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

anyway.’

      Actually, that was a slight exaggeration: it was five weeks, just long enough for me to fall pregnant and for commitment-phobe Rory to get such cold feet that he went away to find himself. So far as I know, he’s still looking.

      ‘Yes, that did worry your grandfather a little—but at least you had got married.’

      ‘Unlike my mother?’

      He ignored that, smoothing out the papers in front of him with a dry, wrinkled finger. ‘You have no contact with your former husband?’

      ‘No, none. He was a cousin of the owner of the castle I was working in, a diver working on the oilrigs—you know, six weeks on, six off. He was ten years older than me, but we fell in love and married in Gretna Green—very romantic—and then settled down in a rented cottage. Then he supposedly went off back to work and instead vanished.’

      I had waited and waited for him, sure he would come back, until I finally realised that he’d taken everything he valued with him and never meant to return at all. With hindsight I could see that I had been the one in love with the idea of marriage and domesticity, the family I yearned for, and he had simply gone along with it in a moment of madness, or frustrated lust, or…something.

      ‘And that is the last you saw of him?’ Mr Hobbs prompted gently. ‘He never contacted you again?’

      ‘No, though I’m sure his family knew where he was. But they wouldn’t have anything to do with me, of course, because they were horrified when he married the help. I’ve heard that he has been working abroad ever since, and I divorced him eventually. There hasn’t been anyone serious in my life since then. I don’t need anyone really; I’ve usually got a dog.’

      ‘Quite,’ he said, though looking slightly perplexed. ‘That does, however, simplify matters. I would most earnestly advise you not to consider selling the property at this juncture, and certainly not without visiting it first. Indeed, they are all expecting you to take over the reins as soon as possible.’

      ‘All?’ I said, startled. ‘How many people are we actually talking about here?’

      ‘Well, your twin great-aunts—though of course they were provided for under the terms of your great-grandfather’s will. Ottilie leases the coach house, which she converted into a studio with living accommodation soon after your mother left. You do remember her?’

      ‘Yes, though I saw much less of her than Aunt Hebe. She didn’t come to Winter’s End much when I lived there—isn’t she a sculptor?’

      ‘Indeed, a very well-known one. She made something of a misalliance in her brother’s eyes when she was in her forties by marrying his last head gardener, though I believe Sir William was more grieved at the thought of losing his right-hand man than at the marriage itself. But as it transpired he did not, since Rufus Greenwood was as passionate about restoring the Winter’s End gardens as he was himself. He stayed on and Ottilie had the old coach house converted so she could divide her time between her husband at Winter’s End and her studio in Cornwall. Still does, though she is now widowed.’

      ‘So, who else is there? I remember a cook-housekeeper…’

      ‘Yes, Mrs Lark and her husband, Jonah, are the only live-in staff now. There are three gardeners—four, if you include the head gardener…’ He ruffled the papers a little, seemed about to say something, and then thought better of it. ‘Ye-es. There is a daily cleaner…and Mr Yatton, the estate manager, who like myself is semi-retired, but he comes in most mornings to the office in the solar tower.’

      ‘Four gardeners and only one cleaner? For a place that size?’ I exclaimed, amazed, because if there is one thing I do know about, it is the upkeep of old houses.

      ‘At first a cleaning firm was brought in occasionally, but I don’t think that has happened for three or four years now.’

      ‘A specialist firm? One used to dealing with the contents of historic buildings?’ I asked hopefully.

      ‘No, a local agency called Dolly Mops. They are very thorough—my wife uses them.’

      I winced, thinking of all the damage a well-meaning but untrained cleaner might have inflicted on the fabric and contents of Winter’s End.

      ‘Then, of course, there are the Friends,’ Mr Hobbs added.

      ‘The…friends?’

      ‘The Friends of Winter’s End, a local group of history enthusiasts, who volunteer to come in on the summer opening days to sell tickets, and look after those rooms open to the public—the Great Hall and gallery. The house and gardens are open two afternoons a week, from May to the end of August.’

      ‘I understand from Jack that the house is in very poor condition and there isn’t enough money to restore it. Is that so?’

      ‘While it is true that your grandfather diverted most of his income into renovating the gardens, he did not touch the capital, which is securely invested—though of course, no investments bring the returns they used to, and an old house like Winter’s End needs a considerable amount of keeping up. And unfortunately, he took out a bank loan when he started to restore the maze and the terraces, secured against the property, which is a drain on the estate.’

      ‘Jack mentioned that. How big a bank loan?’ I asked hesitantly. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know.

      ‘I believe there is still twenty thousand pounds outstanding.’

      ‘Good heavens!’

      ‘Yes, indeed—it is all quite a responsibility.’

      The ‘r’ word again—and although I had pretty well run Blackwalls for Lady Betty, having the ultimate responsibility for my own stately pile was still a scary prospect. On the other hand, the thought of having a whole neglected house to put right sort of appealed…OK, I admit it, it drew me like a magnet, especially if this time the house I would be working in would actually be mine!

      But I now had two rather differing views of my inheritance to compare—three, if you counted the letter from my grandfather that Mr Hobbs now handed to me, though actually it was more of a brief note scrawled in thin, spidery writing, urging me to complete the garden restoration project—his ‘Memorial to Posterity’ as he put it. It was abundantly clear that I needed to see Winter’s End for myself before deciding what to do, and the sooner the better: I would be upping sticks and decamping to rural west Lancashire as soon as I could get my act together.

      Besides, I was beginning to feel a strong, almost fearful tug of attraction, as though some connecting umbilical cord stretched almost to invisibility had suddenly twitched, reminding me of its existence.

      Mr Hobbs must have drawn his own conclusions from the expression on my face, for he seemed to relax and, with a satisfied smile, said, ‘So, I may inform the family that you will be arriving shortly?’ He looked around at the cluttered caravan. ‘It would seem you do not have a home or employment to keep you here.’

      ‘Very true,’ I agreed. ‘No, there is nothing to keep me here—so I’ll go to Winter’s End and then make my own mind up what will be the best thing to do.’

      ‘Spoken like a Winter,’ he said approvingly.

      ‘Yes, but Jack might not be pleased about it,’ I said, suddenly remembering my handsome cousin’s existence (be still my beating heart!). ‘He told me that he’d decided, before he met me, that if I wouldn’t sell Winter’s End back to him he would challenge the will. If he has a strong case, is there really any point in my going to Winter’s End?’

      ‘Oh, that’s an empty threat, my dear,’ Mr Hobbs assured me. ‘Your grandfather was perfectly compos mentis when he made the will: only look at the way he left instructions for everything to be settled before you were informed of your inheritance, so you could step right in and pick up the reins. I am sure Jack has already taken legal advice and been told the same thing.’

      He