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

Jack. For one thing, I’d like to know if my grandfather’s suspicions were correct and something had been going on between him and this Melinda Christopher, who would be a rather hard act to follow…I was just about to try a bit of delicate—or indelicate—probing on the matter, when I saw that Aunt Hebe was staring fixedly at the shabby carpetbag I’d dumped on the bed.

      ‘Wasn’t that your mother’s?’

      ‘Yes. She had very few possessions because she was always travelling about, and she tended to give her stuff away. But this she hung on to.’

      ‘But the book—Alys Blezzard’s household book—Jack said you hadn’t got it? You don’t think your mother would have given that away or…or lost it? We assumed, when we discovered that it was missing, that she took it with her.’

      I looked directly, and slightly accusingly, at her. ‘Mum did tell me about Alys Blezzard’s book, and that the original was kept locked away. But just how did Jack know about it? I thought it was supposed to be a secret, passed down only through the women of the family?’

      She shifted a little, guiltily evading my gaze. ‘Oh, Jack thinks it’s only an old book of household hints and recipes—which it is, really. He’s terribly interested in anything to do with the history of Winter’s End—and anyway, it isn’t truly secret because copies of the recipes have been passed on by generations of Winter women, especially daughters leaving to get married—but not all of it, of course, just the useful bits. We always assumed your mother took it with her, but I suppose she could simply have hidden it somewhere before she left.’

      ‘If you thought she took it, you probably haven’t had a real search for it. I expect it’ll turn up,’ I suggested, noticing for the first time that Charlie had managed to scramble on the bed and now had his head inside the carpetbag.

      So that’s where I had put the Eccles cakes.

Chapter Seven: Cold Embers

       Father hath ridden over and hastily closed with the bargain, not seeking my wishes in the matter, though it is contrary to my will. I hear rumours that he too is to wed again, not a month after my mother and the babe departed this life…

      From the journal of Alys Blezzard, 1580

      After she had gone I let Charlie finish the Eccles cake, since he clearly needed feeding up—but on the floor, not the ancient and quite beautiful patchwork quilt.

      It obviously refreshed him, because afterwards he started to chase invisible mice around the room, energetically leaping and pouncing.

      There was an antiquated little bathroom through what looked like a cupboard door in the panelling, but I had little time to do more than splash my face with tepid water and shove my snarled hair behind my ears before I heard someone beat merry hell out of a gong, down in the depths of the house.

      ‘Now, where do you think lunch is?’ I asked Charlie, who wagged his tail but showed no sign of guiding me there, though he did follow me out when I called him.

      I retraced my steps to the minstrels’ gallery and luckily spotted Jonah crossing the Great Hall. He was wearing a stiff brown linen apron and staggering under the weight of a huge tray, on which reposed several covered serving dishes and a large squeezy bottle of scarlet ketchup.

      Quickly I ran downstairs and followed him through the door into the West Wing and then into the breakfast room.

      ‘There you are,’ said Aunt Hebe, a spooky figure in the Stygian gloom. ‘We always eat in here when it is just family—so much cosier and more convenient than the dining room, I always think.’

      While I wouldn’t have called a room that was a ten-minute hike from the kitchens convenient, I supposed it was all relative. Once my eyes had adjusted to the darkness I did have vague recollections of the room, with its sturdy Victorian table, carved wooden fire surround and the faded hearth rug on which Charlie immediately curled, in front of the dead grate. But if only someone had taken the trouble to wipe the grime of years from the windows, things would have looked a lot better.

      Or maybe they would have looked worse? For, while there was some evidence of a little low-level duster activity, the wainscoting and furniture didn’t exactly gleam with beeswax and love, and whole colonies of spiders seemed to have taken up residence in the dirty chandelier. Did no one in this house ever look up?

      The table had been reduced to a cosy ten feet or so in length by removing several leaves, which were stacked against the wall. Two places had been set.

      Hebe indicated that I should sit at the head of the table. ‘William’s chair, of course, and though it should be Jack’s place now, since my poor misguided brother made it perfectly clear that you were to be the head of the household, so be it—until poor dear Jack can take his rightful place.’

      Jonah, who had been clattering things about on a side table, now plonked a warm plate down in front of each of us. Then, removing tarnished silver covers from the serving dishes with a flourish, he handed round two pastry-crusted hotpot pies, some mushy peas and a generous helping of pickled red cabbage.

      ‘You’ve forgotten the water,’ Aunt Hebe reminded him.

      ‘I’ve only got one pair of hands, missis, haven’t I?’ he grumbled, adding cloudy tumblers and a large jug of dubious-looking fluid to the table. Then he stood back and said benevolently, ‘There you are, then—and your semolina pud’s on the hotplate yonder when you’re ready for it, with the blackcurrant jam.’

      ‘Thank you, Jonah.’

      ‘Yes, thank you,’ I echoed, looking down at my plate, on which the violent red of the pickled cabbage had begun to seep its vinegary way into the green of the mushy peas. I put out my hand for my napkin, then hesitated, for it had been crisply folded into the shape of a white waterlily and it seemed a shame to open it.

      Jonah leaned over my shoulder and poked it with one not altogether pristine finger. ‘Nice, ain’t it? It’d be easier with paper serviettes, though, like they have at the evening class down at the village hall. It’ll be swans next week.’

      ‘Will it? Won’t the necks be difficult?’

      ‘Thank you, Jonah,’ Aunt Hebe said again with slightly more emphasis, before he could reply, and he ambled off, grinning. Charlie hauled himself up and followed him, and I hoped Mrs Lark would give him something to eat. I was so starving I’d rather not share my hotpot pie, and I didn’t think he would fancy mushy peas or pickled cabbage.

      Mind you, my last dog ate orange peel, so you just never know.

      ‘We generally find our own lunch and tea in the kitchen, but Mrs Lark wanted to give you something hot today. Though there is usually soup—’ she looked around as if surprised at its absence—‘and we just have fruit for dessert. But today there’s semolina, which is apparently your favourite pudding.’

      ‘It might have been once…I can’t remember.’ I hoped Mrs Lark wasn’t going to feed me exclusively on the type of nursery diet I ate as a child. My tastes have changed a little over the years.

      Mind you, when I stirred a generous dollop of home-made blackcurrant jam into my semolina and it went a strange purple-grey colour, it did all sort of come back to me why I had liked it—stodgy puds are nearly as comforting as chocolate.

      When we had finished, and Jonah had brought coffee in mismatched cups and saucers, Aunt Hebe said that she would give me a brief tour of the house. ‘Just enough to remind you of the layout, for I am sure you will want a more detailed survey as soon as you have time,’ she said shrewdly.

      She was quite right, I was already mentally compiling a mammoth shopping list of cleaning materials, some of them only obtainable from specialist suppliers. It was lucky I already knew a good one, called Stately Solutions, wasn’t it? Serendipity again, you see.

      ‘After