The Winter Secret Read online

  ‘Paul,’ she said softly, ‘I’m scared I wouldn’t be able to manage the strain. You know I haven’t been myself lately. I don’t know if I’m well enough for something like this.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Papa was effervescent with enthusiasm. ‘You’re a little over-tired, yes. Nothing more, my love. This has been a long and exhausting run – they’ll let you miss the rest on health grounds alone. A trip to America is exactly what you need.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Mama sounded both resigned and hopeful, as though she wanted to be convinced by Papa’s energy and spirit. ‘If you say so, darling . . . you know I’ll do whatever you think is best.’

  ‘Good. You’re a star, Natalie, and you’re ready to take on the world.’

  There was a pause and then Xenia heard the sound of kissing. She slipped quietly away.

  Two weeks later, Gunter took Xenia and her friend Rachel to the cinema. The cinema held no attraction for the nanny, who preferred a nice walk in the park, so the girls were allowed to watch the picture alone, with strict instructions to meet Gunter after the showing.

  They had settled into their seats and were watching the newsreel in the darkness when Rachel nudged Xenia hard. ‘Crumbs, look!’ she said loudly. ‘It’s your mother!’

  Xenia nodded, staring at the screen, wide-eyed. There was Mama, glamorous and beautiful, walking up the gangplank of the great ocean liner, smiling and waving her white-gloved hand at the camera. The newsreel music played jauntily as the narrator explained the action.

  ‘Home-grown star Natalie Rowe is off to try her luck in that land of dreams, Hollywood! After achieving fame on the London stage, the glamorous actress is on her way the United States, summoned by the famous film director Archibald Thomas to audition for the most desirable role of the season – the leading role in the great man’s next picture. He’s already tested many stars – rumoured to include Ingrid Bergman, Joan Fontaine and Lana Turner! – but he’s still looking for his leading lady. Could our very own Natalie Rowe steal the part for herself?’

  The camera panned over the mountain of luggage, neatly labelled ‘Princess Natalie Arkadyoff’, though the initials on the leather were curling NRs.

  ‘And it may well help that she is also a Russian princess!’

  The film showed a swift glimpse of the people on the dockside waving at the departing liner. For an instant it lingered on Xenia, girlish in a velvet-collared coat, beret and strappy shoes, and her father in his greatcoat, both waving.

  ‘Ooh!’ said Rachel excitedly. ‘That’s you!’

  ‘Shhh,’ said someone nearby.

  Then they saw the liner moving out to sea, the smoke from its funnels trailing behind it in a great black cloud.

  ‘Good luck, Natalie!’ said the voice jovially over the crescendo of music. ‘Your many admirers at home are all rooting for you!’

  Xenia blinked. It was so strange seeing it like that, reduced to a few moments of uncomplicated, happy action. She remembered the drive to Southampton just a few days ago. They all tried to be brave but it was obvious Mama was frightened, and Xenia was sick at the thought of their being parted by a great ocean when she’d never been away from her mother before.

  Only Papa had been cheerful, trying to comfort Mama and boost her spirits, talking excitedly about the voyage ahead, the wonders of California, and the promise that he and Xenia would soon join her if she got the role.

  Even so, Mama’s eyes were bright with tears despite her effort to hold them in. But as soon as they got out of the car in front of the press, she appeared calm and radiant. Only Xenia could know she was shaking as she hugged her and said, ‘Be good, won’t you, darling? I’ll be home soon, I promise. It’s only an audition, you know. And if I get it, you’ll visit me in California. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Look after Papa for me. Goodbye!’

  She had kissed her mother’s powdered cheek but by then Mama was distracted by the press photographers and the moving-picture camera pointed at her; she was intent on smiling the right way and not showing she was afraid.

  ‘Goodbye, Mama. I’ll write to you!’

  ‘Take care, Natalie,’ her father said. ‘Do your best, won’t you? That’s all we can ask.’

  ‘I will, darling,’ her mother said, smiling brightly at the camera. ‘You needn’t worry about me.’ Then she turned to her husband, a strange intensity in her eyes. ‘I love you, darling. I want to make you proud.’

  ‘I love you too.’ He kissed her cheek once more and squeezed her gloved hand.

  Then she was gone. They watched until the liner was out of the harbour, then went home.

  ‘You’re so lucky,’ Rachel sighed. ‘Fancy having a film star for a mother!’

  ‘She’s not a film star yet,’ Xenia said.

  ‘But still. And you on the newsreel! Golly.’

  ‘Quiet, you girls!’ said someone sitting behind them.

  Then the music struck up for the main picture, and Xenia tried to forget that Mama was far away in America.

  At least there is still Papa and me. It’s up to me to look after him, like Mama asked.

  Chapter Six

  Buttercup was woken early on Monday morning by the sound of rotating blades thudding as a helicopter landed on the field by the house. Charles’s side of the bed was empty and she remembered that he was leaving early for London City Airport to catch his flight to Switzerland for his meeting.

  She clambered out of the four-poster bed and went to the window in time to see Charles striding out across the lawn to the gate that opened into the next-door field. Behind him was Carol’s husband Steve, who acted as the caretaker, handyman and Charles’s assistant when he was in Dorset, with a neat navy travelling bag. A moment later, the little aircraft was taking off, rising vertically until it dipped, turned and sped away east while Steve made his way back across the field towards the house.

  Buttercup slipped back into bed, pulling the covers up around her and sighing. The house always felt different without Charles here, as though something vital had been drained from it. It became quieter, as though sliding down into dormant mode until its power source returned to re-animate it.

  Coming downstairs later, she saw Agnieska, the Polish girl who came in to clean, dusting vigorously at a marble bust, rubbing it round and round as though she was wiping food off the dirty face of a child.

  ‘Morning,’ Buttercup said brightly, as she reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Yes, very good,’ Agnieska replied, glancing over swiftly before returning her attention to the marble bust. Her voice was surprisingly low, and her accent lilting.

  Buttercup caught the bitter tang of cigarette smoke and wondered if smoking accounted for Agnieska’s pale, pearl-grey complexion, her strangely light blue eyes and the hair that was ashy blond almost to whiteness. She was slender too, quite wraith-like.

  Like a smoky sprite. The spirit of a bonfire or a temple brazier.

  ‘And how are the boys?’ Buttercup asked. Their names popped into her mind. ‘Lukasz and David?’

  ‘They are well,’ Agnieska said with a sudden broad smile. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Buttercup headed towards the kitchen. ‘I’m just going to have a word with Carol. See you later.’

  Carol was in the kitchen, as usual, humming as she worked in her usual cheery way. Buttercup had managed to persuade her not to set up a formal breakfast in the dining room when Charles was away, insisting she would prefer to eat at the kitchen table.

  When Buttercup had first arrived at Charcombe after the honeymoon, she was still recovering from the mad whirl of the wedding and the speed of her courtship with Charles before that, and she’d been grateful for the way it ran so smoothly. It had been like moving into a comfortable country house hotel where she and Charles were the only guests, and in any case, they’d still been floating on their post-honeymoon cloud of bliss. But then he’d gone back to work, disappearing for long stretches, and she found herself alone. For th
e first time, it sunk in that she wouldn’t be going back to her flat in Fulham, now rented out, and that she had resigned from her job running an office for a respected kitchen designer, with the intention of finding something else in Dorset, which had so far not led to anything. The full force of her life change had struck her. Where once she’d been busy keeping her flat tidy, commuting and working, as well as enjoying a busy social life, now she was at a permanent loose end.

  It wasn’t just that she had no job; there was literally nothing that had to be done. There were others to take care of all the cleaning, cooking, shopping and household maintenance. The large, well-equipped kitchen was Carol’s domain; she did everything that Buttercup had assumed that she would one day do, from baking bread to making jam, to conjuring up delicious meals at a moment’s notice. Buttercup still intended to do those things at some point, but it didn’t seem so easy when the kitchen wasn’t really hers. She still intended to look for a job of some kind, but her pregnancy put the process on hold and she’d never got back to it, stymied by the depression of her miscarriage. That was partly why she had started to spend so much time in the stables, where there was always work for her idle hands and where Phil didn’t seem to mind her on his territory. That, and the balm it provided for her sorrow.

  ‘Morning,’ Carol sang out as she noticed Buttercup. She was polishing glasses as the radio played tinnily in the background. ‘How are you today?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. Charles is away for a few days.’

  ‘I know. Mission Control has been in touch.’ Carol grinned. ‘He’s back on Friday.’

  ‘Oh. Good.’ She hadn’t known that. ‘I’m glad you’re on top of it. I must check the online diary.’ Elaine kept it updated with all of Charles’s movements and usually emailed with any key comings and goings. Buttercup went to the fridge and looked for the yoghurt.

  ‘It’s on the table, with your fruit and coffee.’ Carol nodded her head at the table, where Buttercup’s breakfast was neatly laid out.

  ‘Thanks. I guess I must be a bit predictable.’

  Carol shrugged. ‘Don’t worry, love. It’s my job. Have you got some plans for the next few days?’

  Buttercup went to the table and sat down. She spooned a mound of soft yoghurt into her bowl. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, adding the berries. They dropped into the whiteness, staining it scarlet. Ever since the interview with the Tranters, she’d felt low again and she knew that it wasn’t only the anniversary of the miscarriage. It was the fact she hadn’t been able to conceive again. She felt as though she couldn’t go on living in a constant cycle of hope and disappointment. ‘I might go up to London while Charles is away,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen my friends in ages.’

  ‘You must miss them,’ Carol said sympathetically. She had finished the glasses, and hung her tea towel over the Aga rail. ‘Do you all keep in touch?’

  ‘Of course. Lots of messages and things.’ Buttercup took a mouthful of tart yoghurt and sweet berries. ‘But we used to see each other all the time. It would be nice to catch up with them.’

  ‘Sure.’ Carol went over to the fridge. ‘Sounds great.’

  ‘So I’ll be back on Thursday, before Charles.’

  ‘Fine. Just message me if you need anything out of the ordinary.’ Carol was pulling things out of the fridge. ‘Are you going to stay in Queen Anne’s Close?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I might stay with a friend.’

  ‘Okay.’ Carol put a bag of beans down on the counter. ‘Let me know what you decide.’

  Buttercup ate another mouthful with a prickle of annoyance. It was nothing against Carol personally, but why did she have to explain herself like this? Once she had been able to please herself, do what she liked. Now everyone needed to know where she was and what she was doing when it was no one’s business, except Charles’s, where she spent her time. She ate her breakfast, feeling out of sorts and irritable.

  ‘By the way,’ Carol said suddenly, and Buttercup looked up. ‘Agnieska told me that she’s got another job. Another cleaning gig.’

  ‘Does she want to leave here?’

  ‘No, it’s as well as this, two afternoons a week. But the thing is . . . it’s down at Fitzroy House.’

  Buttercup blinked and said, ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘Do you mind? I thought I should let you know. She’s on her own since her breakup, and her husband’s gone back to Poland. She probably needs the money.’

  She hesitated. ‘No . . . that’s fine. There’s no reason why she can’t do both, I suppose.’

  ‘Okay.’ Carol smiled. ‘Have a great trip.’

  ‘Thanks. I will.’

  As she drove out between the huge iron gates that led up to Charcombe Park, Buttercup glanced at Fitzroy House. Charles had told her it had been built for the widowed mother and unmarried sisters of a previous owner of the house, where they could live in comfortable dignity after having to leave their home. That was why it was so close, and yet separate, a small distance outside the gate and surrounded by its own garden.

  Mothers and sisters, Buttercup thought, with a touch of bitterness. Not ex-wives. Why can’t she go away and leave us alone? It won’t be long before the children won’t need to live so close.

  In reality, the crossover between the children being home from school and Charles actually being at Charcombe had always been slim. With James at university now and Charlotte near the end of her schooling, they would be moving away in any case, and it looked as though Ingrid would still be at the end of the drive, watching the comings and goings and keeping an eye on her ex-husband.

  ‘Come on, it’s a bit bizarre,’ her best friend Hazel had said, when Buttercup explained the set-up in Dorset. They had been having a pre-wedding get-together at Buttercup’s flat to sort out the last details, just her, Hazel and Polly, her bridesmaids, sitting on the floor around the coffee table eating takeaway. ‘You’ve got your husband’s ex-wife living at the bottom of the garden! Sounds barmy to me. Unhealthy.’

  ‘Hazel, you don’t know the circumstances,’ Polly admonished her, always the diplomat to Hazel’s frank speaker. ‘It might make sense to them.’

  ‘Hold on, let me make sure I’ve got this right.’ Hazel frowned, staring upwards as she gathered her thoughts. ‘So Ingrid and Charles were married for . . .’

  ‘Ten years,’ put in Buttercup. ‘I think. Ten or twelve.’

  ‘Right. They buy a fuck-off huge house together and she brings up the kids while he does it up.’

  ‘So far so normal,’ Polly said, digging around in her pad thai for morsels of prawn. ‘I wouldn’t mind that – he could do the builders and stuff. I’d do the fun bits.’

  ‘Then she has an affair.’ Hazel fixed Buttercup with an interrogative gaze. ‘Do we know who with?’

  Buttercup shook her head. ‘I can’t exactly ask. It looks nosy.’

  ‘Well, what’s he told you?’

  ‘He just said that after they decided she should move out, she insisted on living close by to make it easier for him to see James and Charlotte.’

  The other two must have heard the defensiveness in her voice because Hazel said in a softer tone:

  ‘You’re right, no one knows the circumstances. It’s sad for the kids in any case but good they managed to do things in their best interests. As long as she doesn’t expect to be your pal, popping up for coffee and biscuits and a poke-around to see what you’re up to. Is she still with the bloke she had the affair with?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Buttercup said, feeling gloomy. She didn’t like all this talk about Charles’s other life when they ought to be looking forward to the rosy future ahead. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s regretting having cheated on him, and wants him back!’ Hazel said, pointing her chopsticks in emphasis. ‘Maybe she’s got plans to cosy up to you and then worm her way back in.’

  Buttercup felt sick at the thought and pushed her plate away.

  ‘Hazel! exclaimed Polly. ‘That’s ridiculous.
Don’t listen to her, Buttercup. It sounds like everyone has been very mature to me.’

  Hazel shrugged and dug her chopsticks back into her food. ‘Yeah, okay. But you’d better keep your guard up. Does Charles ever see her?’

  Buttercup shook her head. ‘No. He says they communicate through his office. To be honest, apart from the bare outline of what happened – she had an affair, they got divorced – he never speaks about her.’

  ‘And you’ve never met her?’ Polly said.

  ‘Nope. I’ve never seen her, except for a glimpse or two when I’ve passed her house. There’s nothing of her in the house either. No photos. Actually, no one ever mentions her. So I don’t think she’s any threat to Charles and me.’

  She saw Polly and Hazel exchange a look and knew what they were thinking: that the whole set-up was very weird.

  Well, they’re right. Buttercup had left the village and was following the winding narrow roads on her way to the A303. It is weird. When she occasionally mentioned Ingrid, Charles would grow a little distant, his mouth setting in a line that meant he wasn’t happy. Once, when she’d said heatedly that she wished Ingrid would just go and live somewhere else, he’d seemed to find it amusing, as though he was flattered that Buttercup was jealous of Ingrid.

  ‘She doesn’t have to go if she doesn’t want to,’ he’d said calmly. ‘It’s the terms of the divorce. I can’t chuck her out.’

  ‘Well, she has some nerve living so close, considering she was the unfaithful one. Doesn’t she care how painful it must be for you to have her still so near? Can’t you tell her we don’t want her here?’

  ‘That would most certainly make her stay.’

  ‘Then she’s just malicious, that’s all. It wouldn’t make any difference if she were on the other side of the village. It’s not as though she lets the children come up here in any case.’ Buttercup had felt a great surge of hatred towards Ingrid, then tried to temper it. ‘Does she ever get in touch?’

  ‘Of course not. We communicate through Elaine. She knows Ingrid well. It works.’

  Buttercup thought of that as she joined the main road heading for London.