Page 1 of One More Christmas at the Castle
Prologue
The Die Is Cast
Mitras Castle
Early November 2018
Winter comes early to the remote uplands of Northumberland, where the remaining grey stones of the plundered Roman Wall cling like a straight, ragged-edged grey ribbon across the irregular landscape, punctuated at intervals by a series of half-excavated forts with adjoining visitor centres.
By October, the sound of curlews calling high above in a clear blue sky, the blowing wildflowers and the contented bleating of sheep are but very distant memories, as are the voices of the hikers and tourists. Many of those visitors thought what a lovely spot this must be to live in and how lucky the local inhabitants were, although they might just have changed their minds if they saw it as it was now, when winter’s icy fingers were trying to throttle the life out of it and it seemed improbable that spring would ever manage to pry them loose.
Rowenhead, a few low stone cottages and the remains of a small Roman fort, was hunkered down below the ancient wall, divided from it by a narrow, meandering tarmac road. Therewas a neat, square lodge and a pair of crumbling, eagle-topped gateposts, guarding the dark maw of a drive that vanished down through woodlands to the hidden splendours of Mitras Castle.
Earlier that day, a small red sports car had emerged from it on to the road and sped off in the direction of Newcastle, like a bright bead sliding along a greased grey string.
Now, under the heavy sky, the car was returning, swooping down through the tunnel of trees and coming to a halt on the sweep of gravel before the tall, battlemented wing that had been grafted on to the original old manor house, like a large baroque chunk of grit adhering to a grey pearl.
The house stood at the head of a deep, narrow, tree-lined valley, looking down across its sweep of lawn on to the sheltered terraces below, through which a stream ran, burbled and fell in a series of small waterfalls and pools. Far below, where it spread into a lake, was the verdigris-patinated domed top of a summerhouse.
Home, thought Sabine Powys, levering herself from the driver’s seat, something that had never caused her any difficulty until recently, when her traitorous body had started to betray her.
She was a tall, thin and elderly woman, with a brittle cloud of pale golden hair and a face boldly made up in the style of her youth, with dark arched eyebrows and bright pink lips. She’d never been truly beautiful, but managed to give the impression of it, one that still lingered, along with the ghost of a slightly raffish charm.
Nearly a century ago, a whole colony of small, glossy creatures had been sacrificed to make the long, sleek fur coat she wore, but although she was fond of animals, the fact that it was so old and had also belonged to her beloved mother meant this caused her no qualms.
She was not a very sentimental or over-sensitive woman, although charm could ooze from every pore at the flick of an inner switch and she had always been the life and soul of any party … until Asa had died six years ago and most of her life and soul had gone with him.
Maria, looking down at her employer from the first-floor landing window of the tower, turned and scuttled through to the old house and down the stairs to the Garden Hall, where she whipped her coat off a peg and let herself out, closing the door behind her with a click of the lock. Then she hurried off round the back of the house and up the drive, making for her own cottage next to the entrance gates.
Mrs Powys would not be pleased to find her note, informing her she’d left a pan of soup and a lamb casserole ready to be heated up for dinner, with a cold dessert in the fridge.
Usually at times like this, when there was no live-in household help to be had, she stayed to serve the meal before going home, leaving it to Lucy Ripley, that poor excuse of a woman who called Mrs Powys cousin, to clear and stack the dishwasher, then make the coffee. But now that Maria’s husband, Andy, had had a stroke, things were different. Her priorities had entirely changed.
She’d explained to Mrs Powys this morning that she wouldn’t be able to carry on working her usual hours for the foreseeable future … and perhaps ever again. It was, she had told her, in the hands of God.
Then she’d stood listening with downcast dark eyes and in stubborn silence to Mrs Powys’s reply, for there was no point in trying to persuade her Lady that her comfort and convenience was no longer Maria’s priority or that, once Andy was back at the cottage, she would not be able to resume her usual duties.
The cottage was rent free and she and Andy received generoussalaries. Maria was grateful for these and many other perks – like the soft red cashmere coat she was wearing, which Mrs Powys had decided didn’t suit her.
But right now, none of that seemed as important as driving to the hospital to sit with her husband for as long as they would let her stay, before returning, late and weary, to an empty house.
And as she drove nervously along the narrow road (Andy had always done most of the driving, the small Citroën his pride and joy), she wondered briefly where Mrs Powys had been today. It wasn’t her day to go to the beauty salon in Hexham, her only regular weekly expedition in winter, weather permitting. Maria might have asked Lucy, but as usual, as soon as Mrs Powys had gone out, Lucy had seized the opportunity to retire to her room with a box of chocolates and one of the romantic novels she was addicted to, with a half-naked man on the cover looking as if he’d been oiled ready for spit-roasting. And since Maria didn’t hold much opinion of most men, she thought it would serve him right … though her own kind, gentle Andy was different. He was the reason she had remained here all these years, long after her parents had fled back to their native Corfu, unable to cope with the bleakness of winter at the Castle.
Maria, hands clenched on the steering wheel, began to murmur a Greek prayer from her childhood that had lain dormant in her memory, until fear pulled it back to the surface, the words familiar and comforting.
Sabine Powys let her coat and silk scarf fall on to a dark, carved chair in the huge entrance hall, and they slithered, snake-like, on to the tiled floor, with its central mosaic depicting Mithras.
She picked up a pile of letters from a side table, her lipstightening when she noticed the folded sheet on top, with her own name written in Maria’s familiar hand.
She carried the post into the sitting room, where she switched on the lights against the darkening afternoon. Feeling chilled to the bone by more than the ice-spikes of the wind outside, she suddenly yearned for the comfort of hot tea and a roaring fire in the grate, despite the clanking but efficient old radiators.
She set a light to the laid fire herself, before reading Maria’s note, the contents of which weren’t a complete surprise, for she had recognized that stubborn expression on her housekeeper’s face that morning.
Andy was no longer in danger and would be allowed home long before Christmas, so things should eventually become easier for Maria … which was just as well, because she would need her in the coming months … But she would have to try to find live-in help again, too, for Lucy had proved a sore disappointment in that respect.
She was not, she told herself, unreasonable, and if the stroke had left Andy unable to carry out his gardening duties, she would pension him off. She could even install a stairlift in the cottage and perhaps an easily accessible shower room, instead of the antiquated bath … That would make things easier for them.
Sabine, having thought about it, determined to put those alterations in train tomorrow.
