Winter’s Children: Curl up with this gripping, page-turning mystery as the nights get darker. Leah Fleming

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      ‘My husband died suddenly last Christmas in a car accident. It’s not been easy.’ She always found it hard to spit out those words but it was better to be open. She wanted no misunderstandings.

      The older woman looked her straight in the eye and something unspoken passed between them. ‘I’m sorry … You won’t be wanting much of a Christmas then, I reckon.’

      ‘That’s about the sum of it,’ she sighed. ‘But Evie is too young to understand this.’

      ‘I hope you don’t mind plain speaking,’ Mrs Snowden whispered. ‘Put her in the school. She’ll get a good Christmas there. Then you can step back and let it all wash over you. It might help. I hope you have a good stay though. A change is as good as a rest, but you never get over what you’ve been through.’ The farmer’s wife paused. ‘Get yourself down to Skipton market on the High Street. You’ll find your winter togs there at half the price. The weather here is unpredictable. Still, you know what they say about Yorkshire climate: it’s nine months winter and three months bad weather,’ Mrs Snowden laughed.

      ‘My granny Norton used to say that. She lived in Bankwell. It used to rain for England in my school holidays,’ Kay offered.

      ‘A Norton, indeed! Then we’re practically relatives, if that’s the case. There’s been plenty of them in this family way back … Should I know her?’

      ‘She was Betty Norton, married to Sam. My mother was Susan … she went to the High School at Settle.’

      ‘I’d be long gone by then … Fancy, it’s a small world. Was she in the WI?’

      ‘I expect so. She died many years ago though. Mum sold the cottage.’

      ‘Something small in Bankwell would suit me fine but that’s another story … I must shift myself. Just wait until I tell Nik you thought I was his wife!’ Mrs Snowden edged out of the room but not without pointing to Evie. ‘Mind that child and get her into school.’ She waddled back to the big house still etched in the mist shaking her head.

      ‘So what shall we do today, muppet?’ Kay perched on the edge of the sofa.

      ‘Get a video and a takeaway pizza,’ came the reply.

      ‘Dream on. This is the country so let’s go out for a walk and get an airing. I want to see the old house. There’s so much to explore. Let’s blow the cobwebs away and collect autumn bits for our windowledge. Come on, boots and anorak, it’ll do us good,’ Kay said briskly, trying to sound more positive than she felt. There was no harm in telling the old lady the bare bones of her circumstances but she hoped they would not be pestered. Perhaps the village school was not a bad idea.

       Mistress Hepzibah watches over the tray bakes cooling on the kitchen table. The dog in the corner has his eye on the pepper cakes but dare not move for fear of her. It is the season for soul cakes but these are but a poor effort. Holy day cakes begin the little Lent at Martinmas, a time of prayer and fasting. Hepzibah sniffs for the scent of honey and milk, tokens of heaven and earth, for pepper, allspice and almonds. Where were her bakestone and griddle pan gone? The young know nothing of sacred culinary arts. How can the poor be fed and the sufferings of the dead be alleviated by such tokens?

       She peeps from the window unseen as a dancing child skips across the courtyard like a puffed-up sunflower with tansy hose, jumping into a puddle. Oh, Mother, take heed! Hepzibah senses movement in the spinney that borders Wintergill Farm.

       If only Cousin Blanche would but listen to reason and not come a-calling, but a child will draw her hither like a lode-stone. There will be no peace. Blanche is so careless with other people’s children. This season is ripe for mischief when darkness overcomes the light. Rise up, Wintergill, and keep watch. Danger is coming. Our prayer has been granted with the coming of a child but this time we must finish the business or be damned.

       Why alone doth this season bring only sorrow to my heart? How can such a season of goodwill bring forth hatred and despair? It all begins again.

       Hepzibah Snowden, 1653

       Her Soul Cakes

      8 oz of honey

      2 oz of butter

      12 oz of ground oatmeal with a little milk to soften ginger, allspice and ground peppercorn

      Melt the butter with the honey until soft and add all the rest of the ingredients. Shape to form a thick ring.

      Soften the griddlestone or pan with butter, bake on one side very slowly for about an hour. The honey must not burn.

      Butter the griddle or pan again. Cut into smaller pieces, turn and cook for 15 minutes until dry.

      Better left for a few days to ripen.

      ‘Hurry up or we’ll be late and the parson will give us one of his stares.’ Hepzibah chivvied her servant girls to cover their heads and find their cloaks. It was always a rush on the Lord’s Day to get them down the fell to St Oswald’s in Wintergill. Nathaniel was struggling with his boots, not wanting to waste time when there were a hundred jobs to be doing, even on the Sabbath. The new incumbent was a stickler for attendance and would send his spies to see if the Snowdens were still abed or neglecting their spiritual health. Parson Bentley was not a man for compromise. He was a staunch supporter of Cromwell’s army and the Puritan ways.

      Hepzibah clucked over her charges like a mother hen with a brood. No one went without clean linen collars and cuffs, warm boots and thick cloaks in her household, master or servants. The spinning wheel clacked by the hearth and the knitting sticks were never idle. In keeping with the times there was no fancy lacework round their necks, and sadly no baby cloths to sew, much to her despair. She must learn to wait on the Lord’s will but it was not for the want of trying to bring a bairn into the world, she blushed as she scurried down the hill.

      It was freezing in the stone church, and the household sat huddled together. Hepzibah could see this parson wanted to stamp his authority on this motley congregation of papist miscreants and former Royalists as he strode up into the three-tiered pulpit, his face purple with zeal. The Snowdens were sitting in their appointed pew, their feet numb with the chill. The bareness of the stone walls, stripped of any offending artefacts, could offer no distractions from the coming storm. Nathaniel, her husband, was already half dosing and she could hear his stomach rumbling for its next meal.

      ‘The word of the Lord came to me like fire in my bosom. Now we approach the Advent season of fasting and penance, it has come to my knowledge that there be those in our midst who still practise heathen festivals with fire burnings, feasts and are already making preparations for yuletide.

      ‘Let it be known that for some years now the practice of Christmas-keeping has been outlawed by the government of this realm. It is an abomination of Scriptural truth. The birth of Our Lord is a solemn occasion of prayer and fasting but I hear that there are those among you who make it an occasion of sinful profanity, licentious liberty as make it more Satan’s mass than a service of penitence.’

      There was a shuffle and stir among the pews and heads bent to spare blushes, recalling past gambling parties, mummery shows and drunken revels. Hepzibah listened intently. Bentley СКАЧАТЬ