good.’ She reached up and kissed him.
The key was in the door. Turning it, Luke reached round into the dark for the light switch and clicked it on, looking down the wooden stairs towards the small underground vaults and the wine racks. Dust lay over the bottles. The cellar was very cold. Cautiously he padded down the steps ahead of Joss and waited for her at the bottom. ‘OK?’
She nodded. The air was a curious combination of stale and fresh – the stillness and silence of a tomb and yet, through the mustiness, the clear freshness of the frosted garden outside.
‘See.’ Luke pointed to the top of the wall. ‘Gratings which lead out to the flower beds outside the front walls of the house. The air gets in, but for some reason the temperature never varies much. Perfect for wine.’ He turned his attention to the rack nearest them. ‘Some of these newer ones are probably best. I’d hate to drink something worth hundreds, just in order to seduce my wife!’
‘Thanks very much!’
There was nothing frightening down here now. Just stillness and, perhaps, memories. She tried not to think of an eight-year-old boy, excited, happy, on his birthday, opening the door and peering down into the dark … The thought could not be tolerated. Angrily she pushed it away. ‘Just grab something and let’s go. It’s cold down here.’
‘OK. Here goes. We don’t tell David, right? We’ll dispose of the evidence in the bottle bank before he gets here.’ He pulled two bottles from the rack. ‘Come on then.’
The cellar door safely locked, the corkscrew retrieved from the kitchen, Tom Tom checked – the baby alarm switched on – they settled back by the fire. ‘So, let’s see what we’ve got.’ Luke scrutinised the label. ‘Clos Vougeout 1945. Joss, this is old after all! I suspect this ought to breathe before we drink it.’
‘Draw the cork and put it by the fire for a bit.’ Joss reached for the box of letters. Anything to take her mind off the child, peering through the door into forbidden territory, full of excitement, on his birthday …
Belheddon Hall,
Belheddon,
Essex
29th September, 1920
Dear John,
Samuel and I were so pleased to see you here yesterday, and to hear that you are once more to settle at Pilgrim Hall. And so you are to marry! Lady Sarah is a lovely and gentle person. I know she will make you so very happy. As we told you, my confinement is expected within a few weeks but as soon as possible after that I hope we may entertain you both at Belheddon. My Samuel is hoping next year to resume tennis parties here at the Hall. It would be such fun if you could both come.
Your ever affectionate cousin, Lydia Manners.
Lydia Manners. Joss turned the sheet of paper over in her hand. The grandmother after whom her mother had named her when she was born. She pulled another small bundle of letters out of the Bourne and Hollingsworth box. Tied with pale blue ribbon they were labelled, ‘Father’s letters’. It was not Laura’s writing. Joss frowned as she leafed through them. Different handwriting, different dates, different addresses, addresses which meant nothing to her. Then another, from Belheddon Hall. It was short and to the point:
Our son little Samuel was born safely on 30th November. Please thank Lady Sarah for her note. I will write more soon.
Yr affectionate Cousin, Lydia.
The envelope was addressed to John Duncan at Pilgrim Hall. So, John was John Duncan, a relative of Philip’s. Perhaps his father and so her own grandfather? Putting down the letters Joss stared into the fire thoughtfully, listening to the voices echoing in her head, voices from her unknown past.
‘How about some wine now?’ Luke had been watching her for some time as she sorted through the box. Pushing aside his invoices with relief, he flung himself down beside her on the floor and put his arm around her. ‘You are looking too serious.’
She smiled, nestling up against him. ‘Not at all. Just learning some more about the past. My father’s family this time.’ She watched as Luke poured two glasses. The wine was delicious. It was dark brown and smoky, like a wood in November. She could feel the rich warmth of it running through her veins. After only a few sips she was feeling extraordinarily sexy. ‘Is it the wine, or just the suggestion,’ she whispered.
‘What suggestion?’ Luke tightened his arm around her, leaning back against the arm chair. His hand drooped lazily over her shoulder and fondled her breast through the heavy wool of her sweater.
‘That one.’ She pushed the box of papers aside with her foot and took another sip. ‘This wine seems very strong.’
Luke chuckled. ‘I suspect it was worth a fortune, but who cares, if we get our money’s worth? Shall we go upstairs?’ He was nuzzling her ear, gently nibbling the lobe.
‘Not yet. Another glass first. Luke –’ She turned to him, suddenly serious. ‘I wouldn’t dare ask you this if I were entirely sober. You don’t regret coming here do you?’
‘Regret it! Certainly not.’ He inserted his hand under the collar of her sweater.
‘You are sure. We’ve no income to speak of –’
‘Then we won’t speak of it.’ As he would never speak to her of his nightmares about the business; the creditors lurking in the woodwork, the waves of depression which sometimes swept over him when he thought about Barry and what he had done to them. What was the point? That was all in the past. Putting his glass down he leaned across, pressing his lips against hers. ‘Come on. It’s time we went upstairs.’
Sammy! Sammy, where are you?
The snow had melted; already snowdrops were pushing up through the frozen ground. The little boy ducked under the graceful boughs of the old fir tree and disappeared out of sight. When he reappeared, he was running down the lawn towards the lake.
‘Stop!’ Joss screamed. ‘Stop. Don’t go down there, please –’
Someone was in her way. Pushing against him she struggled to get past …
‘Hey! Stop it!’ Luke wriggled out of reach of her flailing fists. ‘Joss, stop it! What’s the matter?’
‘Sammy!’ She was battling up out of a fog of sleep, her mouth sour, her head thudding like a steam hammer. ‘Sammy!’
‘Wake up, Joss. You’re dreaming.’ Luke caught her hand as it struggled free of the entangling duvet. ‘Joss! Wake up!’
She was naked, her clothes trailed across the floor; her shoulders, bare above the duvet ached with cold. The moonlight, streaming across the floor showed the overturned glass on the floor beside the bed, the empty bottle on the table by the lamp. Dragging herself back to the present she turned her head on the pillow, still disoriented. ‘Sammy –’
‘No Sammy. No such person, Joss. It’s Luke, your husband. Remember?’ He stroked her shoulder, wincing at the ice cold feel of her skin, and drew the duvet higher to cover her.
‘Tom –’
‘Tom’s OK. Not a peep out of
