Wickham Hall: Part Four - White Christmas (3 page)

‘How do you know him?' I squeaked.

‘Um?' Lord Fortescue smoothed a hand over his fine silver hair and pondered their connection. ‘Ah, yes! Sat next to him at the rugby once, hit if off straight away.'

Wait until Esme hears this . . .

But not even the fluttering I got reading Daniel Craig's posts could compare with the tug at my heartstrings when we clicked on Ben's private profile.

There hadn't been many posts since he'd been in Cambodia. It seemed that the village he was staying in, unsurprisingly, had no internet access but occasional visits to a nearby town meant that he could log on to Facebook every so often. I could have kicked myself; why hadn't I thought of this earlier? Ben had been gone nearly a month and in that time, the pain of missing him had been almost physical at times. The breath caught in my throat as we scrolled through the images he'd uploaded of the village, of the damaged school that they were repairing and the people he was working alongside. The most recent post showed him surrounded by children, all wreathed in smiles and holding up their paintings to the camera.

‘He looks happy, doesn't he? Totally at home,' Lord Fortescue marvelled.

I nodded, the lump in my throat stealing my speech. Ben was in his element, sharing his love of art with an appreciative audience.

‘I don't know.' He sighed, smoothing his hand over his silver hair. ‘This is clearly where his vocation lies, how can I ever hope to compete with that? What chance does Wickham Hall have? What can we possibly offer to make him stay more than five minutes?'

He looked so despondent that I had to fight the urge to fling my arms round him and hug him tight.

‘Ben loves a challenge, that's why he gets such a kick out of being in Cambodia; he can see the difference his work makes. You and Lady Fortescue have done so much here and he can't see how to take Wickham Hall forward. It's not a blank canvas.'

‘No, I can see that.' Lord Fortescue chest heaved with a sad sigh.

And then suddenly my heart twanged as my brain kicked into action. Perhaps there was a part of Wickham Hall that
was
a blank canvas. A project that he could really get his teeth into . . .

I jumped up from my chair. ‘If you have any more problems on Facebook, just give me a call, Lord Fortescue. I'll be in my office.'

He nodded but was so engrossed in his son's photographs that he barely noticed me leave. I strode back to my office purposefully.

I loved Wickham Hall and deep down I knew that Benedict, the next lord of Wickham Hall, did too. It
could
compete for Ben's attention, I was sure of it, and I had the beginnings of an idea that just might work.

With just over two weeks to go until Christmas, Wickham Hall would be opening to visitors on Monday and we were almost ready.

My week could be summed up in three words: holly (no pun intended), ivy and glitter. In fact, I had been sparkling for five days straight. I hadn't expected to be involved with decorating the hall but of course it was a mammoth undertaking and it had been all hands on deck all week. Andy had directed us all admirably in our tasks of wiring seed heads, weaving ivy and untangling fairy lights, and so by Friday afternoon our White Christmas theme was almost complete.

It was slightly chaotic at times, which rather goes against the grain with me. But despite the hard work, frayed nerves and occasional disasters (yes, eucalyptus leaves and poppy seed heads, I'm talking about you) it had been a magical few days and every so often I'd caught myself sighing happily at my good fortune. Wickham Hall was one of my most favourite places on earth and I was making it sparkle for Christmas
and
being paid for it – how lucky was I!

My last job of the day before finishing for the weekend was to decorate the huge Christmas tree in the Red Sitting Room with head tour guide Marjorie. The fireplace had already been hung with garlands of fir interspersed with fragrant tufts of rosemary, bay leaves and lavender, which filled the room with a wonderfully pungent aroma. The huge fir tree, cut from the Wickham estate, was at least twice my height and decorating it would require three sets of stepladders, a thousand white lights, several hundred baubles and a steely head for heights.

‘How is it looking, Marjorie?' I called from the top of the medium ladders. ‘Can you spot any bare bits?'

I grinned at her as she took a step back and inadvertently managed to get her ankle trapped in a pool of silver tinsel. Marjorie was a gem; despite being in her late sixties she had worked ceaselessly all day and I'd had to persuade her to come down from the ladder after she insisted on being the one to run the fairy lights right to the top of the tree.

She circled the tree, moving backwards and forwards, and I had to bite back a giggle at how seriously she was taking her duties.

‘Just there, Holly, by your knee looks a bit sparse,' she said finally. ‘Here you are, I'll pass you a couple of silver pine cones.'

Bare patches dealt with, I joined her at the base of the tree to inspect the near empty crate of Christmas decorations. We both stared at the final item left at the bottom and shared a nervous look.

‘I'll do it,' I said, taking a deep breath.

‘Right you are, love. I'll make sure to hold the ladder tightly.'

Marjorie reached into the crate and picked up a rather battered angel, chuckling as she straightened the angel's glittery halo.

‘I remember the year young Benedict insisted on being the one to put the angel on the top of the tree.'

My heart flipped at the sound of his name. ‘And chaos ensued, I imagine?' I grinned.

After leaving the library the other day, I'd logged on to my own Facebook page and sent Ben a friend request. So far he hadn't accepted. I kept telling myself that this meant nothing; I was well aware that his internet access was limited. Even so, days had gone by, and I was sure he must have seen it by now. How long should I keep hoping that it was simply a lack of opportunity that explained his silence, rather than our row on Bonfire Night?

‘Oh, yes.' Marjorie laughed. ‘He was a teenager but quite small for his age, I seem to remember, and certainly too small to reach but that didn't stop him trying, of course. He climbed to the top of the ladder but was still miles away from his target.'

‘Did he admit defeat?' I asked, already guessing the answer. I selected the tallest of the three ladders and began my ascent gingerly, grateful for Marjorie's steadying presence at the bottom.

‘Not likely!' she continued. ‘He launched himself at the tree like a basketball player, shouting something like, “Slam dunk the funk”. He just managed to hook the angel over the top before getting himself stuck in the branches. We were picking pine needles out of his curls for hours.'

We both burst out laughing and I nearly fell off the ladder myself.

‘Poor thing, did he cry?'

‘Oh no!' she exclaimed. ‘He was as proud as punch. Benedict adored seeing the hall all dressed up for Christmas; it brought out his creative side.'

‘I can imagine,' I panted, reaching up as far as I could to the very tip of the tree. ‘There.'

Angel deposited, I clambered back down the ladder and shook out my aching hands.

‘I bet he enjoyed joining in with all the Christmas activities at the hall too, didn't he?'

‘He did.' She laughed softly at the memory. ‘There was never a dull moment when he was around.'

I nodded. I knew just what she meant; things had been much more subdued at Wickham without him charging through the place like a whirlwind, disrupting my day and disarming me with his cheeky smile. And I never thought I'd say it, but I quite missed the interruptions to my schedule.

‘I think we're good to go, shall we do the grand switch-on?'

I stood back from the tree while Marjorie disappeared underneath the branches to find the electric socket. The lights came on and the tree lit up the room.

‘Ta-dah!' I laughed.

Marjorie wrapped an arm around my waist. ‘A job well done, I think. Benedict would approve of your angel-arranging skills. Will he be back for Christmas, do you know?'

‘Fingers crossed, Marjorie.' I sighed. ‘I really hope so.'

After work, I drove straight home, keen to catch up with Mum. Hathaway College had already broken up for the Christmas holidays and Mum and Steve had spent the afternoon together. Today was the big unveiling of the display that Henley library had made from a selection of her newspapers and I was looking forward to hearing all about it. I parked in Mill Lane behind Mum's car, but aside from the twinkling lights around the porch and on the Christmas tree in the living room, which came on automatically, the cottage was in darkness.

I let myself in and set to work lighting the fire. It was at times like these – increasingly often these days – when I came in to an empty house that I longed for a cat. Or a dog. Or anyone really who made a fuss of me when I arrived home. I knelt down in front of the grate and began shaping sheets of paper into tight twists. Ironically, since Mum had stopped hoarding, we never had enough old newspaper to light the fire with and I'd resorted to bringing home scrap paper from work.

A few minutes later, with the help of several matches and a screwed-up copy of last month's events round-up, the fireplace was alive with flames and the wood began to crackle and hiss. I sat back on my heels, prodding and poking it until I was sure it was properly alight and glanced round the room. Our living room was quite cosy now that all the surfaces were clear. Mum's counsellor had set her the task of having one room clear enough to invite guests into and Mum had succeeded with bells on. She had even arranged some new framed photographs over the fireplace of the two of us, one of her parents that she'd found in an old suitcase and a new one of her and Steve.

I smiled to myself, thinking how much happier she seemed these days, and went to make myself a cup of tea. I was just scooping out the teabag when the front door opened.

‘Cooee, Holly, we're home!' chirped Mum.

I stuck my head into the tiny hallway where she and Steve were divesting themselves of thick coats, scarves and gloves.

I gave them both a hug and Mum pressed her cold cheeks against mine.

‘Hello, you two . . . Oh, you're cold!'

‘We've been for a walk round, haven't we, love?' said Steve.

‘A walk?' I laughed. ‘In the dark?'

Mum nodded and I looked at her properly; she was so brimming with happiness that she could hardly contain herself. ‘Yes, Steve and I have lots to talk about and we thought a walk might help.'

‘But first,' said Steve, rubbing his hands together, ‘let's have a cuppa and tell Holly all about the library exhibition.'

We settled ourselves cosily in front of the fire and sipped our hot drinks, soaking up the atmosphere created by the sparkle of the Christmas tree and the glow from the roaring fire. And for a moment I had a sudden image of what it would have been like growing up as part of a family with two parents.

‘Well, what a day I've had.' Mum sighed.

She was sitting beside Steve on the sofa and he reached across and patted her knee.

‘So how did it feel to see your collection of newspapers mounted in an exhibition, Mum?' I asked, tucking my feet underneath me in the armchair.

Mum took a deep breath before replying.

‘Do you know, Holly, I felt really proud,' she said, with a wistful smile. She set her mug down and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. ‘The library staff had done a great job and they seemed genuinely grateful to have the archive; they had one wall completely filled with local news dating right back to 1984 with a banner saying: “Remember when . . .” And then they had a pile of sticky notes on a shelf for people to write their own memories and add it to the wall. It was lovely.'

I smiled proudly at her. ‘Sounds fab, I might go and see it myself tomorrow, perhaps drag Esme along if she's got time. It'll be weird to see newspapers that we've been tripping over for years pinned up neatly!'

‘I knew they'd jump at the chance of getting their hands on your collection, Lucy.' Steve put an arm round Mum's shoulders and pulled her close. ‘What did I say?'

‘A cultural treasure trove, you called it!' I laughed, remembering that summer's day when Ben and I first met Steve and we pored over the issues of the
Wickham and Hoxley News
that I'd managed to purloin from Mum. ‘I know it meant a lot to you, Mum, but I can't say I miss all that clutter.'

‘No, well,' said Mum primly, ‘
all that clutter
may have gone, but at least I know I can always go and have a look at it in the library if I get withdrawal symptoms. But it's funny: now that I've cleared out all of that stuff, my life seems fuller than ever.'

A loaded silence fell over us then as Steve wriggled closer to her and the two of them shared a smile. I felt myself tearing up. After Mum admitted to me in the summer how lonely she had been, it was heartwarming to see her so happy.

I suddenly remembered their wintry walk, which seemed like an odd thing to be doing on a dark evening, and I opened my mouth to ask about it. But as I did so Mum picked up her mug again and lifted it to her mouth. The reflection of the flames caused something to glint on her hitherto unadorned finger.

‘Mum,' I gasped, ‘what's that on your . . .? Is that a ring? Are you two . . .?'

I looked from Mum to Steve and back again and their joyful faces said it all.

‘Steve asked me to marry him,' Mum gushed. ‘And I said yes!'

We both jumped up and I grabbed her hand to see the most beautiful diamond and topaz engagement ring on her finger.

‘Congratulations!' I squealed. ‘This calls for champagne, not tea!'

A second later Steve got to his feet bashfully. ‘Does this mean that you don't mind, then, Holly? I know it's all happened very fast. I was a bit worried about what you'd think, although Lucy seemed confident that you wouldn't mind.'