Chapter Three

Over the next days, which were pleasantly visitor free, I forced myself to become acquainted with the house, even if some days I felt it was trying to expel me from its chambers or frighten me away. A water pipe in the bathroom sprung a leak, which meant I couldn’t use the bathtub water supply until I called in a plumber. I tripped on the rotting carpet of the grand staircase and fell most of the way to the floor below, bruising my hip uncomfortably in the process. And as I was examining the damaged ceiling in the east wing, a huge chunk of damp plasterwork simply came loose and coated me in gritty powder.

I took everything the house threw at me with an unperturbed sense of calm. Whether it was the house trying to tell me something, a reminder of the terrible condition of the building and the daunting task I had taken on, or the less likely possibility of poltergeist activity, I had to keep going. At least the physical process of going room by room and noting what needed to be done, consulting with Auntie Edie’s own notes, and taking photographs with my digital camera of spots I particularly wanted to ask Anna about gave me something to push away any doubts. By the end of the week, I had a good idea of what needed to be done and in what order, plus a list of people to contact in order to achieve my goals.

After my inspection of the rooms I decided it would be advisable to consult the architect again. Surely Anna would have some constructive input into my plans. However, a week of total isolation and immersion in the house, concentrating mainly on avoiding the ghosts of the recent past, made the prospect of dealing with her, in all of her professional glory, quite frightening. I told myself I was merely intimidated by her confidence, a quality I’d always struggled to possess. Yet the prospect of meeting the equally assured and competent Maggie Potter again was something I welcomed. Maggie made me feel that if she could make the best out of life then so could I. No, with Anna it was something else too. I knew perfectly well what it was. Why did my architect have to be a stunning and compelling woman? Why not a bumbling old man who I wouldn’t feel remotely attracted to?

Before I could think twice about it, and knowing I’d never get anywhere with the house if I didn’t consult her, I picked up my mobile phone and dialled her number.

“Hello, Anna Everest.” She’d answered after just one ring. I was momentarily taken aback. I’d expected to have to leave a message with her secretary, not to get through to the great one herself. At first, her clipped tones were not comforting.

“Oh, hello,” I mumbled, quickly gathering my scattered thoughts. “It’s Ros Wynne at Winter Manor.”

“Hi, Ros, how’s it going there?” Her voice was warmer now that she knew who she was talking to, and I felt encouraged.

“Good. Well not much has happened, but I do have some power at least. I’ve spent the week looking everything over and going through what Auntie Edie had already prepared. I think we should get together and talk about it.” I paused and waited for a reply. “If you have time,” I added awkwardly when none was immediately forthcoming.

“Yes. Hang on a second, I’m just looking at my diary. Do you want me to come there, so we can look at some of the work in question?”

“That’d be great,” I replied, secretly dreading another visit to my disorganised squat in the hallway.

“I can make it tomorrow afternoon, after lunch. How does half past one suit you?”

“Perfect,” I replied, thinking how little time that was to prepare myself. “Thanks.”

“No problem. See you tomorrow then.”

“Yes, bye.”

“Bye.” I pressed the button to end the call, left with the feeling there had been something else I wanted to say, but with no idea what it was.

I discarded the phone and lay down on my camping bed, wondering when I’d grown so uncertain of myself in the simplest situations. I looked up, beyond where the staircase reached towards the first storey. The ceiling here above the hallway was the full height of the two storeys of the house, white plaster with dark wooden beams supporting it. A comprehension of the vastness of the house hit me full on, and I felt lost and small. What was my insignificant life in comparison with the years of this house? If I was Winter Manor, I’d be viewing my arrival here with some scepticism. The potential for me to screw up this new phase of my life was endless. And I really knew all too well where my unfamiliar insecurities were founded. For the first time in my life, I didn’t have family, friends, or Francesca to rely on. The fixed points, the guiding lights of my life, had all gone. I knew I’d still not come to terms with that. Now I had to meet new people, begin new friendships. Somewhere into that, I couldn’t help but hope, slotted Anna, my architect.

Nervous tension built in the pit of my stomach at the thought of Anna coming to Winter Manor the very next day, and that feeling remained with me whatever I did and was still there when I woke up in the morning. I washed, dressed, and climbed into my car to navigate the five miles to the nearest supermarket. I had tea and coffee, but nothing else to offer at all.

In the bright lights of the supermarket I felt like I’d been a hermit, now finally emerging from a cave after many years to find the outside world overwhelming. I wanted to return to my cave. In a shop I was unfamiliar with, the array of products, the bustle of shoppers, and the piped music were both dazzling and disorientating. I bought a few essentials to keep me going for at least another week, and then deliberated for five minutes as to whether Anna was likely to prefer chocolate cake or carrot cake. In the end I purchased both.

I spent the remaining hours of the morning ensuring the part of Winter Manor that was now my home seemed as clean and tidy as it was possible for it to be. I’d still not found another chair, but I’d offer Anna my folding stool and take the bed myself. I placed the two cakes on plates on the low table, and then concluded it made me look over-prepared, so I returned them to their packaging and put them away in the cardboard box in which I was storing my food.

Determined she wouldn’t think I wore clothes that looked as though I slept in them every day, I dressed in my dark jeans, an Indian embroidered top, and a mauve velvet jacket with the sleeves rolled up. I dabbed my lapels with patchouli oil, then brushed my hair and tied it back. I found my turquoise pendant and draped it around my throat. Turquoise, one of the more expensive stones, was very helpful to the throat chakra, coloured blue, which aided communication. I wasn’t sure I still held my old faith in the power of stones and crystals, but I figured a little possible help wouldn’t go amiss. If nothing else, turquoise made an attractive piece of jewellery.

I suspected Anna would be punctual, and sure enough, it was exactly 1:30 when she knocked on the door. I’d been lingering just inside nervously awaiting her arrival, and I made myself pause before I opened it.

She was not exactly smiling, but her gaze was friendlier than the last time I’d opened the door to her.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi, come on in.” I tried to match the tiny smile she offered me with an equally restrained one of my own. I couldn’t help a furtive inspection of her appearance. She wore her long black coat again today, but this time with a thinner scarf of green crushed velvet. Her pale hair was loose, hanging sleekly to just above her shoulders where it curled under neatly. I wondered if she had to style it to achieve the effect, or if her hair simply grew in that precise, tidy way. Nothing could have been much further from my own unruly frizz.

“Can I make you a cup of tea or coffee?” I asked, as she came in looking around her keenly once more. I found myself burning to know what she was thinking. I wondered if she was expecting me to have achieved more, or if she was pleasantly surprised by the more organised appearance of the hallway compared with her last visit. Her expression was inscrutable.

“Tea would be lovely please. Black, no sugar.” I turned on the gas burner below the already-filled kettle and put two tea bags into mugs. While I did so, Anna balanced her briefcase on the lowest step of the staircase, then removed her coat and hung it over the end of one of the banisters. When I looked back at her, I found she was less imposing without the coat. Still I stared at her, couldn’t stop myself. Anna was slim, in a beautifully linear way I couldn’t help but admire. Her suit, today a combination of dark grey woollen trousers and jacket, was perfectly tailored. There were no darts at the waist to give the illusion of a narrow waist and wide hips, rather it was cut in very angular, yet graceful, lines, defining her tall, lithe figure. The trousers were cut close to long legs and slim thighs. She wore those unusual flat black leather brogues again. Beneath the jacket was a wide-collared shirt, pale blue with thin dark grey stripes. Nothing was at all out of place, and it suited her perfectly.

Anna was regarding me evenly with those ice blue eyes through the magnifying lenses of her square glasses. I turned red as I realised she was most likely wondering what the hell I was staring at.

“Sorry,” I said, searching for an innocent explanation for my fixation with her appearance, “that’s a beautiful suit. I’m guessing it’s not from the high street.”

She smiled more broadly than I expected at my compliment, showing straight white teeth. “Thanks. You’re right, not even off-the-peg, I have a tailor. I designed it myself actually.” She said it with no hint of bragging, and as if having a tailor was the most normal thing in the world.

“You can design buildings and clothes?” I secretly wondered if there was anything this woman couldn’t do, and was even more impressed.

“I studied design in general to begin with. It was a toss-up between fashion and architecture at university. The possibilities of working with historic buildings swayed me in the end. I don’t so much design new buildings these days as bring my knowledge to the renovation of old ones.” She gave me a slightly crooked smile and her eyes were inquisitive, as though she was feeling out how interested I really was in her career and what compelled her.

“Like this one, I guess.” I hoped my expression showed my genuine enthusiasm for learning from her.

“Exactly. Winter fascinates me actually.”

“Does it really?”

“Yes. It’s more like someone’s personal project than a large scale prestige property. Someone designed it exactly as they wanted to, with very little concern for architectural fashion.” The timbre of her voice grew warmer and deeper as her passion for her subject increased.

“Like you and your suit,” I said, then flushed. “Not that it’s not fashionable—”

“I hope it’s not actually.” She smirked slightly as though she rather enjoyed an element of the awkwardness between us. “Style and fashion are rather different things, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely.” I saw her brief examination of my own outfit and wondered what conclusions she drew. “Is it the same with this house?”

“Yes. As I mentioned before, the façade is pure Palladian, but the clock tower is baroque.”

“I think I know what baroque is, but you’ll have to enlighten me what you mean by Palladian,” I admitted. “But have a seat first.” Anna glanced at the small folding stool and the camping bed and elected to perch on the bed. I felt an odd twinge as she did so, the action feeling like an invasion of my personal space but not a wholly unwelcome one. The way she held my gaze as she lowered herself gave me the unsettling feeling she knew exactly what effect she was creating. I tried not to think about it, looking away as I settled myself onto the stool. But I felt strangely compelled to learn more of what was behind her rigid façade, so I forced myself to continue the conversation, looking back into those intense eyes. “I am interested to learn a bit more about architecture. I really know very little.”

 I was glad of my ignorance in the next moment because Anna’s entire expression lit up with enthusiasm at the chance to explain the architectural concepts she’d mentioned. With that fire in her eyes and a smile she barely seemed conscious of on her pink lips, she was transformed from striking to beautiful. I felt a dangerous heat creep through my body and willed myself to concentrate on her words.

“Baroque bent all the rules. It was curvy and feminine.” Her eyes flicked to mine as if she was watching for a reaction. I wondered what she expected, and felt warm. Her smile curled wider before she went on. “Even the word itself is rather beautiful. It’s from the Portuguese meaning misshapen pearl. You had twisted columns, oval rooms, sculptural designs. Though it followed patterns, it didn’t seem precise. It was artistic and dreamy.” Her voice, infused with zeal for her subject, deepened further, while remaining within its clearly defined range of expression. I found my gaze drawn from our intermittent eye contact to those pink lips that curved and shaped with such appeal when she spoke. I made myself look back to her blue eyes, the ice entirely melted now.

She hesitated and raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure you’re interested?” I wondered if I’d missed something, a question I was supposed to answer, while I was busy contemplating the change that had occurred in her eyes.

“Very much so,” I said, leaning forward on my stool.

“In the architecture?” she enquired, in what sounded suspiciously like a teasing tone. I frowned and flushed. Had I heard her correctly? Or was my imagination adding implications that weren’t intended?

“I’m very interested in the architecture.” I tried to keep any trace of either embarrassment or indignation out of my tone. It was possible I’d misheard her. Again her eyes lingered on mine for a moment longer than was necessary, and I thought I saw amusement there. Her measured expressions were infuriating to interpret. But it was also a rather compelling game to play. Her face grew more matter-of-fact again as she returned to her specialist subject.

“Palladianism takes its name, appropriately enough, from a man called Palladio, who was a sixteenth-century Venetian architect. It became popular mostly in the mid-eighteenth century. It was really the total rejection of baroque and drew its influence from ancient Greece and Rome. Proportion and rules were suddenly all important.” Her hand made a vertical gesture in the air in front of her. My gaze was drawn to her slender fingers briefly before her words recalled me to myself, and I made eye contact again. “You get a lot of straight columns and pediments, like the front of Winter.” Precision and straight lines. It described Anna in every detail. That was what she was: perfectly Palladian. I held back a smile at my conclusion as she went on. “The sculptural aspects were reserved for statues, like in classical times.”

“That explains Phoebe then,” I replied.

“Phoebe?” She looked at me, bemused.

“The woman who looks like a Greek goddess on one side of the front steps.”

“She’s called Phoebe?” Anna raised her eyebrows, clearly unsure whether to laugh at me or be concerned for my mental health.

“I only talk to her occasionally.” I grinned, letting her know it was okay to be amused. I was relieved when she laughed lightly. It felt surprisingly good to smile with someone, though I’d never have thought on first meeting her that I’d be sharing a moment of mirth with Anna. I saw it as another piece of her icy barrier chipped away and felt a small sense of triumph that did wonders for my self-confidence. When Anna laughed, her lips parted slightly and her eyes narrowed and creased at the corners in one of the least beautiful expressions I could have imagined, but the sound she produced was one of musical proportions. I sensed that she did not laugh very often and felt privileged to share it with her.

The kettle whistled, and any further conversation was interrupted while I made the tea. “Do you like chocolate or carrot cake best?” I asked. It was suddenly much less important than it had been to me earlier. I was simply enjoying her company.

“I adore carrot cake,” she replied, in nothing less than a purr. I tried very hard to ignore the effect of that sound on my body. My temperature crept up by a few more degrees, and all of my senses were suddenly on edge.

“Excellent.” I cut large slices for us both and passed Anna hers. I was surprised at the speed with which she ate her cake, large forkfuls at a time. She struck me as a nibbler, not someone who would gulp down mouthfuls so quickly. Clearly appearances weren’t everything with Anna Everest. Such an intriguing package. I took a sip of tea to wash the cream cheese frosting from my mouth, as she cleaned the crumbs from her plate by squashing them between the tines of her fork.

“Were you hungry?” I was amused by the way she didn’t leave a morsel behind. “There’s more if you want.”

“No, I’m fine. It’s very good though.” She didn’t seem to notice my amusement at the way she had eaten her cake, and I didn’t want to embarrass her, so I went back to sipping my tea.

“So,” she began, after the silence had stretched a little longer than was comfortable, “you said you’d had a good look around and taken some notes.”

“Yes. I mean, I’m not an expert or anything, but I’m in a better position to talk about things now.” My confidence ebbed slightly as I proclaimed my new knowledge. I sensed Anna would always be better at taking the initiative in practical conversations than I was and decided not to say too much.

“I was thinking it might be a good idea to go room by room together and make sure we’re on the same page, and then—oh my God, are you all right?” Anna’s tone changed abruptly as my insubstantial camping stool chose that moment to collapse under my weight and send me sprawling onto the floor in front of her.

Biting back a groan of pain as my coccyx hit the hard tiles, it took me a moment to understand quite why I was sitting on the floor. I blinked, my heart thudding with surprise, and looked up into Anna’s concerned face. “Yes…or I think so at least.”

“Here, let me pull you up.” She got to her feet and grasped my forearm in a remarkably strong grip. Her fingers were cool against my warm skin, and the contact sent a shock all the way from the place she touched into my whole body. Anna was not someone who touched freely, and an invasion of her own clearly defined personal space was not something I would have been brave enough to try. Even her handshake had been shielded by leather. To suddenly feel her touch, to sense a temporary break in this invisible barrier, had a rather more powerful effect on me than I wanted or expected it to. I allowed her to help me to stand up. She dropped her hand from my arm as soon as I was upright.

“Thanks,” I said, not quite resuming eye contact. She didn’t reply, and I saw a flash of brief unease in her expression, as though she had realised something surprising. Puzzled by that, I decided it was safer to pretend I hadn’t noticed, so I inspected the ruins of the stool, which was clearly beyond repair. “I think it’s about time I found a shop to buy some proper chairs. Or ventured up to explore the attics properly. I’ve only had a quick look up there so far. Apparently there might be some old furniture locked away in one of the rooms, but I don’t seem to have a key for them all.”

“I have a set of spare keys for Winter,” Anna replied, her composure entirely restored. She put her little finger to her mouth and bit her nail thoughtfully. It made her suddenly so much more human. I smiled reflexively and was pleased she didn’t notice. “And better still, I have them with me, if you want to go up and try. The attic’s one of the main places I want to discuss with you anyway, since it will probably be the most radical change we make.”

I wasn’t surprised Anna would have a spare set of keys with her. I imagined her briefcase to be like Mary Poppins’s carpet bag—apparently bottomless and containing everything that could possibly be useful. And spending some more time with her, maybe discovering a little more of what lay underneath her frosty exterior, was an intriguing prospect. “Sounds like a plan to me,” I answered. “Do you want to head up there now?”

Anna found the keys in her briefcase, and we climbed the staircase side by side. I was excited, after my week of becoming uneasy friends with my house, to hear more of her opinions about the future of the place. I was sure she would be forthright and bring a wealth of experience and knowledge to the renovation. On the first floor, we went through the small door in the wood-panelled corridor which led to the servant’s stairs, which were the only way up to the attics. Apparently only the lowliest inhabitants of the house had ever had cause to go up there.

The stairs led to a large landing area. From this, one attic room led into another, whether you turned left or right. We were in the sloping roof of the house, and the small dormer windows I’d seen from the outside let in light. Shafts of winter sunshine pierced the dusty shadows. The walls here were of plain plaster, the floor basic floorboards. To the left was the east wing of the house. The last room in that direction was the best place to view the damage to the roof, where much of the ceiling had collapsed and daylight could actually be seen through the tiles. The floor there was decaying and the rot getting through to the ceiling and floor below. To the right were one open room and a locked door.

“Where’s the door you can’t open?” Anna asked. I noted that, although I was breathing a little harder from climbing the stairs, her voice betrayed no strain. I wondered what she did to keep fit. With a figure like hers, it was clearly something strenuous.

“To the right.” We walked, leaving smudged footprints in the dust, into the next room, and I gestured at the impassable locked door. “Of course we might find the skeletal remains of a long-dead lunatic cousin behind it,” I added, as we regarded it together.

“You remind me of Catherine Morland in Northanger Abbey.” Anna managed to make it sound like a genuine criticism.

“Sorry. Active imagination I guess. You like Jane Austen?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Anna had a unique intonation, giving me the impression I’d asked her a question with the most obvious answer in the world.

“I suppose,” I said, mildly surprised. She didn’t strike me as someone who would particularly enjoy reading of any kind, but I guessed Austen’s biting sarcasm would probably appeal to her. I decided to probe further. “I always wanted to be Lizzie Bennett myself,” I said. “I guess most girls do when they read Pride and Prejudice.”

“I wanted to be Mr. Darcy,” she replied nonchalantly, as though there was nothing unexpected in her words, and certainly no joke. I narrowed my eyes slightly but could think of no suitable response. Anna was such a conundrum.  I wondered what else she did and didn’t like, in reading and life in general. She was so infuriatingly intriguing. I began to see that a lot more lay below her controlled surface, just waiting to be discovered. I grew uncomfortably conscious that part of me wanted to be the one to uncover her secrets.

I glanced at her as she looked down at the keys in her hand and at the keyhole below the handle of the door. Despite the measured lack of excitement in her tone, I could see she was almost as curious as I was to discover what, if anything, lay behind this door. Her glasses had slipped low on her small nose as she peered down at the key in her hand. She straightened, pushing them back into place, wrinkling her nose slightly as she did so. The movement was girlish and unaffected, and combined with the determination with which she looked back at the door, all of her illusion of professionalism and lack of interest was dislodged. I saw the woman she was and the girl she had been in one arresting moment, and my heart stuttered.

“I think this might be the one.” She held up one of the keys. I was thankful she remained ignorant of the sudden emotion that gripped me and which I now forced myself to struggle against.

“Give it a go.” I watched eagerly as she stepped towards the door. The key was small and not at all rusted. She gripped it in those slender, short-nailed fingers. They were the sort of fingers that I knew would be talented. She could draw, that was a must of her career. Her handshake was firm to the point of crushing. I would have bet she played the piano, but it seemed an odd question to ask of her at that moment. Overwhelmed by an unaccountable urge to take her hand in mine and stroke those fingers, hold them to me and feel what their soft tips were like against my face, my stomach tightened and I felt my pulse in a lower place where I’d thought I wouldn’t feel anything for a long time. Thank goodness Anna was too intent on trying to fit the key into the lock to pay me and my turbulent feelings any attention.

She eased the key in carefully. It slid into the hole without a problem, then she paused and turned to smile slightly at me. I hoped my face didn’t look as hot as it felt. “Moment of truth,” she said, turning the key. Her eyes lingered on mine, and uneasy with the direct nature of her gaze, I dropped mine to her hand. I saw her fingertips turn white as she strained against the aged stiffness of the mechanism, but after a moment, there was a loud click and the key turned.

“Well done,” I said enthusiastically, “you were right first time.”

Her pale cheeks had turned just a shade pinker. She looked happier and my answering smile was not just because she’d unlocked the door. She brushed a strand of hair back behind her ear and looked pleased with herself, though not quite smug. “It’s your house, you should open the door.” She took a step back and gestured with an outstretched hand.

“Very gallant of you.” I put my hand on the cold metal of the handle and turned, pushing the door at the same time. Though the handle seemed to work, the door didn’t budge, it simply creaked at me.

“It can’t still be locked,” I said, puzzled. “Maybe it really is a secret chamber and we need a password or something.”

Anna rolled her eyes, but looked mildly amused this time. “You can try open sesame if you want. But be quick, before the wicked count comes and discovers us trying to access the room where he’s disposed of his wife’s corpse.”

Her mouth twitched. I stared at her briefly, astonished by her words, and couldn’t help but laugh. Her smile flickered and grew until it made her eyes dance. Such a compelling smile. “Or maybe the wood is warped and it’s just stuck against the frame,” she said practically. Her smile faded as she focused on the door again, eyes scanning the frame. I was surprised by her insistence when she took my arm and physically moved me out of the way. Again, the moment of contact with her, entirely functional and meaningless as it was, had a far more powerful effect on me than it warranted. I balled my sticky hands into fists and moved to the side without a word of protest, my throat too tight to speak.

“I think if we apply enough force, it’ll give,” she said, trying the handle and pushing slightly, seeming to confirm her assessment. If she’d noticed the effect she was creating in me she showed no sign of it. Could she really be that unobservant? Or was she choosing to ignore it? I made an effort to compose myself.

“Shall we push together then?” I asked.

“Just let me have a go first.” Her expression said she wasn’t a woman who would let a challenge defeat her, however insignificant.

To my astonishment, Anna stepped back from the door and unfastened the buttons of her suit jacket. She shrugged her way out of it and handed it to me. I took it dumbly and stared quizzically at her.

“The door’s dusty and the jacket is more expensive to launder than the shirt,” she explained.

“Of course,” I replied, looking at the jacket as if I’d never seen one before. The garment was warm from the heat of her body as I gripped it. I tried not to dwell on that warmth, but my palms and fingertips tingled. The grey woollen material was clearly incredibly fine quality. I caught the smell of Tabac Blond again: that masculine undertone of leather, the sensuality of creamy vanilla, and the dangerously forbidden hint of smoky tobacco. I barely ever wore perfumes myself, partly in an attempt to set myself apart from the artificial potions of my beautician mother, but mostly because I never felt comfortable with a complex scent on my skin. When I suspected a perfume had been chosen specifically by its wearer, however, I loved what it told you about that person. Anna smelled of the best of the scents I’d discovered amongst the many glass bottles on my mother’s dressing table as a child. And the most expensive. I had to fight not to raise her jacket to my face and inhale deeply. The perfume combined perfectly with the lingering essence of Anna herself in the fabric.

“You wear Tabac Blond,” I said, unable to resist remarking on my recognition of the fragrance.

Anna turned to look at me, and I enjoyed her surprised expression. “You can name a perfume from one sniff?” She raised a questioning eyebrow.

“It’s one of my hidden talents.”

“I look forward to discovering some of the others.”

I froze with a stupid fixed smile at her words. Had this stunning and outwardly glacial woman just hinted that she would like to know more about me? And in tones so smooth the words virtually trickled from her mouth? She maintained eye contact, not apparently trying to convey anything, simply watching me. No one had ever watched me in that way before. I felt dizzy. “Was I right?” I managed to say in the end, trying to keep the conversation on the perfume before my face revealed my confusion and my intrigue.

“About my perfume?” Anna’s smile was teasing. She knew the effect of her words I was sure. But what game was she playing with me? How on earth did I learn the rules of it? Was it even a good idea to try to find out?

“Yes. Is it Tabac Blond?” The conversation was back on safe territory even if my emotions were fluttering wildly, trying to settle only to be agitated again.

“Yes,” she said, and it sounded like a question, not an answer, as though she was asking what conclusions I had drawn about her from her perfume. I could have said it was a very androgynous, even masculine scent, an unusual choice. I could have said it was the scent of a strong, liberated, classy woman. I could have impressed her with my knowledge of women’s cultural history—a focus of mine at university—and told her it was created by Caron in 1919 as a result of the vogue for smoking among glamorous young American women just after the World War I. I could simply have told her I found the scent incredibly attractive, and I wanted to press myself close to her skin and inhale it warm, from her body, the way all perfumes should be experienced.

“I’ve always liked it.” I chose my understatement carefully. “But it’s pricey stuff.” Anna raised her eyebrows and her smile was almost condescending, but not quite. Everything she did seemed calculated to tease me. Knowing I’d clearly lost all good judgement—she was, after all, married—I tried very hard to listen to her words without interpreting her facial gestures. Now her lips twitched as though she was going to laugh.

“I suppose I’m a pricey woman.” She turned from me and I watched, astonished as her face quickly grew impassive once more. She was maddening to talk to, to flirt with. To flirt with? Was this flirting? I had no business flirting with anyone at this point in my life. But nothing could stop my heart beating just that little bit faster.

I watched her now, in her blue-striped shirt sleeves, as she tried the handle of the door one more time. The sleeves were long, with large turned-back cuffs secured by silver cuff links. Tailored close to her slim body, the shirt was tucked into a black leather belt at her waist. I followed the lines of her body lower, and couldn’t help but appreciate the way the quality fabric caressed the slight curve of her buttocks. I tightened my lips together and worked to ignore the throb low in my body.

Having failed to open the door conventionally once more, Anna twisted slightly sideways and braced her shoulder against it. She turned the handle and pushed with her whole body, this time bending her knees and straining hard. I watched, fascinated, wondering whether I should try to help and feeling quite useless that I could not. When she must have felt the door budge slightly, she rolled back on her feet and flung herself, shoulder first, at the door. It gave way with a loud screech of wood against wood, and Anna fell forwards into the room.

I simply stared, astonished and impressed. Then I came to my senses and went to investigate if Anna had hurt herself. She was in the middle of the opened room, brushing dust from her arms and not apparently injured. The only real evidence of having just won the battle with the door was the vaguely dishevelled state of her hair and her slightly irregular breathing.

“That was pretty impressive,” I told her.

“Do you think so?”

“I couldn’t shift it on my own.” I was unable to work out if she was being modest or sarcastic. Did she want me to be impressed? I wished she was easier to read. “You must be stronger than you look. Do you go to the gym or something?” I didn’t disguise my brief glance over her figure since it seemed appropriate to my observations. Part of me wanted her to notice me looking, just so I could see her reaction.

The shadow of a smile tightened her lips at my interest. I wondered again what she was thinking. “I do go to the gym now and again, but I find it bores me,” she said.  “I practice tae kwon do several times a week, which helps build strength. I also swim, but that’s mainly for fitness.”

“Wow, martial arts?” I was genuinely impressed and interested. “That explains it then.” The discipline required for martial arts clearly came naturally to her. I could see her in a white uniform, hair tied back but a few strands coming loose, the black belt—which she would undoubtedly have achieved—tied tight around her waist. “I used to play tennis,” I said, so that she didn’t think I was entirely inactive and to divert my thoughts from further picturing Anna involved in physical exercise. “Not so much lately. I’m not a fan of the gym either.” Common ground, that had to be a good thing. It would be necessary if I was going to work with her in the future. Not for any other reason.

“I played mixed doubles for my school,” she said, indulging my interest in the one sport I was good at. “I had a mean double-handed backhand.” I should have predicted she’d be good at it too. I wondered if there was anything she was bad at. It would be a fun challenge to find out.

“I played doubles myself. I was known for my down-the-line serves,” I replied, unable to resist a little boasting of my own. “So we’d probably be a good team.” I decided to take a risk. “Though, if I’m honest, I think the main reason I played was that it was a good way of meeting girls.”

I waited for a reaction. Anna’s eyes showed she registered my words and their implications. That spectre of a smile flickered over her mouth again, but otherwise she was inscrutable. She gave no sign of surprise at least. Taken aback by her complete lack of response, I faltered and found myself smiling stupidly at my own light-hearted comment. How could she not react? What the hell was she thinking?

“Well, it looks like you’ve found some chairs at least.” She gestured to the collection of old furniture that was piled against the wall opposite the windows. I wasn’t sure what to make of the change of subject, but whatever reason she had for backing out of that conversation, I had enough sense not to press and make her uncomfortable. We were going to have to work together. The restoration of Winter would also give us a long time to get to know each other. Why rush that now? I turned my attention to the furniture. At once I wondered when this room had been locked and how old the furniture was, since it looked very old indeed. A white sheet was draped over one part of the heap of dark wood, but the rest was exposed and dull with dust and cobwebs. Despite the build-up of dust, I was excited to make out a set of six beautiful dining chairs, with elegantly curving feet, their crimson upholstery still intact. An old armchair with a huge winged back, upholstered in mustard brocade, showed signs of age but appeared redeemable.

“That looks Edwardian to me,” Anna said, approaching the chair. “Possibly a little later. Those dining chairs are Victorian, I would say. They’re too fancy to be Georgian.”

“You know about antiques too?” I was no longer remotely surprised at her expertise. Again I wondered if there was anything she didn’t know something about.

“Not so much,” she admitted, and I admired her honesty. “It’s just an occupational hazard really. Spend a lot of time in old houses and you’ll pick up a lot of knowledge about styles of the interiors and furniture, as well as the architecture.”

“It must be fascinating.”

“It is.” She flashed that smile at me again. “I have to admit to being lucky enough to love my job.” Her attention was diverted from me as one piece of furniture caught her eye. “Oh, look at this bureau! Now this is classic Regency design. It’s mahogany, and you see this Greek-style pattern here? So simple and linear. It was such an elegant time.” She actually sighed with pleasure. I understood in that moment, complex as Anna appeared, her pleasures were really rather simple and not hidden as well as some of her emotions seemed to be.

“It’s that old?” I asked, running my hand over the dusty writing surface of the bureau.

“I’d say so. Since Winter’s been here since the early seventeen-fifties, we shouldn’t be surprised really. There’s some damage, which is probably why it was left behind, but there’s a good restorer in Durham I can put you in touch with.” Anna’s fingers briefly caressed the places where the wood was wounded. An instant later I became aware we were both stroking the bureau at the same time. I felt an odd connection with her, which rapidly grew uncomfortable, ravaged as I was by my confused emotions. I removed my hand from the bureau but kept my eyes on the places her fingers touched.

“I quite like the damage.” I said reflectively. “It’s like battle scars, or the traces of the people who used it before. It reminds you that Winter wasn’t always empty and derelict. There were living, breathing people here, laughing, crying, dreaming— ”

“Damaging the furniture.” I grinned at the way she killed my romantic ramblings and was delighted when she matched my mirth with another smile that reached all the way to her eyes. “For an academic historian—a teacher—you seem very inclined towards a romantic view of history.” I felt my cheeks colour at her interest in me, and her accurate judgement.

“I suppose I am,” I replied. “And I don’t apologise for it. I know the truth of it all, of course. But I fell in love with history when I was a child because of that sense of connection, of someone having lived and loved in the same space as I’m living now. Maybe they even felt some of the same things as me.”

Anna smiled and her eyes were soft now, regarding me with more apparent contemplation than she had before. “You teach your pupils that view of history?”

I laughed lightly. “No way. I taught them to remember dates and about cause and consequence. I grabbed their interest with the grisly facts and smashed all signs of them getting romantic about it to pieces.”

“It doesn’t sound like teaching history is really what you want it to be.” I was impressed by her insight and flattered she’d paid enough attention to form it.

“No.” I looked into her eyes and felt safe enough to reveal a little more. “That’s why I got out of it.”

“You got out of it?”

“Yeah. Before I even knew Winter Manor existed. I just knew it wasn’t the job for me. I thought I liked it, but then stuff happened—”

“Stuff?” Anna’s enquiry was more gentle than I would have expected. Could she see the pain the memories stirred in me?

“It’s a long story.” I wasn’t quite ready to share it yet. “But the conclusion of it was that I took time to think about whether I really wanted to be a teacher. And I don’t. I wasn’t totally sure what I was going to do next. But it wasn’t teaching.”

Anna nodded. I was astounded at how easily she’d drawn the confidence from me. I’d not intended to tell her anything about my situation quite so soon. But her expression was mild, and I sensed no judgement. Maybe Anna didn’t expect everyone to be as professional and apparently career-minded as she was. I was wrong to assume she would. I appreciated deeply that she had the tact not to press further.

“And then Winter came along?” she asked, clearly looking for the conclusion of the tale.

“Yep. Completely out of the blue.”

“Must have been a shock.”

“It was. But I’m just starting to understand what a good sort of shock,” I replied, with a smile I hoped included her. I wanted her to know I already thought meeting her was one of the good consequences of my inheritance of Winter.

When she said nothing further, looking actually a little lost for words, I turned to the white sheet covering some of the other objects closer to the corner of the room. I wanted to know what was under it, and the time for any further personal revelations had apparently passed for now. I took a step towards the sheet. Then I realised I still had Anna’s jacket folded over my left arm.

“Oh, here you go, I forgot I was holding it.” I offered it back to her with some reluctance. Holding on to it had been a sort of connection between us. I watched her slip it back on.

“I want to know what’s under that,” she said, gesturing towards the bulging sheet.

“Come on then, so do I,” I said, enjoying sharing the moment of curious suspense with her. “But if it’s a body, we’ll just put the sheet back and forget about it, agreed?”

“Absolutely,” she replied.

We pulled the dusty sheet away from the pieces it concealed and let it drop to the floor. Underneath were a table, once clearly French polished, which was obviously meant to go with the dining chairs; a chest with what looked like rosewood inlays on the fronts of the drawers; a low footstool with a moss-green velvet cushion; and a trunk covered in brown leather. On top of the trunk rested a small chest. I looked at it more closely, somehow more drawn to that than anything else in the collection.

“It’s a Victorian writing chest,” Anna told me, noticing where my interest was focused. “If you look inside you’ll find places for ink, pens, and paper, possibly a blotter and sealing wax too.”

I reached for the chest. It was made of dark wood, with a design in brass on the lid. Just below the clasp were two letters, also inset in brass: M.G. “I wonder if they’re the initials of the person who it was made for.”

“Most likely I’d say,” Anna said. “It looks like a lady’s to me.”

I opened the lid, trying to imagine what the owner of such an item would have been like. Was she rich? Was she born at Winter, or did she marry a man who lived here? Would we be friends if she was to walk into the attics now and introduce herself? M.G. What was her name? Margaret? Mary?

Inside the box, lined with dark blue velvet, we found a crystal inkwell, a set of three pens and nibs, and a tablet of sealing wax. There was a space for paper and for the blotter Anna had predicted. I took the inkwell and held it up to the beam of light shining through the dormer window. The cut crystal glittered perfectly, though a slight residue inside suggested it had once been in use.

“That’s a very fine piece,” Anna said knowledgeably. “You should get it valued.”

“I wouldn’t sell it though,” I said, balking at the idea. “I’m guessing it’s been here for over a hundred years. It would feel like I was betraying someone if I sold it.”

“For insurance at least then,” she replied sensibly. I liked the way she looked at me as though she really understood why I wouldn’t sell the writing case.

“Yes, for the insurance.” I knew she was right.

“Do you want a hand moving some of these chairs downstairs?” Anna asked then, shattering my reflective mood.

I tucked the inkwell back into its place in the chest. “Oh no, it’s okay. I’ve got nothing better to do over the next few days, I might as well spend an hour or so moving chairs.” I couldn’t imagine Anna, in her tailored suit, helping me move dusty furniture. She’d already virtually broken down a door for me—there was only so much I could demand of her in one day. “Besides, it’s more important that we talk about your plans for the house. Tell me what you were thinking for the attics.”

Anna’s expression became instantly professional, but with enough eagerness that it was not a disappointment to see the architect return. “Well, it’s unusual to have a house of this pedigree with only two storeys. It feels like it should have a third floor, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” I said, though I’d not thought about it up until she mentioned it.

“And I’m going to assume you don’t need to use the attics as servants’ quarters—”

“No, I’ll keep the maids in the cellar.” Anna’s face showed a brief flash of amusement, but it did not reach her voice. I decided Anna the architect wasn’t quite as ready to joke as Anna the woman. I wondered how she kept the two so separate.

“You already have the dormer windows too. Normally, in listed properties, converting the attics into living space can be a problem because of the need to put in windows or sky-lights, which of course alter the way the property looks from the outside. But I don’t think you’ll have any problems with planning permission if you want to convert this to bedrooms.”

“More bedrooms?”

“Or whatever sort of rooms you want. An office or a home gym. Up to you.”

“I’m not used to this sort of space. And it’s not like I’ve got a huge family living with me.”

“You don’t need to plan every detail now. And anyway, we’ll have to fix the problem in the east wing first. Shall we go and take a look?” Anna set off in that direction before I had a chance to answer. I followed in her wake, watching the way her hair swayed slightly as she strode across the landing and into the rooms on the other side, tracing the lines of her slender shoulders, the linear jacket. I felt my hands grow sticky and an undefined ache build deep inside me.