As Christina waited, cold and shivering, in a long, straggly queue for a taxi to take her to West Didsbury, she made a silent vow. She would leave Manchester as soon as she could, with or without Stephen Reece-Carlton.
The electronic gates swung open and her car swept up a long drive, past a two-acre paddock. A thoroughbred bay pony was being led towards a small fenced ménage by a dark-haired young girl who waved and smiled at Stephen as they drove past.
Christina gazed up out of the window at a tunnel of elm and sycamore branches almost touching overhead. A light breeze stirred the leaves to reveal patches of blue sky. The driveway narrowed suddenly, and they drove past a high dry-stone wall with bright-pink and dark-lavender rhododendron planted under it.
Christina gasped as the part black-and-white-timbered seventeenth-century manor house came into view. Its many mullioned windows glimmered in thick shafts of sunlight filtered through the leaves of an enormous oak tree which stood before the house.
Stephen stopped the car in front of a heavy carved oak door with a highly polished solid brass knocker in its centre. Christina stepped out and stood absolutely still, awestruck. She looked up at the crest carved into the stone above the door. There was a date below: 1626.
Christina was speechless. She had never seen such a beautiful house.
‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ Stephen commented, opening the boot of the car to take out their bags.
‘Lovely is inadequate,’ she replied, and watched as the front door opened and a stocky little woman stepped out onto the worn doorstep, a Cocker spaniel racing past her legs and almost knocking her flying in its eagerness to get to Stephen.
‘Mr Reece-Carlton, welcome.’ The woman smiled, and tiny dark-brown eyes almost disappeared into her doughlike face. Stephen patted the excited, barking dog and smiled at his housekeeper.
‘Dorothy, I’d like to introduce Christina O’Neill.’
She took one step forward and held out her hand. ‘Hello, Dorothy. I’ve heard a lot about you.’
The housekeeper in turn extended a plump, work-worn hand, her wary eyes taking in every inch of Christina, who was acutely aware of the scrutiny.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ Dorothy’s lips were tight and her sharp voice indifferent. She turned her attention to Stephen, who was still trying to calm the boisterous spaniel.
‘Come inside, Mr Reece-Carlton. I’ve got something very special for you.’
Stephen patted his flat stomach. ‘Don’t tell me, Dot. Cinnamon and apple tart with home-made ice-cream.’
Dorothy beamed. ‘And fruit cake too. That’s his favourite,’ she commented to Christina as they all trooped into the large, square oak-panelled hall.
Christina heard her own heels clicking on the flagstone floor and was momentarily embarrassed in such grand surroundings, but Dorothy Barnes chatted on to Stephen, not seeming to notice her discomfiture. ‘Good journey? How was the traffic? It’s usually so bad on Friday afternoons.’
‘It was okay. I picked Christina up at Gatwick and I think we made it before the real rush.’
Stephen dropped her bag at the foot of the stairs and they followed Dorothy into a big beamed kitchen.
‘Sit yourselves down,’ she ordered. ‘Tea coming up.’
She bustled towards a bright-red Aga, where a kettle was already simmering.
Stephen and Christina sat at a long scrubbed-pine table, which was laid with a blue and white tea set. A big earthenware pot filled with fresh flowers stood in the centre.
Christina looked around the homely kitchen. Pots and pans hung from exposed beams in the low ceiling next to clumps of dried flowers and fresh herbs. Brightly coloured ceramic containers lined the Delft-tiled work-surfaces, and greetings cards, children’s drawings and cookery books covered a thick stone mantelpiece above a deep fireplace blackened with age.
‘This reminds me so much of the kitchen at home,’ Christina commented.
‘Really?’ Dorothy’s thin brows raised in disbelief.
‘Though you could probably fit my kitchen into your pantry! I mean the atmosphere, really,’ Christina said honestly.
The housekeeper’s expression softened.
‘This kitchen is an extension. Mr and Mrs Reece-Carlton built it a few years ago. It was a poky little thing before, half this size.’
She placed a teapot complete with a red woollen cosy onto the table, closely followed by rich, dark-brown fruit cake and a crumbly short-pastry apple tart baked golden-brown.
‘Mmm, that looks delicious.’ Stephen rubbed his hands together.
‘Tuck in. I hope you’re hungry because I’ve made wholemeal scones as well.’
Dorothy looked at Christina’s tall, slender figure. ‘You look like you could do with feeding up.’
‘I eat like a horse, actually.’ And as if to confirm her statement, Christina reached across the table and helped herself to a thick slice of fruit cake.
The telephone rang, and Stephen stood up. ‘I’ll get it. I’m expecting a call from Robert.’
Dorothy clicked her tongue and sighed as she wiped the top of the tiled work-surfaces.
‘Always telephone calls during meals … infernal instruments! A damn nuisance if you ask me.’
‘What’s a damn nuisance?’ The voice belonged to the pretty young girl who had padded into the kitchen in red-stockinged feet. Christina saw it was the girl from the paddock, Stephen’s daughter presumably. She was dressed in beige jodhpurs and a white cotton jumper. Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a messy pony-tail, and her small, heart-shaped face was flushed from running.
‘None of your business, Miss Nosey,’ Dorothy chided, affection softening her tone.
‘Where’s Daddy?’ the child asked, then looked from Dorothy to Christina, sitting at the breakfast table.
‘Who are you?’ She stared unsmilingly at the visitor with wide blue-grey eyes the colour of a stormy sea. Christina was about to tell the girl her name when Dorothy cut in, ‘This is Christina. A friend of your father’s, come to stay for the weekend.’
‘Well, he never mentioned her to me!’ the girl snapped, then turned at the sound of her father’s voice.
‘Please don’t refer to our guest as “her”, Victoria,’ Stephen admonished gently. ‘Where are your manners?’
Not waiting for her to reply, he continued, ‘Christina, may I introduce my daughter, Victoria.’
She stood up and smiled as warmly as she could into the girl’s pretty, scowling face.
‘Pleased to meet you. Your father talks so much about you, I’ve been dying to meet you.’
It was the truth. After initially being slow to speak of his daughter, Stephen now mentioned her frequently - often as the reason why he could not leave Sussex. This weekend was an attempt to ease Christina into his home routine. She wished she could feel it was going to be successful, but so far the signs were far from promising.
Victoria didn’t smile but lowered her eyes and in a sullen voice said, ‘Pleased to meet you.’ It was obvious that she felt anything but.
Victoria turned her back on Christina. With a glorious smile transforming her face she stood on tiptoes to kiss her father’s cheek, flinging her arms around his neck. ‘It’s so lovely to have you home with me. Daddy.’ She took