A Winter’s Tale by Trisha Ashley Page A

not a month after my mother and the babe departed this life…
From the journal of Alys Blezzard, 1580
After she had gone I let Charlie finish the Eccles cake, since he clearly needed feeding up—but on the floor, not the ancient and quite beautiful patchwork quilt.
It obviously refreshed him, because afterwards he started to chase invisible mice around the room, energetically leaping and pouncing.
There was an antiquated little bathroom through what looked like a cupboard door in the panelling, but I had little time to do more than splash my face with tepid water and shove my snarled hair behind my ears before I heard someone beat merry hell out of a gong, down in the depths of the house.
‘Now, where do you think lunch is?’ I asked Charlie, who wagged his tail but showed no sign of guiding me there, though he did follow me out when I called him.
I retraced my steps to the minstrels’ gallery and luckily spotted Jonah crossing the Great Hall. He was wearing a stiff brown linen apron and staggering under the weight ofa huge tray, on which reposed several covered serving dishes and a large squeezy bottle of scarlet ketchup.
Quickly I ran downstairs and followed him through the door into the West Wing and then into the breakfast room.
‘ There you are,’ said Aunt Hebe, a spooky figure in the Stygian gloom. ‘We always eat in here when it is just family—so much cosier and more convenient than the dining room, I always think.’
While I wouldn’t have called a room that was a ten-minute hike from the kitchens convenient, I supposed it was all relative. Once my eyes had adjusted to the darkness I did have vague recollections of the room, with its sturdy Victorian table, carved wooden fire surround and the faded hearth rug on which Charlie immediately curled, in front of the dead grate. But if only someone had taken the trouble to wipe the grime of years from the windows, things would have looked a lot better.
Or maybe they would have looked worse? For, while there was some evidence of a little low-level duster activity, the wainscoting and furniture didn’t exactly gleam with beeswax and love, and whole colonies of spiders seemed to have taken up residence in the dirty chandelier. Did no one in this house ever look up?
The table had been reduced to a cosy ten feet or so in length by removing several leaves, which were stacked against the wall. Two places had been set.
Hebe indicated that I should sit at the head of the table. ‘William’s chair, of course, and though it should be Jack’s place now, since my poor misguided brother made it perfectly clear that you were to be the head of the household, so be it—until poor dear Jack can take his rightful place.’
Jonah, who had been clattering things about on a side table, now plonked a warm plate down in front of each of us. Then, removing tarnished silver covers from the servingdishes with a flourish, he handed round two pastry-crusted hotpot pies, some mushy peas and a generous helping of pickled red cabbage.
‘You’ve forgotten the water,’ Aunt Hebe reminded him.
‘I’ve only got one pair of hands, missis, haven’t I?’ he grumbled, adding cloudy tumblers and a large jug of dubious-looking fluid to the table. Then he stood back and said benevolently, ‘There you are, then—and your semolina pud’s on the hotplate yonder when you’re ready for it, with the blackcurrant jam.’
‘Thank you, Jonah.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ I echoed, looking down at my plate, on which the violent red of the pickled cabbage had begun to seep its vinegary way into the green of the mushy peas. I put out my hand for my napkin, then hesitated, for it had been crisply folded into the shape of a white waterlily and it seemed a shame to open it.
Jonah leaned over my shoulder and poked it with one not altogether pristine finger. ‘Nice, ain’t it? It’d be easier with paper serviettes, though, like they have at the evening class down at the village hall. It’ll be swans next