered who was the older of the two. 'I have a meal for you,' she went on, 'but perhaps you wish first for your room?' she enquired quaintly.
'That would be lovely,' Sophie said thankfully, and followed the young girl upstairs. The hall was panelled in warm pine, and two wooden chests flanked the brilliantly coloured ceramic stove that sent the heat rising to the upper floor. At the top of the stairs they turned into a corridor.
'This is the children's wing,' Lisl explained.
'Are they asleep?' asked Sophie in a whisper.
'No,' Lisl laughed. 'They come tomorrow.'
She opened a door at the far end of the corridor just as Peter arrived with her suitcase. That it was lovely was Sophie's first thought. Cosy and light with a comfortable armchair, an open fireplace—an unusual luxury—and a square wooden table with two upright chairs.
'Your bedroom is there,' Lisl pointed, 'the bathroom here. That door leads to the children's rooms and the kitchen.' She turned to Sophie. 'I think you are tired, yes?' she asked. 'So I leave you to unpack. I bring food in half an hour.'
'Wonderful!'
The bedroom was small and simple with its mahogany wardrobe fronted by the traditional bevelled mirror and an enormous bed. Sophie sighed rapturously. So often the beds on offer were too short for her. The long, wide four-poster was the biggest plus of the job so far. Hurriedly she unpacked.
Lying in the bath, which was also long enough for her to stretch her legs, she thought back to the early jobs of her career with their often cramped accommodation, and the intense loneliness with which she couldn't cope.
'You need a hobby,' Lottie had advised. 'It has to be something you enjoy and can do alone.'
And eventually she had found it. She had always been good at needlework, making many of her nieces' clothes when they were little. And she hit on the idea of sewing her own underwear, finding it made her feel good to know that under the impersonal starch of her outer clothes she was wearing silk cami-knickers, hand-stitched lace and satin bras, and that her nightdress was edged with real lace.
She heard the quiet knock on her living-room door just as she was buttoning her white satin pyjamas. Slipping into high-heeled mules, she pulled on her quilted housecoat, her most ambitious effort to date.
'I do not bring a large meal,' Lisl explained. 'I think it is too late for heavy food. So I have soup, cheese and fruit. It is good, yes?'
'Perfect.' Sophie sat down, the delicious smell of the thick vegetable soup permeating the room.
'Good.' Lisl made to leave. 'Tomorrow after the Frühstück—how do you say?'
'Breakfast.'
'Ach—you speak my language?'
'A little.'
'I am sad.' Lisl looked disappointed. 'I wish to make my English more good.'
'Then we'll speak English.'
'Thank you. So, tomorrow after—er—breakfast, I take you round, show you all.'
'Excellent, thank you. Oh, Lisl, my skis. Where are they?'
'You have your own? You must ski very good. Downstairs by the house, I expect—with the family skis.'
An hour later, Sophie was more than ready for bed. Taking off her dressing gown, she lay down in front of the fire. However tired she was, she tried to stick to her physical routine. Living at the slow rate of the life of her
small charges, she often did not get the exercise she needed, and had worked out a routine of some basic old-fashioned exercises.
Breathing deeply, arms above her head, she stretched, her body responding automatically to the familiar movements. Tipping her weight to her shoulders, her hands on her waist, she lifted her legs and began to cycle in the air.
Suddenly the silence of the house was disturbed. Rapid footsteps pounded along the corridor and without warning her door was flung open.
Sophie turned her head. In the doorway stood the tallest man she had ever seen. Towering above her, he filled the room, and for a moment both figures froze, surprise holding them motionless.
Then a fleeting smile tugged at Sophie's mouth as she realised her ridiculous position with her legs in the air. In one swift movement she brought them down and was on her feet. The man had not moved, and she looked up at him. She was not used to looking up at anyone, but she had a long way to raise her eyes, and so slid into her mules to gain the extra inches. But still she had to crane her neck to find his face.
And then shock blocked her throat. It was the most devastatingly handsome face she had ever seen. Thick, dark russet hair topped a broad forehead with a strong nose. Straight brows stretched across vivid green eyes, and a beautifully moulded mouth was set above a firmly rounded chin. She could see little else of him because he was dressed in a fur-lined leather coat that reached down to high black boots. In his arms he carried several packages, gift-wrapped in different colours.
Finally she found her voice.
'Please close the door behind you,' she asked in German, surprised to hear a husky note in her voice.
But still he stood there. Only his eyes moved. His gaze till now riveted to her face, dropped to her body where the white satin of her pyjamas clung to the contours of her figure.
Sophie felt a blush rise from her neck. No one ever saw her in the silks and satins she wore next to her skin, and she was aware of a strange embarrassment under the intent scrutiny. Awkwardly she reached for her dressing gown. As she slid her arms into the sleeves, his gaze moved to her breasts, their shape clearly visible as her arm movements tightened the thin material across her body.
His lips curled faintly, and his glance continued downward to the curve of her waist, the soft roundness of her hips and the length of her legs. Even that wasn't the end of his appraisal. Slowly, leisurely, his eyes travelled back up her body till they returned to her face, and remained intent on her mouth before he looked into her eyes and noted the flash of anger.
Her embarrassment was fading fast at the presumption of his continued presence in her room. He was obviously used to women falling in a swoon at his feet! Well she was too old for that sort of nonsense, she told herself rather forcefully. As if he could read her thoughts, he suddenly smiled, a genuine smile of amusement that gave a glimpse of white teeth. Sophie caught her breath. Dear heavens—he had charm! No wonder his eyes radiated sexual confidence, the certainty that no woman could resist him.
She had never liked handsome men. They were usually humourless and generally suffered from boundless vanity. And this was obviously no exception. Veiling her eyes with long lashes, she looked up into that smiling face with its practised charm hard at work and wondered how much longer he was going to stand there ogling her.
Finally he pulled himself together. A slight inclination of the head, an abrupt turn and he was gone, closing the door quietly behind him.
To her own amazement Sophie found she was trembling, her legs oddly weak. She must be more angry than she'd realised, she told herself firmly.
Who was he? she wondered. Could he be the children's father? It seemed likely, in view of the parcels he was carrying. But then he would have known she had arrived, and would hardly charge into her room as he had done.
None of it was really important. And none of it explained the oddly strong beat of her heart or her heightened colour as she looked into the mirror in the bedroom. Her skin, too, was tingling with some kind of reaction. Surely she couldn't have been afraid? She had handled more than one nocturnal visitor to her bedroom in her years as a nanny, and none had even faintly raised her pulse rate. It must have been the suddenness of it all, she decided finally before she turned out the light and went to sleep.
CHAPTER TWO
Sophie stood at the top of the highest run on the Hahnenkamm. Her alarm clock had woken her at six and she had hurried into her white zipped ski suit and tiptoed downstairs to the vestibule, where she had clipped on her boots and found her skis.
She had been the only one taking the lift at that hour, going from the first to the second stop and on to make her descent from the top. As she was carried slowly and silently high above the sleeping town, the sun had thrown its first rays through the clouds. Now, looking down at the piste below her, she could feel the beginning of warmth against her face. One or two people were arriving at the lower slopes, but up here she was quite alone, and a sense of exhilaration touched her, the familiar excitement bringing a tension to her body with the longing to go.
Pulling her goggles down to sit snugly across her eyes, she lifted her sticks and planted them into the compact snow as she slid to the edge of the rise. There had been no fresh snowfall during the night, and the surface of the snow gleamed hard and cold as the sun began to climb. She would have to be careful and remember that this was her first time on skis since the previous spring.
And then she was off, the wind in her face, the snow lying round her as far as the eye could see, and not a soul in sight. Faster and faster she went, taking care, getting the feel of her skis, her body attuning itself to the rhythm of what she loved doing more than anything else. Below her the hollow bit deep into the mountain, and she skirted it carefully where in a few days time she would jump.
As she slowed, a skier whipped past her at tremendous speed and waved his stick in a casual salute. Tall and dressed in black, with the extra-long skis of the expert, he was travelling at a dazzling pace, and she stopped for a moment to watch him as he disappeared from sight into a belt of trees far below, before making her way back to the house.
Lisl caught her as she was climbing the stairs in her stockinged feet.
'Guten Morgen,' she said, smiling widely. 'You have been skiing, yes?'
Sophie nodded.
'The Herr Baron has asked for you,' she went on. 'He wishes you to join him for breakfast.'
'At what time?'
'Neun Uhr. Come down and I show you,' explained Lisle before they parted.
In her room Sophie stripped and stepped under the shower, and twenty minutes later she was ready. Looking at herself in the mirror, she wondered if the children's regular nanny wore a uniform or the casual jeans that so many younger nannies now adopted. The Norland brown Sophie wore only when going out with her charges. For her indoor duties she had made herself a series of white cotton tunic dresses, worn with a cap into which she could tuck her hair, adding white stockings and medium-heeled serviceable shoes. The whole effect was more that of a nurse than a nanny, and she found children related easily to the image she projected, her place in the household immediately being clear. Over the years she had learned that how she saw herself was very much how she was accepted. The families with whom she worked never questioned the cool, calm efficiency her outward appearance suggested, and for this she was thankful. It enabled her to live as she wished, on the fringe of their lives, looking on. That was safe and familiar territory which she could handle with ease. No one made demands on her that she couldn't meet and she was never involved with the adults and children with whom she lived. And when it was time to move on she could do so without regrets.
If sometimes she wondered what had happened to the passions and despairs of her childhood, she assumed they had faded with time, and felt no urge to resurrect them.
She could barely remember the dreamy teenager who had sat by the hour weaving fantasies of a Sophie very different from the reality, a girl of beauty and allure who could demand
and receive admiration and affection, love and passion.
Wryly Sophie smiled into the mirror at the image of the real Sophie—cool, neat, tidy and controlled— light years away from the figment of her youthful imagination.
When occasionally the nightmares returned, erupting with savage violence to remind her that the powerful emotions of her adolescence might still lurk below the outward calm, threatening to destroy her peaceful existence, then she panicked quite horribly. But not for long. The cold light of day banished such terrors, and they were becoming increasingly rare as the years passed and the even tenor of her life remained unruffled.
Her rubber soles made no noise in the quiet of the house as she went downstairs and followed the sound of Lisl's voice to find the kitchen.
'Gut,' Lisl greeted her, wiping her hands and taking off her apron. 'Come, I show you.'
The small breakfast room was charming. Dark beams held up a low ceiling, and several windows along one wall let in the brilliant sunlight reflecting the white thick snow that buried the garden outside. Touches of pale yellow in curtains and cushions brightened the room, the ceramic stove in shiny blue, the floor underfoot the same parquet as the rest of the house. In the window recess a round table was set for breakfast.
'I bring coffee,' said Lisl, and disappeared.
Sophie wandered to the windows, her hands in the pockets of her dress. She was aware of an unfamiliar feeling of tension. She disliked waiting. She enjoyed her work, but she was used to organising her own time, eating either alone or with children. She had no wish to eat with her employer, and felt uneasy as she looked down at the table set for two.
'Miss Carter,' a deep voice said behind her in faultless English. At last, she thought, and turned to face the man from last night.