Page 72 of The Secret Christmas Bookshop
Before Mistingham, Sophie hadn’t been in a place this grand for more than dinner or a posh afternoon tea, and shestill found it difficult to accept that Harry lived here, that he’d been closeted by these thick stone walls when he was growing up. It made her realize how different they were, how their upbringings had been polar opposites of each other.
When everything was ready, she went as quietly up the stairs as she could with a heavy, crockery-filled tray. The arched window showed off the estate in all its shimmering, winter sunrise glory; wisps of mist covering the frost-dusted lawn, the sea kissed with pearly peach light. Sophie thought about how the different seasons would adorn Mistingham estate and the sea beyond in new and varied ways, no two days the same. She felt an ache in her chest, an unexpected longing for familiarity, for the chance to see each magical new version of the landscape.
She lowered the door handle with her elbow, then tiptoed into the room with her tray. She watched Harry stir, saw him blink and then stare at her, a gruff laugh bursting out of him.
‘Breakfast in bed?’ he said in a sleep-roughened voice. ‘What have I done to deserve this?’
Sophie shrugged, but inside she was a riot of happy butterflies. ‘I can think of a few things from last night.’ She grinned.
‘Come here.’ Harry sat up against the pillows, and Sophie couldn’t help gazing at his strong chest, at how his hair was the very definition of bedhead after their night together.
‘With the breakfast, or …?’
‘In a bit.’ He flung back the duvet in invitation, and Sophie put the tray on the chest of drawers and went to join him.
Afterwards, they sat up against the pillows, eating cold, spongy toast and drinking lukewarm coffee, Sophie wearing a blue T-shirt Harry had pulled out of a drawer for her.
‘It’s still good,’ he said, breaking off a crust and popping it in his mouth.
‘Only because we’re ravenous,’ Sophie replied. ‘It wouldn’t win any awards.’
‘I would give it an award.’
‘You might be biased.’
‘Maybe,’ Harry said. ‘I’m not sure anyone would blame me, though. Last night and this morning have been … unexpectedly amazing.’
‘Unexpectedly?’ Sophie asked.
Harry lifted his mug. ‘I was fully prepared for you to stay in the spare room last night. I thought there was a very real chance you didn’t want … this.’
‘You thought I didn’t want you?’
‘I honestly didn’t know. We’d kissed, but I wasn’t sure how … serious you were about any of it. And if,’ he hurried to add, ‘this is just a one-off, then of course that’s fine – you’re in charge, Sophie.’ He put his plate on the bedside table.
She could hear all the unspoken thoughts between his words: that she’d told him she was leaving, and hadn’t given him a proper answer when he’d asked again last night. But this …this.All her carefully laid plans, of organizing the festival, discovering who had given her the book, finding somewhere to rent in Cornwall, saying goodbye to Mistingham – it was as if they were a wall of dominoes, set up carefully to fall one by one, each knocking into the next, a clear and logical path. But now Harry had comealong and scattered them with a single sweep of his hand, revealing a brand-new game board beneath, full of new possibilities.
Sophie liked to be sure of things, and right now she wasn’t sure of anything. She needed to change the subject, so she asked the question that had been on her mind since she’d seen the kitchen.
‘Is it hard, going through the manor and updating everything, erasing how it was when your dad was here, when you were growing up?’
Harry sighed. ‘It hasn’t always been easy, but I’ve tried to take the common-sense approach. It was all so dated, so dusty and damaged, that I knew if I wanted to live here, it had to be redone. And I have the important things. His desk, some of his books. I was so close to losing all of it, so I’m lucky I have the chance to choose which parts to keep.’
Sophie put her mug down and snuggled into his side. He put his arm around her, bringing her closer. ‘I’ve never had those kinds of issues,’ she admitted. ‘Never had anything from my past that I wanted to hold on to.’
‘Nothing from any of the families you stayed with? Not from Mrs Fairweather?’
‘I never stayed anywhere for that long,’ Sophie said. ‘And with Mrs Fairweather, the things she gave me can’t be seen or held. I’m sure I wouldn’t still be making notebooks, making money from them, if it wasn’t for her. And she was so kind to me – to all the children she looked after. She saw us as individuals, with different skills and aspirations and ambitions, rather than problems she had to deal with.’
‘Some of the homes treated you like that?’ Harry’s voice was deceptively gentle, but his arm tensed around her.
‘There are wonderful foster parents, of course, but there are some who think it’s their job to fix us: that every child who ends up without a family has done something wrong, not just been a victim of circumstance.’
‘Do you know what happened to your parents?’
Sophie nodded. ‘My mum gave me up as soon as I was born. She was only young, and she couldn’t cope with me. My dad wasn’t in the picture, and there was nowhere for me to go except foster care. She chose my name, though. That’s all I’ve brought with me.’
‘It’s an important thing, your name,’ Harry said. ‘And Sophie is beautiful.’
