Snowbound in the Earl's Castle

by Fiona Harper

  He’d tried to keep the caveman part of himself from taking over, to give the Earl a chance to sort this out in a reasonable manner, but now the Earl had failed the caveman pushed himself to the front and took charge. Marcus stepped forward, crushed Faith to him and kissed her stiff resolve away. He kissed her until she was breathless and panting and malleable in his hands. He would make her see sense.

  She stepped back, wrapped her arms around her middle again and looked at him, eyes wide, chest rising and falling. ‘That doesn’t change anything,’ she said, quietly and far too reasonably. And then she walked away.

  Just like Evie. But she could do it if she wanted to. She could stay. His great-grandmother had just lacked the gumption.

  But Marcus believed in Faith, believed she was strong enough. Why wouldn’t she?

  He marched right up to the window and considered putting his fist through all those pretty bits of glass to see them splinter and dance.

  He’d been so stupid. After all his warnings to himself he’d been seduced by that feeling of destiny, of being soul mates—yes, even blasted love at first sight! And he’d fallen right back down into that deep pit he’d only just managed to haul himself out of. He’d let himself believe that Faith McKinnon was the woman he’d been waiting for—the woman who would stand by his side, face thick or thin with him.

  But she wasn’t. She really wasn’t.

  It made him so angry to see her giving up on herself, giving up on them, when he knew she was capable of more.

  He followed her and stepped in front of her, making her look at him. ‘Then I think it’s a good idea that you go,’ he said, his voice low and his teeth clenched. ‘Because I need a woman who can think beyond her own selfish need for self-protection and who can give herself. I want a partner, not a reluctant conscript. And until that changes, you’re right—you don’t belong here with me.’

  Faith’s mouth moved and a small croaking sound came out, then she spun around and ran from the chapel, her coat flapping in her self-made breeze.

  * * *

  Faith dragged her last case all the way from the castle to the visitor car park and stuffed it into the trunk of her car. With every lopsided step she could feel him watching her from any one of a hundred mullioned windows, but when she turned round he was never there. When the trunk was closed and her purse was sitting on the passenger seat she pulled the keys from her pocket. They dangled in her hand.

  She had one last thing to do before she left Hadsborough. One last goodbye to say.

  She took the long route back to the little chapel, avoiding going close to the castle. As she half jogged she kept glancing at the greying sky. There was a tiny patch of blue off in the distance, but she didn’t hold out much hope. It looked as if she’d be driving to Whitstable in the rain.

  The chapel looked beautiful—finally ready for the Carol Service. Tall wrought-iron stands held thick cream candles, and holly and ivy dripped from the ends of the compact pews, tied in red ribbons. She ignored all of that and headed for the little side window—the one that had started it all.

  She hadn’t been able to take a proper look earlier. Not while Marcus had been pushing her and criticising her.

  A flash of sadness shot through her. She wanted so badly to believe it could all come true, that she could find her happy ending here with him. But this was real life, and real life dealt in disappointment and compromise.

  He’d said he loved her.

  But he’d also said she wasn’t worthy of him, and he was right. She was running. The only reason she’d decided to go home for Christmas was because it was less scary than trying to stay here and work it out with Marcus.

  She let out a hollow laugh. Finally she’d run so far and so long the only place she had to go back to was home. There was a sense of ironic justice in that, she guessed. But run she would. Because she didn’t think she could stay here with that familiar creeping feeling that something was out of place still dogging her. Especially when that ‘something’ usually turned out to be her.

  She shook her head. Save the pity party for later, Faith. When you’ve got a glass of wine and a hot bath to console you. She was here to look at the window, not to pick over the ruins of a dream she never should have let take root.

  So she looked at the window. It really was beautiful. As she stared at the dull picture suddenly a beam of sunlight hit the outside of the glass. Faith gasped. At once the colours became bright and saturated, almost living.

  The window was nothing without light. She stood there, motionless, until the wind pushed the clouds on further and everything fell dark again.

  ‘Thank you¸’ she whispered to whoever was listening. At least she had that to take away with her.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  FAITH sat on the end of the double bed in the ten-feet-by-ten-feet bedroom of the tiny cottage on Whitstable’s seafront, staring out of the window at an angry sea. Ironically, the whole cottage had been decorated in ‘New England’ style, with white and blue painted wood and deep red and navy chequered pillows and curtains everywhere.

  Still staring at the waves as they crashed over the beach, ripping the pebbles backwards and then hurling them onto the shore again, she reached for her cellphone and punched in the only speed dial number, then waited for the person at the other end to pick up.

  ‘Hi, Gram.’

  She heard a gasp of surprise and delight on the other end of the line. ‘Hey, honey. Good to hear your voice again.’

  She fidgeted and smoothed the comforter underneath her rear end. ‘I’m coming home, Gram. It was only the window job that was holding me up and...well, I’ve finished that now.’

  ‘Oh, Faith! That’s wonderful!’

  She knew she’d feel like an outsider back in Beckett’s Run, but at least she knew how to handle it there; she’d been dealing with it most of her adult life.

  She took a breath and revved up to ask the question she’d been dreading to ask since their last chat. ‘Will Greg...Dad...definitely be coming to Christmas dinner?’

  ‘Yes, sweetie. He’s really looking forward to seeing you.’

  ‘Oh...good,’ she replied, aware she sounded less than enthused.

  Gram took a breath, and Faith knew some of her grandmother’s home truths were on their way. They were as famous as her chocolate cookies with powdered sugar, but being on the receiving end of them was nowhere near as pleasant.

  ‘I know you’ve found it tough with him,’ Gram said, and the warmth in her tone made Faith want to cry. ‘It almost killed him when he found out he wasn’t your biological father. I know he didn’t handle it very well at first.’

  You think? she was tempted to say. When an eight-year-old can tell you don’t want to look at her, you’re not handling it very well.

  ‘But it was only because he loved you so much,’ Gram continued. ‘He did the best he could. And when he got to grips with it he really tried, but he said you were always so distant, locked away inside yourself. Many years later he told me he wondered if you’d found out, and that you didn’t want him to be your dad any more.’

  Tears slid down Faith’s cheeks. She’d have given anything to have felt the same confidence and comfortableness with him that Hope and Grace seemed to have. She hadn’t realised he’d felt it, too, though—the distance. And if what Gram had said was right, maybe the gulf between them all these years hadn’t been just his doing.

  Her grandmother must have sensed she was having trouble choking a word or two out, because she abruptly changed the subject. ‘How’s Bertie?’

  Faith found herself smiling through her tears. She reached for a tissue from the box on the nightstand and dried her eyes. ‘He’s an old charmer—but I guess you knew that about him already.’

  Gram let out a chuckle that verged on the girlish. ‘Yes, I did once. It’s nice to know he hasn’t changed.’

  Faith screwed the tissue up and aimed it at the bin near the dressing table. She missed. ‘I got the impression he was i
n love with you once.’ She got up, retrieved the wad of tissue from the floor and dropped it in its rightful home. ‘If he’d asked you to marry him would you have said yes?’

  ‘Oh, he did ask,’ Gram said, sounding for all the world as if he’d merely asked her to go down to the store for a quart of milk. ‘I turned him down.’

  Faith’s mouth hung open. She’d always assumed that Bertie hadn’t asked because Gram wouldn’t have been ‘suitable’.

  ‘Why?’ she said, so quietly it was almost a whisper. ‘Because you knew it wouldn’t work? That you wouldn’t fit into his life?’

  Gram sighed. ‘Because he was a wandering soul, honey. He was always restless, and I knew that was never going to change. I wanted roots and a family and a home—that’s why it wouldn’t have worked. Not because of who we were or where we came from.’

  ‘But that would have been a problem if you’d wanted to, right?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know.’ Another sigh. ‘I worry about the same thing for you.’

  Faith swallowed. Gram was the most sensible person she knew, and if Gram could see problems with a romance between a girl from small-town Connecticut and a man who would be a duke one day she was probably right.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I’m not thinking about marrying the grandson.’

  Not any more.

  Gram chuckled. ‘I’d be delighted if I thought some nice young man was going to propose, but I meant that you remind me of Bertie in other ways—you’ve got those same restless feet.’

  Faith frowned. That was nonsense, as Bertie would say. All she’d ever wanted was to find somewhere she could unpack for good and finally belong.

  ‘Well, just be glad those restless feet are bringing me home for the holidays,’ she said, with more levity than she felt.

  ‘I am, honey. I am.’ There was that tone again, warm like maple syrup. Faith reached for another tissue from the box, just in case.

  ‘Listen,’ Gram said, ‘this call must be costing you a fortune. Let’s save the rest of the catching up for when we’re face to face.’

  ‘Sure.’ Faith breathed in deep. ‘Love you, Gram.’

  ‘Love you, too, honey.’

  And then she was gone. Faith discovered her reach for the tissues had been somewhat prophetic.

  * * *

  The front door to the little white cottage was painted a summery sky-blue. It seemed artificially bright in this pretty but deserted off-season seaside town only a few days before Christmas. Marcus bunched his fist and rapped on the matt paint. He and Faith McKinnon had unfinished business, and he wasn’t letting her run away until they faced it.

  A few moments later he heard footsteps in the hallway, and then the door cracked open. By the look on Faith’s face she was considering slamming it closed again. He opened out his hand and applied gentle pressure to the wood.

  ‘We need to talk before you go,’ he said.

  Indecision swirled in her eyes.

  He didn’t push the door. ‘And I’ve got something for you—a Christmas present,’ he added, lifting up the large paper bag that was weighing down his left arm.

  She nodded and let the door swing open, but she retreated down the hallway and into a small living room before he got too close. He followed, leaving his left arm behind him so not to bang the bag on the walls of the narrow passageway.

  She stood by the window of the tiny living room and folded her arms. He stayed by the door and gently lowered the bag to the floor. He cleared his throat. ‘There were things we both said that we shouldn’t have, and things we probably didn’t say that we should.’

  She nodded again. It didn’t mean she’d dropped those mile-high barriers an inch, though.

  ‘I was angry,’ he said, ‘because I think we have something unique, and I don’t want us to throw it away without giving it a chance.’

  Her arms squeezed tighter around her midriff. ‘I am giving it a chance.’

  He took a shallow breath. No, she wasn’t. She wasn’t going to let her drawbridge down an inch, was she? Well, he might as well carry on saying what he’d come here to say.

  ‘I want you to know that I heard what you said—about you and about Bertie. No more pushing.’

  A faint smile flickered at the corners of her lips. ‘You can’t help it, Marcus. But the way you look out for those you care about is what I lo—’ She broke off and looked away. ‘What I admire most about you. Don’t change on my account.’

  ‘I have changed. But because of you, not for you.’

  And then, because she didn’t respond, and because there was no point in having a one-sided conversation with a brick wall, he picked up the paper bag and offered it to her. ‘Merry Christmas.’

  She frowned slightly, but she accepted it from him. The present inside wasn’t gift-wrapped, so she spotted what it was as soon as she looked down. Her mouth fell open.

  ‘You’re giving me Basil?’

  Yep. It had been staring at him when he’d gone back to Faith’s empty studio. He’d decided it needed a good home.

  She put the bag down and carefully lifted the creature out, now with a big red bow tied round his neck, and placed him on the sofa. Basil stared warily at his new surroundings with his orange glass eyes. Marcus decided that if he’d been able to talk he’d have probably asked to go back inside his filing cabinet.

  Faith shrugged, her hands flapping as she searched for something to say.

  ‘Nothing says I love you like a stuffed badger,’ she finally managed, and he saw her regret at her choice of words even before she uttered the last syllable.

  ‘Quite.’

  She raised a hand to her eyes and rubbed them. ‘Don’t make me cry, Marcus. I’ve done enough of that already.’

  ‘Then don’t cry,’ he said softly, stepping towards her and holding out his hand. ‘Say goodbye.’

  Goodbye. It sounded so final. And she knew it, too. She didn’t say anything about au revoir, or it being just for now. At least she’d stopped lying to him.

  She looked at his open palm with a similar expression to the badger’s, but she eventually relented and slid her smaller, paler hand into his.

  There it was again. That feeling. The sense that something deep in the core of him resonated with her. She blinked but didn’t look away. Neither of them moved.

  Marcus realised he didn’t want to let go, didn’t want to spend the rest of his life wondering if he’d ever find this again with someone else. But after a few breathless moments he released her fingers. He wasn’t going to chase her if she ran.

  He prepared himself for what he’d really come to say—properly this time.

  ‘I love you,’ he said, and waited for a response.

  He thought it would feel as if his skin was being flayed off, to hear those words come out of his mouth and receive no echo, but instead a weight lifted from him. It was liberating.

  Her eyes filled with tears and her lip wobbled. And then she did say it back. Not with her mouth, but with her eyes, still refusing to pull down those walls.

  He lifted his chin. ‘I said you didn’t know how to give yourself. I was wrong.’

  He saw it in her face, the moment she relived the other things he’d shouted after her.

  You don’t belong...

  He stepped forward and saw the panic in her eyes. The pure fear. It confirmed his worst suspicions.

  ‘That wasn’t true either,’ he added, picking up on her silent communication. ‘I think you belong at Hadsborough with me, but...’ He paused, prepared himself to deliver the truth he could no longer protect her from. ‘But until you let yourself belong somewhere you never will. And no amount of chasing after you will change that,’ he said. ‘So if you want to go...go. I’m not going to stop you.’

  He clenched his jaw. Even though he understood it, it still made him angry. She was wasting so much.

  ‘I want to,’ she said, her voice wavering. ‘I really do.’

  There was such pain in her eyes that he
truly believed her, and seeing it there made him want to pull her to him and wrap his arms around her. Instead he clenched his fists and held them rigid by his sides. It was either that or start yelling again, which probably would make her bolt all the faster. He’d promised himself he’d end it properly this time—leave with some dignity, not behave like some raving Neanderthal.

  Even if she tried she’d fail. Because until she was truly ready she’d always end up running out on him. And that would just set the cycle of rejection spinning again. Faith McKinnon was the only one who could stop it, and he had to accept that she didn’t know how. Not yet.

  He couldn’t resist one last parting shot, though.

  ‘I’ve one last thing to say. You were right—Evie didn’t know the truth when she ran from Hadsborough. But you know. Deep down, you know. And you’re still running.’

  And then he was walking back down the hall and out of the cottage. As he passed the window he glanced in and saw Faith standing there, the moth-eaten badger clutched to her chest, plinth and all, with tears streaming down her face.

  * * *

  Basil was now sitting on top of the bookcase in the tiny cottage’s living room. Faith spent most of that evening staring at him and sipping red wine. The television remained unplugged and her paperback book remained unopened. The badger stared back at her, no help at all.

  She turned the events of the past few weeks over and over in her mind—much in the way the endless surf captured and rolled the pebbles on the shore outside her window. She thought about another window, about the stupid romantic trail that never was, and about Evangeline Groggins—her maiden name—florist’s daughter and runaway mother.

  Had Evie been a coward?

  Was she?

  Had she identified too strongly with Bertie’s mother, as Marcus had suggested? It had been so easy to understand why she had left, how she must have had her fill of trying to fit in, always feeling out of place, always feeling like an unwanted reminder. Who wouldn’t crumble under that sort of pressure?

  Marcus, she thought, as she took another long sip of her wine. Marcus wouldn’t crumble. He wouldn’t give up. He just wasn’t made that way.