A Christmas Letter. Shirley Jump

to get sucked in to the fantasy like that. But it was this place…Hadsborough was a like a fairytale on steroids. It was hard not to fall into that trap. She would just have to do better in the future.

      ‘I can see how an amateur might have made the error,’ she said, looking Marcus in the eye, ‘but I don’t think Samuel Crowbridge made this window.’

      ‘You know your subject, Miss McKinnon.’

      ‘Nice of you to notice,’ she replied. Really, the nerve of the man. She didn’t need his validation. ‘And it’s Faith.’

      He blinked slowly, as if he’d registered her request and would think it over. Faith didn’t usually have a short fuse, but something about this man, his superior attitude, just drove her nuts.

      ‘Any sign of this message my grandfather mentioned?’

      She shook her head, although she wanted to say, Yes, it’s there in letters three feet high, just to get up his nose. ‘Nothing pops out, but since it’s not a traditional church window the normal symbolic conventions may not apply.’

      ‘I need to know for sure,’ Marcus said. ‘My grandfather will just keep fretting about it unless you give me something more concrete.’

      She thought of the charming old man, sitting by the fire, trying to read his newspaper while he waited for her to give him hope where there was none. But Bertie had asked for her professional opinion, hadn’t he? And she needed to honour that—stay dispassionate, objective. It wasn’t her fault if it had all been a dead end.

       Don’t get involved …

      Right. That was what she was going to do. Not get involved.

      It wasn’t normally a problem in her line of work. The people intimately connected with the windows she worked on were long dead, shrouded in the mystery of another century. So this window was a little different, had a sad story to go along with it. That shouldn’t change anything. It didn’t.

      ‘I could do some further research,’ she said. ‘I should be able to send you a report in a couple of days, but I don’t think it’s going to turn up anything new.’

      He breathed out, looking slightly thankful. ‘Maybe that’s for the best.’ He glanced over his shoulder to the open door. ‘Thank you, Miss McKinnon.’

      Still with the ‘Miss McKinnon’. He used her name like a shield.

      She took one last look at the window. It really was beautiful—so unusual. And apart from the bad repair job down at the bottom it was in good condition. It was sad to leave it that way, especially when it wouldn’t be a long job—not like the one she’d just finished …

      Marcus moved towards the door. ‘We’d better go back and talk to the Duke,’ he said, not bothering to look over his shoulder.

      Right. And then it would be time to get back to where she belonged—her own world, her own life.

      CHAPTER THREE

      MARCUS stayed silent when they reached the drawing room, while Bertie insisted Faith have another cup of tea before she continued on her journey. She perched on the edge of the sofa again, and began to explain carefully what she’d found.

      He noticed that she worked up to breaking the bad news, and he was grateful to her for that. He was pleased she hadn’t just blurted it all out as soon as she’d walked into the room. As far as he’d seen Faith McKinnon had a gift for bluntness. It was reassuring to know that a little sensitivity lay underneath.

      He brushed beads of moisture from his shoulders as he stood by the fireplace. Fine flakes of snow, almost dust-like, had fallen on them on their walk back from the chapel and now melted from the warmth of the flames. He looked out of the window over the lake. Snow. That was the last thing they needed right now. Hadsborough lay in a dip in the land, and it was always much worse here than in the nearby towns and villages. Still, it was ten years since they’d had anything but a few inches. He was probably worrying for nothing.

      He found himself doing that a lot these days. Churning things over in his mind. Wondering in the middle of the night if there was anything he had missed. It was as if he tried to outrun his own personal cloud of doom all day by keeping busy, and then it would settle over him while he slept, poisoning his dreams.

      Some nights, in a half dream-state, he’d travel further into the past, endlessly trying to relive moments that would never come again. He’d try to make the right decision this time, hoping he’d prevent the coming tragedy, that he could save his father from both disgrace and the grave, but when the sun rose in the morning all his nocturnal fretting hadn’t changed anything.

      He should have done more. Foolishly trusting his father, he’d seen it all happening and yet stood by, believing his father’s assurances when he should have doubted them. But he wasn’t going to make that mistake again; he had his eyes open now.

      And not just when it came to family; when it came to everything. He should have realised that the woman he’d trusted with everything he’d had left—which hadn’t been much—would eventually sit him down and tell him it was all too much for her, that she would leave him on his own to bear all the new responsibility that had come his way while she skipped off to a life of freedom. He’d given himself completely to a woman who hadn’t known the meaning of loyalty, who hadn’t known how to stand by the people she loved. How had he been so blind?

      At least his relationship with Amanda had taught him something important, something the storybooks and the love songs failed to mention—love was always an unequal proposition. One person always gave more, always cared more, was always ready to sacrifice more. And that person was the weaker, more vulnerable side of the equation. One thing he was certain of: he was never going to be that person again.

      ‘I’m sorry I didn’t find what you were looking for,’ he heard Faith say, and he realised he’d missed some of the conversation.

      He lifted his head to look at her. Her face and eyes were totally expressionless. Too expressionless. A casual observer might have thought she didn’t care, that she was handing out platitudes, but he recognised that look on her face. It was the one he saw every morning in the mirror when he made sure his own walls were still securely in place. They were more alike than he’d thought.

      His grandfather nodded, trying not to look despondent. There was a flinch, a moment of hesitation, and then Faith reached over and covered his hand with hers. And then she smiled. It was the first hint of a smile he’d seen from her all day, and rather than being brassy and bright and false this one was soft and shy. Something inside his chest kicked.

      But then the smile was gone, and Faith sat back on the sofa with her mask in place. His grandfather didn’t seem to mind. He chatted away about old times while Faith sipped her tea and nodded.

      He knew what she’d done—checked into that little place inside her head with its thick, thick walls. He lived out of a similar place himself. But for that soft smile of hers he’d never have guessed those intriguing walls were even there. She hid them well with her on-the-surface frankness and direct words.

      She reminded him of Amanda, he realised. Maybe that was why he was reacting so strongly to her. It was another reason he should be doubly wary.

      Faith had that same deceptive, ready-for-anything candour that had drawn him to his ex. Remember that word, Marcus. Deceptive. Not on purpose, but perhaps that just made the fraud all the more deadly—because it added that hint of honesty that made a man believe in things that just weren’t there.

      Just as well Faith McKinnon would be off their land and out of their lives before the afternoon was out.

      As if she’d read his mind, Faith put down her empty cup. ‘Thank you so much for the tea, Bertie,’ she said, ‘but I have to get going now. I’m renting a cottage down on the coast for the next few weeks.’

      ‘On your own?’ His grandfather looked appalled.