The Winter Secret Read online

  Once she became a regular at the stable, Phil said one day, ‘You should take them out, exercise them.’

  ‘Could I?’ she’d asked, excited. ‘But I haven’t ridden in years. I’m sure I’ve forgotten how to.’

  ‘Rubbish. You never forget. It’ll come back soon enough in any case.’ Phil had mussy blond hair and a permanent rash of gingery stubble, and was always in work-stained clothes, with dirty hands and black-rimmed nails, but he didn’t care how he looked as long as the horses were cared for and the yard was neat. ‘You can ride Richelieu, he’s Charlotte’s. You can borrow a cap, no need for anything else.’

  Buttercup had seen Charlotte out riding on Richelieu, a beautiful frisky dappled grey gelding; Topper, the huge bay thoroughbred hunter belonged to Charles, though he rarely rode. ‘And does Mocha belong to James?’ she asked, looking over at the docile bay mare in the last stall along.

  Phil had gone quiet for a moment, murmuring to Topper and pressing a polo mint to the horse’s mouth, then he said, ‘No, she belongs to Ingrid.’

  ‘Oh.’ Buttercup blinked and the atmosphere was suddenly awkward. ‘Does she come here to ride her?’

  ‘She hasn’t lately.’

  Buttercup could hear the unspoken end to that sentence: Not now that you’re here.

  ‘Actually,’ Phil said, ‘there’s talk that Mocha will go to stables down at the Herberts’, so it won’t be an issue.’

  ‘Oh. I suppose that’s for the best.’

  ‘Yes,’ Phil said with finality. ‘So, we’ll get you saddled up, shall we?’

  Nothing more had been said, and not long after, Mocha was gone. Buttercup was glad. She hadn’t liked the sense that something of Ingrid’s was still here, as though the other woman refused to let go of her hold on Charles and her life here at Charcombe.

  How much don’t I know about her influence here? What do they know about Ingrid that I don’t? But she couldn’t ask Phil anything. She owed it to Charles to keep a dignified silence. Buttercup was not going to show any curiosity about her, or give the slightest hint that she cared. Charles had been noble in the face of Ingrid’s humiliating betrayal and her brazen impudence at living so close, keeping her horse here, and who knew what other means she had found to maintain a presence at Charcombe . . .

  Perhaps she’s still in touch with Phil, or with Carol. Maybe she asks about me, gets them to tell her all about Charles and me . . . She could imagine the other woman pouncing on juicy information, making judgements, laughing about her.

  I just have to deal with it. After all, we are the adults, we’re being civilised for the sake of the children, for James and Charlotte.

  But she couldn’t help wishing that Ingrid was far away from the new life she was trying to build. Or that she’d never existed at all.

  Buttercup took Milky up the gallops and spent a vigorous hour letting her reach her limit, exhilarated by the feeling of speed and power coursing through the mare’s body. Milky had been a birthday present from Charles, after he’d noticed how much pleasure she was getting from riding, and the grey mare was the perfect gift. Each time she rode Milky, Buttercup felt released a little more from the burden of mourning, and when it came back, as it always did, it was a little easier to bear.

  ‘You’ve got more work to do, now, haven’t you, girl?’ Buttercup panted as they came to a halt, Milky steaming and snorting with exertion. ‘More sadness to cure. I hope I’m not asking too much this time. Come on, let’s go and find Phil.’

  They went back to the woods and walked slowly along the paths to the next vale, where Phil had driven the box around to meet her.

  ‘Better?’ he asked, when he’d put Milky in, and climbed into the jeep next to Buttercup.

  She nodded and smiled. ‘Yes. Thank you. Much better.’

  ‘Difficult morning, was it?’ Phil started the engine and they began the drive back to where they’d left Buttercup’s Land Rover.

  ‘Not too bad, I suppose. We had a couple over about the pub. They seemed very nice.’

  ‘As long as they serve decent food,’ Phil said. ‘The King’s Head could do with that after the last bloke tried the hot rocks dining experience or whatever it was called.’

  Buttercup laughed. ‘Hot rocks? What?’

  ‘You don’t want to know. Bangers and mash is what we need, make sure they know that. And a decent roast on Sundays.’

  ‘I’m not sure how much say I’ll get, but I’ll certainly tell Charles.’

  ‘Make sure you do, BC.’

  Buttercup smiled at him. He had relaxed with her so much recently. At first he had been a little chilly, perhaps from loyalty to the previous Mrs Redmain, but lately when he saw how much she was responding to the horses, how keen she was to improve her riding and her sheer happiness in it, he had grown friendlier. She liked his lack of pretension and the way he was resolutely unimpressed by the big house, its trappings, and Charles’s expensive toys.

  Despite their growing closeness, though, Buttercup was always careful not to discuss anything about the past with Phil, no matter how much she yearned to satisfy her curiosity.

  ‘Here we are,’ Phil said as they pulled up by the Land Rover and Buttercup prepared to get out. ‘I’ll see you back at the ranch. And I’ll have Milky rubbed down and fed before you get there.’

  ‘You know what? I believe you!’ Buttercup called as she slammed the door and Phil pulled away with a grin, Milky in her box behind. ‘See you at the stables.’

  Back at home, she was tired in a languorous way, her spirits calmer and more content. She had a shower and changed, then went downstairs to find Charles, who was in the drawing room reading a newspaper, while simultaneously scanning his emails on a tablet beside him. The fire crackled in the grate and Tippi lay prone in front of it, lifting her head and thumping her tail as Buttercup came in, alerting Charles to her presence.

  He looked up and smiled. ‘You’re back. Was it fun?’

  ‘Very.’ She went over to kiss him. She always responded to his smiles: they made him look boyish and charming, not that he looked anything like his age. Despite the dozen years between them, he never seemed much older to her. His sandy fair hair almost hid the slight grey and he probably hadn’t looked much different since he was thirty. His strong bone structure and long straight nose gave him a slightly hollow-cheeked look, and his thin upper lip could make him seem austere, until he smiled; then his whole face softened and his blue eyes sparkled, and he radiated merriment that filled her with pleasure and lifted her spirits.

  ‘How was the interview?’ she asked, after kissing his cheek. She sat down on the arm of the chair opposite him. ‘Did you like the Tranters?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ Charles put down his paper. ‘They seemed like good solid people and they’re prepared to take on the pub and make a go of it.’

  ‘So they got the lease?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Charles smiled.

  ‘I’m so glad it’s settled. When do they move in?’

  ‘As soon as we can get the paperwork done. A couple of weeks, if we hurry. It would be tomorrow if I could sort it.’

  ‘Typical Charles. You want everything now, now, now.’ She laughed. ‘You’d have married me the day after we got engaged if you could have!’

  ‘Of course I would. What’s the point in waiting? But I let you have an age to plan the whole thing, didn’t I?’

  ‘Four months!’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Only just!’ She shook her head at him, smiling. ‘I thought I’d done pretty well to get it all organised by then!’

  Charles looked baffled. ‘I can’t think what on earth you had to do.’

  Buttercup made a face at him. ‘That’s because everything gets done for you! You’re very spoiled!’

  She remembered how Charles had not seemed to understand even the most straightforward things about booking a venue, or giving the hotel notice of what they would want and how many people there would be, or the intricacies of arranging
food and flowers, let alone ordering a dress or sorting out the legalities. But she soon learned the power of what Carol called Mission Control and everyone else referred to as The Hub: the house in Westminster that served as a base for Charles’s business, with his penthouse flat at the top of it. Charles’s personal assistants, Elaine and Rose, ran his life as if he were the president of a small country, facilitating his travel, business and domestic requirements down to the tiniest detail. In the end, it was Elaine to whom she’d spoken most about the arrangements for the wedding: together they’d chosen the canapés, the menus and wines, the colour scheme, and the stationery. Elaine sorted out the tailor for Charles’s suit and probably bought his shoes and tie as well. Buttercup suspected that it was Elaine who had chosen the honeymoon location of Thailand, which Charles told her was his surprise for her, and she certainly handled all the bookings. Sometimes she wondered if Elaine had selected the diamond necklace delivered to her hotel suite on the morning of the wedding, with a handwritten note from Charles telling her how happy she was making him. But Elaine definitely had not written that, and that was the important thing.

  But by then, she’d already known how busy Charles was, his mind on dozens of different business deals and projects at any one time, his itinerary jammed with appointments and meetings all over the world. It was no wonder he needed so much support. She had understood and been grateful that Elaine was there to provide the help that Charles could not.

  ‘It was a perfect wedding day, though, wasn’t it?’ Charles said tenderly.

  ‘It was amazing.’ She remembered her joy as she’d walked into that white-and-gilded room in Claridge’s, feeling wonderful in her dress and veil, to see Charles, so handsome and smart, waiting to marry her in front of their family and friends. It had been a moment of bliss when he’d slipped the ring on her finger and they were married. Her only sadness was knowing how much her father would have adored giving her away. Her uncle, who did the job instead, made a speech on his behalf and brought Buttercup to tears telling her how proud her father would have been of his beautiful daughter. He mentioned her mother, far away in the nursing home, and they toasted the absent loved ones. Then Charles wiped away her tears and made her smile again. He spoke of her rapturously in his speech, making her blush and laugh with embarrassment. When she looked around, bashful, she saw beaming faces and pleasure in her happiness, except in the unsmiling faces of Charles’s children, who stayed stony and unmoved throughout despite her best efforts to break through their reserve. She’d tried smiles and hugs but it was no good. They were the only dark spot in a bright and beautiful day.

  Charles closed the cover on his tablet. ‘Darling, I’ve been worrying about you.’

  ‘Have you?’ She felt comforted just hearing it.

  He gazed at her intently. ‘I hate to see you unhappy, darling. Life can be cruel sometimes, and you’ve had more than your fair share.’

  ‘I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to have a family, that’s all,’ she said sadly. ‘Dad’s dead, Mum’s so ill she doesn’t know me and hasn’t for years. I haven’t got any brothers or sisters. And no matter how hard we try, we can’t seem to have a baby.’

  He hugged her hard, as if trying to press his own strength into her and murmured in her ear, ‘It will happen, I know it will. If you only relax and let it all work itself out naturally.’

  Buttercup pulled away so that she could look into his eyes. ‘But shouldn’t we see a doctor or a specialist or something? I got pregnant so quickly last time, and now nothing’s happening. It doesn’t feel right.’

  Charles said softly, ‘Perhaps it was too quickly last time. I mean, I was overjoyed just as you were, but we were hardly married before it happened. We’ve had so little time just for us.’ Seeing her expression, he added quickly, ‘That’s not to say that losing the baby wasn’t the most awful, terrible thing, because it was. But if we can find anything to lift the gloom just a little, maybe it’s that we have more time for each other. You’re only thirty-two. Just wait and see. I think that as soon as you stop worrying it’ll happen naturally. Any specialist or doctor you see will tell you the same – it’s far too early to do any investigating.’

  Buttercup opened her mouth to speak, then changed her mind. She had been on the brink of saying that he couldn’t know what she felt. He’d had the joy of fatherhood: holding his own child, kissing the soft, baby cheek and smelling the delicious scent. He’d held plump toddler hands and read bedtime stories, and pushed swings loaded with fat, giggling bundles in hats and wellies. He’d had it, and she wanted it so badly. What harm could it do to see someone who might help them?

  But it sounded selfish and accusatory. And she also knew he was right. It was early days. She was young, she’d got pregnant once already. It would all be fine.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and smiled. ‘We’ll just have to keep trying.’

  ‘That’s my brave girl,’ he said, and leaned to kiss her softly. ‘We’ll keep trying. And don’t forget, darling – I’m your family now.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘Oh, this frightful mess! And you are not helping me one little scrap, you monster.’

  Xenia Arkadyoff was lying on her stomach in her bedroom, trying to grapple with the piles of things under her bed. How had it got so bad under there? It was jam-packed with bulging plastic bags, sealed boxes and various suitcases, all smothered in a thick coating of dust. As she fumbled in the darkness, hardly able to see or breathe, the cat insisted on hunting her hand, chasing it and pouncing as it rustled inside plastic bags. She had managed to pull out a couple of them for inspection before she was overcome with a sneezing fit and gave up. It took an age to recover from the dust and summon enough energy to haul herself up off the floor.

  ‘What am I doing?’ she said to herself out loud. ‘I’m far too old for this, aren’t I, Petrova?’

  The cat had given up her game and was now washing herself carefully on the rug while studiously ignoring her.

  Xenia sighed. It wasn’t just age that was tormenting her. Her eyesight was growing increasingly bad and the dust had taken hold not just under the bed but throughout the entire house now that she couldn’t see properly to clean.

  ‘Petrova, I need a cleaner, and that’s the end of it. I’ve tried to cope on my own ever since the last one left – what was her name? Anna? No . . . Paulina, that’s right – and I can’t.’ She shook her head at herself. ‘I don’t know why thought I could. And I can afford help now. And once, though you wouldn’t believe it, Petrova, we had lots of servants. My nanny lived with us until I was twelve or so. I think I was twelve when she retired . . .’ A picture of Gunter floated into her mind: solid, reliable, very cautious, with her pudgy face and the mud-coloured hair always in a firm bun at the back of her neck. As a girl, Xenia had wondered how she managed to make it look identical every day and had decided she simply never undid it and now it had set like a stone. ‘Butlers, maids, gardeners, chauffeurs. Papa knew how to do it properly, he insisted on it. But I’ll have you know that I managed alone for years, just Mama and me, so I know what hard work is, don’t you worry about that!’

  The cat did not seem at all worried but carried on licking her flanks.

  ‘Stupid animal,’ Xenia muttered and she went slowly to the window, hobbling a little, stiff from her sojourn on the floor. Pushing up the sash, she let in the cool air. The heat of summer was gone, thank goodness, and the breeze was welcome to clear the air of all the dust motes she had set dancing; she drew in long breaths to clear her lungs.

  I must be grateful, she told herself. Here I am, comfortable at last with money in the bank to provide for me, after all those difficult years. If I don’t hire someone now to help me, I’m a fool.

  The truth was that the hard years had taught her lessons she found she could not forget: she had grown desperately suspicious of people, defensive and afraid, and that was now deeply embedded in her, beyond her control even. Alone with Petrova, in her safe little cottage,
she was happy. The idea of inviting others – outsiders, strangers, people who might want to destroy things, take her away – into her home was anathema.

  But it was increasingly difficult to cope alone, and it would only get harder.

  Xenia looked over the tangle of her front garden to the neatness across the lane, just visible through the branches of the magnolia tree that was sadly in need of a prune. The garden of Fitzroy House looked like a rebuke, with its neat hedges and well-trimmed shrubs, the flower beds still bright with the last of the late summer blooms. She had received letters from that man, Redmain, suggesting she do something about the garden. He had even offered to send his own gardeners down to sort out the mess, and while she would actually have welcomed someone doing what she absolutely could not, she refused and had enjoyed writing a very rude reply telling him her garden was her business and his employees must keep off her land.

  He’s not going to bully me out of my own house. I know he wants it.

  Charles Redmain had wanted Hooke House at the same time as he bought the rest of the estate – Charcombe Park, with its surrounding land, or what was left of it at least – from Xenia. The two gracious houses that stood opposite each other outside the gates of Charcombe – Fitzroy House and Hooke House, twin residences built in the nineteenth century for the unmarried sisters and widowed mother of an owner of the big house – had been rented on long leases when Xenia lived at Charcombe, on virtual peppercorn rents agreed by Papa years before when money didn’t matter. The leases had expired when she had sold the Park, and she had added Fitzroy as a separate lot and kept Hooke for herself. Charles Redmain had badgered her to sell it to him, offering to buy her any other house in the village in exchange, but she had refused. Even now, when all hope was gone, when it was utterly impossible, she couldn’t help an overwhelming need to stay put, to wait, just in case . . .