A Winter’s Tale by Trisha Ashley Page B

week.’
‘Will it? Won’t the necks be difficult?’
‘ Thank you, Jonah,’ Aunt Hebe said again with slightly more emphasis, before he could reply, and he ambled off, grinning. Charlie hauled himself up and followed him, and I hoped Mrs Lark would give him something to eat. I was so starving I’d rather not share my hotpot pie, and I didn’t think he would fancy mushy peas or pickled cabbage.
Mind you, my last dog ate orange peel, so you just never know.
‘We generally find our own lunch and tea in the kitchen, but Mrs Lark wanted to give you something hot today. Though there is usually soup—’ she looked around as if surprised at its absence—‘and we just have fruit for dessert.But today there’s semolina, which is apparently your favourite pudding.’
‘It might have been once…I can’t remember.’ I hoped Mrs Lark wasn’t going to feed me exclusively on the type of nursery diet I ate as a child. My tastes have changed a little over the years.
Mind you, when I stirred a generous dollop of home-made blackcurrant jam into my semolina and it went a strange purple-grey colour, it did all sort of come back to me why I had liked it—stodgy puds are nearly as comforting as chocolate.
When we had finished, and Jonah had brought coffee in mismatched cups and saucers, Aunt Hebe said that she would give me a brief tour of the house. ‘Just enough to remind you of the layout, for I am sure you will want a more detailed survey as soon as you have time,’ she said shrewdly.
She was quite right, I was already mentally compiling a mammoth shopping list of cleaning materials, some of them only obtainable from specialist suppliers. It was lucky I already knew a good one, called Stately Solutions, wasn’t it? Serendipity again, you see.
‘After that, I am afraid I must go out, she said, glancing down at the watch pinned to her cardigan. ‘I am closely involved in the work of the Church, and it is my turn to do the flowers.’
She fingered the heavy chased gold cross that swung against her bony chest—and I remembered I had seen the small silver pentacle on its chain around her neck earlier that day, the two symbols in incongruous proximity. Perhaps they summed up the conflicting sides of her heritage—the old religion hidden against her skin, the new for outward show?
With the brisk, detached air of a tour guide running late (which of course I recognised, having been one), she took me round the major rooms of the house. ‘Dining room, drawing room, morning room, library, cloakroom…Mr Yatton’s officeis here, in the solar tower, and of course at Winter’s End he is always called the steward, rather than estate manager.’
‘Like on a cruise ship?’
‘I know nothing of cruise ships: the appellation is a tradition here,’ she said dampeningly.
This part of the house was only vaguely familiar, for my allotted domain as a child had been the nursery, kitchen wing and garden. Stumbling after her through such a warren of dark passages that I half-expected a giant rabbit to bound around the corner at any minute, I thought that each room seemed dingier and more neglected than the last. But I suppose once the sun vanished and the day started to fade it was bound to look worse, especially since the lights weren’t switched on.
‘This is Lady Anne’s parlour.’ She cracked open a door a few measly inches, then prepared to shut it again.
‘Lady Anne? You don’t mean Alys Blezzard’s daughter, do you?’ I asked, sticking my head under her arm and peering round the door into a small chamber, whose furnishings and decoration, like that of the rest of the house, were an eclectic mix of several centuries.
‘Yes, did Susan tell you about her? This was her favourite room and, so it is said, her mother’s before her. She was the heiress, of course, and married a cousin, so she remained Anne Winter and stayed on at Winter’s End. Over there in the alcove is the wooden coffer that Alys Blezzard’s household book was