Valentine's Night. PENNY JORDAN

apart from their family name.

      ‘IT WON’T BE so bad,’ her mother consoled her over supper later on that day. ‘You’ll be able to show her the diaries. I’m sure she’ll love those.’ ‘Are they still up there?’ Sorrel asked her.

      ‘Mmm … packed away in the attic. I’ll ask Simon to bring them down for you when he goes up there.’

      ‘It’s a lovely old house,’ Fiona chipped in.

      ‘But very remote,’ Sorrel reminded her, adding with a grin, ‘but you won’t mind that, will you?’

      And the whole family laughed at the look Simon and his new wife exchanged, although it was Simon’s turn to laugh when he told them smugly, ‘We may not be on our own for very long.’

      ‘Oh, Simon, it’s too soon yet to be sure,’ Fiona protested. Watching them, Sorrel felt an unfamiliar and unwanted sensation of envy clamp her heart.

      What would it be like to love someone the way Fiona loved Simon? To want nothing other than to be a part of his life, to conceive his children …

      Her relationship with Andrew wasn’t like that. She loved him, of course she did. He would make her an excellent husband, but when she didn’t see him for a few days, for instance, she had no yearning to do so. No sense of loss when he went away to one of his frequent conferences or sales. He was away at the moment; she hadn’t seen him for over a week, and yet she was quite content. She didn’t go to bed at night hungering for his unexciting kisses, wishing time would speed past so that they could be married, so that she could lie in his arms at night as Fiona undoubtedly lay in Simon’s. She felt none of the things so very evident in her sister-in-law’s rosy face, and until recently it hadn’t bothered her; but now for some reason it did, and illogically she decided that the root cause of all this dissatisfaction was the unplanned and unwanted visit of this Australian relative who was thrusting herself into their lives, claiming a kinship with them which might or might not exist. And now she had agreed to spend three days with her. How on earth was she going to keep her entertained?

      Plas Gwynd was ten miles from the nearest farm and over fifteen from the nearest village. It clung to the hillside, gaunt and grey, weathered by over five hundred years of storms, a long, rambling collection of outbuildings and farmhouse which had housed her family for generation upon generation.

      In the spring and summer, the garden bloomed so profusely that it took one’s breath away, and it was true that the lee of the hill gave the house some degree of protection, but there was nothing to protect the sheep from the winter snows, no one with whom to share the weather’s fierceness, and it was no wonder that her father had preferred to farm the much richer Shropshire pastures left to him by his maternal uncle rather than remain living in the remote Welsh farmhouse.

      Hill farming was backbreaking, grinding work. No hill farmer was ever rich, and her father was fortunate in his fertile English pastures.

      After supper, Sorrel went out to the barn which housed her knitting machine and design studio. She often worked best late at night when her thoughts became miraculously clear and concise, free of the clutter of the day.

      Some of her inspiration came from what she saw around her, or what she had experienced as a child. Once she had realised how fascinating she found the design and execution of knitwear, she had spent several holidays in Scotland, studying the traditional knitting patterns and stitches they had used there for generations. Some of her designs, though, were very modern, incorporating innovative ideas and vibrant modern colours.

      In her bedroom, thrown across her bed, was the woollen rug which she had designed herself at art school, and which she had kept for sentiment’s sake. She still designed such rugs and they sold well … as did the tapestry cushions she had started as a sideline two years ago and which were increasingly in demand.

      Her glance fell on a tapestry frame holding the beginnings of a new design she was trying out. She could take that to the farm with her. It would give her something to do if her cousin’s company became too much.

      The hill farm wasn’t even equipped with a telephone. There was no gas, no electricity, although apparently her father planned to have these services installed for Simon and Fiona. Sighing faintly, Sorrel switched off the lights and headed back to the house.

      ‘YOU’VE GOT everything, then? Blankets, sheets, towels, soap, the boxes of food? Simon says there’s paraffin and oil up there for the lamps, and he’s putting some bags of logs and fuel in the back of the Land Rover for the Aga.’

      ‘Ma, we’ll be there for three days, not three months,’ Sorrel reminded her mother patiently.

      ‘Yes, I know, but Giles said this morning that he fancied there was bad weather on the way.’

      ‘Well, if there is, there wasn’t anything about it on the farming forecast,’ Simon told his mother cheerfully.

      ‘Maybe not, but your uncle lived in the mountains for most of his life.’

      ‘He’s an old man, Ma,’ Simon said gently. ‘Sometimes he gets confused. Don’t start looking for problems. Ready, Sorrel?’ he asked his sister.

      ‘Just about,’ Sorrel agreed. She wasn’t looking forward to the next three days one little bit, but her mother was so relieved, so pleased, that she hadn’t the heart to back out. After all, they would probably pass quickly enough, and she had to admit that her mother did have a point. It did seem a little inhospitable after this Valerie had come such a long way to tell her that they didn’t have room for her. And who could tell … it might be rather nice having another female in the family; her bad mood of the previous evening was lightening. How old was she? Sorrel wondered, as Simon finished loading the Land Rover, and climbed into the driver’s seat.

      ‘Let’s hope she’s going to be able to find the place,’ she commented to her brother an hour and a half later as they turned off the country road and into the muddy, rutted lane that led to the farm.

      ‘Well, it’s well signposted enough, although she only needs to miss the turning in the village … What time is she due?’

      ‘I don’t know. Mum said her flight got into Heathrow at midday, so I expect it will be some time later this afternoon. Will you stay and meet her?’

      ‘Can’t,’ Simon told her, shaking his head. ‘Half a dozen more ewes are showing signs of starting with their lambs.’

      He pulled up abruptly in the cobbled yard and opened the door. Sorrel shivered as she felt the drop in temperature. It was far colder here than it had been at home; the winter landscape bare of trees, rawly bleak. The mountains in the distance were snow-covered, as was the peak of the one behind the house, the ground underfoot frozen.

      ‘Let’s get this stuff inside,’ Simon announced, heaving down the sacks of fuel and carrying it into the lean-to porch that sheltered the back door.

      The door opened straight into the stone-flagged kitchen, the stone floor striking chill through the thin soles of Sorrel’s boots and making her shiver.

      ‘It’s summer now in Australia, isn’t it?’ she asked through chattering teeth. ‘I wonder if this Val realises how cold it is here.’

      ‘It just feels it because the house has been empty. Wait until we’ve got the range lit.’

      ‘I’ll do that,’ Sorrel told him, knowing he was anxious to start back. ‘You bring the rest of the stuff in.’

      She filled a small kettle and had just set it to boil on the emergency gas ring she had brought with her when Simon came in with the last load. The range was now lit and the chill just beginning to ease off the kitchen.

      ‘I’ll fill the lamps with oil,’ Simon told her. ‘I checked upstairs when I came with Fiona. The bedroom isn’t damp, so you should be OK. Remember to keep the range in, though, otherwise you’ll have no hot water.’

      ‘Don’t even mention it,’ Sorrel groaned.

      ‘Why