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

it lonely up on these tops. There aren’t many children left on the farms. They’re all bussed to school. Do watch out for her – farms are not playgrounds. I don’t usually encourage families here. I thought you were a couple or I’d have said. We couldn’t take the responsibility if anything … not that there’s much farm work happening yet,’ said the woman whose eyes were darting to the little girl as she was talking.

      ‘Don’t you worry, Evie is a sensible child, used to dodging traffic. I’ll make sure she knows her country code. And thank you for the cakes. Baking is not something I’ve done for ages,’ she confided. Eunice had kept the pantry full of cakes and pies but her own appetite had still not returned.

      ‘It’s a way of life up here, or was, but now the young ‘uns seem to like shop-bought stuff. You never know what’s in it, do you? I’d better leave you to settle in. Is everything to your satisfaction? Anything else you’d like to know?’ Mrs Snowden made for the door.

      ‘I’d like to know more about your old house. I thought we’d be staying in part of it. I can see it’s got a history,’ Kay replied. There was no use in hiding her interest.

      ‘It’s got so many bits, added on and knocked off, you’ll have to ask my son about all that. It’s his interest. It’s been in my husband’s family since Queen Elizabeth’s day. Ask Nik to give you the tour, if you don’t mind the mess. We live back to back, so to speak. It suits us that way.’ Mrs Snowden smiled and, despite her forthright manner and stern visage, Kay liked the look of the woman. She must have been a beauty in her day with such high cheekbones and fine piercing blue eyes.

      ‘And your husband? Does he still farm?’ Kay asked.

      ‘Lord, no! Not unless he’s ploughing St Peter’s fields. He passed on years ago, before all this bother with the farming industry. He was a Maggie’s man and thought the good times would last for ever.’

      ‘I’m sorry. I can see the fields are empty. It must have been a terrible year up here,’ Kay nodded with sympathy hoping she hadn’t upset the widow.

      ‘Aye, lass, one I never thought I’d see in my lifetime. Tom had a good innings. I was younger than him and times were easier then. You could educate your children off the moor. He worked hard for his family – you can’t ask for more. I’m glad he wasn’t here to see his stock culled. Are you on your own by choice?’ Mrs Snowden paused, waiting for an answer.

      ‘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