A Winter’s Tale: A festive winter read from the bestselling Queen of Christmas romance. Trisha Ashley

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СКАЧАТЬ I had had to try because she was Lucy’s dog too, and we both loved her. And if only I hadn’t economised the month before she got ill by letting her pet insurance lapse, it would have been perfectly all right.

      If only…

      Why did everything have to go pear-shaped at once? My life was like a volcano: it lay dormant for long enough to let me think it was acquiescent, and then suddenly tossed out hot rocks.

      My mother would have said, ‘Accept your karma and go with the flow, darling,’ but just look where doing that got her. She flowed over the Atlantic, over California and down a rather steep canyon. And then, since she still had her old passport, they returned her to Winter’s End for burial: a toss of the dice and right down the snake to where you started out, though perhaps not in quite the same pristine condition.

      But it was not in my nature to be miserable for long, and soon fingers of silvery sunlight began to gleam around the edges of the black cloud of despondency. I knew something good was coming, even if not precisely what, because I have a touch of the second sight from my witch ancestor, Alys Blezzard.

      And after all, there were hours yet before I had to hand over the keys of Spiggs Cottage to strangers and always, always in the past something had happened to avert calamity at the last minute…though perhaps calamity had never been on such a grand, overwhelming scale before. I mean, I’d put down roots here at last, shallow and tentative though they might be, and it was the only home Lucy had ever known. I’d been so determined that Lucy would have the secure and settled upbringing I hadn’t had myself once Mum had torn me away from Winter’s End.

      I sat up, hugging my knees. It wasn’t too late to save the cottage—the contract wouldn’t be exchanged until later that morning. There was still time for the cavalry to come riding over the hill to rescue me, bugles blowing and flags flying, just as they always had.

      I was filled with a sudden glow of unfounded optimism. Getting up, I sprayed on a liberal, fortifying blast of Penhaligon’s Elisabethan Rose perfume (the only extravagance in my life, unless you counted Lucy), pulled on a red jumper and jeans that clung to my abundant curves, and ruthlessly dragged a hairbrush through wildly curling dark hair.

      Then I went to make coffee and await the arrival of the postman. The last post…

      No, I wouldn’t think like that! The postman would bring good news—a reprieve. Maybe I’d won the lottery (despite never buying a ticket) or the Pools. Or perhaps Conor had metamorphosed overnight from a cockroach into a human being and, repentant, he would refuse to sell the cottage and instead beg me to stay there rent free for ever (no droit de seigneur included).

      My best friend, Anya, who believes our guardian angels watch over us twenty-four seven, would say that she heard the hushing whisper of mine’s wings as she (or should that be it?) rushed to the rescue.

      I only hoped my very own Personal Celestial Being wouldn’t collide on the doorstep with the cavalry or there would be feathers everywhere.

Chapter Two: Distant Connections

       I applied all the cures and simples my mother taught mee so well, and young Thomas Wynter’s suffering is much alleviated, though it is clear to mee that he will not make old bones.

      From the journal of Alys Blezzard, 1580

      I’d been so positive I could hear those hoofbeats and the swoosh! of angel’s wings coming to the rescue—but either I was mistaken or they took a wrong turn, for Spiggs Cottage was lost to me.

      I couldn’t understand it…and even several days later, I still couldn’t quite believe it. My life had gone full circle so that I’d have to start all over again, twenty years older but still with no money, qualifications or assets other than a vintage Volkswagen camper van with about twice the world’s circumference on the clock, inherited, by rather permanent default, from my mother.

      Lucy and I had always used it to travel about with friends in the holidays, but it began to look as though I would have to live in it again permanently, until someone in the village came to the rescue with the offer of a big static caravan for the winter.

      Though grateful for any temporary roof over my head, there was nothing quite so freezing as a caravan out of season. The cold pierced from all directions, like living in an ice cube. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find a shivering polar bear at the door asking to be let out.

      But at least it was a roof over my head until the site reopened in March, and it was far larger than either the van or the cottage. This was just as well, since the materials for the little round silk and satin crazy-patchwork cushions I made and sold mail order took up quite a bit of space.

      My cushions, each feather-stitched patch embroidered and embellished, were very upmarket. Luckily the buyers couldn’t see the raggle-taggle gypsy making them, or the charity shops and jumble sales where I bought the old clothes to cut up for pieces!

      I blew on my frozen fingers and read over the letter I had written, breaking the news that we were homeless to Lucy, so very far away teaching English in Japan.

      Darling Lucy,

      My job at Blackwalls has finished rather suddenly. Poor Lady Betty was making a good recovery from her fall, but her nephew got power of attorney and took charge of things, with disastrous results. Do you remember Conor? You said when you met him once that he was a slimy little creep, and you were quite right—he has put Lady Betty into a home and now seems to be selling up the whole estate.

      In fact, he’s sold our cottage already, but though it was sad to leave it I am ready to have a change of scene and a new job. Meanwhile, Dana—you remember her from the Pleasurefields camping site?—is letting me live in one of her static caravans rent free, which is very kind of her. I’m making a special cushion as a thank-you.

      Don’t worry, I packed up everything in your room very carefully, and the contents of the cottage are stored in the next-door caravan. I can stay until they open up again in March, but I don’t suppose I will be here very long. There are one or two nice-looking jobs advertised in The Lady magazine, with accommodation included, so I’ve written off with my totally impressive CV. You can’t say I haven’t had a lifetime’s experience of looking after ancestral piles, even if I’ve only ever really been a glorified cleaner-cum-tour guide.

      I’ll let you know when I hear anything and hope to have a lovely new home for you to come back to when you return.

      Love, Mum xxx

      Who was I fooling? Lucy would be on the phone to me two minutes after she got the letter…which was why, I suppose, I was taking the cowardly way out and posting her the news.

      I hoped, by the time she got hold of me, to have a new job and a new life lined up somewhere else. The applications lay on the table, ready to post except for stamps—and then I suddenly remembered it was the post office’s half-day and the clock was hurtling towards twelve.

      Leaping up, I dragged on my jacket and flung open the door—then teetered perilously on the brink, gazing down into a pair of eyes of a truly celestial blue, but even colder than the caravan. Missing my footing entirely, I fell down the two metal steps into the surprised arms of an angry angel.

      Maybe Anya was right after all, I thought, as he fielded me neatly—except that angels are presumably asexual, СКАЧАТЬ