Ghosts of Winter (13 page)

Now I must leave, whilst Winter still sleeps.

Goodbye, my love. Remember me, if I may ask such a favour.

With the whole of my heart, and hopes for your future happiness,

Your Maeve.

Minutes later, tears she could not hide streaming over her cheeks, Catherine flew, still in her nightgown, along the passageway to Maeve’s chamber. The door was ajar. She opened it gently and peered inside. Francis was sitting on the edge of the bed, a piece of paper in his hand. His expression matched her own, and she swallowed her emotions, for fear of them being discovered.

Maeve was gone. The room was littered with traces of her, the objects she could not carry or had not wished to take. Several gowns were still in the wardrobe, a fan and a pair of gloves were on the foot of the bed, and her writing chest, its inlayed initials a lingering echo of her presence, remained on the mahogany bureau. Even the muted linear elegance of the bureau, a remnant of earlier this century, seemed to mock the turbulence and loss of control she felt in her heart.

“She’s gone, Catherine,” Francis said numbly.

Wordlessly, Catherine walked to her brother and gathered him in her embrace. His heart would heal, in time, she was sure. But nothing had prepared her for the sudden departure of Maeve from her life again, despite her rejection of the impossible subterfuge Maeve had offered. Confronted by her absence, love surged in her contrary heart for the woman who had altered her entire existence. She could not bring herself to regret that alteration, even as her spirit ached now. Knowing Maeve was somewhere in the world, holding her in her heart and loving her still, would have to sustain her. Her love for Maeve would be her guiding light for the rest of her life. Catherine knew nothing nor anyone would ever outshine her.

Anna smelled so good. That was all I could think about as we walked through the house. Giving my full attention to her plans was impossible, no matter how hard I tried, how important I knew it would be for Winter. Her proximity made me hot and uncomfortable. I was continually trying to see behind the professional mask and guess what she was thinking. After our adventure in the attics, it took about an hour and a half for her to tell me the basics, and show me some sketches, for the renovations to come. The occasional breath full of the warm, dizzying scent of her perfume, the heady sensation that swept through me every time my eyes met her cool blue gaze, seemed to be all I was aware of. Yet I found I easily understood the concepts and ideas she suggested, was infused by her personal enthusiasm. Anna made me feel anything was possible, where the renovation of Winter was concerned.

When we had finished and returned to the entrance hall, I offered her a cup of coffee, half hoping she would accept and half hoping she would leave me to get hold of my wayward emotions. She glanced at her watch—which I couldn’t help but notice was a notably expensive Tissot—and said she was sorry, but she’d have to get back to the office since she had some paperwork to draw up before the end of the day. I sensed real reluctance in her tone and that her reason was genuine, not an excuse to escape me. The idea she would have liked to stay for coffee made a smile flicker on my lips. She caught it and returned one of her own, without apparently wondering why I was smiling at her.

As she put on and refastened her coat, I watched her, trying to make sense of just what was so damned attractive about her. But there was no way of clarifying it. Yes, she was striking to look at, and there was something undeniably appealing about her sheer competence. But the traces of what lay below the surface drew me to her most. That glimmer of enthusiasm and curiosity, the edge in her tone, possibly sarcasm or mirth, her unexpected physicality. She wore her wealth obviously and yet did not flaunt it. She was confident in her abilities and knowledge, but not arrogant. In so many ways she was a puzzle, a mass of contradictions, and I sensed there would be surprises while getting to know Anna that would only lead to more questions. It made her fascinating. As she headed for the door, now fully wrapped up against the cold of late afternoon, I knew I wanted to see her again soon. I was pleased when she gave me the perfect opportunity.

“If you think of any questions, or want to talk about anything at all, feel absolutely free to call me,” she said. Her expression was open and friendly, and I felt her invitation was more than a professional courtesy.

“Thanks. I have no doubt I will.” I was pleased when she nodded and smiled slightly, a glimmer of enthusiasm in her eyes prompting me to risk moving from the professional to the personal. “I’m thinking of coming down to Durham one day soon.” I paused, wondering how she would react. Beyond a flicker of her gaze away from mine and back again, her expression gave no clue. Might as well carry on now though. “If I do, would you like to meet for coffee?”

“Come to the office when you’re in town. You’ll know where I am for the future then. We can do coffee, as long as it’s lunchtime.” Her words were blunt and formal, but I saw the softening of those eyes from ice blue to a softer violet. My heart thudded loudly in my ears. She wanted me to have coffee with her, I was certain.

“I’ll give you a call on the day,” I said, trying not to smile too broadly.

With that, we said our goodbyes and she departed. I walked with her down the steps, marvelling once again at the expensive sports car she climbed into. A sleek, bright red, ostentatious display of speed, excitement, something fundamentally primal. So different from the cool, measured Anna with her carefully chosen words. Such an exciting juxtaposition.

I knew Phoebe was watching me, amused, though when I looked back at her she gave every appearance of being as disinterested as usual. “Don’t tell me you don’t see something attractive about her?” She was unmoved. “Are you telling me you’ve seen more interesting people than her over the years?” I enquired further. “Anyone I’d have liked, do you think?” Phoebe gave no hint she was about to tell me about any of the people who had been here before me. I sighed and gazed down the steps towards the driveway, trying to imagine the centuries of arrivals and departures, meetings and partings which had taken place here.

A gust of icy wind made me shiver, so I sighed and retreated into the relative warmth of the house.

*

An hour or so after Anna’s departure, I’d managed to drag two chairs down from the attic, which I figured would be sufficient for the time being. I was hopeful I wouldn’t have enough visitors to necessitate any further seating. Once I’d dusted them down with a damp rag, they were quite presentable. I sat on one to try it out and discovered, if not luxuriously comfortable, it was at least stable.

I made myself a cup of tea and leaned back in the chair and let my mind run back through Anna’s visit. My first thoughts were of the many and varied details she’d revealed of her plans for the house. They were exciting, I had to admit it, and I was pleased to have something that resembled a plan for the future. The future of the house at least.

It didn’t take very long for my mind to begin to drift. I was aware of something fading inside me. Being with Anna had somehow recharged an element within me, but now that she was gone, that charge was leaving me too. I had to admit to myself I enjoyed her company, in a way I’d never expected to enjoy anyone’s company.

Her heady fragrance lingering in my nostrils, I could still sense her presence. The image of her came very readily to my weary brain. That suit really was stunning on her. Designed herself. She clearly had some artistic flair and a keen sense of style, along with her eye for technical detail.

There was something tantalisingly queer about Anna’s overall appearance too. The edge of masculinity suggested by the straight cut of her suit, the flat shoes, the styling of her watch. Even her scent was known for its androgyny. More than that, my instincts told me there was something unspoken there. It was pointless to chide myself for stereotyping, if I’d not known better I’d have sworn Anna was every bit as gay as I was. And flirting with me into the bargain.

But what was stopping me accepting my impression of her? The slim gold band around her finger? That didn’t mean she had to be married to a man, not these days. Did some other woman have the privilege of her company every evening, and through the night? Had some other woman reached beyond that cool exterior and understood what lay beneath? Seen Anna in her wildest, most stripped-down moments? A stab of something I recognised as envy shot through my heart. I tried to picture the sort of woman Anna would choose to share her life and knew that it would be somebody emphatically different from me. Someone equally competent and professional. Someone with comparable designer taste and deep pockets to match. A stylish woman, probably very glamorous. I pictured Anna with a stunning redhead on her arm, in a floor-length satin ballgown, hugging every perfect curve. Yes, it would be someone like that. Not someone with a turquoise pendant to expand her throat chakra, a decaying country house instead of a career, and a life without definition, direction, or meaning.

It took me a moment to notice I was ludicrously contemplating the idea of Anna rejecting me. It was bloody stupid, making myself feel unattractive by creating a false situation involving someone I really knew nothing about. For all I knew she was married to a perfectly nice man, and it served no purpose, other than masochism, to think about her in this way. There were so many ways in which I might not be her type it was ridiculous to sit here pondering it. Besides, if I was her type, what good would it do? I wasn’t ready for anything like that yet. Was I?

I tried to listen to the radio to distract me, but found the incessant love songs just a little too much to bear. I picked up an escapist thriller I’d been trying to read, but found the words blurred, and the image of Anna pushing her glasses back into place with that little wrinkle of her nose presented itself before my eyes instead.

I’d not thought it was possible I would feel this way again so soon. My break up with Francesca, my mother’s death, had left my heart bruised and battered. Could it be revived so easily? Was moving on this quickly possible? Was it even healthy? Just how long was I supposed to give myself to recover? I’d felt happy with Anna here this afternoon, despite the general malaise with which I regarded each day. Could the company of an attractive and yet mysterious woman actually make me feel better? Was it a sign I was recovering, finding my way again? Or was it evidence I was lonely and a little desperate? I knew my attraction to her was genuine, I’d not just attached myself to the first attractive woman who had come along. My heart had never raced this way since the early days of my relationship with Francesca. Was there potential for some happiness here, if I was brave enough to reach for it?

Was Anna happy herself? She was certainly composed, successful, and powerful. Did those things equate to happiness? I tried to picture being friends with such a woman, the possibility of anything more than friendship with her. It was as terrifying as it was tempting. I was an emotional mess. Much of Anna’s beauty came from her serenity, her settled poise. She was the antithesis of my own hazy sense of myself, my recently much-diminished confidence. Anna was the ultimate professional, I was jobless and with no clue where my employment future lay; Anna was beautiful, I was ordinary; Anna was wealthy, all the money I possessed was earmarked for the renovation of my ruin of a house; Anna knew who she was, I currently had no idea. Even as a friend I didn’t have a lot to offer a woman like her, and to contemplate the possibility of anything more was entirely ludicrous. I should really keep my distance and save myself the suffering of my unrequited attraction.

Yet there was something irresistible about the idea of seeing Anna again. For my sanity I should have forgotten she’d agreed to coffee in the city with me. But as the evening wore on, the shadows filled the hallway, and I felt Winter once more uneasy at my inhabitation, I knew inevitably I’d call her and I’d have coffee with her.

*

I saw Anna again sooner than I expected, before I’d built up the courage to call her to arrange that coffee in Durham. Two days after her last visit, I was drinking a cup of tea, seated on the front steps, enjoying the bite in the mid-afternoon December air, when I heard the rumble of a car approaching down the driveway. As soon as I saw the flash of scarlet, I knew it was Anna. I swallowed my mouthful of tea quickly and rose to my feet, alarmed at how hard my heart was pounding. I considered dashing into the hallway to tidy up frantically before I let her inside, but I knew she’d have spotted me by now, and such behaviour would appear odd. To say the least.

I reviewed the state I’d left the hallway in. I’d not washed my breakfast or lunch dishes yet, but otherwise it wasn’t too terrible. I glanced down at my appearance: long, comfortable denim skirt, flowing Indian cotton tunic in a tone of blue I rather liked. Not perhaps the outfit I’d have chosen had I known she was coming, but still, I was at least presentable.

The car came to a stop in front of the house. I knew Anna was looking at me through the windscreen—she couldn’t have missed me hovering awkwardly on the steps—but I couldn’t see her eyes or her expression clearly through the glass, which gave her an unfair advantage over me. I smiled in her direction, hoping to create the illusion I could see her perfectly.

She opened the door and climbed out. “Ros, hi, I’m not interrupting, am I?” she called, as she closed the door again and started in my direction.