Whispers in the Snow

by Jessica Blair

Genres: Sagas; Romance Anthologies & Collections; Historical Romance

Synopsis

A gorgeous Christmas novella from enchanting saga author Jessica Blair . . . December 1964. Kate Slater has been brought up in London by an Aunt who she has always called Mum because she never knew her mother and father. Two years after her Aunt dies, Kate receives a letter from a solicitor in Lincolnshire, telling her that if she contacts him in person she could learn something which might be to her advantage. Kate has never been north of London and does not relish heading to Lincolnshire especially as snow has been forecast. She is inclined to ignore the letter, but something or someone ushers her to head there. Kate learns from the solicitor that she has been left a property by an Aunt she never knew existed. She is taken to inspect the cottage. It is in bad repair, isolated, near an old wartime airfield. Kate's immediate reaction is to sell it and return to London. But then the whisperings of ghosts grow stronger and urge Kate to stay. This short story from saga author Jessica Blair is the perfect tonic for winter . . .

Release date: December 4, 2014

Publisher: Piatkus

Print pages: 96

Sample

The shrill bell of my bedside clock woke me. It was the same every day: I was tempted to switch it off, pull the blankets around me, snuggle in and go back to sleep, but I couldn’t; it was the start of another day.

I stopped the unwelcome noise, turned the bedclothes back and swung out of bed into a cold December morning. There was no sitting on the edge of the bed contemplating what the day might bring. I poked my feet into my slippers, always strategically placed for this entrance into a new day. I swung my bathrobe round my shoulders and headed for the bathroom, pausing only to peep between the curtains to catch a glimpse of what the London weather might have in store for me.

The street lights showed roofs and road touched by a thin coating of white that I hoped would soon be dispersed by a sun struggling to put hope into my heart. If it could it would be a blessing; this afternoon I would be heading north to Lincolnshire, into a land I did not know, nor had ever thought about.

I dressed quickly, choosing knitted wool stockings and flat walking shoes to contest the cold and the unknown territory. I figured my mohair and wool tweed skirt and country jacket would keep me warm in the chilly north.

As I ate my breakfast I wondered what Aunt Mavis would have made of this intrusion into my twenty-one-year-old life.

I never knew my mother and father; they died when I was so young that I have no recollection of them. They are like a photograph that, through some mishap, was never developed properly. Such a photograph would soon be forgotten – it was like that with my mother and father; they have never been there.

I was brought up by my mother’s sister, my Aunt Mavis, who had a very good civilian job with the Air Ministry in London, one she obtained during the war. I know she was highly thought of. Sadly she died two years ago, in 1964.

I had a very pleasant life; she was kindness itself but she was careful not to spoil me. I was always well clothed and well cared for. She gave me freedom and encouraged the companionship of my workmates.

She gave me love, but, as I grew into my teens, I sensed it lacked a deeper spark that could have turned an aunt’s love into a mother’s love. I never broached the subject; I never allowed it to surface because I knew if I did it would break my aunt’s heart. Besides it would have been mean to challenge her about secrets I realised she was keeping, and I had always taken notice of the whisperings: ‘Some day you will know.’ I wondered if I would because when my aunt died she took with her what secrets she held.

In her last moments I could not bring myself to press her about my mother and father; it would have been unkind.

She died of cancer, which had been diagnosed a year previously. She faced the inevitable courageously when told nothing more could be done for her and died peacefully after bidding me, ‘Don’t mourn for me; I have had a good life, enjoyed it and had the privilege of having you for my daughter.’

When my aunt’s will was placed before me I found I was a very rich young lady. She had left me everything: a considerable bank balance, her house and of course I also had my beautiful flat which she had bought in my name. After I discovered all this, I sat quietly one evening in the silence of my main room and thanked my aunt for the life she had given me and for what she had laid out in her will. Then I thought about what I might do.

I had done reasonably well in most subjects at school but shone at art, in particular drawing, which, after all, is the basis of any art. It led to my job with an expanding graphic-arts firm that was building up a team of young art-skilled people who could generate new ideas appropriate to the Swinging Sixties.

Presently we are eight, four of each gender. We get on exceedingly well and enjoy London life. We rotate our pairing-off but gradually we have tended to sort ourselves out with the same partner on particular outings.

I generally finish up with Roger. He’s the same age as me and we get on reasonably well. He’s fun but a bit full of himself, possibly because he’s a rich kid, spoiled by rich parents.

I turned my situation over in my mind once again and concluded that, even with money, I would continue working; after all, I wanted to keep occupied and I liked my job. I could remain as I was and let things take their own course.

So. . .