The Winter Secret Page 2

  ‘Goodness,’ breathed Buttercup, impressed. ‘So was this his chair?’

  ‘Well . . . it might have been. Quite a few were made, to be given to all the ships’ officers to commemorate their part in the battle. He definitely would have had one.’ Charles pointed at the leather cylinder on the wall. ‘But that is most certainly his telescope. And I have his shoe buckles too. And look here, his stall plate for Westminster Abbey – all the captains got one as a reward . . .’

  ‘How amazing!’ she’d said, sincerely impressed. ‘No wonder you’re proud.’

  ‘Edward Redmain was a real hero. And to have his house again – to live in it myself, with his treasures around me – that makes me proud. Hugely proud.’ Charles had reached out to take her hand. ‘I hope you can understand that.’

  ‘I do, completely.’ She hugged him. ‘You’re so incredible, Charles. Imagine how impressed and overwhelmed Captain Redmain would be, if he could see you now and everything you’ve done to commemorate him!’

  He lifted her face to him and stared at her, his expression serious. ‘It means everything to me that you could say something like that. I knew as soon as we met that you are the woman of my dreams, and every day you make me more certain. Darling, I know it’s very soon. We’ve only been together seven months but I’m surer about this than I have been about anything in my whole life. I love you, and I want to marry you.’

  Buttercup stared at him, his words sinking in. She had considered it, imagined it, even dreamed of it, but never quite prepared herself for the reality of Charles asking her to be his wife. She felt a surge of happiness mixed with something like peace, as though she’d arrived home after a long journey. ‘Oh, Charles,’ she whispered. Her eyes filled with tears.

  He looked immediately worried. ‘Have I rushed things? Have I spoiled it? We can wait as long as you want.’

  ‘No.’ She hugged him again, tightly, inhaling the sandalwood and musk of his cologne. ‘It’s perfect. You’re perfect. The house is perfect. We can raise a family here, it’s divine. A parcel of beautiful children in this beautiful place.’

  ‘So you will?’ His voice cracked suddenly with emotion. ‘Because I love you so much – you know that, don’t you?’

  She nodded, unable to speak for a moment. She felt that Charles alone in the whole world could fill the gap left by her father’s death. With him, she could face the future and make a happy life for them both and the family she hoped they would have.

  ‘Yes. And I love you too. Of course I’ll marry you.’

  Chapter Two

  Twenty-two months later

  Buttercup came down the stairs in her riding gear, her boots clacking loudly on the marble floor as she headed in the direction of the boot room. In her haste, she almost bumped into Carol as she emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray loaded with a coffee pot, milk jug and cups.

  ‘Sorry!’ Buttercup said. ‘I shouldn’t rush so much but I’m off to meet Phil – he’s taken Milky out for some early exercise.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Carol said, ‘but can I borrow you for a moment? That couple have arrived early and Mr Redmain is still out looking at the pond with Steve.’

  She stared at Carol, not understanding, then remembered. ‘You mean the couple to interview for the lease on the King’s Head?’

  Carol nodded. ‘They’re all alone in the drawing room. Would you mind going to say hello until Mr Redmain gets back?’

  Buttercup looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got a few minutes. I can do some soft-soaping till Charles gets here. Come on, I’ll open the door for you.’

  They went back across the hall together, and Buttercup followed Carol into the drawing room. Two nervous-looking people were sitting on facing sofas, evidently ill at ease. Buttercup breezed over to the nearest of them, a man, with a hand extended, a broad smile on her face.

  ‘How do you do, I’m Buttercup Redmain. I’m sorry my husband has been delayed, but he’ll be here soon.’

  The man leapt up at once to shake her hand. He was stocky and rather red-faced with a bald head and heavy stubble. ‘Hello. No problem at all. I’m Wilf Tranter.’ He gestured to the woman on the opposite sofa. ‘That’s my wife, Cathy.’

  Buttercup looked over at a woman about her own age with a confetti of freckles over her face and a thick mane of chestnut hair. She was struggling to get to her feet from the depths of the soft sofa. ‘Please don’t get up!’ Buttercup said quickly. ‘Honestly. We’re very relaxed here.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The woman sat back. ‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Redmain.’

  ‘Please, call me Buttercup.’

  ‘Er . . . yes,’ the woman said, looking uncertain, as if it would be presumptuous to use such a name, almost like calling her Honey Pie or Sweetie Pops.

  ‘I know, it’s a ridiculous name – not my real name, I should add. My father gave it to me as a nickname, after the character in The Princess Bride, which was his absolute favourite movie. I’m afraid I was a real daddy’s girl – and of course it stuck. Everyone’s called me Buttercup ever since I was about three and I can’t remember being anything else. Only my headmistress called me Anna, and I used to get told off for being rude when I ignored her!’

  The others laughed politely while Carol busied herself pouring coffee and handing out cups.

  ‘What a lovely house you have,’ Cathy Tranter said politely, holding her cup and saucer with a trace of awkwardness.

  ‘Thank you.’ Buttercup sat down on one of the armchairs, giving Carol a nod to indicate that it was okay to head back to the kitchen. ‘It’s been a labour of love for my husband – he did the restoration work on it. We’re very happy here, I’m sure you’d love the pub and the village.’

  ‘The pub looks great,’ Wilf said eagerly. ‘It’s a terrific opportunity. Fantastic kitchen.’

  ‘Everyone seems really friendly,’ Cathy chimed in. ‘We had a little wander around the village and we met some lovely people. We met a super lady just outside the shop – she told us all about the local primary schools and which one might be best for our boy, Ollie. He’s three, so he only needs a nursery at the moment, but it won’t be long before we’re looking for a reception place. I’d been looking up schools online, but you can’t beat a personal recommendation from a mum who’s raised two children in the area.’

  Buttercup was suddenly alert.

  ‘She’s called Ingrid,’ Cathy went on. ‘She said she lived near the entrance to Charcombe House. Do you know her?’

  It had to be her. Buttercup hesitated, her palms prickling, ‘No. I’m afraid I don’t.’

  ‘Oh!’ Cathy looked surprised. ‘She seemed to know this house very well. She said she’s lived in the village for six years.’

  Buttercup bit her lip, then said, ‘Look, I may as well tell you. If you get the lease for the pub, you’ll soon find out. Ingrid is my husband’s ex-wife.’

  ‘Oh!’ A wave of scarlet flooded Cathy’s face as her eyes widened in horror. ‘I . . . I had no idea. I’m so sorry if I’ve put my foot in it.’

  ‘Please don’t worry, you haven’t. It’s okay, I promise. She stayed in the village after the divorce so that her children could be close to their father, and we’re all fine with it. My husband and I have only been married a year and a half, and I’m afraid that I haven’t got to know Ingrid. I think we all feel that . . .’ She hesitated, now awkward herself.

  ‘It’s best, I’m sure,’ Cathy said quickly, still bright red. Her husband was staring intently into his cup of coffee. ‘And very mature of you all to live so close. It must be so nice for the kids.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Buttercup said firmly. ‘It’s not an issue. Really.’

  ‘Well . . . she seemed very nice,’ Cathy said weakly. ‘I’m sure you’d get on.’

  Wilf shot her a look and frowned.

  ‘We probably would.’ Buttercup smiled brightly. ‘So, you have a little boy . . . ?’

  Cathy, grateful for the change of subject, immediately started talking abou
t her son while Buttercup listened, a smile fixed on her face. It was all she could do to keep her thoughts from straying to Ingrid, whose presence in the village was a constant reminder of the life Charles had before their marriage. She couldn’t quite work out why she should mind – after all, the divorce had happened long before she met Charles, and the children were the reason why Ingrid lived in the house outside the gates of Charcombe. And she had no cause for complaint: Ingrid was tactful enough to keep herself to herself. She had never suggested coming to the house or meeting Buttercup. Charles’s children, James and Charlotte, came without her. In fact, Ingrid had been a model of decorum. Nevertheless, Buttercup felt the other woman’s presence like a permanent insect bite, a source of unpleasant irritation. After all, Ingrid had been here first, the mistress of this house for several years. She’d raised her children here, and even though Charles had been the key mover in the decoration of the house, surely Ingrid’s taste and character was everywhere, visible and yet invisible. While there were no photographs of her on display, and none of her possessions, she must have chosen things – curtains, cushions, furniture – and arranged the house the way she saw fit. Who knew if that old pair of boots left in the cupboard had been hers? Or if she had put up the pretty framed pictures of garden flowers in the downstairs lavatory?

  How could I ever guess what she was like?

  No one spoke of Ingrid to Buttercup, even though all the staff must have known her. She was an unacknowledged presence, a ghost who was everywhere and nowhere, a character who had made her exit from the family drama, but who could not be forgotten: if James and Charlotte were not evidence enough of her existence, there was the fact that she was living so close, her proximity throbbing through the air and making it impossible to ignore her.

  It’s Charles I feel sorry for. It makes no difference to me, but what must it be like for him, with the ex-wife who broke his heart living at the end of the driveway?

  That was what made her dislike Ingrid: she had betrayed Charles and then stuck around as a permanent reminder of the hurt she had caused, without even having the grace to live out of sight of her old home.

  Buttercup hoped that there was no trace of that dislike in the bright smile she was giving the Tranters while their conversation flowed over her, only half heard.

  There was a sudden change in atmosphere and Buttercup looked up to see Charles coming into the room. As usual, she was struck by how impressive he was: handsome, his sandy hair lightly dusted with distinguished grey, the strong bone structure lending character to his face, his eyes a striking blue. He was invariably immaculately dressed, but casual today in a crisp shirt, soft blue cashmere sweater, jeans and a pair of polished brown Loake’s boots.

  ‘Charles,’ she said, jumping up, happy to see him.

  ‘Hello, darling.’ He was beside her, kissing her on the cheek, before he looked around at the guests. ‘Mr Tranter? How do you do, I’m Charles Redmain.’

  Wilf looked completely overawed as he stood up to shake Charles’s hand, and this time, Cathy got to her feet as well, pushing herself up with a small groan as she did so.

  Buttercup saw Cathy Tranter’s jacket straining over a large, round belly that hadn’t been evident when she’d been sitting back in the depth of the sofa. With as jolly a tone as she could manage, she said, ‘You’re expecting a baby. That’s lovely.’

  Cathy smiled. ‘Yes! Another one, for my sins. I know I look like I’m ready to burst, but there’s actually a month to go yet. I’m due early November.’

  Buttercup stared at her, unable to say anything more. She knew she should be offering more congratulations, asking questions, but the emotions spinning through her, making her sway a little under their force, rendered her speechless. Just then, she felt Charles’s arm around her shoulders.

  ‘Come on. Come with me.’ Charles turned to the Tranters. ‘My wife has to get on her way, I’m afraid. I’ll just see her out and then we can get on with the interview, if you’ll excuse us—’

  Wilf and Cathy murmured their understanding as Charles led her gently to the door and out into the hall. Once there, he hugged her tightly.

  ‘You’re a brave girl,’ he murmured. ‘A very brave girl.’

  She buried her head on his shoulder. ‘It’s hard sometimes,’ she whispered.

  ‘I know. I could tell exactly what you were feeling. It will get better – didn’t I promise that? And you know I’ll always be here.’

  She nodded, her eyes prickling with tears. A deep sigh shook her shoulders.

  He hugged her again. ‘There’s a good strong girl. Everything will be all right, I promise. Now, isn’t Phil expecting you? You should go. A ride will make everything better. It always cheers you up.’

  ‘Yes.’ Buttercup managed to smile at him, knowing how he hated to see her unhappy. ‘Thank you. You’re right. I’ll go now.’

  He dropped a tender kiss on her forehead. ‘Enjoy yourself. I’ll see you later.’

  Chapter Three

  As Buttercup passed through the kitchen on her way to the back door, Tippi looked up from her bed by the kitchen table and wagged her tail. Carol turned from where she was stirring a pot on the Aga top and, seeing the expression on Buttercup’s face, immediately asked, ‘Are you okay?’

  Buttercup stopped and nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  ‘You don’t look it.’

  Something about the sympathy in Carol’s soft Scottish lilt made Buttercup desperate with sadness and she stopped short, staring at the floor. ‘Cathy Tranter is pregnant. She’s due in a month.’

  ‘Oh, love.’ Carol dropped the spoon into the pot and came over to hug her. ‘A month? Oh, sweetheart – that brings you up to the anniversary of – well . . . It’s a shame, that’s all.’

  Buttercup nodded, comforted by the warmth of the other woman’s embrace.

  Carol stepped back and regarded her with concern. ‘I’m sorry. You don’t need that. She should have stayed away when she’s that far along.’

  ‘It’s not her fault,’ Buttercup said, her voice thick with unshed tears. ‘She wasn’t to know. And I shouldn’t still feel like this, after all this time.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You have every right to feel like a mess. Especially as you get closer to – well, closer to the date.’

  Buttercup nodded. The anniversary of when my baby died. That’s what we can’t say. ‘I’m going to go for my ride.’

  ‘That’s a great idea. Just what you need. And lunch will be ready when you get back.’ Carol smiled encouragingly at her. ‘Off you go now. Try to have a good time.’

  Buttercup went out to the Land Rover parked by the stables, jumped in the front and revved up the engine with a roar. The grating sound helped her to release some of the pain she’d felt when she’d spotted that burgeoning tummy on Cathy Tranter. The sight of it had thrown up all the awful feelings of loss and misery, sending them spinning upwards from the place where she kept them closed away. She had hoped that if she ignored them hard enough, they would wither and die like a vase of forgotten flowers; but they refused to do it. Each time she revisited them, they were as fresh and vigorous as ever.

  I knew November would be hard, remembering all that sorrow and loss. It’s not poor Cathy’s fault. She reversed the Land Rover so that she could drive out of the stable yard. It will get better once the anniversary is over with.

  She knew what would heal her most. After the miscarriage, the doctor had advised her to wait a few months before trying again, but she had been desperate to conceive and refused to wait so they had begun trying right away. Each month that passed with no success made her longing more intense.

  She drove over the rough cobbles, through the gate and out onto the gravelled area in front of the house, feeling wretched. Just the sight of the long drive stretching through beautiful parkland to the gates at the end, topped with their stone greyhounds, reminded her how lucky she was.

  I have everything. A marvellous husband, a beautiful house,
a lovely life. I just want this other thing too – that’s all. Just one thing. A family.

  By the time she reached Zinch Hill, Phil was walking Milky up and down the lane to warm her up a little. When he heard Buttercup’s approach, he pulled Milky to one side and held her on the verge, patting her nose to keep her calm at the sound of the engine, while Buttercup parked.

  Phil waved as Buttercup came towards him. ‘There you are,’ he said, as she strode up. ‘I thought I had the wrong place.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said shortly as she took the reins, put a foot in the stirrup and pulled herself easily into the saddle. She leaned down to pat the warm neck. ‘Good girl, Milky,’ she muttered.

  Phil eyed her with a frown. ‘Are you all right, BC?’

  She smiled, hoping she looked normal. ‘Yes, fine.’

  He didn’t look convinced but only said, ‘Okay then. Enjoy yourself. I’ll be here when you get back – or text me where to meet you if you need a lift home.’

  ‘I will. Thanks. See you later.’ She kicked Milky into a trot and the mare obediently started down the lane, her shoes ringing out on the tarmac. The rhythm provided an instant sense of calm, and Buttercup felt herself relax as she drew in a lungful of fresh air and released it fully. This – the closeness to Milky, the connection with her and the world around them, the companionable isolation and the physical exertion – helped so much.

  Milky knew the way and hardly had to be directed to turn off the lane and onto the bridle path. Soon they were climbing up under an archway of trees just starting to turn into their autumn colour, a damp mass of leaves beginning to clog the mud on the path.

  If Dad could see me now, she thought wistfully. He’d wanted her to be a star of the pony club, and she’d had riding lessons on a fat little white pony called Jim Bob, taken part in a few gymkhanas and won some rosettes; photographs of her in full kit holding them up sat in pride of place in her parents’ home for years. She had not loved riding, however, dreading falls and hating grooming, and had given it up without regret as soon as she could. It was only when she’d moved here with Charles and he was away so much on business, that she’d taken to going to the stables to visit the horses. Something about them, standing patiently in their stalls, waiting and trustful, calmed her and gave her an escape from the grief at her father’s death. Phil, easy and undemanding company, hadn’t seemed to mind her hanging about and soon she was lending a hand. Where once she’d found grooming a chore, now she positively loved the soothing process of brushing and rubbing, and the way that cleaning tack helped to clear her mind and relax her.