The Frozen Lake: A gripping novel of family and wartime secrets. Elizabeth Edmondson
line. ‘You know Mrs Lambert, I see.’
‘She’s a cousin.’ He could tell that although the mistress was pleased to have a positive identification for him as the genuine article and not a brotherly impostor, she didn’t altogether approve of the vivacious and elegant Lucy Lambert.
‘Very well, Perdita,’ said Miss Hartness. ‘You may go.’
‘Merry Christmas, Miss Hartness.’
He urged Perdita along, as she called out farewells and seasonal good wishes to friends and teachers. ‘Buck up, old girl. We’ve a long drive back to Westmoreland.’
‘Is it true?’ she asked. ‘Is the lake frozen?’
‘Not yet, but Riggs says the frost will hold, and if it does, the lake should freeze from north to south and east to west.’
‘Freeze over completely? I do hope it does, I long for it, every year, but it never happens. Will I be able to skate across to the island?’
‘Certainly you will, and from one end to the other if it freezes as hard as it did last time.’
‘When was that?’
‘The winter before you were born.’ He took her arm again. ‘It seems a long time ago, and here you are, a young lady.’
‘Just a schoolgirl. Not a young lady, sadly.’
‘Why not a young lady?’ They had reached the west door and were out in the cold air. There was the unmistakable smell of coal fires; the jumble of houses along Stonegate and Petergate each had a column of smoke rising into a cloudless sky.
‘It’s all right for schoolgirls to look like I do. For young ladies, it’s hopeless.’
He caught the note of despair behind her even tones.
‘You look very nice to me, old thing.’
‘You’re my brother, you’re used to me. But anyone else would just think, awkward, overgrown schoolgirl.’
‘Who else?’
‘Oh, everyone,’ said Perdita. She changed the subject. ‘Where have you parked the car?’
‘In St Helen’s Square. Not far. Where’s your overnight case?’
‘Our suitcases are all lined up on the pavement beside the motor coaches, over there. Where shall we lunch?’
‘I thought we’d stop at the Fox and Hounds. They do a decent meal there, and I expect you’re hungry.’
They drove north through Boroughbridge and on to the Great North Road. It was cold inside Edwin’s car, and white puffy clouds began to drift across the sky as the easterly wind strengthened.
‘Plenty of snow on the ground already.’ Perdita was glad of the rug that Edwin had tucked around her. She huffed on her fingers to warm them. ‘Is the road clear?’
‘It was yesterday, and it hasn’t snowed seriously for two or three days.’
‘Did you take any photographs on the way?’
‘A few. The light was very strange in the early afternoon, just before dusk. Very clear, good contrasts.’
They sat at a table in front of a roaring log fire at the inn and ate hearty platefuls of ham and leek pie. They were the only customers apart from a couple of local shepherds, and the landlord, a burly man with bushy eyebrows, had time to chat. ‘Blowing up for a bit of a storm, I reckon. Best not linger if you’ve far to go.’
‘Westmoreland,’ said Perdita, scraping the last spoonful of custard from her pudding plate.
Edwin got up from the table, pulling it out so that Perdita could get past. He settled the bill and they bid the landlord and his customers a cheerful goodbye before going out to face the blast of the wind, now blowing from the north-east. It sent flurries of snow dancing around the yard of the inn as Edwin opened the car door for Perdita. He wiped the settling flakes from the windscreen and the small rear window before getting in and coaxing the car back into life.
After a few miles, the skies lightened, and the snow petered out, leaving paths of smooth, unbroken whiteness among the boulders and rocky places. Where the snow lay sparsely, the tough moorland sheep, fleeces thick with ice and snow, searched for tufts to tear away and chew briskly as they eyed the car driving past on the narrow, winding road. There were few other vehicles. They passed a farm cart, the big shire horse placing his huge hooves with care on the uneven surface, his back protected from snow by an old blanket the carter had thrown over him. The driver sat under a battered felt hat, shoulders hunched against the cold, reins bunched in a mittened hand. He gave them a slow salute as he pulled to one side to let them through. A post van came the other way, acknowledging the presence of other people in this desolate place with a cheery hoot of his horn.
Perdita was stiff and very cold by the time they reached Sedburgh, and thankful when her brother suggested they might stop. ‘We can stretch our legs a bit.’
‘You mean you want to take some photographs,’ she said. She scrambled out of the car and stood stamping her feet as she blew on numb fingers.
‘Just the street here, with the dusk coming on, and lights showing in the windows.’
‘A long exposure job,’ said Perdita, who liked to help her brother with his work. ‘Have you got a tripod in the car?’
‘On the back seat.’
The locals went to and fro about their business with hardly a second glance at him as he set up his apparatus. One or two stopped to greet him, and the vicar halted his striding steps for a few minutes’ chat. ‘You’ll need chains further on,’ he said as he went on his way.
Perdita didn’t ask if Edwin had chains. Born and bred in the north, she took cold winters and blocked passes for granted; any driver who ventured out at this time of year without a set of chains tucked away inside the boot was asking for trouble. Edwin would have a shovel, too, and a powerful torch tucked into a pair of gumboots thrust down behind the driver’s seat.
Perdita craned her neck to catch a view of the sky from the car window. It was clear now, and the first stars were out. The car’s powerful lamps cast long beams on to the freezing surface of the road. As the road climbed again, the snow lay more thickly, and they stopped the car to put on chains. From then on it was a snail’s pace journey, snow giving way to stretches of treacherous ice, other icy patches covered by a concealing cover of windblown snow.
‘Grandmama will be cross,’ said Perdita, peering at her wristwatch. ‘We’ll barely be home by eight o’clock.’
‘Late running service in the Minster, heavy snow on the way,’ Edwin said.
‘And no stopping here and there to take photographs. Don’t worry, I shan’t say anything. She’ll blame me, in any case, if we’re late; she always does. Could we have had a puncture?’
‘I did, on the way to York.’
‘There you are, then.’
‘And dinner on the dot or no dinner, I’m not doing anything until I’ve had a hot bath.’
‘You’ll have not to potter,’ warned Perdita, as they finally turned in through the gates of the drive that wound up to the front of the house. She was never sure whether this was the way she liked the house best, a shadowy, gaunt shape, with its improbable crenellations and towers outlined against a starry sky, lights shining out from a few of the large stone windows. Mostly, they were dark, with heavy curtains within keeping the light in and the cold out. A daytime arrival had its own, different charm, revealing the vast array of arches and the ornate details of carving on door and window surrounds. Sir Henry’s grandfather had built the house to his own design after a lengthy visit to the continent, where the Renaissance palaces and Bavarian castles had impressed him equally.
The front door was opening as they drew up, light spilled out on to