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

mother’s things that were returned with her, they’re all in her old room—the Rose Bedroom. Mr William wouldn’t let us change a thing in there after you both ran off. It’s just the same as the day she left and it’s never been used for visitors.’

      This was unexpected of Grandfather, and rather touching. And I’d never given a thought to what had happened to any of the luggage Mum took to America with her—but of course it would have been returned to Winter’s End.

      ‘I expect you’ll want to go down to the graveyard in a day or two, pay your respects,’ Mrs Lark suggested. ‘It’s got a nice stone angel—looks a bit like your mum did the last time I saw her. Mr William had fresh flowers sent down every week.’

      ‘Yes, I’ll do that,’ I said, getting up. ‘Thank you, Mrs Lark.’

      ‘Come back for a bit of tea later, if you want. If I’m not here, there’s parkin and gingerbread men I made special—they’re over there cooling on the rack.’

      I ate one right there, hot and bendy though it was, and then, with Charlie still following me like a small shadow, I brought in the rest of my bags and piled them at the bottom of the staircase. Then I drove round the back, past the tower and through an arch into a flagged courtyard. A pair of doors opened onto a barn that already contained a battered sports car that I somehow knew was Ottie’s, and the Volvo estate that had been Grandfather’s. But there was still plenty of room, so I put the van in there and then walked out into the yard again.

      One side of the courtyard was formed by the old coach house, now transformed into a home and studio in which, through a large glazed door standing ajar, despite the cold wind, I could see Aunt Ottie standing motionless in front of some monstrous shape, smoking a cheroot, her back to me.

      I pushed open the door and went in. Without turning, she said: ‘Well, Sophy, what do you think?’

Chapter Nine: Lost in Translation

       Tomorrow I will be marryed. Fond though I am of Thomas, to embrace him will be to embrace death itself—yet there is no escape. I look to the future and see only dark shadows closing in on mee.

       I asked one bride gift only—that my mother’s maid, Joan, be sent for, since my father hath turned her off, and this boon was granted to mee. Though seemingly a simple creature, she is of our old ways and was devoted to my mother. She brought with her my mother’s household book, which I mean to continue with, and some other things I have hid to be safe.