A Christmas Letter: Snowbound in the Earl's Castle

Try not to notice, she told herself. Try not to notice how well your head fits in the space near his neck, or how your bodies slot together like jigsaw pieces. Or how your chests rise and fall together, even when you’re not trying to match rhythm.

To distract herself she started thinking about the verse in the cartoon—the one that could be the key to Bertie’s past. Why hide it if it wasn’t? Why would someone have gone to all that trouble if the verse had nothing to do with the story Bertie had heard about his mother? And did the numbers have significance? Or was it in the words of the verse themselves?

‘Proverbs Four-Eighteen?’ he whispered in her ear.

She lifted her head and looked him in the eye. ‘How did you know?’

He shook his head, a rueful expression on his face.

‘What do you think the verse means? Have you had any thoughts?’

He pressed his lips together, then said, ‘Plenty of thoughts. Not sure any of them lead anywhere.’

Faith breathed out a little. This was easier, safer. They needed to keep talking about the window.

Marcus frowned as he pulled up a memory. ‘My great uncle told me once that his brother was very fond of treasure hunts. He used to lay one out every Christmas in the grounds for the village children.’

Faith’s eyes grew wide. ‘So maybe the reference isn’t a message in itself but a clue to something else? Another verse? Another destination?’

‘We should look for key words,’ he said.

‘Path,’ she said, nodding to herself.

‘And shining light,’ they both said, at exactly the same time, then both looked away and back again in complete synchronisation.

‘Stop doing that,’ she said. ‘It’s freaking me out.’

A mischievous glint appeared in Marcus’s eye. ‘It’s not just me.’ Then his expression became thoughtful. ‘There are paths all over the estate, but we don’t even know if it refers to something literal or figurative. As for shining lights …’

She closed her eyes, attempted to visualise the parts of the grounds she had visited. Shining light …

Her lids flipped open. ‘How about that grandfather clock in the cellar? That has a sun on it.’

‘Maybe …’ He didn’t look convinced. ‘But if this is a clue leading to something else there should be something there to find—some more writing or another verse. Like a treasure trail. We had a good look at that clock and I didn’t see anything like that.’

They’d still been swaying to the music as they’d been talking, but suddenly Marcus went completely still.

‘Of course …’ he said on an out-breath. ‘I’ve been so stupid not have seen it!’

And then he went quiet again.

Faith punched him on the chest softly. ‘Marcus!’

He blinked and looked down at her. She gave him a look that said she might have to hurt him if he didn’t spill the beans.

He laughed loudly enough to make some of the other dancing couples close to them look their way, then stepped back, grabbed her hand and pulled her in the direction of the door.

‘I know where there are both paths and a shining light,’ he said, picking up speed.

Once they were out of the ballroom he guided her towards the front door.

‘Marcus! I have heels on.’

He gave her a blank look.

‘And it’s been snowing outside! I want to solve the mystery as much as you do, but I’d rather not get frostbitten toes doing it.’

He nodded and changed direction, heading for the small staircase that led to the kitchens. They ran right through and to the back door.

‘Here,’ he said, and threw a padded coat to her. Once she had it on over her dress he nudged a pair of Wellington boots her way. ‘They’re Shirley’s,’ he said, ‘and she always keeps a spare pair of socks inside.’

While she kicked off her heels and sank her feet into the boots, which were at least a size too big, he pulled a coat off the row of pegs and shoved his feet into his own boots.

Then the back door was open and icy air was chilling their cheeks. Marcus grabbed her hand and pulled her out into the moonlit night.

There was something thrilling about running out of the castle with Marcus on this snowy night, her skirts caught up in her free hand, not knowing where she was going. The paths round the estate were mostly cleared, and they kept to them as much as possible. Faith kept lagging behind, caught up in staring at the formal gardens and the rolling fields beyond, all sparkling in the moonlight as if someone had dusted them with glitter, but the insistent tug of Marcus’s hand in hers kept her travelling.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked, frowning slightly. For some reason she’d thought they might end up at the chapel, but they were jogging in the opposite direction.

He turned to grin wolfishly at her. ‘We’re almost there.’

She looked around. High yew hedges ran alongside the path they were running on. She didn’t think she’d ventured into this part of the estate before—too busy stuck in her studio bent over bits of glass to notice what had been right under her nose.

They kept running until they came upon a gap in the hedge, closed off by an iron gate. Marcus stopped and lifted the latch, making sure he still had her by the hand.

‘There are plenty of paths here,’ he said softly, ‘but only one is the right one. Only one winds upwards towards a shining light.’

As he led her through the gate suddenly it all made sense.

‘You have a maze,’ she mumbled, slightly awestruck.

‘They were the craze in Victorian times. The fourth Duke had it planted, but my great-grandfather added some improvements.’

She looked up to where the hedges ended, about two feet above her head. A couple of inches of snow glistened on top, pale blue in the moonlight, making the whole maze look like a rather elaborately carved Christmas cake.

‘We’re going to try to navigate a maze in the dark, in the snow?’ she asked, realising she sounded disbelieving.

Marcus just laughed. He pulled a flashlight from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Do you want to race me to the centre or do you want to do it together?’

She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘And you’re giving me the only light source?’

He nodded.

‘I have a feeling you know your way through this maze even in the pitch-dark, which would be cheating, so I’m sticking with you.’

She was rewarded with a broad grin at that comment. ‘Smart lady,’ he murmured, and then tugged her off to the right and started running again—just as her heart decided to lurch along in an uneven rhythm, making it even harder for her to keep up.

After a while Faith gave up trying to memorise their path. She just concentrated on keeping her skirt off the ground and matching Marcus’s pace. When she stumbled slightly he turned, looking concerned.

‘Am I going too fast for you?’

She nodded, panting slightly. ‘These boots are a bit flappy, and I really don’t want to ruin this lovely dress. This skirt wasn’t made for running.’

He looked her up and down, a thoughtful look on his face, taking in the fishtail skirt, how it kept her thighs so close together. Feeling his gaze on her body made said thighs tingle. She told herself if was just the cold.

‘Only one solution to that,’ he said, and stepped towards her.

She gasped as he lifted her into his arms. Instinctively she looped her arms round his neck and held on tight. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked, her voice breathy. ‘You can’t possibly carry me the rest of the way like this!’

‘Would you prefer a fireman’s lift?’ he replied, a ripple of humour in his voice.

She shook her head violently, thinking how the blood would rush to her head if he hoisted her over his shoulder. She was finding it difficult enough to think as it was.

‘Are you flirting with me, Lord Westerham?’ she asked shakily. ‘Because I thought we had an agreement about that sort of thing.’

‘Of course not,’ he said, with a slightly devilish glint in his eye. And as he started to walk he added. ‘Pity, though. That would have been a great view.’

She slapped him on the chest with a gloved hand. ‘Earls are not supposed to talk like that.’

He just smiled a secret smile to himself, staring straight ahead, navigating the maze. ‘I beg to differ. I’ve known quite a few, and I know from experience that a title is not a ticket to a clean mouth. Far from it. You should hear Ashford when he gets going …’

She slapped him again. ‘You’re teasing me.’

He slowed and looked down at her. ‘Maybe I am. But don’t let the title fool you. I might be an earl, but underneath I’m still a man.’

The glitter in his eyes as he looked down at her bore witness to that. Faith found herself strangely breathless. Wrenching her gaze onto the path ahead was difficult, but she managed it.

He picked up speed, staying silent, but his last words thrummed between them still. Yes, he was a man. A beautiful, noble man. And right at this moment, captured in his arms as she was, Faith McKinnon was feeling very much a woman. Even worse, that woman was doing just as he asked, and was forgetting all about his title and why she shouldn’t just drop her gift-wrapped heart at his feet like a tiny Christmas present.

She hung on, closing her eyes.

Sooner than expected he came to a halt and slowly lowered her to the ground. Cold air rushed in between them, where their bodies had been pressed against each other. Faith shivered.

‘See what I mean?’ he whispered, his breath warm in her frozen ear.

She blinked and looked around. This wasn’t what she’d expected. In front of them was a squat tower of stone, sloping inwards slightly as it rose maybe fifteen feet into the air.

‘Come on,’ Marcus said, and reached for her hand.

This time she took it without thinking. It seemed to belong there.

‘We’re near the end of a path that leads to a shining light.’

He led her round the stone mound until they came upon a narrow winding stairway that circled the tower. It didn’t take long to climb up the twenty or so stairs, and soon they were standing on a viewing platform, surrounded by waist-high stone walls. She could not only see the whole of the snowcapped maze, but also the hills beyond, and glittering in the distance the larger of the two lakes.

The moon was in evidence, but no other light was anywhere to be seen. ‘Where—?’

He placed a hand on each of her shoulders and gently turned her to face the other direction. There, in the middle of the tower, was a sundial mounted on a stone pedestal.

She walked towards it and his hands slid off her shoulders. However, they didn’t drop away quickly, but trailed down her back until she was out of reach. Even through the puffy layers of Shirley’s winter coat she could feel warmth, the sure pressure of his hands.

‘How do you know this is what the verse is referring to? The connection seems a bit tenuous.’ As wonderfully romantic as this idea was, she couldn’t help think it might just be a coincidence.

‘It would be but for two reasons,’ he said, coming to the other side of the sundial and standing opposite her. ‘First, the same man who commissioned the window also built this tower in the maze. Second …’ He tapped the brass face of the sundial with a finger, before lifting up the flashlight and shining it down on it.

There, at the base of the clockface, was an inscription.

‘Song Twenty-Two?’ she said. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘I think it’s another Bible reference. That’s why when I thought of paths and shining lights and the need for another piece of the puzzle this place popped into my mind.’ He walked round the sundial to stand next to her. ‘Song, I think, is short for Song of Solomon, or Song of Songs, and if you look carefully there, between the twos, it’s a colon.’

‘Song of Songs, Chapter Two, Verse Two?’ she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

He nodded.

She turned to face him, did her best to read his face in the semi-darkness. ‘You think there’s something in this?’

He stared back at her and breathed out hard. ‘Maybe. If it was any of these things on their own I’d probably dismiss it, but put them all together …’

‘What about Bertie? You were really worried this would upset him. It still might.’

His eyelids lowered briefly and he looked away. ‘I know. But if what my family has told him all these years is wrong, he has a right to know.’ Marcus looked back at her. ‘I’ve been trying to protect him from a lie, but I don’t think it’s right to protect him from the truth.’

She saw it—the twist of guilt in his face as the dual needs both to keep his grandfather safe and to do the right thing warred inside him.

‘The truth comes out sooner or later,’ she said. ‘I wish …’

She closed her eyes. She had been about to say that she wished her parents had told her who her real father was earlier, but she suddenly realised how cruel that would have been. There had been no easy way to handle it, had there? Telling an eight-year-old something like that would have been devastating. Although not telling her had wreaked its own kind of havoc. Suddenly she understood why her mother had swept it all under the carpet and pretended it had nothing to do with her, why she still seemed so blasé about the whole thing.

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