Читать книгу: «After the Snow»

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Acknowledgements

Copyright

Chapter One

Blinking her eyes open against the new day, Esme could tell that it had snowed. She knew by the luminous shards of light that pierced her curtains and brightened her bedroom in a strange, muffled glow. It was silent, not a sound inside or outside The Lodge. No birds singing their morning chorus, no cars grumbling along the lane, not a breath of wind to rattle the ancient windowpanes. She couldn’t even hear the housekeeper, Mrs Bee, clattering about in the kitchen making breakfast.

Esme breathed in the cold air and felt it prickle down her throat, imagining tiny ice crystals disappearing into her body. With a great whooshing noise, she released a cloud of silvery breath that billowed in the air like the smoke from a great dragon. As she burrowed back into the warmth of her crumpled sheets, her feet hit an unexpected obstacle and her tummy clenched with excitement. It was Christmas Day.

Wiggling her toes against the weight of her stocking, lying heavy as a wet sandbag at the end of her bed, it felt as if Father Christmas had been generous and her father’s shooting sock crackled with the promise of unopened presents. Flinging back the sheets, Esme leapt up, pulled on her dressing gown and flicked on the electric heater before jumping back onto her bed. Holding her father’s sock by its toe, she shook the tightly packed presents from the hand-knitted wool. This Christmas there would be eleven, one for every year that she had been alive. She counted as each strangely shaped packet of colour tumbled onto the eiderdown, some starting to come undone as they fell. Father Christmas had done a terrible job with his wrapping this year. Some of the paper had been put on inside out and there wasn’t a sliver of sticky tape in sight. Pulling out the last lumpy presents jammed at the bottom of the stocking, her fingers fumbled around the unmistakeable shapes of a tangerine and some foil-wrapped chocolate coins. She had posted her letter to the North Pole a few weeks ago, neatly written on her father’s headed notepaper. The one thing she longed for was a new riding hat, but that was too much to expect from Father Christmas. Perhaps her parents would remember. She really had tried to be as good as possible this year, but still always seemed to be in trouble. Like the time she had borrowed her mother’s hunting whip; her mother didn’t even ride any more, so Esme didn’t think she’d notice but her father did when he saw it was missing from the umbrella stand where he kept it as a showpiece. After telling him she had no idea where it was, he had found it hidden under her bed. Thunder followed. She wished she could be more like her big sister, Sophia, who always seemed to know what to do and how to behave. Or at least how not to get caught.

Esme picked up a small package, the wrapping paper cheerfully wishing her a ‘Happy Birthday’. It was hard to the touch and much heavier than she expected. Ripping off the paper, a china figurine of a dachshund sleeping in its basket fell into her hand. Exactly like the one her mother had sitting in her bathroom! She christened the figurine Doodle, and put it carefully to one side to open the next present. Esme gasped as she unwrapped an antique china plate. It looked very old and incredibly valuable, with the remnants of an old breakfast encrusted upon it. Her father would be fascinated to see this piece of history as he loved antique shopping when they were in London. He’d know if the plate had once belonged to a wealthy lord, in the olden times.

Picking up the next present she squealed with excitement as she felt its shape beneath her fingers. Tearing it open, she stroked the hard bristles and thanked Father Christmas for providing her with a dandy brush for her pony, Homer. The brush was just like Lexi’s. Lexi was her best friend and the daughter of the Earl and Countess, who lived at the top of the hill in their castle. Descended from Italian royalty, the Countess made everyone refer to her as the Contessa, although Esme had never heard the Earl refer to his wife with anything but her English title. Lexi stabled her pony, Jupiter, with Homer at Shere Farm – or in foster care, as Lexi put it, because the castle stables were reserved for her mother’s racehorses.

Esme loved driving up to Scotland for the holidays, when she could spend time with her pony and Lexi. The rolling Highlands felt a million miles away from the hustle and bustle of London. She pulled the brush through her hair, thinking how easy it was going to make removing the encrusted mud that stuck to Homer’s fetlocks like bloated ticks. He would be the smartest, shiniest pony on the hunting field. She couldn’t wait to show Jimmy, the groom who ran the yard; he was always grumbling about the state of her beloved Homer.

The metal wires of the electric heater clicked and creaked, glowing red, red hot. Esme’s room was heating up nicely. In fact, she’d almost forgotten the snow that lay outside. Sliding off her bed, she tiptoed over to the window and pulled back the curtains. She scratched the frozen condensation and peered out at the magical world beyond the glass. It was as if The Lodge sat within a giant snow globe, enormous clouds of the palest grey sprinkling snowflakes across a white land, blanketing its secrets in a quiet stillness. Opening her window just a fraction, Esme allowed a snowflake to land on her palm and watched it melt into a tiny puddle.

She hoped the Boxing Day hunt wouldn’t be cancelled. It was going to be the first time Homer didn’t have to be on a leading rein. Jimmy had told her she was a good enough rider to manage on her own now. Homer would have tinsel plaited through his mane and tail and Esme would add some to her new hat. Excited, butterflies quivered in her tummy. But even if the hunt was called off, out here in the countryside it would be replaced by tobogganing and she could exchange Homer’s saddle and bridle for a harness to pull the sleigh.

Returning to her presents, Esme wondered whether Father Christmas had given Homer a sheepskin saddle pad to keep his back warm. He hated having cold leather next to his skin and it made him buck until it reached body temperature. Up until now, Jimmy had used an old dog blanket, which was nowhere near as smart as the quilted pad Jupiter wore. None of Lexi’s riding things were hand-me-downs or makeshift. She said it was because she didn’t have a big sister but Esme knew it was because her family had more money than hers.

The other presents would have to wait until later. Esme was desperate to step into the enchanted world that waited beyond The Lodge’s walls and she knew that once her parents were awake, she’d be trapped inside until the Christmas service at Bonnyton Church. She grabbed some warm socks and stepped into the corridor.

Beyond her room the rest of the house was still sleeping. Pressing her eye to the keyhole of her sister’s room, she could see a copy of Cupid Rides Pillion lying open on the floor. Sophia was addicted to Barbara Cartland novels and was in love with the idea of falling in love. Each book provided a new hero that might one day sweep her off her feet. She must have fallen asleep reading last night and Esme knew not to wake her if she didn’t want a verbal bashing. Boarding school had made Sophia moody when she came home and she didn’t want to do the same things as her little sister any more. When she was on holiday she wanted to be in London hanging out with her glamorous friends and their older brothers rather than at The Lodge.

Esme had mapped out a soundproof route past her parents’ bedroom years ago when she began sneaking out in the early hours to meet Lexi in their secret place in the woods. As she tiptoed down the corridor now she automatically avoided the creaking floorboards that would give her away. It was so quiet she could even hear the mantel clock chiming in the drawing room. Creeping past the kitchen into the back hallway she pulled on her wellington boots and lifted her Red Indian elk-skin coat off its peg. Her father had brought it back for her after a trip to Canada and it was her favourite present of all. The soft leathery outside was decorated with brightly coloured beads in pretty patterns. It had a slightly sweet, pungent smell to it – not like a rotting old rabbit carcass, but more like something dead that hadn’t yet started to fester. Her father had given her moccasin slippers, too, but she had quickly learned that they weren’t much use outside.

Esme slid back the rusty iron bolt of the back door and placed one booted foot on the fresh snow. She watched as it sank into the deep, powdery mound. She felt a sense of delight at making the first footprint in this untouched world. Her Advent calendar had come to life, the glittering icicles and twinkling marshmallow rooftop filling her with a sense of hope. Maybe the snow would make Mummy happy today. A tiny robin flicked his tail, its red breast and black beady eyes bursting from the white canvas that lay before her. He looked at her, unafraid.

‘Happy Christmas Mr Robin.’

‘Tut tut tut,’ it replied, before shooting off its branch and onto the washing line.

Esme hugged herself, daring to believe that this was going to be the best Christmas ever. Her mother couldn’t possibly feel sad when she saw how beautiful the world outside looked. And then Daddy wouldn’t have to be on guard and she and Sophia could enjoy themselves. Scooping up a handful of snow she nibbled at the powder, marvelling at its strange, metallic taste. Then, dragging her boots through the snow, she set off towards the gate and the world that lay beyond it. She looked up towards the castle, hoping Lexi would be on her way to meet her at the pond.

Culcairn Castle was like a fairy-tale castle with high, strong walls and three enormous round towers that rose right up into the clouds. You could tell it had been built to keep the baddies out. It was a very famous castle in Scotland – so important that the Culcairns had opened it to the public. Lexi told her that it had a quarter of a million visitors a year, which seemed like loads, especially if they all came at once. There would be none today though. It was closed in the winter.

Esme blew into her hands as she continued to the pond. Kicking the surrounding snow in search of a rock, she lifted the largest she could manage over her head and smashed it onto the ice. It bounced. Tentatively, she inched onto the frozen water. The slippery surface creaked but not enough to cause alarm. She tried to skid but her feet were like two tiny snow ploughs that created miniature drifts. She remembered the time Lexi had fallen in and she had lain flat on the ice to distribute her weight and haul her friend out. The water was only knee-deep, but it was good practice for a real-life drowning situation.

Esme started to count in her head. She and Lexi had an agreement that if the person who you were meeting hadn’t come by 500, then you could leave. Sometimes she would get to 500 and be about to leave and then see Lexi come running towards her, her long hair in her eyes and her clothes in a tangle, laughing with pleasure that Esme was still there. Sometimes it was almost like there was an invisible thread that bound them together, each knowing what the other was doing.

But today there was no sign of her. 498… 499… 500. Esme finished counting, imagining her friend opening her stocking, her smile even bigger as she discovered what was in each package.

It really was very cold. Cold enough to freeze the breath from her nostrils as well as her mouth. Pangs of hunger gnawed at her stomach. She waited a few seconds more. Perhaps Lexi was snowed in? And anyway, she would see her at the Christmas service with the rest of her family. It was time to head back to the house. As she turned, she saw a rusty ball of fur streak across the snow. Most people would have mistaken it for a fox, albeit a pale version with white socks.

‘Digger! Happy Christmas. I can’t wait to give you your present!’

Ignoring her, Digger dashed round the snow in demented circles.

‘Stop showing off,’ laughed Esme.

Digger’s arrival meant that Mrs Bee was up and breakfast was probably waiting. Today was not a day to be late.

Esme went straight into the kitchen to find Mrs Bee. The housekeeper’s name was actually Mrs Bumble but ever since she could remember Esme and her sister had called her Mrs Bee. She could hear the clink of cutlery coming from the dining room but the housekeeper was nowhere to be seen. A delicious smell of roasting turkey filled the room and an orderly line of Pyrex bowls, overflowing with potatoes, carrots and Brussels sprouts, sat on the Formica tabletop, while baking trays brimmed with chipolata sausages, bacon rashers and round patties of stuffing. Esme stared in delight. It was hard to imagine how just half an hour in the oven could crisp the patties into Esme’s favourite part of Christmas lunch, drenched in steaming satin-smooth gravy poured from the silver sauce boat.

In the middle of the table stood Mrs Bee’s majestic Christmas cake. Freshly iced, it bore a remarkable resemblance to the snow-covered world outside, its thick, white frosting smothering what lay beneath. As a final touch, a miniature Father Christmas in his sleigh had been positioned in the centre. After snapping off a sugared icicle, Esme skipped out of the kitchen and ran upstairs to get dressed.

Pushing open her bedroom door she saw Mrs Bee staring at the dirty china plate from her stocking. Startled by Esme’s arrival, she looked up.

‘Esme!’ she said. ‘Where on earth have you been? Your mother and father are already having their breakfast. Och and look at you! That snow is melting all over the carpet. How could you have gone out in this weather? And in your wee nightie. Come on, your father will want to leave for church soon. You know perfectly well he hates to be late.’

‘Don’t be angry, Mrs Bee, it’s Christmas! And look at all my presents. How lucky am I? Look, this little dog is just like Mummy’s.’

‘Is this a dandy brush I see?’ said Mrs Bee, her tone softening as Esme ran towards her.

‘Yes! Homer will be so pleased. Although I don’t think I’ll be able to visit him today, will I, with the snow? Oh, Mrs Bee, happy Christmas! I can’t wait to show Mummy my presents.’ She was about to ask her what she had found in her stocking when she remembered again that poor Mrs Bee had no family of her own to give her presents; thoughtfully, Esme had decorated an old cake tin with pictures of pretty flowers cut out from a discarded copy of Country Life.

‘Your present from me is under the tree, Mrs Bee,’ she reassured the housekeeper.

‘Och, how lovely!’

‘I can’t believe it’s a proper white Christmas. It’s made everything just perfect.’

Mrs Bee swept Esme’s hair back from her forehead. ‘I’ll be staying nice and warm indoors today, Esme. The snow gives me chilblains. Now, what’re you going to wear for church?’

‘I want to wear a dress. The cream-and-white one. It’s my favourite,’ Esme said, dropping onto the bed. She stroked the sparkling silver tinsel adorning her headrest. Suddenly, an idea popped into her mind that made the prospect of wearing a dress even more enjoyable. ‘I know, Mrs Bee – I’ll make this tinsel into a halo! Just like a Christmas angel. Daddy will love it!’

‘Oh, he will, darling. I can just imagine his face when he sees you dressed up all pretty.’

Esme pulled on her dress and stood still as Mrs Bee coiled the scratchy foil around her head. Peering at her reflection in the mirror she clapped her hands together. ‘Just like an angel!’ she said. Her clear blue eyes shone with excitement. Her long blonde hair fell over her shoulders, the tinsel covering a jagged fringe she had cut with the kitchen scissors in a bid to hide a chickenpox scar above her left brow. A rosy bloom from the cold flushed her cheek.

Mrs Bee smiled back at her. ‘Now, off to breakfast with you. That’s enough dilly-dallying for one morning.’

‘Thanks Mrs Bee!’ Esme said. She couldn’t wait to show her new outfit to her family.

Her parents and sister were eating breakfast at the large oak dining table, silent, just like any other day. The only noise was the muffled sound of Christmas carols coming from Mrs Bee’s radio in the kitchen.

‘Happy Christmas, everyone!’ said Esme, giving her mother a big hug.

‘Happy Christmas, darling,’ her mother said softly, returning her daughter’s embrace with one that felt as light as air. She gave a listless smile.

Esme’s heart sank. This morning was a bad morning. Couldn’t her mother just try to be happy on Christmas Day? She decided to help her along.

‘Have you seen the snow, Mummy? It’s so beautiful and all ready and waiting for you, like a big white carpet with crystals everywhere. You’ll love it and I can’t wait to show you. I’ve already been outside to test it out for you and it’s all soft and welcoming…’ She broke off as she caught Sophia’s look and her father’s clenched jaw. It was no good.

‘Happy Christmas, Daddy,’ she said, trying to make him feel better. ‘Do you like my halo?’

‘It’s lovely, darling,’ said her father, his voice spiky, ‘but you aren’t an extra in a pantomime. You’ve nearly missed breakfast. Quickly now, sit down and have something to eat. And before we leave, I want you to take that silly tinsel off.’

Esme looked over at her sister, praying at least she would tune into their unspoken pact of trying to make their mother feel better. It could be exhausting but sometimes, between them, they could make her smile and join in, if only for a few moments. Occasionally, there were whole stretches when their mother was very, very happy, excited about the smallest thing, but even then she could suddenly stop mid-sentence and drift away again.

But Sophia looked gloomy, as though she had already given up, and her tone was spiteful.

‘You can’t wear that, Es,’ agreed Sophia. ‘It looks silly. We’re going to church not a fancy-dress party.’

Sophia, also blonde and blue-eyed, was dressed almost entirely in navy blue, the wall of colour only broken up by a white frilled collar.

‘Well you just look like an old maid,’ said Esme, rapidly blinking to stop tears from falling. She looked forlornly at her plate: half a grapefruit, a boiled egg and one piece of toast. Mrs Bee always made sure that breakfast on Christmas Day was disappointingly small so as not to ruin the family’s appetite for her Christmas feast.

Esme glanced at her mother. She was concentrating on her grapefruit, eyes downcast as she methodically put one segment after another into her mouth. Her spoon rose timidly before each bite, the juice making her cough. Sip of tea. Wipe of lips. Back to the slow process of eating.

‘Diana, can you pass the butter?’ her father asked.

Esme’s mother didn’t react and she knew her father was testing her to see if she would. Sophia looked at her sister and pursed her lips. In a protective reflex, Esme passed the pat of Anchor across the table.

Mrs Bee always said that her mother had her ‘head in the clouds’ when she wasn’t listening. It was like she was dreaming with her eyes open, her mind far away in another land.

‘Thank you, Esme,’ her father said, smearing a thick layer of butter on his toast, smartly topped with a big dollop of marmalade.

Esme watched as he took an enormous bite and looked over at his wife. She’d noticed him doing that a lot lately, even more so than usual. He often seemed worried about her but sometimes he seemed cross that she was so distant. He tried to make her happy by giving her the most beautiful things, even when it wasn’t a special occasion. Esme loved watching her mother open the old brown leather boxes with Phillips of Bond Street in gold writing embossed upon them. Mrs Bee always said that the best things came in small packages, but when bad days became bad weeks even these gifts didn’t pull Esme’s mother out of the grey mist in which she lost herself. Her father bought them to make her happy and when she wasn’t grateful Esme felt sorry for him and made up for her mother’s lack of interest by telling her what amazing taste her father had.

‘Mummy, you haven’t shown us your present from Daddy yet. What did he give you?’

Her parents always gave their presents to each other before breakfast.

Her mother blinked dramatically, as if she was shaking off a deep sleep. ‘Sorry, sweetheart?’

‘Your present – from Daddy. What did you get?’ Esme asked again, busily cutting her toast into soldiers.

‘Oh, my present. It’s a lovely brooch, darling.’

‘What’s it like?’

Her mother absently spooned up another grapefruit segment.

‘Mummy?’

‘Yes, darling.’

‘What’s the brooch like? Is it pretty?’

‘Well, yes, of course it is.’

‘May I see it?’

Her mother looked at her as if she was noticing her for the first time.

‘Darling, why have you got that silly tinsel on your head?’

Esme reached up and tugged at the halo in her hair. ‘Oh, nothing. I thought you’d like it.’

‘Esme, that’s enough talking,’ her father cut in. ‘Finish up your breakfast and run upstairs to collect your smart coat. We need to leave in a few minutes.’

Sophia rolled her eyes. ‘Who cares if we’re a few minutes late, Daddy? It’s only a bloody church service. Just because you want to get there before the Earl and Contessa.’

Her father never usually cared about being late. It was only when the Culcairn family were involved that he got grumpy about timekeeping. Esme thought it was strange because he didn’t seem to like the Earl, though her mother always came alive in his company. She often smiled at Lexi’s father, even if it wasn’t a good day.

‘Don’t swear about church, Sophia. If we are late, we won’t get our pew. Now get going, Esme. You will have to leave the rest of your breakfast.’

Her mother’s eyes didn’t flicker. She was the one who was going to make them late. She hadn’t even got her lipstick on and she never went anywhere without her lipstick and powder, even on bad days.

But at least she might liven up when she saw the Earl.

Chapter Two

The journey to Bonnyton Church was a precarious one at the best of times. Narrow, windy lanes bordered by thick thorn hedges made it impossible to see any cars coming in the opposite direction. Today, Esme’s father drove at the pace of a tortoise through the treacle-like snow. He sat rigid, hands clasping the steering wheel, cigarette hanging from his lips, his face getting redder and redder as he became more and more agitated.

He doesn’t want to be late, thought Esme, because he doesn’t want anyone else sitting near the Culcairn family. But Esme knew they weren’t important enough to get the front pews on Christmas Day.

Sophia nudged Esme and wiggled a gloved finger. Esme stifled a giggle. The simple gesture always managed to close the five years between them. A wiggling finger meant a wiggling willy. Esme wiggled hers in response. Sophia then flicked a series of V-signs at her father’s back. Esme copied her. She felt protected by her sister once again and knew her earlier meanness about the tinsel halo was only because of the bad atmosphere at the breakfast table.

When they finally arrived at Bonnyton the bells had just stopped pealing, which meant they were late. The congregation would be preparing to stand for the arrival of Father Kinley and the choir. The parking space where the family normally left their car had been filled, but her father’s stress levels gave him permission to double-park, blocking the back entrance to the graveyard.

‘Not their bloody space, anyway,’ he muttered, his dead cigarette still attached to his mouth.

The snow along the church path had been compacted into an icy carpet by earlier arrivals and the large oak door to the entrance was already shut. When her father lifted the latch the noise sounded like a gunshot in the hushed silence inside the church.

As the family stood in the doorway, Esme breathed in the familiar smell of pine but quickly hid behind her sister as everyone turned, their disapproving faces dampening her relief of having arrived just in time. The church was completely full, every pew jammed with people, buttocks spilling over into the aisle. Henry and Lucia, the Earl and Contessa of Culcairn, sat at the front and only the Earl gave them a smile. Lexi waved at Esme furiously, despite her movements being restricted by a horrible tweed coat. She pointed to her matching beret, crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue in disgust. There was nothing pretty about what she was wearing; it was just prim and frumpy and Esme knew how Lexi hated being made to dress like an ‘old lady’.

Mrs Hornbuckle, the hunt secretary, had already sprung up from her chair and was tipping hymnbooks into her father’s arms. She led the family to a pew at the back, hidden in the shadows. Esme could see disappointment etched on her father’s face. Her mother seemed less concerned, her head still up in the snowy clouds.

Standing on tiptoes on her hassock, Esme saw that Lord William and Lady Mary-Rose Findlay were sitting behind the Culcairns. Lord William was a very important man, with whom she had never had a proper conversation, but Lady Mary-Rose was one of the funniest women Esme had ever met. She swore all the time and told very naughty jokes. Esme thought she ought to have her own comedy show on TV. She looked back at Lexi, sat next to her older brother, Rollo, and sister, Bella. Esme loved Bella but didn’t know Rollo as well because he was the same age as Sophia so spent more time with her. Esme and Lexi thought they fancied each other. Sophia always blushed when Rollo’s name was mentioned and they always seemed to go missing at the same time when Esme’s family visited the castle. Next to them were their parents, the Earl and Contessa. Everybody else was rubbing shoulders, squashed up on the short benches, but the Contessa had lots of room around her. Even her husband sat a few inches away. If Esme were next to Lexi’s mother, she would avoid sitting too close to her as well, just in case touching her brought bad luck. She never opened umbrellas indoors either and always crossed herself if she saw a single magpie. The Contessa worshipped Rollo but never seemed very interested in her daughters, which made going to Culcairn Castle lots of fun for Esme as she and Lexi could do whatever they wanted – once they got past Nanny Patch and the nursery maid.

Esme jumped as the Contessa suddenly turned around and fixed her with a stare that hit Esme like a slap, her cheeks smarting and flushing in response. The Contessa looked like an Italian movie star with her scarlet lips, high cheekbones and dark glossy hair pulled into a sleek chignon, but despite such beauty, her cold, coal-black eyes always made Esme feel unsettled.

Everyone stood for the first carol, ‘Once in Royal David’s City’. A young boy had taken centre stage at the altar. His angelic voice rang through the church, alone and pure. The organ cranked air into its pipes, coming to life. Esme’s mother, who had been on her knees praying since they arrived, stood and swayed, although not in time to the music. She must be praying very hard, thought Esme, as her eyes were red and watery. Luckily Esme’s father knew the words to the carol by heart because he was staring at her mother and not the hymnbook. Esme looked past him to Sophia, who gave her a knowing look.

Esme loved the Bonnyton choir. The Munroes never went to church in London; her father said that was for ‘commoners’ who had nothing better to do than pray. The only choir she had to compare it to was the one at her school in Kensington and it seemed to her that country choristers were much better than city ones – probably because the air was cleaner. She looked out for her favourite singer, a large woman who, even in her vestal robes, appeared magnificent. Esme loved watching as her mouth opened wide like a frog to let loose a surprisingly exquisite voice. She always made a great effort with her make-up, today wearing turquoise eye shadow, black eyeliner, vibrant pink lipstick and a bold swipe of blusher on each cheek. Esme’s mother rarely went to such lengths with her face, wearing only a soft pink lipstick and pearlescent powder. Mrs Bee maintained that Diana’s beauty came from within and she didn’t need anything smothered over her freckles to bring it out.

Esme’s thoughts were interrupted at the sound of her father’s deep, booming voice, now drowning out those of the rest of the congregation. He was proud of his singing and loved to show it off, much to her and Sophia’s embarrassment. Tilting his head back, his nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply in readiness for the next verse. On this Christmas morning, his left nostril held a large bogey in its depths. Esme took the handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to him, poking a finger up her own nose to indicate the need for extraction. The carol ended and her father blew his nose, checking the handkerchief’s contents before returning the crumpled cotton to his pocket.

‘Let us pray,’ commanded Father Kinley.

A grumbling sound spread through the church as the congregation pulled out their hassocks from under the pews and dropped to their knees. Esme’s mother was the first to kneel, her dark curls falling forward like a curtain. She was being terribly pious today, Esme thought, wondering whom she was praying so hard for. Or maybe she was having a little nap. Her mother found it so easy to sleep anywhere; watching TV, having lunch and even once when she was driving. Luckily, she had been on her own and hadn’t been going too fast when she hit the tree as she was coming back from the village shop. Lexi’s father had found her and brought her back home, her white face even paler than usual. She hadn’t driven for a long time now.

The congregation rose as the organ sounded the first note to the next hymn, and her father’s singing began in earnest. Her mother was definitely asleep because she didn’t stand up and suddenly, as if struck by lightning, this made Esme very angry. She kicked her mother hard on the calf and, like a new-born foal, she scrambled confusedly to her feet before starting ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ once more.

‘Mummy,’ Esme breathed, ashamed of herself for hurting her mother. She pointed to her hymnbook. ‘That’s the wrong hymn. We are singing this one now.’

Her mother looked at Esme with an empty expression, then slowly turned the pages to the right carol, picked up the chorus and sung in perfect pitch along with her fellow worshippers. She rocked back and forth to the music, like a swing in the breeze. Esme saw her father’s hand stretching past her sister, searching for her mother’s arm. Discretely, he tugged his wife past his daughter to position her next to him.

‘You’re on my foot. Get off!’ Sophia whispered, shoving her mother angrily.

‘For God’s sake, Diana,’ Esme’s father hissed. ‘Pull yourself together.’

Esme hoped no one around them could see what was going on. Diana stopped singing and stared ahead, emptied of life once more.

Father Kinley began his address and Esme tried to listen but found herself looking instead at the other mothers in the congregation, wondering if they were empty or full of life. She didn’t have any good friends at school because she didn’t invite any of them to her house for fear her mother might behave strangely. But she had been to Lucinda Burgess’s house and she wished that they could swap mothers. Lucinda’s mother wasn’t a beauty like hers but she made up for it with colourful clothes and big earrings. She fussed over her children; kissing and cuddling them, making them laugh.

Snatches of tales about the poor and needy, the homeless, soldiers fighting in unpronounceable countries, the Prime Minister and Her Majesty the Queen, drifted past her. Then, as he always did when he neared the end of his sermon, Father Kinley began to list the local villagers who had gone on to the next life, saying how much the community would miss them. Once, Father Kinley had come to The Lodge. Her father had stood awkwardly at the front door while he had asked how Mrs Munroe was getting on. It was only when Mrs Bee asked him to come inside that her father remembered his manners and offered him a cup of tea. He hadn’t stayed long and Esme had been made to come into the drawing room and play him a piece on the piano. Her father hadn’t said much and her mother had been upstairs resting. Father Kinley had not come back to visit since then.

‘Pray for their families, dear friends,’ he was saying now, ‘at this time when family is everything and the loneliness that their dearly departed has left becomes all the more painful.’

The blood of shame rose into Esme’s cheeks. Wanting another mother was like wanting your own dead. And she didn’t want that. Father Kinley was referring to the butcher’s daughter, Karen, whose mother had died of cancer. That was sad enough but then Karen had been sent away because the shock had broken her father’s heart and he had died too. Esme’s mother was like a yoyo but at least, she thought, she had a father who could take care of them. With Mrs Bee’s help, of course.

She looked over to her father. He was holding on to her mother as if he was about to haul her off to jail. She tried hard not to be cross with her mother because between her father and Sophia she got quite enough crossness already; it was important that she and Mrs Bee topped her up with kindness.

Outside the church, Esme tried to spot Lexi as the Culcairn family left through a side door – like they were a famous pop group leaving the stage, she thought, smiling. Sophia went off to find Rollo like a starstruck groupie.

‘Merry Christmas,’ came a familiar voice.

Esme looked up. It was Jimmy, a mound of freshly fallen snow collecting on his cap. Her mother brightened and smiled at him.

‘Jimmy! Happy Christmas. How are you?’ Diana said.

‘Well, I’d be a lot bleeding happier if it weren’t for this bloody snow. I had to come here by sleigh, didn’t I? And how are you, Mr Munroe? Broke, I’d imagine. How many diamonds did Diana get this year?’ He roared with laughter at his own joke. Esme’s mother smiled, too. She loved Jimmy because he made her laugh. Somehow he managed to be rude to everyone then get away with it. Esme wondered if it was because he didn’t care what people thought of him.

‘Jimmy!’ said Esme. ‘Guess what? Father Christmas gave Homer the smartest brand new dandy brush.’

‘Like we don’t have a thousand of those already,’ said Jimmy. ‘But at least yours won’t have most of its bristles missing.’ He ruffled her hair. ‘You looking forward to the Boxing Day meet? Homer’s going to buck like a randy whore when you get on his back – he’s practically jumping out of his skin in his stable.’

Jimmy had made an effort with his appearance this morning, thought Esme. His thinning hair, which he cut himself with horse clippers, was smeared across his bald patch. The few strands left stuck to his scalp in lines like a cattle grid. His tweed jacket hung off his narrow shoulders and the top button of his shirt was missing, a mishap he had tried to disguise with a pony club tie that hung like a bow around his neck.

‘I still want to go to the meet, though, Jimmy,’ Esme said, eagerly. ‘We can do what we did last time it snowed and put butter on his hooves to make sure it slips right off. I asked Father Christmas for a sheepskin numnah. That would have stopped him bucking but I don’t think I was good enough last year.’

‘No you bloody wasn’t,’ he cackled. An explosion of spittle blew out of his mouth in a great wheeze, some of it landing on Esme’s cheek, which she quickly wiped away with her glove.

‘You’ll believe anything, Esme. Maybe pigs really can fly. If a rug stops that horrid pony bucking, I’ll give you ten pence. You should have seen him this morning when I put him out. His tail went up and he farted his way around the field like a rocket. When you get on him tomorrow it won’t be the doctor you’ll be wanting, it’ll be the bloody undertaker!’

It was her father’s turn to guffaw at Jimmy’s outburst this time, which surprised Esme.

‘Oh come on, Jimmy,’ he said, patting him on the back. ‘Give the damn pony a lunge or get on his back to wear him out before Esme rides him. Look at you, you’re probably only a stone heavier than her.’

‘Oh, right,’ Jimmy said, annoyed. ‘So it’s fine for me to end up in a bloody coffin?’

‘Come now, my lad,’ said her father, like he was talking to a disobedient but beloved gun dog. ‘It is what we pay you for.’

‘I’d like to see you sit on the monster. You wouldn’t last five seconds before you were in a heap on the floor, crying for your old nanny.’

‘Jimmy, I’ll have you know that I was a fine rider as a boy. I galloped faster than the wind when I was on the hunting field.’

‘And now the only wind you have is the hurricane that flies from your arse!’ said Jimmy, laughing.

Esme’s mother started giggling. She was becoming a little too animated in Jimmy’s company. Her mood was starting to fizz beyond normal jollity and Esme could tell that her father wanted to get her away from Jimmy before words started to spill from her mouth.

‘Esme, darling, why don’t you go and find your sister so we can get going to the castle? We don’t want to miss out on the mince pies.’

‘Jimmy ought to come with us,’ said her mother. ‘Or at the very least join us back at The Lodge for…’

‘Time to go, darling. We’ll see you tomorrow, Jimmy,’ her father said, pulling his wife away before she could invite Jimmy for lunch.

The back road up to the castle was always difficult – riddled with potholes it was impossibly steep and windy – but because it was Christmas it hadn’t been gritted so was even harder to navigate. At first, the Munroes’ car crunched through the snow with little complaint, but as soon as they started uphill, the weak motor began to protest. It was used to smooth tarmac and wasn’t happy trying to adjust to conditions that were better suited to a tractor. Like a spoiled child digging its heels in the snow, it ground to a halt. Esme’s father cranked on the handbrake but it was no use on the icy surface and the car began to slip backwards.

‘Shit,’ her father muttered, gripping the steering wheel hard.

Esme looked out the back window as the car slid into the deep ditch at the side of the road, the final crunch of the bumper as it hit the bank forcing her onto her sister’s lap.

‘Ouch, Esme, get off,’ Sophia said, pushing her sister back onto her seat. She hadn’t found Rollo after the service and was impatient to get to the castle.

None of them was remotely hurt or even surprised. Her mother was facing forwards as if nothing had happened and her father still held the steering wheel in a vice-like grip. Taking the back road up to the castle had been a stupid idea, but on days like today, when a wide circle of the Earl and Contessa’s friends made the trip, Colin preferred to use the private gates like the Culcairn family.

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ Colin said.

Sophia started laughing into her scarf, quickly bending her head down so that their father couldn’t see her in the rear-view mirror. Esme started sniggering too. A great fog of nauseating fumes from the exhaust pipe was now seeping into the car.

‘Turn off the ignition, Daddy,’ said Sophia, regaining some sort of control.

‘Oh, right. Yes. Well I suppose there’s only one thing for it now; we’ll have to walk.’

It was easier said than done. The car had fallen into the ditch at an angle that made the doors feel extremely heavy. Sophia managed to push hers open with her feet, scramble onto the snow and then pull Esme out after her. Together, they opened their mother’s door and held it while she and their father dragged themselves out. Esme watched as her mother’s expensive navy heels disappeared into the powder like hot rods through wax. Her stockinged legs now had a cast of snow that rendered her totally immobile. Esme didn’t know how her mother could stand it; the cold was so intense that her own legs had begun to ache.

‘Well, Daddy, you’ve really done it this time,’ Sophia exclaimed. ‘Not only have you chosen to crash on the back drive, which no one will be travelling up because they aren’t stupid, you’ve also managed to pick a spot that is still miles from the castle and just as far from The Lodge. By the time anyone finds us we’ll have frozen to death.’

‘Sophia, don’t exaggerate. It will only take us twenty minutes to walk to the castle,’ her father said.

‘Maybe on a normal day. You seem to have forgotten the three feet of snow we’ll be wading through and our lack of huskies and a sledge.’

‘Darling, there isn’t three feet of snow and anyway we haven’t got a choice. Either we get a move on or we stay in the car until tomorrow when the newspapers get delivered.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Esme gasped. ‘But we’ll miss Mrs Bee’s Christmas lunch!’

‘Exactly, darling. So let’s start walking.’

Esme took her mother’s hand, which was stiff with cold. ‘It’s all right Mummy, I know the way. Follow me.’

Sophia and her father strode off ahead, carving great tracks into the snow with their confident strides. Every time she looked they seemed further away, disappearing like ghosts into the fuzzy whiteness. Suddenly it didn’t feel like an adventure any more. She wished that her mother would just speed up a little bit so that they could catch up, but with every step it felt as if they were going even slower.

Esme tugged on her mother’s hand. ‘Come on, Mummy, we need to walk a bit faster or we’re going to lose them.’

It was bitterly cold. The sort of cold that penetrated deep into your bones and made you feel as if you would never be warm again. She thanked God for not allowing heating in churches, otherwise she wouldn’t have been wearing so many clothes. Even so, her legs and feet were going numb from wading through the snow. Snowflakes were beginning to clump together on her mother’s mink coat like the fur of a great polar bear.

‘Mummy, are you warm enough?’ she asked, shivering.

‘It is very cold,’ her mother replied, her voice muffled through her scarf.

‘I know. My feet are like ice cubes. Just think – you can wriggle them in front of the fire when we get to the castle. We must get there, Mummy.’

‘But I’ve lost my shoe, darling.’

‘Your shoe? When?’ Esme turned around, surprised. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Stay here, Mummy,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll go back and get it.’

Releasing her mother’s hand, Esme followed their steps back down the road. But the further she went, the shallower the footprints became. New snow filled the freshly made holes, covering any trace of her mother’s navy heel. Walking into the wind now, the snowflakes hit her face like a thousand tiny needles. It was hard to see anything; all the trees marking the side of the drive had disappeared and everything looked unfamiliar and eerie. Esme bowed her head and tucked her chin into her coat, not knowing what to do. Looking back, she couldn’t even see the shape of her mother the snow was falling so heavily.

‘Mummy!’ she called. ‘Mummy!’

She began to run back up the hill as best she could, trying not to panic. Even with her eyes closed, she’d be able to find her way to the vast gates that marked the private entrance to the castle, but she wasn’t sure her mother could do the same.

Maybe she couldn’t wait any longer with only one shoe, thought Esme and as she trudged up the hill she comforted herself by imagining her mother already standing by the fire in the drawing room with a big blanket around her shoulders, sending someone out to find her.

After what felt like miles of walking, the castle finally rose into the sky before her and she soon reached the drive. There were already a lot of cars there and she could hear the party in full swing. As she pushed open the front door she wasn’t sure whether it was a blast of warm air or a sense of relief that washed over her.

Pulling off her own sodden boots, she noticed her sister’s coat had fallen off its hook and landed in a dark pool of water on the rush matting.

Serves her right for not waiting for us, Esme thought, although she still picked it up and placed it alongside her own coat on the cast iron radiator.

The sound of laughter and clinking glasses trickled down the hallway from upstairs. She knew all her family would be safe and warm in the drawing room, probably each already on their third mince pie. She ran up the corridor and bound up the staircase, two steps at a time. At a drinks table on the landing stood the Culcairns’ butler, Mr Cribben. He was taking a deep swig from a crystal decanter, which he hurriedly put down. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his tailcoat.

‘Esme! Merry Christmas. Would you care for a drink?’

‘Yes please, Mr Cribben. A bitter lemon please. Have you seen my family?’

The butler snapped the lid off a small Britvic bottle with a silver opener disguised as a duck’s head.

‘Yes,’ he hiccupped. ‘I believe they are in there already.’

‘Thanks, Mr Cribben, and happy Christmas to you too.’ Esme took a gulp of her drink, the bubbles getting up her nose and making her cough.

Entering the warm glow of the drawing room, she peered through the throng of guests, trying to find her family. This was the grandest reception room in the private side of the castle and Esme’s favourite. It was so big that it had two marble fireplaces and not one but two enormous Christmas trees. Both were festooned with silken bows and golden baubles, real candles flickering dangerously close to the thick boas of tinsel. Piles of extravagantly wrapped presents lay beneath them.

Esme saw Sophia and Rollo talking under some mistletoe and wondered if they might be about to kiss. Cheerful faces, many of whom she recognized, occupied ornately carved sofas and chairs upholstered in pale-blue silk. She caught sight of the Earl talking to Father Kinley, Lord Findlay in conversation with Lord and Lady Robert Fraser, then her father appeared, breaking away from the crowd, gripping a steaming cup of mulled wine.

‘Darling, there you are. What took you so long?’ he asked, crossing the carpet and ruffling her hair.

‘Why didn’t you wait for us, Daddy? Mummy lost her shoe and I couldn’t find it. Is she here?’

‘Oh, I’m sure she’s here somewhere,’ said her father, gesturing his hand around the room. ‘Probably powdering her nose after being out in the snow for so long. Why don’t you go and find Lexi?’

Yes, Lexi, Esme thought, excitedly. She squeezed into the crowd, parting ladies’ skirts with her hands as she tried to get to the back of the room where the children usually played. Lexi was her best and only real friend. Unlike the girls at her London school, Lexi liked to do the same things as her. They weren’t interested in pop stars or boys and didn’t give a monkey’s about how they looked. As long as they had each other and their ponies, they were happy.

‘Rraaaah!’

Esme jumped as two hands covered her eyes.

‘Lexi!’ Esme squealed, spinning round and putting her arms around her friend. ‘Oh Lexi, happy Christmas! Isn’t the snow amazing?’

‘I know! But are you OK? Sophia said your car crashed into a ditch and you had to walk all the way to the castle.’

‘Yes, it was a terrific adventure, Lexi, and most of it I had to do on my own because Mummy went missing! But Daddy says she’s probably powdering her nose now – have you seen her?’

‘No, not yet,’ said Lexi.

‘Oh look!’ It was Bella. ‘Sausage rolls.’

Bella was born hilarious, wise – and thalidomide. Esme’s mother had told her that thalidomide was a pill that some women had taken to stop feeling sick when they were pregnant because the doctors hadn’t known it was dangerous or that it would make babies’ arms stop growing. Esme was amazed how well Bella managed without arms. She had even stopped noticing sometimes.

‘Happy Christmas, Bella,’ said Esme. ‘Do you want me to get you one?’

‘Not one, stupid. Ten – at least!’

The girls pushed their way over to Mr Cribben, who was swaying through the room carrying a precariously balanced silver try laden with the shortcrust pastry parcels. Grabbing a handful, half of which Esme gave to Bella, she and Lexi then retreated under the grand piano so that they could talk properly.

‘What did Father Christmas bring you, Lexi?’ Esme asked, through a mouthful of crumbly pastry.

‘Well, the best present was a stable rug for Jupiter, embroidered with his name! Oh, and I was given a subscription for Horse and Hound so we can see where all the pony club events are in the summer.’

‘Amazing!’ Esme grinned. ‘Let’s try and get our pictures taken jumping a huge hedge when we go hunting. Didn’t you say they were sending a photographer up here for the New Year’s Eve meet?’

‘Yes, definitely. Papa will be attending so at the very least we’ll get a photo if we stand next to him. Homer and Jupiter will be famous!’

‘Oh and I almost forgot! Lexi, Father Christmas gave me a dandy brush just like yours! Homer will look so handsome in the photos.’

Lexi smiled back at her and said in a deep voice, ‘Lady Alexa Culcairn on Jupiter and Miss Esme Munroe on Homer taking their own line at Smythe Thorns.’

‘We’ll be the talk of the town!’ Esme said, gleefully.

Stuffing another sausage roll into her mouth, she peered out from under the piano, half expecting and vaguely hoping to see her mother drying out by the fire. She heard her father’s bellowing laugh from across the room. If he didn’t seem worried about her mother, then everything must be all right.

Lexi and Esme continued their unspoken mission to finish off all the sausage rolls, sipping their bottles of bitter lemon between bites.

‘Did you see Rollo and Sophia under the mistletoe? Maybe they’ll fall in love and get married?’ said Esme.

‘And then we really will be proper sisters! Perhaps we can be bridesmaids together. Let’s go and draw our dream dresses,’ said Lexi. ‘I got some new Caran d’Ache in my stocking.’

After riding horses, drawing made-up outfits with Caran d’Ache colouring pencils was Esme’s favourite thing in the world to do and she was saving her pocket money for a new tin.

Just then, the other conversations in the room fell away at the sound of the Earl’s voice booming out, and Esme looked up, startled.

‘What do you mean you left her in the snow? How could you be so bloody irresponsible, Colin?’

‘Esme was with her and I assumed she was already here and powdering her nose,’ Esme heard her father reply.

‘You’ve already been here for nearly an hour! Diana would never spend that much time on her appearance, so where the hell is she?’

Esme froze. Where was her mother? It was her fault, she should have looked harder – until she found her.

‘Stop shouting, Henry,’ said the Contessa. Then, in a quieter tone, ‘Colin, I can’t believe you left Diana like that, especially with her being the way she is right now.’

‘It’s not as though she hasn’t been here before!’ said her father. ‘And like I said, Esme was with her. Sophia and I were only just ahead. Never crossed my mind that she might get lost and I don’t suppose she is now.’

‘No, Colin,’ replied Henry, his voice hard. ‘She might have frozen to death out there. I will go and search for her myself.’

‘Oh Henry,’ said the Contessa. ‘Don’t be so utterly ridiculous. We have all these guests here. Just send Miller.’

Esme crawled out from her hiding place and rushed to her father’s side. She wished Sophia was with her but she was probably somewhere with Rollo and his friends, smoking or doing whatever it was they did in her smoochy novels.

‘Daddy! We should go and find her. It’s all my fault. I lost her like the shoe.’ She looked up at her father, holding her breath and tears.

‘Esme, you lovely girl,’ said the Earl. ‘Why don’t you and I go and find your mother together? Colin, Lucia, you stay here and enjoy yourselves.’

And without giving anyone a chance to say anything more, the Earl took Esme by the hand and walked out of the drawing room, leaving her father, the Contessa and many of the other guests open-mouthed.

Chapter Three

Mr Miller, the chauffeur, was waiting at the bottom of the front stairs, with a basket in hand.

‘Your Lordship; tea and flapjacks. The car is just outside.’

‘Thank you, Miller. No need to drive us, I will manage perfectly well. Esme, put your coat and boots on. What fun – a Christmas adventure!’

But Esme noticed that his jolly tone was not reflected in his eyes. They were darting about nervously and he looked worried, even though he was trying to cover it up. Grown-ups often didn’t tell the truth when they were worried. Was it about her mother? Or was he still cross with her father for not seeming to care?

The castle door flew open on turning the brass handle. Snow whipped inside, a frozen rage slicing through the oil-fired warmth. The blizzard had intensified. Esme pictured her mother curled up in a ball, like a frightened rabbit. At least she was wearing a fur coat. That’s how Eskimos kept warm and it was even colder in Greenland. But was mink as warm as sealskin? What if she had fallen asleep? Would she hear them calling?

Mr Miller wrenched the Land Rover door open and as Esme climbed in the wind slammed it shut, almost catching her leg.

‘Where shall we start looking? I mean, Mummy could be anywhere. She might be buried under a snow drift.’

‘Don’t worry, Esme,’ said the Earl. ‘I think I know where she might be. She doesn’t like big parties, so I think she will have gone somewhere she can relax. She just forgot to tell you.’

Of course! He was right. Her mother could be terribly forgetful, especially on bad days.

The Earl wound down the window and yelled over the rumbling diesel engine, ‘Miller, will you call the yard and tell Jimmy we’re on our way?’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

‘Oh, and tell Mr Munroe that I will drop Mrs Munroe and Esme off at The Lodge. If you don’t mind, you will have to take him home in the Range Rover.’

‘Is that where you think she is?’ asked Esme, at once relieved and puzzled.

‘Yes, I know it. Isn’t that where you escape to when you’re sad or just want to get away?’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Esme, wondering how the Earl would know. ‘I go and talk to Homer if I’m unhappy or scared. Do you think Mummy is scared?’

‘Your mother’s mind works in mysterious ways, Esme. She probably thought it was quicker to go to the yard than face the steep drive up to the castle.’

Winding the window back up, the Earl suggested Esme pour them both a cup of tea from the flask in the basket. Esme felt grown up, sharing the responsibility of being part of a search party for her mother.

‘So what was the best thing Father Christmas brought you this year?’ he asked.

‘Oh gosh, I loved all my presents but if I had to choose the most exciting it was probably the towel that he used to dry his reindeer. It was still wet!’ She laughed.

‘Goodness. How fascinating. That just goes to prove that Father Christmas is alive and kicking.’

She was surprised by how comfortable she felt being alone with the Earl. She wasn’t at all shy with him like she sometimes was with grown-ups. She pulled the flask from the wicker basket and unscrewed the lid, releasing a hiss as the compressed heat escaped from its container. A steaming muddy waterfall flowed into the mugs, each decorated with the Culcairn foxhounds. As they drove, the beam from the headlamps cut a slice of amber through the speckled grey twilight. The snow was falling so thick and fast it was almost impossible to differentiate individual flakes.

‘Goodness,’ said the Earl, ‘I bet you haven’t ever seen snow like this before, Esme. I haven’t seen it this thick since I was a boy. I remember taking that sleigh – you know, the one on show in the main entrance – for a turn down the drive. My brothers and I used it as a toboggan. We got into so much trouble! Not only for touching a piece of history – Queen Victoria once sped around Scotland in it, you know – but also because it was so heavy it broke Robert’s leg when he fell off head-first.’

Esme could picture them, wild and laughing, using all their boyish strength to pull the thing out from the arch of the great stone hall, its runners scraping over the flagstones. She knew exactly which sleigh he meant. It now sat unused and roped off from tourists tempted to hop in.

‘Good Lord, there’s your car Esme. How on earth could your father have ended up in the ditch like that?’

‘It just sort of happened.’

A warm chuckle escaped the Earl’s throat as he looked at the abandoned car in the snowy trench. It was almost unrecognizable, so deep was the snow covering its roof and clinging to its windows, bolsters of white like sagging bags under tired eyes.

As they passed The Lodge, Esme saw a faint glow of light from the kitchen window. She could just make out Mrs Bee at the sink and waved, in case the housekeeper could see them.

‘Who are you waving to? Mrs Bumble?’

‘Yes. I feel sorry for her having to work on Christmas Day.’

‘But I’m sure she does it gladly to help your mother.’

‘Yes. She loves Mummy so much. Says she’s the kindest lady in the world.’

‘I’d agree with that, Esme. Does your mother ever do the cooking?’

‘In our London house she does. But sometimes she burns things as she forgets to take food out of the oven. Once she left a cottage pie in for a whole night! Daddy said it looked like dog poo.’ Esme felt immediately guilty for telling tales about her mother. ‘But most of the time she makes us lovely food.’

The village appeared before them, unfamiliar with all the houses thatched in snow. As they passed the cottages Esme imagined the families inside; happy, cozied up together, Christmas lights twinkling and brightly wrapped presents nesting under baubled firs. That should have been her family. Instead, here she was with her best friend’s father, scouring the countryside for her mother.

Driving past the village shop she caught a flash of red; mistletoe hanging by a noose of tartan ribbon above the door. A chill gripped her. What if her mother wasn’t at the yard? She might not have made it that far. Again, Esme imagined her stuck in a hole, stiff with cold like the frozen carcasses Digger sometimes found.

Leaving the village behind, the Land Rover started to climb the steep incline. She wondered how they were going to make it up the hill. It was very cold now. She daren’t speak as she could see how hard the Earl was concentrating to keep the car on the road. She studied his profile. She had always liked his face. Greying hair that was swept back off a high forehead, strong nose and thin lips. His eyes had unusual flecks of yellow and orange but if asked what colour they were she’d say green. She noticed that his eyebrows were lower than usual, set in a frown – not cross but more concerned, unlike his jaunty tone of voice.

‘Now, Esme, here comes the tricky part.’

‘Will we get up the hill, do you think?’

‘My dear, of course we will. This old thing can get anywhere. It’s a marvellous lump of metal. Come on, why don’t you sit on my knee and help me drive? Don’t think I don’t know about your and Lexi’s little escapades in the Triumph.’

Esme felt her face flush at being caught out for driving the little green car around the estate. She waited for the reprimand, but it didn’t come.

‘Come, sit on my knee. This bit of road is really wiggly, and four hands will be better than two.’

Hesitating, she shuffled across the bench seat and onto his lap. He felt warm and safe, as did the steering wheel when she placed her hands on the black plastic, next to his. Her father never even let her sit in the front of the car, let alone on his knee to help drive. She had once got on his lap but he had told her to get off. ‘You’re not a dog, Esme.’

‘All right: lean forward, the car needs all the help it can get. Come on, old friend, you can do it. Push!’

He eased his foot down on the accelerator and they lurched forward, wheels spinning as the engine roared, heaving the car forward. With ox-like strength and almost human willpower, they made it over the brow of the hill and shot forward along the now-level road.

‘Well done, Esme! I couldn’t have done that without you.’

Flushed with pride, she couldn’t wait to tell her father and Sophia how she had helped rescue their mother.

‘Now, you’d better hop back, what with being on a public road. It wouldn’t do for us to get stopped by the police. We’d all miss Christmas lunch and I’d be terrified to be on the end of Mrs Bee’s wrath if her turkey went to waste.’

As they drove into the stable yard an avenue of noble horses peered out at them with a lazy interest. Jimmy’s livery was home to sixteen hunters and it always made Esme feel proud of him that four of them belonged to the Prince of Wales. Many people wondered why a Prince chose Jimmy’s place to keep his horses when he stayed at the nearby Balmoral, especially when it was so messy and chaotic. But Esme knew as well as the Prince that Jimmy was the best rough rider in the Highlands and when the horses were presented at the meet, their owners knew their horses’ coats would be gleaming and that they would gallop like machines because they had been ridden out every day of the week and schooled over natural fences. You couldn’t put a price on safety when hunting, and a bit of muck here and there was far better than a broken neck.

Esme crossed her fingers and prayed that her mother was there. As they entered the main house, she could hear wild laughter coming from inside and one of the voices definitely belonged to a woman.

Climbing over various dogs and high-top boots dull with unbuffed polish, the smell of wet fur and drying leather filled the small kitchen. She and the Earl walked into the living room to find Jimmy and Diana doubled up with mirth and holding tumblers – the ones Jimmy collected with his Green Shield Stamps from the petrol station. Esme was so relieved she felt like crying.

‘Oh darling, you’re here,’ said her mother, looking at the Earl, and for a moment Esme felt confused. She had expected to see her mother as she had been when they were separated; slow, confused and unsure.

‘I knew it wouldn’t take long for you to find me. Henry, you are far too clever. Will I never be able to hide from you?’

‘This is not a joke, Diana. Your daughter was extremely worried,’ said the Earl.

‘Esme, sweetheart,’ said her mother, ‘you know me: free as a bird and with a will of my own. I tell you, Henry, I could bloody kill my husband for leaving me alone in this weather. But then again, if he hadn’t I would have had to endure drinks with all your ghastly friends. Instead, Jimmy has been filling me in on all the gossip. Poor Mrs Polk was left for dead out hunting yesterday. Knocked clean out after a fall. When she came round she thought she was at a cocktail party and started offering the whips drinks. It’s too funny. Imagine: “Tim, would you like red or white?” while she’s covered in mud and blood pours from her nose. She’ll be mortified, should she remember. She does so love the importance of her position as chief gate-shutter, poor love.’

It was a long time since Esme had heard her mother utter so many words at once.

‘Diana, I… We were worried. Esme and I have come to take you home.’

‘Yes, Mummy. I thought you were lost,’ said Esme, finding her voice.

‘Sweetie, I’m fine. And angel, you are adorable to come and rescue me. You care, I know you do, darling, and I’m sorry if I worried you. But look, everything has worked out perfectly. Come here and give me a kiss.’

‘You didn’t seem fine, Mummy, and if you were then why did you leave me on my own? Why didn’t you tell me you’d changed your mind and were coming here?’ All of a sudden Esme felt overcome with sadness, as if her mother really didn’t care about her at all.

‘Well, I didn’t think I was and when I lost you I got confused and went back to the church. And there, would you believe it, was darling Jimmy.’

Esme looked at Jimmy for an explanation.

‘That’s right. I left my wallet and had to go back to fetch it,’ he said.

‘That’s not strictly true. Jimmy put five pounds in the collection box by mistake so he returned to take it back. Isn’t that right, Jimmy?’

‘Well, yes, but I replaced it with one pound. I’m not that much of a tight-arse.’

‘So there we go. Come, Esme, come and sit next to me. Am I forgiven?’ She looked at the Earl as she said this.

Reluctantly, yet unable to resist, Esme went over to the sofa where her mother enfolded her in her arms.

She kissed her and whispered, ‘Darling Esme, my darling, darling little squirrel.’

‘Oh, Your Lordship,’ said Jimmy, as the Earl let out a big sigh. ‘Just sit down and have a drink. It’s Christmas for goodness’s sake. Come on Esme, what would you like? There’s some ginger beer in the fridge or make something yourself with the soda siphon.’ Jimmy’s accent was as thick as the smell of alcohol in the room.

The Earl accepted a glass filled with a golden liquid that shone through the crystal.

‘Happy Christmas, to us all. So nice to have the family together,’ Jimmy said, roaring with laughter.

Esme left the room to fetch her drink. Jimmy’s kitchen was as familiar to her as her own. She had been going to the farm since she was four, when she first started hunting. Jimmy had taught her to ride and took her and her fat Shetland pony on the lead rein until she was confident enough to ride to hounds on her own. In those days her mother would drive her to the meet and follow the hunt, forever concerned that she might have an accident. Jimmy had no such qualms. As far as he was concerned Esme was made of rubber and would bounce if she took a fall.

She wondered now how her mother could go from being so quiet and sad to being so cheerful. Her moods could change unbelievably quickly; in church, Esme had been scared she was going to faint. But anyway, at least she was happy now. She was always happy with Jimmy.

Esme poured herself a pint glass of fizz, grabbed an apple from the chipped fruit bowl and, after grabbing her coat, went outside into the yard, causing a sleeping lercher to yelp as she accidentally stepped on its paw.

‘Sorry, Mumfie. Didn’t see you there.’

From the stables, there came a collective whinny from horses always on the lookout for their next feed. A whiskery nose poked up, just visible above its door. It was Homer, standing on tiptoes to make himself noticed, Esme thought. He was pleased to see her. Suddenly she felt as if a balloon had been let out in her chest.

Was Homer the only one in her family who was pleased to be with her? Even on Christmas Day it seemed her mother would rather be with Jimmy. Her father had been happy for her to go alone to find her mother and she hadn’t even seen Sophia at the castle. At least Lexi and the Earl had been kind to her.

‘Hello, fella. Happy Christmas. Did you miss me? Have you had a nice day? Did Jimmy give you extra oats? You good boy. You know that Father Christmas bought you some lovely things. A curry comb and a dandy brush to make your mane all silky. And you won’t have to have a cold saddle next to your skin now ’cause you have a brand new sheepskin saddle pad. Imagine that? Here’s a fella; a lovely juicy apple for you.’

The pony took the apple from Esme’s hand in one giant bite. He rolled it around his mouth in an attempt to gain a good grip so he could crunch through the slippery skin. It popped back out. Esme nuzzled his nose with hers, his warm, sweet-smelling breath thawing the red spots of cold on her cheeks. Stiff whiskers, newly clipped and spiky, prickled her skin. His pretty honey-brown muzzle shone gold against his copper coat.

‘Too big for you, huh?’ she said. ‘Here, let me take a bite for you to make it easier.’ Esme put the slimy apple to her lips and took as large a bite as she could. Juice spurted out as her teeth pierced the taut skin.

‘There you go, boy. That’s better, isn’t it? Who’s my darling boy?’

Homer had disgusting manners, she thought. He ate with his mouth open, turning the apple sap to foam as he chomped away, making loud sucking, squelching sounds and bubbles. Round and round went his jaw in methodical turns to reduce the flesh to pulp.

‘Good boy. I’ll come back and say goodbye.’ Esme patted her pony and walked away.

Back in the farmhouse it seemed a party had kicked off. The Earl had joined in the merriment and was sitting on the sofa with Esme’s mother nestled in the crook of his arm, shoeless feet curled up underneath her. Jimmy sat on his ‘throne’ with Mumfie on his lap. His face was red and his eyes were creased with joy.

Esme went to sit on the footstool by the coal fire. Too big to be a lap dog, the lercher jumped down and lay beside her, his head and half his body on her knees.

She looked at the scene before her. Every time her mother turned to the Earl her eyes seemed to come alive. It was almost shocking in contrast to the detached, milky gaze reserved for her father.

‘Oh, and I’ll tell you another thing, Your Lordship,’ Jimmy was saying, ‘the next time you come to the meet, don’t go fannying around on your feet. It’s about time you got on a bloody horse. I tell you, if the Prince of bleeding Wales can stay on, you can too. Stop being such a prissy little girl and get your arse in the saddle.’

‘Jimmy, you’re a nightmare; my hunting days are over. Diana, tell him to stop bullying me,’ said the Earl, smiling. He flicked his wrist from his sleeve and looked at his watch. ‘Goodness, it’s nearly two o’clock. We’d better be off.’

‘C’mon, Your Lordship. Don’t go yet. One more for the road.’

‘No, Jimmy, you are very kind but I must get Mrs Munroe and Esme back home. We’re already very late.’

‘Oh, Henry, just one more, then we’ll go. Come on, how often do we get time like this? Esme, darling, be a love and call home. Tell Mrs Bee we are on our way.’

Esme was torn between the prospect of lunch and presents and the fun of this little group. She felt like one of the grown-ups now, especially as Sophia wasn’t there to enjoy their secret party, and it was a relief to see her mother full of life and humour again so she went out to the hall to the phone, its disc whirring after her small finger dialled each number.

‘Mrs Bee? It’s me, Esme. We’re leaving now. I’m with Mummy. Lexi’s father is going to drive us home.’

‘Esme! Is your mother all right? Where did you find her?’

‘It’s a long story, Mrs Bee. I’ve had a real-life adventure.’

‘Adventure or not, lunch is going to be ruined! Your father and Sophia are already back; Mr Miller dropped them off an hour ago. They’ll be relieved to hear you’ve found your mother. Will she be needing a hot bath?’

‘No thank you, Mrs Bee. She seems very warm,’ said Esme. ‘We’ve been having such fun. Oh, and I told Homer about his presents – he whinnied with happiness.’

‘He was probably telling you that you’re late for lunch!’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll be back soon. Tell Daddy. Bye, Mrs Bee,’ she said, before hanging up.

Esme put on her coat again and ran outside. Jimmy and the Earl were already helping her mother into the Land Rover. She was singing ‘Roll Me Over in the Clover’ far too loudly, Esme thought.

Jumping into her seat, she turned and waved goodbye to Jimmy as the Earl drove out of the stable yard.

‘Mummy, are you drunk?’ she asked.

‘Oh darling, I’m not drunk. I’m just happy it’s Christmas. Darling Henry, I do love you so.’

Maybe she was a bit tipsy but Esme knew something else was not right. Her mother had been so sad this morning and was now very, very happy. When she had two moods so close together it was only a matter of time before she sank into a deep sleep, a lifeless stranger unable to recognize her own children. It was always the same. Esme’s excitement about Christmas lunch and presents around the tree evaporated; her mother was about to ruin it all.

Arriving at The Lodge, Esme and the Earl helped Diana to the front door, where Mrs Bee was waiting to let them in.

‘Mrs Bee, I’m sorry we’re late. Such a relief that Diana has been found safe and well. Now you can all enjoy your delicious lunch…’ The Earl’s apology stopped mid-flow as he took in the sight of Colin, veins on the sides of his neck pulsating; he was clearly struggling to control his rage.

‘Henry, what in God’s name happened? I’ve been worried sick, and with good reason. Look at her!’

Esme took in the sight of her mother and all at once wanted to protect her and the Earl from her father’s anger. She stood next to her and put her hand in hers.

‘If you hadn’t left us, Daddy, Mummy would have been OK. And if Lexi’s papa hadn’t gone to look for her we might not have found her,’ Esme said.

‘Yes. Yes, of course. I am grateful to you, Henry,’ said Esme’s father, guiding the Earl towards the door. ‘Diana… She’s not faring too well at the moment so I think it’s best you stay away from her. For the time being…’

‘Whatever is best for her,’ said the Earl.

‘Now, Mr and Mrs Munroe,’ said Mrs Bee, stepping in. ‘I suggest you go to the drawing room with a glass of champagne and wait for me and the girls to bring the food.’

This simple order and the housekeeper’s calm delivery put everything back to normality. It was Christmas. They would have lunch and open their presents. The day would continue as it had always done. Or at least that’s what Esme hoped, given that she never really knew from one moment to the next what mood her mother would be in and how the next few hours would play out.

The sisters sat around the kitchen table while Mrs Bee busied herself making the final preparations to the meal. The whirring sound of the cooker turned into that of a Force 5 gale when the oven door was opened to remove the picture-perfect turkey.

‘Och, that weighs the same as an eighteen-month-old baby!’ exclaimed Mrs Bee, grunting as she heaved the bird from the roasting tin onto a large white Wedgewood platter on the table.

‘Why was Daddy so horrible to the Earl?’ asked Esme, still preoccupied with the adults’ terse exchange. ‘At least he tried to find Mummy. Poor thing; she could have died and been buried in the snow and we wouldn’t have found her ’til the spring. It’s only because of Jimmy that she isn’t a human icicle.’

Sophia peeled a strip of crisp skin off the plump turkey before her and curled it around her extended tongue. ‘Mmm…’ She licked her fingers. ‘You always try to protect Mummy, Es. She wanted to go to Jimmy’s instead of the castle. She wanted the Earl to rescue her. And now she’s made us all late for lunch and Daddy is pissed off. End of story.’

It was true. Esme did always defend her mother, and her mother, when she wasn’t sad or asleep, did the same for her.

‘Come on, girls, help me get the lunch in. Esme, will you get the bread sauce and the sprouts?’

Out they trooped, all pomp-and-ceremony, Esme leading the way into the dining room, where her father had already taken his position at the head of the table. He stood up and relieved Mrs Bee of her fowl, now garnished with glossy sausages and rolled bacon rashers. Esme was relieved to see her father smiling.

‘This looks wonderful, Mrs Bee. You are a marvel. Shall I sharpen the knife?’

With that, he took up his weapons, the sharpener in one hand and the long thin carving knife in the other. Using theatrical sweeps he ran the blade back and forth against the file before replacing the sharpener with the fork, with which he stabbed the turkey while allowing his foil to glide through the plump breast on the other side. Thin slices of meat fanned out symmetrically as they fell away from the bird, each piece of moist white flesh edged with a half-moon of brown skin. Little puffs of steam rose up, filling the dining room with a smell exclusive to Christmas Day.

Esme was starving. She piled her plate high and poured over so much gravy that it slopped onto the table.

‘Oi, Esme!’ shouted Sophia. ‘Don’t take all the gravy – it’s not soup.’ She snatched the sauce boat from her sister and tipped the rest onto her own plate.

‘You’ve finished it now, Sophs. What about Mummy and Daddy?’

‘There’s more on the side, stupid.’

‘Then don’t get cross with me for taking it all!’ Then, in a fit of defiance, Esme picked up her plate and tilted it towards her, slurping up some of the thick meat juice. ‘There,’ she said. ‘It won’t spill now.’ She looked over to her mother, who had returned to her breakfast self.

‘Esme! Manners, please,’ said Mrs Bee. ‘Now eat up.’

Christmas Day was the one and only day that the housekeeper ate with the family and she did so reluctantly. Esme thought it was because she felt embarrassed by not having any smart clothes to wear apart from the cardigans her parents gave her every year.

‘Quite right, Mrs Bumble. Especially as you’ve been up since the crack of dawn preparing it. Would you like a small glass of champagne?’

‘Well, maybe just a wee one.’ She held up a crystal port glass for Esme’s father to fill. It only took one sip for her face to take on a deep, purple blotchiness.

Esme raised her glass. ‘Merry Christmas, everyone.’

‘Merry Christmas!’ chimed her father, Mrs Bee and Sophia.

‘This is delicious, Mrs Bee,’ said Sophia, scooping up a forkful of peas. ‘Mummy, aren’t you going to eat your food? Mrs Bee has spent hours cooking it.’

This was a deliberate dig. Sophia knew full well that their mother hardly ate a thing when her mind went elsewhere. At least she would never starve because she made up for it on her good days. Esme had never seen one person able to eat so much at a single sitting. Mrs Bee sometimes had to cook her extra food.

When everyone had finished, Mrs Bee got up and cleared the plates, scraping the leftovers on top of the pile.

‘Digger can have these,’ she said, putting the plate of scraps onto the floor.

Esme called for her dog, who scurried into the dining room and wolfed the lot down in time for Mrs Bee to pick up the clean plate and take it with the others into the kitchen.

Moments later, she returned with a platter of fire: the Christmas pudding made in November for maximum flavour. Esme had stirred the batter and made a wish. The flames died down as the alcohol burned away, leaving behind a mound of glistening sweetmeat.

Helping herself to the first slice, Esme picked out a tiny parcel of tin foil from her pudding and unwrapped it. ‘A shilling!’ she squealed, holding up the hot coin.

‘Well done, darling,’ said her father.

‘Look, Mummy!’ Esme’s shoulders sank as her mother remained silent, not even looking up at the coin.

‘How wonderful!’ said Mrs Bee.

Esme felt silly for expecting her mother to react to her lucky shilling. She licked the coin clean, popped it into her pocket and shook off her disappointment.

‘Daddy, we haven’t pulled the crackers!’ she exclaimed, rising from her seat in anticipation.

‘Goodness, so we haven’t. Sit back down and we’ll do it now.’

‘We can’t watch Her Majesty without our paper crowns on,’ she said, smiling.

The small group crossed arms, a cracker in each hand to form a chain, and pulled. Her mother’s hand in hers held no resistance, so Esme leant across and she and Sophia pulled each other’s.

Sophia groaned and then read out her joke. ‘Why did the lobster blush?’

‘Because it saw The Queen Mary’s bottom. That’s so old,’ groaned Esme, copying her sister, although she actually thought that the picture of Queen Mary in her frilly underpants was very funny.

They all put on their paper crowns, Esme carefully placing one on her mother’s head. It sat lopsided and made her look like a forgotten toy.

‘All right, plates down. Time for presents!’ announced Esme’s father, as they finished their puddings.

Normally, presents were opened before the Queen’s Speech, but the Queen had given a written address instead this year, following a documentary that had aired about the Royal Family a few months previously. Esme was disappointed that they didn’t get to see Her Majesty, although she supposed she always looked the same. An embroidered dress and pearls, a stiff hairstyle and a small smile. Without the Queen, the world would stop turning, Esme thought. She wondered why she never wore her crown in public. If she were the Queen, she’d make sure she put it on every day. Her father always said that Queen Elizabeth was a handsome woman but not nearly as attractive as her sister, Princess Margaret. Maybe people said the same thing about her and Sophia, but Esme didn’t think that either of them was particularly handsome. That was for boys. Lexi had mentioned that the Princess was coming to stay at Culcairn Castle in a few days’ time, so she could decide who was the more attractive sister then.