Page 8 of The Holiday Cottage

Dorothy smiled. “You know I’d love to have you.” The idea of it lifted her mood. She’d make a big fuss, as Sara always did. She’d choose a huge tree. The girls would love that. “It will be fun. The girls can help me decorate the house over the next few weeks.”

There was an ache behind her ribs. She was lucky to have them. Her wonderful daughter and son-in-law, her two adorable grandchildren. The Estate, the business, her beautiful home in the country. The animals. She smiled. The animals were the reason she never felt lonely. She really was fortunate in many ways, and she knew it. But still—

It was possible to be fortunate and grateful but also feel an ache of regret for the past. And at this time of year that ache became more acute.

She dropped Sara at her house in the village, stopped long enough to hug her grandchildren and then headed back to the car to drive the few miles home to the Winterbury Estate.

Her parents had bought the house and grounds in a tumble-down state and had gradually restored it. It had been her father who had planted the vines. He’d returned from a holiday in France, inspired by what he’d seen. He’d been convinced that the sheltered aspect of the estate and the soil quality would produce an excellent wine, and time had proved him right.

Dorothy drove down the narrow country lanes, her headlamps picking out dry stone walls and thatched cottages as she headed into the small Cotswold village of Winterbury. She felt an immediate sense of serenity and calm. Despite all the advances of the modern world, it sometimes felt as if time had stood still in this quaint little corner of England.

A river bubbled through the middle of the village, flanked by houses of honey-colored stone. There was a village green, a pub that drew people from miles around, an excellent bakery and various independent stores that stocked local produce, including wines from the Winterbury Estate. In the summer months the streets were swollen with tourists keen to absorb the atmosphere, but in winter the place mostly returned to the home of her childhood.

They were forecasting a cold snap, but it had been a good year for the vines. In fact, Patrick, who was her winemaker as well as her son-in-law, had told her last month that it had been their best year ever, with their highest yields to date. June had been dry and warm, allowing for flowering, and then they’d had heavy storms but by then the vines were flourishing. They’d had a bumper harvest.

A mile beyond the village she turned off the main road, drove through the gates of the Winterbury Estate, past Holly Cottage and along the tree-lined avenue that led to the house.

The prospect of a weekend alone didn’t worry her. She’d lived alone since Phillip had died and she was used to it.

Sara was worried she was lonely, but Dorothy never felt lonely here. Partly because there were usually people around—the small staff who helped her around the estate, and Jenny, her housekeeper who lived in the village—but mostly because this was her home.

She pulled up in front of the house. The front door opened, and a welcoming glow of light spilled down the steps. A spaniel sped across to her, tail wagging furiously.

“Bailey.” She bent to make a fuss of him. “I missed you.”

She reached for her luggage. She made a point of traveling light and only had a single small suitcase.

“He always behaves as if you’ve been away for a year, not a couple of nights. Good trip?” Jenny stood on the steps waiting for her, her coat already buttoned.

“Very good. Thank you for keeping an eye on everything, Jenny.” She hugged the other woman warmly. They’d known each other for decades, and their friendship had sustained them through tough times. “Everything okay here?”

“Yes. I checked the alpacas earlier. Everything seemed fine. I gave them extra hay.”

“Thanks, Jenny. Drive carefully. I’ll see you on Monday.” Dorothy watched as Jenny drove away and then headed to the house with Bailey at her heels.

It felt good to be home.

She walked through to the kitchen and was wrapped in a welcoming warmth.

Jenny had left a stack of mail for her on the table, but she decided to tackle it later and instead made herself a mug of creamy hot chocolate, which she took to the library. This was the room where she felt closest to Phillip, and she still did feel his presence here even though it had been so many years since he died. She’d been a widow for more than twenty years and she still missed him every day, even though she’d made a good life for herself.

She sat in the nook that overlooked the gardens and the paddock. In summer she could watch her small herd of alpacas from this spot, but tonight they’d taken refuge from the cold in the small barn that she’d had built for them when they first arrived.

To the right of the paddock was the vegetable garden, and behind that the orchard and then the vineyards.

Bailey joined her in the library and settled at her feet.

“We ought to have an early night.” She reached out and stroked his head. “Busy day tomorrow.”

Every day was busy, and with Christmas approaching it would get busier, although nothing like harvest, of course, which always involved brutal hours and little time off. She left the logistics of running the business to her small team of staff, of which Patrick was a key member, but she still kept an eye on everything and occasionally she helped prune the vines. It took her back to those exhausting but happy days when she and Phillip had done so much of the work together.

It was time she started to give proper thought to Christmas. If her grandchildren were coming, then she needed the house to be extra festive.

It was time to start baking and freezing food so it would be less frenetic while they were staying.

No doubt it would mean working from dawn to dusk, but that didn’t worry her. She needed it.

And even though she knew Sara had been teasing her with her jokes about lounging on the sofa, she badly wanted her daughter to be able to relax and enjoy Christmas. She wanted her to be able to spend time with the girls and Patrick. Focus on her children and not spend her time welded to the stove. Family time was so important, and those early years passed so quickly.

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