A Christmas Letter. Shirley JumpЧитать онлайн книгу.
what she wanted. Even if it was more like walking a tightrope than camping somewhere safe, at least she was walking it. Just.
Marcus returned from his phone call and took up his customary place in the armchair opposite his grandfather. He crossed his legs and picked up his book. ‘Parsons says they finished clearing the lanes of snow today. You’re free,’ he added, with a nod in Faith’s direction, ‘should you want to fly.’
‘Ridiculous,’ Bertie said in a dismissive tone. ‘I’ve told you what your grandmother will do to me if I toss you out. You’re staying here and that’s that.’ He closed his newspaper as if that was the end of the subject. ‘My grandson tells me you’ve been badgering him with ideas for the Christmas Ball,’ he said, moving on to another topic of conversation.
Faith knew it was useless to argue, so she went with the flow. ‘I’ve suggested lowering the ticket price, relaxing the dress code and inviting people from the village. You wouldn’t have to cancel if you did that.’
Marcus looked at her over the top of his paperback. ‘The number of people from Hadsborough village who have attended the ball in the past has been very small. I don’t think they’re interested.’
‘I mean something more accessible than an over-priced event that only a handful of rich outsiders can afford. I grew up in a small town, so I understand the mentality. Get them all involved, make them feel it’s their party, too, and they might just surprise you. Tickets would sell like hot cakes. They must be proud of the castle, of being linked with it—I know I would be if I lived here—so let them show it.’
The grim line of Marcus’s mouth told her he wasn’t convinced.
Faith shrugged. ‘Or you could keep going with your idea and lose money hand over fist. Up to you.’
Bertie chuckled and clapped his hands together. ‘She’s got you there, my boy!’
Marcus didn’t answer straight away. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he muttered, and he picked up his book and obscured his face with it once more.
Marcus whistled as he closed the estate office door behind him. He checked his watch. Four-fifteen. The sun would be setting soon, and he could already feel the impatient frost sharpening the air. It had snowed again over the last couple of days, as the forecast had predicted, but not as hard as it had when Faith had first got here.
Still, on top of the previous snow some of the surrounding lanes were once again blocked, complicating matters. Thank goodness they’d had a couple of clear days that had allowed for deliveries—including Faith’s supplies for the window restoration.
He crossed the courtyard and headed for the studio door. After a busy day at the estate office, dealing with all the extra work the weather had thrown up, he’d got into the habit of checking up on Faith near the end of the working day.
When the natural light began to fade she’d sit up from being hunched over the stained glass panel and rub her eyes, as if she was waking from a long and drowsy sleep. Tenacious wasn’t the word. If he caught her at just the right time he’d see the warm, vibrant Faith who’d visited the other day in the chapel—the one who only came to life when she was talking about or working on the window.
He knew he probably shouldn’t want to catch a glimpse of this other Faith, but she didn’t hang around for long. Once the tools were back in their box she disappeared, and temptation was safely out of reach. It wasn’t wrong to just look, was it? It wasn’t as if he was going to do something stupid and touch.
He knocked on the door to warn her of his approach, and then opened it without waiting for an answer. He found her just as he’d expected to—perched on a stool next to the trestle table, spine curved forward as she snipped the soft lead away from the antique glass with a pair of cutters.
When she heard his footsteps she put her tools down and then linked her hands above her head in a stretch that elongated her spine. Marcus stopped where he was, suddenly transfixed by the slight swaying movement as she stretched the muscles on first one side of her torso and then the other. That motion was doing a fabulous job of emphasising her slender waist through her grey polo neck jumper.
Forget stockings and corsets. It seemed that softly clinging knitwear was enough to do it for him these days. Had he been without significant female company for too long? Or was this just a sign that he was getting old, and cardigans and suchlike were going to float his boat from now on? Either way he answered that question it was a pretty sad state of affairs.
Faith stopped stretching and turned round to talk to him, which—thankfully—gave Marcus the use of his vocal cords once again.
‘Is it that time already?’ She pushed up a sleeve and checked her watch, frowned slightly at it, then got up to head off to the large window that filled the opposite wall. The setting sun was hidden by the castle, but it had turned the lake below them shades of rich pink and tangerine. She sighed as he walked across the space to join her.
‘Ready?’ he said.
She turned towards him and nodded. ‘Sure.’
This, too, had become a habit. Just as his feet had fallen into taking him to the studio at the end of the day, he and Faith had fallen into a routine of meeting up and going down to the cellar when the working day was over. After more than a week of evenings dusting and sorting and tidying they’d made progress.
He knew he could have snapped his fingers and had a whole crew descend on the place and sort it out in a matter of days, but he was quite enjoying sifting through the debris of earlier generations bit by bit. A couple of hours of quiet each evening before dinner, when he was free to do something that interested him rather than something that had to be done, was doing him good.
She collected her things, put her coat on and looped a scarf around her neck, before turning the light off and shutting the door. Marcus pulled the key from his pocket and locked it behind them, then they strolled back down the hill towards the castle, its silhouette dark against the sunset.
She filled him in on her progress with the window.
‘It’s strange,’ she said, and frowned. ‘It’s obvious the bottom of the window has been repaired before. Quite soon after its installation, if I’m right about the age of the materials. I wonder what happened to it.’
He made a noncommittal kind of face. ‘Perhaps we’ll find an answer if we ever find some purchase records. Someone must have been paid to do the work.’
She nodded thoughtfully. ‘Let’s hope.’
They made their way down to the cellar and resumed their clear-out operation. Some of the ratty office furniture, which had obviously been dumped here a decade or two ago, when the estate offices had moved to the renovated stable block, had been cleared out, which left them with a little more space. A pile of sturdy lidded plastic crates stood near the door, and anything that might be useful was put safely inside, away from the dust.
They’d also found a lot of ‘garbage’, as Faith called it, a few treasures and a mountain of paperwork. Most of it, even the grocery ordering lists and letters of recommendation for long-gone parlour maids, they’d decided to keep. It would be the start of a rich family archive, giving glimpses of daily life from the castle over the last fifty years. Faith had suggested having an exhibition, and much to his surprise Marcus had found himself agreeing. In the New Year some time, though, when all this Christmas madness was over.
Faith pulled an old invitation for the Christmas Ball from the nearest pile and lifted it up to show the stuffed badger, who’d been released from his filing cabinet prison and now perched proudly on a wooden plant stand, keeping guard. His beady little orange glass eyes glinted in the light from a single bare bulb overhead.
‘What do you think, Basil? Worth keeping?’
Marcus put down the cardboard box full of cups and saucers he’d been moving. ‘Basil?’
Faith shrugged. ‘Basil the Badger. It seemed to fit.’
Marcus