The Angel Tree (9 page)

Sadness overwhelmed her as she came to a halt in a clearing, suddenly realising she’d been so deep in thought she hadn’t been concentrating on where she was going. Standing amongst
the tall trees that glistened in the fading light, Greta searched for a landmark, something to guide her home. But everything familiar was masked by the white covering of snow.

‘Oh God,’ she muttered, turning in a fruitless circle, desperate to find her bearings.

Pulling up her collar against the cold, trying frantically to decide which direction to head in, she heard a dog bark close by. She stopped, glanced back and saw an enormous black hound charging
towards her. Rooted to the spot with fear, she watched as it pounded closer, its pace not letting up. With a great effort, Greta managed to galvanise her body into action and turned and ran as fast
as she could.

‘Oh God! Oh God!’ she cried, hearing the dog panting only a few yards behind her. The light had almost gone now, and she couldn’t see clearly where she was going. As her
too-big wellingtons struggled to maintain a grip on the icy snow, she stumbled and fell, hitting her head against the base of a tree. Everything went black.

Greta awoke to the sensation of hot breath on her face and a rough tongue licking her cheek. She opened her eyes, stared into the big red eyes of the dog and let out a
high-pitched scream.

‘Morgan! Morgan! Heel!’

The dog immediately left Greta and ran obediently to the side of a tall figure walking swiftly towards her. Greta tried to sit up, but dizziness overcame her. She closed her eyes and slumped
back down with a groan.

‘Are you all right?’

The voice was male and deep.

‘I—’ Greta opened her eyes once more and saw a man standing over her. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered, and started shivering uncontrollably.

The man bent down. ‘Did you fall? You have a nasty gash on your forehead.’ He reached out a hand and pushed away her hair. He studied the cut, then fumbled for a handkerchief and
used it to clear the blood.

‘Yes. That dog was chasing me. I thought it was going to kill me!’

‘Morgan? Kill you? I rather doubt it. Coming to bid you welcome in a rather boisterous manner, maybe,’ the man said gruffly. ‘Can you walk? We need to get you up to the house
so we can dry you off and look at that wound properly. It’s too dark out here to see what we’re dealing with.’

Greta made a valiant effort to stand, but when she put pressure onto her right ankle the pain made her yelp. She sank back again, shaking her head pathetically.

‘Righto. Only one thing for it, then. I’ll have to carry you. Put your arms round my neck.’ The man knelt next to her, and Greta did as he’d asked. He lifted her from the
ground without difficulty.

‘Hold on tight. Soon have you in the warm.’

Greta hid her face in the waxed-cloth shoulder of her saviour. She felt so dizzy it was all she could do to will herself not to faint again. Ten minutes later she looked up and saw that they
were out of the woods and heading towards the glowing lights of the big house. They reached the porticoed entrance and the man pushed the large oak door open with his shoulder.

‘Mary! Mary! Where are you, woman?’ he shouted as he crossed the cavernous entrance hall. Through a haze of pain, Greta took in the enormous Christmas tree positioned in the well of
the heavy Elizabethan staircase. The candlelight reflecting off the delicate glass baubles danced hypnotically in front of her eyes and a wonderful smell of pine scented the air. The man carried
her into a spacious drawing room, where a fire blazed in the grate of a huge stone fireplace. He laid Greta gently down on one of the two large velvet sofas arranged around the hearth.

‘Sorry, Master Owen. Did you call?’ A rotund young woman in an apron appeared at the drawing-room door.

‘Yes! Get some warm water, a towel, a blanket and a large glass of brandy.’

‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir,’ Mary said, and left the room.

The man shrugged off his coat and threw it over a chair, then started to bank up the fire. Soon the heat began to travel towards Greta. She watched him silently as she tried to control her
shivering. He was not as tall as she’d first thought from her prone position on the ground in the woods. His weathered yet handsome face was deeply tanned and framed by thick, grey, curly
hair. He was dressed practically for the outdoors, in moleskin trousers and a tweed jacket with a high-necked woollen jumper beneath it, and Greta deduced he was probably in his mid-fifties.

‘Here we go, sir.’ Mary, the maid, hurried back into the room with the things he had requested. She set them down on the floor by the sofa. ‘I’ll just pop and get the
brandy from the library, sir.’

‘Thank you, Mary. Now’ – the man knelt by Greta and dipped a corner of the towel into the water – ‘let’s get this wound clean, then Mary can find you
something dry to put on.’ He dabbed at the cut on her forehead and Greta winced. ‘Not a poacher, are you? You don’t look like you are, but one can never tell these
days.’

‘No.’

‘Well, that’s as maybe, but you were still trespassing. You were on private land.’ He rinsed the blood-stained towel in the water and pressed it once more against her
temple.

‘I wasn’t trespassing,’ Greta managed. ‘I live here on the estate.’

One of the man’s thick brown eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Do you, indeed?’

‘Yes, in Lark Cottage. It’s David Marchmont’s, and he’s letting me borrow it for a while.’

The man’s brow furrowed. ‘I see. Girlfriend of his, are you?’

‘Oh no, nothing like that,’ Greta clarified hurriedly.

‘Well, I do wish Laura-Jane would tell me when her son offers one of Marchmont’s cottages to a stray young lady. I’m Owen Marchmont, David’s uncle, by the way. I own this
estate.’

‘Then I’m sorry you didn’t know I was here.’

‘Not your fault, but typical, typical,’ Owen grumbled. ‘Ah, here comes the brandy. Thank you, Mary. Find this young lady something dry to wear then help her out of those wet
clothes. I’ll return shortly and have a look at that ankle,’ he added to Greta, then nodded briefly at her and left the room, with Mary following close behind.

Greta lay back against the arm of the sofa, her head throbbing, but at least she no longer felt faint. She looked around the gracious, comfortable room and saw that it was filled with an
eclectic mix of tasteful antique furniture. The ancient stone floor was softened by several faded Aubusson rugs, and plum-coloured silk curtains framed the large windows. The ceiling was supported
by one huge beam and the oak-panelled walls were hung with oil paintings.

Mary was soon back, and she helped Greta undress then wrapped her up in a thick woollen robe.

‘Thank you,’ Greta said as the girl handed her the glass of brandy. ‘I’m sorry to be a nuisance.’

‘Now, you rest,
fach
. You’ve had a nasty fall, see. Master Owen will be along soon to look at your ankle,’ Mary said kindly, as she retreated once more.

A few minutes later Owen entered the room and walked towards Greta. ‘Feeling better?’ he asked.

‘I think so,’ she said uncertainly, taking a cautious sip of brandy.

‘Let’s have a look.’ He sat down on the sofa and examined Greta’s ankle. ‘It’s badly swollen, but as you can move it I doubt you’ve broken it. My guess
is it’s a bad sprain. The only thing for that is rest. Given the snow, I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here for the night. You’ve had a nasty shock and it wouldn’t do
to put any weight on that ankle at present.’

‘Oh no, sir, I . . . I wouldn’t like to impose. I—’

‘Nonsense! We have nine empty bedrooms and Mary has only me to worry about. I’ll have her light a fire in one of the spare rooms. Are you hungry?’

Greta shook her head. She still felt sick.

Owen rang for Mary and when she reappeared, he issued further instructions then sat down in an armchair opposite Greta.

‘Well, this is an interesting turn of events on Christmas Day. My guests left a couple of hours ago, after lunch, and it seems I now have another. What were you doing in the woods when
darkness was falling anyway, my dear? You were a long way from Lark Cottage when Morgan found you. I doubt you could have found your way home. You might have frozen to death out there.’

‘I . . . got lost,’ Greta admitted.

‘Well, all in all, despite a sprained ankle, I think you’ve had a lucky escape.’

‘Yes. Thank you so much for rescuing me,’ she said, stifling a yawn.

‘Right, by the looks of you, it’s time to put you to bed. Let’s carry you up the stairs, shall we?’

Fifteen minutes later Greta was wearing a clean pair of Owen’s pyjamas and installed in a large, comfortable, canopied bed. It and the room itself, with its heavy damask drapes, oriental
rugs and exquisite walnut furniture, reminded her of something a queen might sleep in.

‘Any problems, ring the bell and Mary will attend to you. Goodnight, Miss—?’

‘Simpson, Greta Simpson. And I’m truly sorry for putting you to all this trouble. I’m sure I’ll be fine tomorrow.’

‘Of course. And please call me Owen.’ He gave her an almost embarrassed half-smile and left the room.

After Mary had delivered a mug of cocoa, of which Greta could manage only a few sips, a wave of exhaustion overcame her. She closed her eyes and slept.

Mary knocked on the door the following morning and quietly entered the room. She set down a breakfast tray and drew back the curtains.

‘Morning, miss. How are you feeling today?’ she asked as Greta stirred in the big bed and stretched luxuriously.

‘As a matter of fact, I slept better than I have in a long time.’ She smiled weakly as she watched Mary bend down to light the fire. ‘I need to use the lavatory,’ she
said, pulling back the bedcovers and climbing out. ‘Ouch!’ Greta grabbed onto the mattress as a searing bolt of pain shot through her ankle.

‘Oh dear, miss.’ Mary was by her side in an instant, and helped her back onto the bed. She studied the ankle, which had turned a lurid dark purple during the night. ‘I’ll
help you to the lavatory, but I think I’d better ask the master to call Dr Evans.’

A short while later, Owen stood up from his desk, reached for the doctor’s hand and shook it. ‘Thank you for coming at short notice, Dr Evans. What’s the
verdict on our guest, then?’

‘I gave her a thorough examination and the head wound isn’t as bad as it looks, but the young lady’s ankle is very badly sprained. I’d suggest complete rest for the next
few days at least. Especially under the circumstances,’ added Dr Evans.

‘And what might those be?’

‘By my reckoning, the young lady in question is just under three months pregnant. I wouldn’t want to risk her taking another tumble and harming her unborn child, especially with this
lethal weather. I suggest she stays in bed. I’ll come by in couple of days’ time and check on her progress.’

Owen’s face was expressionless. ‘Thank you, doctor. And I hope I can rely on your discretion in this matter.’

‘Of course.’

When Dr Evans had left, Owen climbed the stairs and walked down the corridor to Greta’s bedroom. He knocked softly and opened the door. He saw she was dozing and stood watching her from
the end of the bed. She looked vulnerable and tiny lying there, and he realised she was little more than a child herself.

Owen moved over to a chair by the window and sat down, contemplating the circumstances that had brought Greta to the estate. He stared out over Marchmont, which would, as things stood, pass into
his nephew’s hands when he died.

Ten minutes later he left the bedroom, then made his way downstairs and out of the front door.

LJ was in the shed, milking the last of the cows. She heard footsteps and looked up. A frown crossed her forehead when she saw who it was.

‘Hello, Owen. The Marchmont rumour mill tells me you’re housing an unexpected guest. How’s the patient?’

‘Her ankle’s not too good, I’m afraid. The doctor has prescribed complete rest, so it seems she’ll be staying at the Hall for a few days. She can hardly return to the
cottage alone at present. The poor thing can hardly stand.’

‘Oh dear,’ sighed LJ. ‘I am sorry about this.’

‘I presume you know of her . . . condition?’

‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘David’s child, is it?’

‘Good grief, no! Some GI left her in the lurch and David stood in to help. She had nowhere else to go.’

‘I see. Very generous of him, under the circumstances.’

‘Yes. David is a generous boy.’

‘She has no other family, then?’

‘It seems not,’ LJ said curtly, standing up. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me—’

‘Of course. I’ll let you know how she progresses. Pretty little thing, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, I suppose she is.’

‘Goodbye, Laura-Jane.’ Owen turned and walked outside into the yard.

LJ watched him, confused by his questions. She picked up the pail, now brimming with fresh milk, and dismissed the conversation as just another example of Owen Marchmont’s complex
personality.

It was only later that night when, unusually, she was still awake in the early hours, that she realised the significance of what he had said about Greta.

‘No . . . surely not?’ she groaned, horrified at the thought that had entered her head.

It was four days before Greta was able to hobble across the room unaided. Propped up comfortably in the large bed with its lovely view over the valley, and with Mary attending
to her every need, she began to enjoy herself. Owen popped in to see how she was every afternoon and, having discovered her love of books, would sit reading to her. Greta found his presence oddly
comforting and loved the sound of his deep voice.

As Owen finished
Wuthering Heights
and closed the book, he saw there were tears in her eyes.

‘My dear Greta, what’s the matter?’

‘I’m sorry. It’s such a beautiful story. I mean, to love someone like that and yet never to be able to . . .’ her voice trailed off.

Owen stood up and patted her hand gently. ‘Yes’ – he nodded, touched by the way the book had moved her – ‘but it’s only a story. Tomorrow, we’ll start
David Copperfield
. It’s one of my favourites.’ He smiled at her and left the room.