The Winter Secret Read online

  THE

  WINTER

  SECRET

  LULU TAYLOR

  PAN BOOKS

  To Charlotte, with love

  Contents

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  PART TWO

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  PART THREE

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  HER FROZEN HEART

  THE SNOW ROSE

  THE WINTER CHILDREN

  Prologue

  Xenia thought she had never seen Mama look as ravishing as she did today: her dark hair was perfectly curled, her lips painted a tantalising scarlet so that she appeared to have a mouth made of velvet, her green eyes sparkling below swooping lashes.

  She stood at the top of an elegant staircase, the lights catching the diamonds in her hair and at her neck, making them flash like tiny camera bulbs. The real cameras were aimed at her as she stood on her staircase to nowhere; the huge ones straddled by the cameramen like great beasts, the angled lenses hanging from the rig above the soundstage, where they lived with the many-coloured spotlights and the dangling microphones.

  Mama wore a beautiful black evening gown, her hair elaborately arranged and studded with jewels. Her shoulders rose white and creamy from the veil wound around her bodice and encasing her breasts. She looked proud, arrogant and unafraid.

  Xenia watched from the shadows, almost shivering as the film approached its denouement. She’d seen so many of the scenes, she knew the story, she knew Mama’s lines so well she could almost mouth along with them, and yet . . . it was so real, so fresh, it was like hearing it for the first time. The crowd at the bottom of the staircase gazed upwards, spellbound by the woman on the landing above. ‘You’ve all come here today to find out one thing. You want to know who killed Delilah.’

  All eyes were on glittering, beautiful Mama. Every light and every camera were turned on her. Up on her staircase, Mama could see nothing but the glare of the lights. She didn’t know what went on in the darkness below, and she must never know. Xenia understood that.

  Mama lifted her white arms dramatically, raised her chin and said, ‘Do you want to know who killed Delilah? It’s very simple. I killed her. And I’m glad I did. I’d do it again tomorrow – and so would every one of you!’

  A shocked gasp came from the crowd and a murmur of surprise and outrage.

  ‘But you don’t know the truth – you don’t know the whole story. When you do, you’ll understand. And you’ll know who’s at the bottom of all of this. You see, the real Delilah was dead long before any of you even knew her!’

  A gunshot rang out. Mama stiffened, gasped, her expression froze and she clutched her chest. Then she stumbled and sank to the ground, fighting for breath.

  A shudder of horror convulsed Xenia.

  Mama’s lover ran to her side and took her in his arms. ‘No! No. Stay with me, Delilah, stay with me!’

  But Mama’s lashes were trembling, her lips falling open, her body weakening. ‘It’s no use, it’s too late,’ she whispered. ‘Please, Sam, try not to hate me, won’t you?’

  ‘I don’t hate you – I love you!’ Sam pulled her close to him as the camera soared in for a close up of Mama’s beautiful face.

  ‘Please,’ she whispered, her eyes shining with tears, ‘tell me you love me again.’

  ‘I love you, Delilah!’

  ‘Don’t call me that. Call me Sarah. Just once. That’s all I ask.’

  ‘Oh, Sarah, don’t go. Don’t leave me! I love you.’ Her lover dropped his head on her shoulder as he wept.

  Her eyes closed, her body relaxed, and the camera lingered lovingly on her face, as exquisite in death as in life.

  It’s not real. It’s pretend. Mama is alive.

  But down below, in the darkness, Xenia sobbed as if her heart would break.

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  ‘Open your eyes.’

  I love that voice, thought Buttercup. The car had stopped, the engine was off at last, and in the sudden lucid quiet, Charles’s tone seemed particularly intense. It filled her mind even more now she had her eyes shut: that low, husky voice, with a hoarseness that seemed to have been built into it as part of its natural state. It was one of the first things that attracted her to Charles, a sound like velvet sandpaper as he said, Buttercup Wilcox? That’s the most marvellous name I’ve ever heard.

  They’d clearly arrived somewhere but Buttercup asked anyway, ‘Are we here?’

  ‘Of course. Open them.’

  Charles had insisted she keep her eyes shut from the time they left the main road. He wanted the first glimpse to be the best, so she got the full impact. She’d laughed and protested but obeyed: life with Charles was full of surprises and they were always delightful and exciting.

  Buttercup opened her eyes, blinking in the unaccustomed daylight, and gasped. ‘Oh, Charles. It’s beautiful!’

  She was looking at an exquisite house of golden stone that even on a dank January day looked warm against the cold grey sky. Its narrow diamond-paned windows glittered in what little sunshine filtered through the clouds; its chimneys soared upwards, grand and graceful at the same time. ‘Just beautiful,’ she breathed.

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ Charles smiled with pleasure at her obvious admiration. ‘I’m so glad you like it, but poor old Charcombe wasn’t always so pretty. You should have seen it when we bought it.’ He flung his car door open and jumped out. ‘Come on. I want to show you inside.’

  He was around at her side in an instant, pulling open her door and offering her a hand to help her out of the low-slung sports car. ‘First impressions?’

  ‘It’s wonderful.’

  He grinned at her. ‘Good! You’re going to love it, I just know it.’

  Charles led the way to the huge wooden panelled door with a great brass doorknob in the centre, a large verdigris lantern in the shape of an orb hanging above it from the porch roof. He opened it, stepping aside to let her go in first.

  She hardly knew what
to say as she went into a vast square hall hung with oil paintings, its ceiling a riot of colour with painted frescoes of gods, goddesses and fat putti frolicking in the clouds. Marble busts on plinths stood along the walls and in the centre of the room a large round table held a giant globe vase with white hydrangea spilling out in frilly abundance, a fragment of summer in the depth of winter. When Charles had talked about his place in Dorset, she’d envisaged a cottage, a holiday getaway, perhaps a little rough around the edges, a bit make-do.

  I should have known better.

  Everything with Charles was bigger and bolder than normal life, grander, richer. The London flat he mentioned so casually had turned out to be a penthouse apartment in Westminster at the top of a large house owned by him – very different from her third-floor attic conversion in Fulham. Perhaps that was why he was taking her into his rarefied existence slowly, step by step, as if he didn’t want to frighten her off. He’d pretended at first he was a successful businessman, nothing out of the ordinary. It was only now, seven months after their courtship had begun, that she was learning how extraordinary he really was. She was glad it was that way round, that she’d fallen for him before she’d been shown the trappings of his life.

  A beautiful black Labrador came bounding across the hall, her claws clacking on the marble floor, barking a welcome, her tail wagging furiously.

  ‘Who’s this?’ Buttercup asked, delighted, holding out her hand.

  ‘Oh, that’s Tippi.’ Charles watched her patting and stroking the silky black head as Tippi looked up adoringly. ‘You’ve won her over, darling. Not that I’m surprised: you win everyone’s hearts.’

  Buttercup laughed. ‘You’re intent on making me the vainest person in the world. Why is she called Tippi?’

  ‘After Tippi Hedren, the movie star. It’s rather a joke. Look, I’ll show you why.’ He turned and led her through a door into a large, light drawing room with a row of French windows looking out over a terrace and the manicured garden beyond. It was furnished in elegant good taste with blue silk sofas, antique furniture, elaborately draped curtains and vases of white roses. Knick-knacks and silver photograph frames sat on polished surfaces.

  ‘What a pretty room!’ exclaimed Buttercup, looking about. Tippi pressed against her legs as if unwilling to lose the soft touch of Buttercup’s hand on her head.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it? It gets light all day and I’m very fond of the view of the garden. But that’s not what I wanted to show you.’ Charles pointed up at the oil painting that hung above the fireplace, a pair of silver candlesticks on either side. ‘Do you know who that is?’

  Buttercup stared at the painting. It was a large portrait of a woman, dressed in the style of the 1940s in a white evening dress, her fine dark hair in waves and held back by diamond clips. She gazed out of the canvas, beautiful and self-possessed with a trace of insolence in her striking slanted green eyes and on the dark red lips. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said slowly, puzzled. ‘But she looks familiar somehow. Who is she? A member of your family?’

  Charles laughed delightedly. ‘No! Don’t you recognise her? She’s Natalie Rowe!’

  ‘Oh! Of course, the actress. Now you say it, I can see it.’

  ‘I can’t believe you didn’t know her at once – she was a huge star in the forties. You’ve seen Delilah, haven’t you? She was brilliant in it, it made her name.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Buttercup said apologetically. ‘I’ve heard of it, of course, but I’ve never seen it.’

  Charles looked at her sorrowfully. ‘So woefully uneducated. We’ll have to do something about that. It’s a classic of the film noir genre.’ He gestured up at the painting. ‘And this painting was actually done for the film itself. It’s in the movie!’

  ‘Goodness.’ Buttercup looked at the painting with new respect. ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘Calling the dog Tippi was a sort of joke about film stars in the house. Natalie Rowe lived here, you see, after she made Delilah. This picture has been here ever since. Her daughter sold us the house, and left it here with strict instructions it should never be moved. I was rather tickled by the idea, so I agreed. And the old bird lives just down the lane, so I daren’t move it now in case she puts a curse on me.’ He laughed.

  Buttercup laughed too. There was always something extraordinary happening around Charles. It was one of the things that beguiled her so much about him: he made life interesting and unusual, filled it with fantasy and dreams and then turned them into reality. ‘What a wonderful story. I’ll have to watch the film now.’

  ‘You certainly will. But there’s something else I want to show you.’

  Just then, there was a rapid knock on the door and a woman walked into the room, her expression anxious. She was casually dressed in jeans, wiping damp hands on them as she entered, her brown hair pulled back into a rough ponytail and her deep-set grey eyes worried. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Redmain, I didn’t hear you come in!’ Her voice had a soft Scottish lilt. ‘I would have come out at once if I’d known you’d arrived.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Carol, it’s fine,’ Charles said cheerfully. ‘I was in such a hurry to show off my treasures, I didn’t come to say hello. Darling, this is the marvellous Carol, my excellent housekeeper and sorter-out of all manner of problems. She and her husband Steve live here all year round, keeping an eye on everything for me.’

  ‘Hello,’ Buttercup said, smiling. So this was another of the very many sorter-outers in Charles’s life. He seemed to be surrounded by a team of extremely efficient and trusted helpers who made everything around him run as smoothly as possible. ‘Very nice to meet you.’

  ‘You too. Are you—’

  Charles interrupted. ‘Be an angel, Carol, and get some tea on for us, will you? I want to show this wonderful creature the Redmain Room. Give us twenty minutes or so, and we’ll be back to have it in here.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Carol turned and went out, Tippi following her with a wagging tail.

  Buttercup raised her eyebrows. ‘Redmain Room?’

  ‘Come on, all will be revealed.’

  It was Charles’s irrepressible appetite for life that had drawn Buttercup to him at a time when her own existence had been bleak and full of misery. She was reminded of it now as he hurried up the stairs in front of her, eager to share everything with her, and her heart swelled with love for him. He had made her happy again, excited to be alive, after her father’s death had left her grief-stricken and hopeless.

  With him, I could suddenly see all the possibilities that life could offer.

  His enthusiasm was so infectious. He seemed to know about masses of different subjects, and to have travelled everywhere and seen just about all there was to see. Even though he was only a dozen years older than Buttercup, he’d had several careers, founded businesses and lived abroad.

  And got married. Had children. Been divorced.

  Buttercup tried not to think about that. Someone like Charles was never going to come without baggage, she understood that. She knew about the end of his marriage and had met James and Charlotte, his teenage children. It might not be the perfect scenario but she couldn’t help the choices her heart made, and she would rather have Charles and his baggage than a lesser man with a clean slate. It was part of what made him so interesting, after all.

  Even now, as they were heading up the stairs, he was talking nineteen to the dozen about the restoration of the house after he’d bought it. True to form, he’d learned all he could about the period and its architecture and styles of art, furniture and fabric. Then, with the help of experts and craftsmen, he’d gone about recreating this place, restoring it to its original splendour.

  ‘I used local carvers and gilders and specialist artisans too,’ he said as they walked along a thickly carpeted corridor together. ‘Luckily, this part of the world is crammed with the most amazing people, the kind who devote their lives to traditional skills and conservation. Ah!’ He stopped before a closed door, his eyes sparkling. ‘Here we a
re. This is the most precious room in the house. It’s taken years to create.’ He put his hand on the brass handle. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Yes, never readier.’ She smiled, wondering what on earth he wanted to show her. ‘Let’s do it.’

  ‘Good.’ He opened the door and went in, flicking a light switch to illuminate the darkness with tiny concealed spotlights.

  Buttercup followed him in, curious and a little trepidatious. The room was small, not much bigger than a box room, and panelled in dark wood. Red velvet curtains hung at the mullioned window and a blind shut out the sunlight outside. Oil paintings of old sea battles hung on the walls, and around the room were glass-topped mahogany cases, carefully lit by spotlights in the ceiling. In the centre of the room was a wooden dais that held a chair and directly behind it a large oil painting of an old ship in full rig. The gold plate on the frame read ‘HMS Cymbeline’. Next to the painting on one side was a marble bust of a noble-looking man in a tricorn hat, and on the other, an old leather-covered cylinder was mounted on the wall.

  ‘Look,’ Charles said, clearly bursting with pride. He waved a hand around the room. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s . . . marvellous,’ Buttercup said, hiding her mild bewilderment. ‘What an achievement.’

  Charles looked solemn. ‘It’s been a labour of love to collect this. Museums would give their eye-teeth for some of this stuff. Look at this chair!’

  He moved towards it and Buttercup followed. The chair, which looked like a particularly heavy dining chair, was dark wood upholstered with a sandy-coloured velvet on its seat and arms. The back was elaborately carved and, as she got closer, Buttercup saw that there were letters running along the top edge.

  ‘England expects every man to do his duty,’ she read out loud. ‘Oh, I see. Nelson. Trafalgar.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Charles looked pleased. ‘The original message was that England confides that every man will do his duty, but Nelson was persuaded to say “expects” as it was already in the flag signal vocabulary, whereas “confides” would have to be spelled out so it would take longer. They shortened it again for the carving. And look, below that . . .’ He pointed to more carved letters below that read ‘Cymbeline’ and around them ‘21 October 1805’. ‘This commemorates the ship my ancestor Edward Redmain captained at Trafalgar.’ He nodded towards the marble bust of the man in the tricorn hat. ‘That’s him. And this house belonged to him – he bought it with some of his prize money. That’s why I simply had to have it.’