In the Shadow of Winter: A gripping historical novel with murder, secrets and forbidden love. Lorna Gray
my night had since faded to become a more reasonable judgement with the morning. So much so in fact, that upon opening the living room door to the predictable discovery that I still had a houseguest, I believe I simply felt a vague sense of relief that the telltale smudges were harmlessly out of sight. They were well concealed by the thick rolls of excess wool at my wrists – this was one of the better results of wearing hand-me-down clothing – and at least now I could be sure that not only would Freddy not see the marks and upset himself, but, almost as importantly, I would avoid the unhappy experience of provoking belated attention from him.
Not that there was presently very much danger of anybody being provoked into anything, whether admissions or otherwise. Matthew was asleep.
He was still lying on my settee, his feet hanging off the end in sleeping disarray, and as I drifted silently past the back of his chair, it was impossible not to give in to the daring burst of curiosity that prompted me to pause and examine him.
His mouth was hanging slightly open as he breathed steadily and his relaxed features had softened through sleep to a gentle harmlessness that was a world away from the waking man who showed the taut pallor of exhaustion and a stark tension in every gesture. His expressive face, although currently drawn and rather grey, held a defined structure and pleasing jaw that were undeniably engaging and beneath the disguise of stubble and vagrancy, he still possessed something of his old appeal. Infuriatingly, he did not seem to have had the good grace to prove that my youthful attraction had been nothing more than a figment of my romantic imagination and for a moment I found that, where his short sandy hair was ruffled by vulnerable sleep, I actually had to resist the urge to stroke it back into place.
He moved, only a brief dreaming shift of his cheek on its cushion, but it sharply reawakened me to an unpleasant fluttering of doubts and apprehension as he settled once more, perfectly unaware of my interested scrutiny.
He was thinner than he should have been, much thinner than a few days of this unexplained drama could justify and it both worried and frustrated me that I knew nothing about what might have happened to make him become like this. The shock of his injuries might well serve as a justification for his present loss of charm – not that his charm could still have any effect on me anyway – but even so it didn’t seem sufficient to explain how he had altered in the years since we had last met to become tougher and far more remote than even I would have expected. What had changed in him; what wartime tragedy had turned the gentle young man of my teens into this…this lean stranger?
I sighed inwardly and moved to step away but as I turned, something stirred in the folds of the blanket. Transfixed, I watched as a dark shape moved languorously and separated itself from the shadows.
Meow it said, before lithely leaping over the back of the settee and dashing across the kitchen floor into the small dairy and its shadowy corners beyond. My hand went to my throat in a classic pose of shock and I felt a powerful wave of hysterical laughter rise within me. A cat! Of all the things I had imagined being somehow associated with the turmoil in my mind, one of the half-wild farm cats was not what I had expected. It had obviously sneaked in to seek warmth in the night and I wondered if I was going a little strange myself, given my determination to live like a character from a horror story.
Shaking my head and silently berating myself, I lit the stove and put the kettle on. There was a great pile of washed crockery on the drainer and I tried to put it away quietly so that it wouldn’t wake the sleeping man. I would, I knew, have to re-dress his wounds today – it really ought to have been done yesterday – and so a certain level of interaction was inescapable, but if I could just manage to get breakfast out of the way without having to speak to him, I would be a very happy woman.
“Good morning.”
I gave a startled squeak and nearly dropped the cups and sugar bowl onto the sideboard. Hastily collecting them together again and feeling strangely like I had been caught in the middle of a guilty act, I took a deep breath, and turned.
Clearly a master of stealth given that I had been moving quietly myself, Matthew was standing by the settee, looking pale, tired and wearing nothing but the tattered trousers that had been drying in front of the fire and the bandages across his chest. To my immense relief, he looked calm and perfectly lucid, although slightly annoyed as if it irritated him that in his weakness, he had allowed me to observe him while he lay in unguarded sleep.
Who could be after him, I wondered; what had happened to make even sleeping a risk? I carefully avoided noticing the lean fitness of his stomach and upper arms and instead set my face into a concentrated frown.
“Sit down,” I said in a voice that betrayed me by squeaking. I tried again, finally managing to sound much more convincingly detached and stern. “What can I get for you? Tea? Toast?”
Amusement had flickered behind his eyes at my tone but then, as if to mask the brief spark of old familiarity, the faint lift of his mouth swiftly contracted into a flat line; although this might have been from the sudden discomfort as he settled uneasily into a dining chair.
“Some clothes would be nice, then I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Really?” My surprise came out in another squeak that this time I think I managed to successfully conceal as a cough. My delight was palpable, however, and I couldn’t help that the powerful sense of release at his announcement of an imminent departure was making me seem suddenly very cheerful.
“Clothes I can do,” I said brightly and had to concentrate very hard on not smiling.
I experienced a faint feeling of something like conscience as I laid out breakfast and then climbed the stairs to rummage through my father’s things. Dragging out a pile of old jumpers, I went through them until I found one which was relatively unworn and would probably fit Matthew’s rather longer arms. He was lucky; there were still a few shirts left too and, pulling out the two that had escaped either the moths or being altered to fit me, I collected them up into a neat little pile and then shoved the drawers shut again. Unusually, the muted click of wood on wood was repeated by a louder, sharper slam of the front door.
As was apparently becoming the norm for me, I instantly gave a guilty start of surprise and very nearly dropped the stack of folded clothes. Somehow I managed to snatch them back again and barely able to believe that he would leave before I had even properly equipped him for the snow, I hurried, with trailing sleeves flapping madly about me, out of my room, across the narrow landing and down into the gloom of the stairs.
And ran straight into Matthew just as he was stealing silently up them.
He put out a hand to steady me. Knocked out of all restraint by relief and the pain of our collision, I drew a shaky breath to laugh and to tell him about it but before I could even speak a word, I found myself being curtly hushed.
His authoritative grip on my arm made me draw breath in a different way as he leaned in to whisper in my ear.
“Someone’s here,” he hissed. “Get rid of them.”
I shot him a foul look to hide my shock at the unpleasantness of both his tone and his closeness. Then, thrusting the clothes carelessly at his chest, I shook off his hand and marched with perfect icy hauteur down to the door at the foot of the stairs. It only occurred to me as I was closing my fingers over the handle that the rough edge to his temper might not have been entirely without cause, depending on what I found on the other side.
There was suddenly every temptation to turn tail and run upstairs to hide with him, and I very nearly did so. But then a woman’s muffled voice hallooed through the living room wall and I recognised the invasion for what it was; just another harmless example of that comforting time-honoured custom that country people have of walking straight in and out of other people’s houses, usually in time for tea.
I carefully put my face in order, and opened the door.
Mrs Ford was slightly older than I was, married, and took this as an excuse to be a bit superior and a little snooty. For all her airs I liked her though, and with half my mind still centred on my own concerns, I wondered what was worrying her. She was hovering just inside the kitchen and clutching