to the box of letters in her mother’s study. And the doctor did tell her to rest …
The great hall was already taking on the look of Christmas. Luke and David had brought in the seven foot tree they had cut in the copse behind the lake that morning and the whole room smelled of the fresh spicy boughs. It was standing near the window, firmly wedged into a huge urn filled with earth. Lyn had found the boxes of decorations, and they stood on the floor near the tree. They had promised Tom that he could help decorate the tree after his supper and before he went to bed. She smiled. The little boy’s face as the tree was dragged in had been a sight to behold.
She had filled a huge silver bowl with holly and ivy and yellow jasmine and it stood in the centre of the table, a blaze of colour in the dark of the room.
Katherine
Joss frowned. There was a strange electric tingle in the air, a crackle of static as though a storm were about to break. It was there again: the echo at the back of her head – the voice she could not quite hear.
As he thundered into the courtyard the house lay quiet under the blazing sun. His horse’s breath was whistling in its throat as he dragged it to a halt. There was no sign of servants, even the dogs were silent.
Puzzled, Joss shook her head. She was staring hard at the bowl of flowers. The silver, still dull where her quick rub with a duster had failed to remove the years of tarnish gleamed softly in the dull light from the lamp near the table. As she watched a yellow petal from the jasmine fell onto the gleaming black oak.
Throwing himself from the saddle he left the sweating trembling horse and ran inside. The great hall, dim after the sunlight, was equally empty. In five strides he was across it and on the stairs which led up to her solar.
The smell of resin from the newly cut fir tree was overpowering. Joss could feel the pain tightening in a band around her forehead.
‘Katherine!’ His voice was hoarse with dust and fear. ‘Katherine!’
‘Joss!’ The cry echoed through the open doorway. ‘Joss, where are you?’
Luke was carrying a great bunch of mistletoe. ‘Joss. Come here. Look what I’ve found!’ In quick strides he crossed the room to her side and held the huge pale green silvery bouquet above her head. ‘A kiss, my love. Now!’ His eyes narrowed with laughter. ‘Come on, before we decide where to put it!’
Katherine!
Joss stared at Luke sightlessly, her mind focused inwards, trying to catch the sounds as they came, seemingly from endless distances away.
‘Joss?’ Luke stared at her. He lowered the mistletoe. ‘Joss? What’s wrong?’ His voice grew sharp. ‘Joss, can you hear me?’
Katherine!
It was growing fainter; muffled; distant.
‘Joss!’
She smiled suddenly, reaching out to touch the mistletoe berries. They were cold and waxy from the old orchard where lichen-covered apple trees tangled with greengage and plum.
In the end they put one bunch in the kitchen and one in the great hall hanging from the gallery. Before he left to return home David gave Joss a lingering kiss under the bunch in the kitchen. ‘If I find out any more about the house I’ll stick it in the post. And in the mean time, you get a couple of chapters under your belt to send to my friend Bob Cassie. I have a good feeling about your writing.’
‘And so do I, Joss.’ After he had gone Luke and Joss were discussing it in the study. ‘It makes perfect sense. Lyn is here to help you with Tom and the baby when it’s born. You can write, we all know that. And we do need the money.’ He didn’t dare count on the wine yet.
‘I know.’
‘Have you got any ideas?’ He glanced at her sideways.
She laughed. ‘You know I have, you idiot! And you know I’ve already made some notes on how to expand that story. I’m going to take it back to when my hero is a boy living in a house a bit like this one. He’s a page, learning to be a gentleman, and then he gets mixed up in the wars between the white rose and the red.’
‘Great stuff.’ Luke dropped a kiss on her head. ‘Perhaps they’ll televise it and make us millionaires!’
Laughing she pushed him away. ‘It’s got to be written and published first, so why don’t you go out and play cars while I make a start right now.’
She had found an empty notebook of her mother’s in one of the drawers. Sitting down at the desk she opened it at the first page and picked up a felt-tipped pen. The rest of the story was there, hovering at the edge of her mind. She could see her hero so clearly as a boy. He would be about fourteen at the beginning of the novel. He was tall, with sandy hair and a spattering of freckles across his nose. He wore a velvet cap with a jaunty feather and he worked for the lord of Belheddon.
She stared out of the window. She could see a robin sitting on the bare branches of the climbing rose outside. It seemed to be staring in, its bright eyes black and intent. He was called Richard, her hero, and the daughter of the house, the heroine of her short story, his age exactly, was called Anne.
Georgie!
She shook her head slightly. The robin had hopped onto the window sill. It was pecking at something in the soft moss which grew around the stone of the mullions.
Georgie!
The voice was calling in the distance. The robin heard it. She saw it stand suddenly still then with a bob of its head it turned and flew off. Joss’s fingers tightened round her pen. Richard was of course in love with Anne, even at the beginning, but it was a sweet innocent adolescent love that only later was to be dragged into adventure and war as opposing sides brought tension and dissent and murder to the house.
She wrote tentatively, sketching in the first scene, twice glancing at the window, and once at the door as she thought she heard the scuffle of feet. In the fireplace the logs shifted and spat companionably, once filling the room with sweet-smelling smoke as a gust of wind outside blew back down the chimney.
Georgie! Where are you?
The voice this time was exasperated. It was right outside the door. Joss stood up, her heart pounding, as she went to pull it open. The hallway outside was empty, the cellar door closed and locked.
Shutting the study door she leaned with her back against it, biting her lip. It was her imagination, of course. Nothing more. Stupid. Idiot. The silence of the empty house was getting to her. Wearily she pushed herself away from the door and went back to the desk.
On her notebook lay a rose.
She stared at it in astonishment. ‘Luke?’ She glanced round the room, puzzled. ‘Luke, where are you?’
A log fell with a crackle in the fire basket and a shower of sparks illuminated the soot-stained brickwork of the chimney.
‘Luke, where are you, you idiot?’ She picked up the flower and held it to her nose. The white petals were ice cold and without scent. She shivered and laid it down. ‘Luke?’ Her voice was sharper. ‘I know you’re there.’ She strode across to the window and pulled the curtain away from the wall. There was no sign of him.
‘Luke!’ She ran towards the door and tugged it open. ‘Luke, where are you?’
There was no answering shout.
‘Luke!’ The scent of resinous pine was stronger than ever as she ran towards the kitchen.
Luke was standing over the sink scrubbing his hands. ‘Hello. I wondered where you were –’ He broke off as she threw her arms around his neck. Reaching for the towel on the draining board he dried his hands and then gently he pushed her away. ‘Joss? What is it? What’s happened?’
‘Nothing.’ She