‘Well, that’s rather the point,’ Archie said. ‘She telephoned last night to ask if I’d come for Christmas and bring some of what she called my “glamorous friends”. Apparently, it’s all been much more successful than she thought, and there’s one guest in particular whom she doesn’t want to disappoint.’
‘The one paying ten thousand pounds, presumably.’
‘Exactly. She never expected to have a donation from a celebrity, and now she’s worried that all the other guests will be dull by comparison. Rich, but dull. She was very excited when I suggested you and Marta.’
‘I suppose we should be flattered. Who is the celebrity?’
Archie paused, and she found his reticence as annoying as the newspaper’s sly teasing. ‘I don’t want to spoil the surprise, but trust me – you won’t be disappointed. And Hilaria has asked me to stress that you’d be doing her an enormous favour and there’s no obligation to make a pledge – although I’m sure she won’t turn down a modest contribution. God knows this situation is only going to get worse. So how about it? Would you like to go?’
Josephine hesitated. She had been looking forward to seeing the Loe Estate in winter, and the idea of a house full of strangers all striving to impress each other didn’t seem like much of a holiday, but Archie was obviously committed and she knew that Marta would love the prospect of something more adventurous. ‘All right, then,’ she agreed. ‘It sounds lovely. I’ll tell Marta that we’re expected to be at our sparkling best.’
‘Good. Hilaria will be thrilled, and it will be nice to spend some time there again. I haven’t been for years.’
‘Are we still going down on Christmas Eve?’
‘That’s the other thing I wanted to tell you. I’ve got to travel separately now to chaperone the celebrity.’
‘Is she really that famous? I’m assuming it’s a she. You’ve got that tone in your voice.’
‘Nonsense. But yes, Christmas Eve is fine. There’ll be a car to meet you at Marazion – or a boat, depending on when you arrive. The causeway’s only open for a few hours at a time.’
‘Cut off from the world at Christmas. Right now, that might actually be worth ten thousand pounds.’ She recalled the intriguing silhouette of St Michael’s Mount that she had seen from the train, never imagining that she might stay there, and began to share a little of Archie’s excitement.
‘I’m glad you’re pleased,’ he said. ‘How are things in Inverness? Your father sounded well when I spoke to him.’
‘Yes, he is, and the baby of the family’s just arrived, so that’s made his day.’ As if on cue, Moire hovered awkwardly in the doorway with two glasses of sherry, and Josephine waved her through. ‘Are you busy at work?’
‘Too busy. It’s the usual season of peace and goodwill to all men. A woman’s just cut her husband’s throat in Ealing. Three little girls have been taken into care, covered in bruises and half starved. We dragged a man out of the Thames last night because he couldn’t pay his debts and he didn’t want to go home to his family without a present for them.’ His voice sounded bitter, and Josephine wondered for the thousandth time how he coped with the relentless sadness of his job. ‘I was thinking just now, before you rang – I can’t remember a Christmas that wasn’t more steeped in misery than the rest of the year. It drives people to do the most terrible things to each other, this pressure to be happy. And on that note … I’ll see you in Cornwall. Give my love to Marta.’
‘I will.’
She put the phone down, and Moire smiled at her. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt,’ she said coyly.
‘You weren’t.’
‘How is your policeman?’ Josephine didn’t dignify the question with a response, but Moire carried on undeterred. ‘I really don’t know why the two of you have to keep dancing round each other. You’ve been so close for years, and neither of you is getting any younger. He’s a nice man, you say, and you could do a lot worse. Why don’t you just throw your lot in with him, Josephine? We’ll sort something out for Dad.’
There were a hundred and one reasons why, but Josephine wasn’t about to explain them to her sister. ‘We’re friends,’ she said, and nodded to the small, gift-wrapped box in Moire’s hand to change the subject. ‘What did you get her this year?’
‘A brooch. And you?’
‘A ring. I found it in a market in London. She would have loved it.’ Josephine watched while her sister put the present under the tree at the bottom of the stairs. It was a ritual that had begun the Christmas after her mother’s death and continued ever since, a personal act of remembrance that was special to the two of them and jealously guarded. Funny, she thought, that only Christmas could bring out this uncharacteristic streak of sentimentality, when her mother – like many Scottish women of her generation – had never made much fuss of the day. Whenever Josephine thought of her, it was always summer, and she was striding across the sands at Nairn or playing with her daughters in Daviot, the village they all loved. Winter had never really suited her, and yet here they were, she and Moire, buying her presents and crying into their sherry.
‘I can’t believe she’s been gone fifteen years,’ Moire said.
‘No, neither can I.’ She squeezed her sister’s hand and raised her glass. ‘Happy Christmas.’
2
Hilaria St Aubyn sat at the window in her father’s study, going through the final preparations for Christmas before discussing the arrangements with her housekeeper. It was contrary of her in a home this size to gravitate so often to one of the smallest rooms, but she loved everything about it: the oak-panelled walls and family portraits that acknowledged her long connection with the Mount; the old partner’s desk, from which she ran the estate business, taking over new duties each year as her father grew older and more frail; the chair where she sat most evenings, watching the sun setting over the sea and loving the sense of peace and satisfaction from another day safely navigated.
The habitual winter traditions seemed more poignant than ever this year, coloured by the knowledge that this might be her last Christmas here. Her father was in his eighties now, and the grief of losing two much-loved wives in the space of a few years had damaged his health; when he died, his title and the island would pass to Hilaria’s cousin, and she would be forced to leave the life that had been hers since she was a girl. There was little point in resenting the laws of inheritance, still less in being sentimental about a home she had loved from the moment she arrived, but she couldn’t help the fear that came with knowing that her sense of purpose would be lost along with the right to be here. Like her parents, she felt responsible for those who lived and worked on the Mount; hers wasn’t the only family to have been here for generations, and she loved and respected the islanders for their loyalty and pride; she had hoped to see them through the difficult years ahead, but it was unlikely that she would see out another war here. As her inevitable departure from the Mount grew closer, she found herself increasingly sensitive to the changing seasons and the markers of an island year, acutely aware that it might be the last time she would oversee the daffodil harvest or bathe off the rocks at Cromwell’s Passage; the last time she would come home and feel that overwhelming flood of love as the castle came into view. And now, perhaps, the last Christmas, its joy half stifled by uncertainty. This must, she thought, be exactly how it felt to know you were dying.