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After the Snow: A gorgeous Christmas story to curl up with this winter 2018!
Susannah Constantine
‘A modern day Nancy Mitford.’ Sir Elton John‘Fans of Downton Abbey will love this.’ Davina McCallChristmas morning, 1969.All eleven-year-old Esme Munroe wants for Christmas is for her mother to be on one of her ‘good’ days – and, secretly, for a velvet riding hat. So when she finds an assortment of wet towels and dirty plates in her stocking, she’s just relieved Father Christmas remembered to stop at The Lodge this year.But later that day Esme’s mother disappears in the heavy snow. Even more mysteriously, only the Earl of Culcairn seems to know where she might have gone. Torn between protecting her mother and uncovering the secrets tumbling out of Culcairn Castle’s ornate closets, Esme realises that life will never be the same again after the snow…Susannah Constantine provides a rare glimpse into the secret lives of the scandalous upper classes. Perfect for fans of Downton Abbey and The Crown.
SUSANNAH CONSTANTINE is a television presenter and journalist. She lives in West Sussex with her husband and three children. She has co-written nine non-fiction books with Trinny Woodall. After the Snow is her debut novel.
Copyright (#ulink_d2da6f06-f8f1-5968-96ac-02a65ca77118)
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2017
Copyright © Susannah Constantine 2017
Susannah Constantine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © November 2017 ISBN: 9780008219659
Version: 2018-03-21
For Betty Anderson
And for Sten, Joe, Esme, Cece and Helen
Contents
Cover (#u87fb4989-cbcc-5bc1-9f40-c14676edef8c)
About the Author (#u30ec7430-f2dd-51fb-b5e2-67bd11c6c3aa)
Title Page (#ufcc21a78-284e-5779-95b0-fe80ebe1b7f6)
Dedication (#u972ee7b8-f536-5882-813d-d2d0b6c7383c)
Chapter One (#ulink_dca73cee-d4e1-580e-a412-0f8595193998)
Chapter Two (#ulink_8022d798-db53-5634-8bf1-27e88de9a3d8)
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Acknowledgements (#ulink_3ac47089-61d8-5cf6-89ff-fcefb6d1e00e)
Copyright (#ulink_a3ee4c64-24f2-5077-9ead-b7d26f48336c)
Chapter One (#ulink_44476fe5-b769-583e-9454-3ee08ccf4509)
Blinking her eyes open against the new day, Esme could tell that it had snowed. She knew by the luminous shards of light that pierced her curtains and brightened her bedroom in a strange, muffled glow. It was silent, not a sound inside or outside The Lodge. No birds singing their morning chorus, no cars grumbling along the lane, not a breath of wind to rattle the ancient windowpanes. She couldn’t even hear the housekeeper, Mrs Bee, clattering about in the kitchen making breakfast.
Esme breathed in the cold air and felt it prickle down her throat, imagining tiny ice crystals disappearing into her body. With a great whooshing noise, she released a cloud of silvery breath that billowed in the air like the smoke from a great dragon. As she burrowed back into the warmth of her crumpled sheets, her feet hit an unexpected obstacle and her tummy clenched with excitement. It was Christmas Day.
Wiggling her toes against the weight of her stocking, lying heavy as a wet sandbag at the end of her bed, it felt as if Father Christmas had been generous and her father’s shooting sock crackled with the promise of unopened presents. Flinging back the sheets, Esme leapt up, pulled on her dressing gown and flicked on the electric heater before jumping back onto her bed. Holding her father’s sock by its toe, she shook the tightly packed presents from the hand-knitted wool. This Christmas there would be eleven, one for every year that she had been alive. She counted as each strangely shaped packet of colour tumbled onto the eiderdown, some starting to come undone as they fell. Father Christmas had done a terrible job with his wrapping this year. Some of the paper had been put on inside out and there wasn’t a sliver of sticky tape in sight. Pulling out the last lumpy presents jammed at the bottom of the stocking, her fingers fumbled around the unmistakeable shapes of a tangerine and some foil-wrapped chocolate coins. She had posted her letter to the North Pole a few weeks ago, neatly written on her father’s headed notepaper. The one thing she longed for was a new riding hat, but that was too much to expect from Father Christmas. Perhaps her parents would remember. She really had tried to be as good as possible this year, but still always seemed to be in trouble. Like the time she had borrowed her mother’s hunting whip; her mother didn’t even ride any more, so Esme didn’t think she’d notice but her father did when he saw it was missing from the umbrella stand where he kept it as a showpiece. After telling him she had no idea where it was, he had found it hidden under her bed. Thunder followed. She wished she could be more like her big sister, Sophia, who always seemed to know what to do and how to behave. Or at least how not to get caught.
Esme picked up a small package, the wrapping paper cheerfully wishing her a ‘Happy Birthday’. It was hard to the touch and much heavier than she expected. Ripping off the paper, a china figurine of a dachshund sleeping in its basket fell into her hand. Exactly like the one her mother had sitting in her bathroom! She christened the figurine Doodle, and put it carefully to one side to open the next present. Esme gasped as she unwrapped an antique china plate. It looked very old and incredibly valuable, with the remnants of an old breakfast encrusted upon it. Her father would be fascinated to see this piece of history as he loved antique shopping when they were in London. He’d know if the plate had once belonged to a wealthy lord, in the olden times.
Picking up the next present she squealed with excitement as she felt its shape beneath her fingers. Tearing it open, she stroked the hard bristles and thanked Father Christmas for providing her with a dandy brush for her pony, Homer. The brush was just like Lexi’s. Lexi was her best friend and the daughter of the Earl and Countess, who lived at the top of the hill in their castle. Descended from Italian royalty, the Countess made everyone refer to her as the Contessa, although Esme had never heard the Earl refer to his wife with anything but her English title. Lexi stabled her pony, Jupiter, with Homer at Shere Farm – or in foster care, as Lexi put it, because the castle stables were reserved for her mother’s racehorses.
Esme loved driving up to Scotland for the holidays, when she could spend time with her pony and Lexi. The rolling Highlands felt a million miles away from the hustle and bustle of London. She pulled the brush through her hair, thinking how easy it was going to make removing the encrusted mud that stuck to Homer’s fetlocks like bloated ticks. He would be the smartest, shiniest pony on the hunting field. She couldn’t wait to show Jimmy, the groom who ran the yard; he was always grumbling about the state of her beloved Homer.
The metal wires of the electric heater clicked and creaked, glowing red, red hot. Esme’s room was heating up nicely. In fact, she’d almost forgotten the snow that lay outside. Sliding off her bed, she tiptoed over to the window and pulled back the curtains. She scratched the frozen condensation and peered out at the magical world beyond the glass. It was as if The Lodge sat within a giant snow globe, enormous clouds of the palest grey sprinkling snowflakes across a white land, blanketing its secrets in a quiet stillness. Opening her window just a fraction, Esme allowed a snowflake to land on her palm and watched it melt into a tiny puddle.
She hoped the Boxing Day hunt wouldn’t be cancelled. It was going to be the first time Homer didn’t have to be on a leading rein. Jimmy had told her she was a good enough rider to manage on her own now. Homer would have tinsel plaited through his mane and tail and Esme would add some to her new hat. Excited, butterflies quivered in her tummy. But even if the hunt was called off, out here in the countryside it would be replaced by tobogganing and she could exchange Homer’s saddle and bridle for a harness to pull the sleigh.
Returning to her presents, Esme wondered whether Father Christmas had given Homer a sheepskin saddle pad to keep his back warm. He hated having cold leather next to his skin and it made him buck until it reached body temperature. Up until now, Jimmy had used an old dog blanket, which was nowhere near as smart as the quilted pad Jupiter wore. None of Lexi’s riding things were hand-me-downs or makeshift. She said it was because she didn’t have a big sister but Esme knew it was because her family had more money than hers.
The other presents would have to wait until later. Esme was desperate to step into the enchanted world that waited beyond The Lodge’s walls and she knew that once her parents were awake, she’d be trapped inside until the Christmas service at Bonnyton Church. She grabbed some warm socks and stepped into the corridor.
Beyond her room the rest of the house was still sleeping. Pressing her eye to the keyhole of her sister’s room, she could see a copy of Cupid Rides Pillion lying open on the floor. Sophia was addicted to Barbara Cartland novels and was in love with the idea of falling in love. Each book provided a new hero that might one day sweep her off her feet. She must have fallen asleep reading last night and Esme knew not to wake her if she didn’t want a verbal bashing. Boarding school had made Sophia moody when she came home and she didn’t want to do the same things as her little sister any more. When she was on holiday she wanted to be in London hanging out with her glamorous friends and their older brothers rather than at The Lodge.
Esme had mapped out a soundproof route past her parents’ bedroom years ago when she began sneaking out in the early hours to meet Lexi in their secret place in the woods. As she tiptoed down the corridor now she automatically avoided the creaking floorboards that would give her away. It was so quiet she could even hear the mantel clock chiming in the drawing room. Creeping past the kitchen into the back hallway she pulled on her wellington boots and lifted her Red Indian elk-skin coat off its peg. Her father had brought it back for her after a trip to Canada and it was her favourite present of all. The soft leathery outside was decorated with brightly coloured beads in pretty patterns. It had a slightly sweet, pungent smell to it – not like a rotting old rabbit carcass, but more like something dead that hadn’t yet started to fester. Her father had given her moccasin slippers, too, but she had quickly learned that they weren’t much use outside.
Esme slid back the rusty iron bolt of the back door and placed one booted foot on the fresh snow. She watched as it sank into the deep, powdery mound. She felt a sense of delight at making the first footprint in this untouched world. Her Advent calendar had come to life, the glittering icicles and twinkling marshmallow rooftop filling her with a sense of hope. Maybe the snow would make Mummy happy today. A tiny robin flicked his tail, its red breast and black beady eyes bursting from the white canvas that lay before her. He looked at her, unafraid.
‘Happy Christmas Mr Robin.’
‘Tut tut tut,’ it replied, before shooting off its branch and onto the washing line.
Esme hugged herself, daring to believe that this was going to be the best Christmas ever. Her mother couldn’t possibly feel sad when she saw how beautiful the world outside looked. And then Daddy wouldn’t have to be on guard and she and Sophia could enjoy themselves. Scooping up a handful of snow she nibbled at the powder, marvelling at its strange, metallic taste. Then, dragging her boots through the snow, she set off towards the gate and the world that lay beyond it. She looked up towards the castle, hoping Lexi would be on her way to meet her at the pond.
Culcairn Castle was like a fairy-tale castle with high, strong walls and three enormous round towers that rose right up into the clouds. You could tell it had been built to keep the baddies out. It was a very famous castle in Scotland – so important that the Culcairns had opened it to the public. Lexi told her that it had a quarter of a million visitors a year, which seemed like loads, especially if they all came at once. There would be none today though. It was closed in the winter.
Esme blew into her hands as she continued to the pond. Kicking the surrounding snow in search of a rock, she lifted the largest she could manage over her head and smashed it onto the ice. It bounced. Tentatively, she inched onto the frozen water. The slippery surface creaked but not enough to cause alarm. She tried to skid but her feet were like two tiny snow ploughs that created miniature drifts. She remembered the time Lexi had fallen in and she had lain flat on the ice to distribute her weight and haul her friend out. The water was only knee-deep, but it was good practice for a real-life drowning situation.
Esme started to count in her head. She and Lexi had an agreement that if the person who you were meeting hadn’t come by 500, then you could leave. Sometimes she would get to 500 and be about to leave and then see Lexi come running towards her, her long hair in her eyes and her clothes in a tangle, laughing with pleasure that Esme was still there. Sometimes it was almost like there was an invisible thread that bound them together, each knowing what the other was doing.
But today there was no sign of her. 498… 499… 500. Esme finished counting, imagining her friend opening her stocking, her smile even bigger as she discovered what was in each package.
It really was very cold. Cold enough to freeze the breath from her nostrils as well as her mouth. Pangs of hunger gnawed at her stomach. She waited a few seconds more. Perhaps Lexi was snowed in? And anyway, she would see her at the Christmas service with the rest of her family. It was time to head back to the house. As she turned, she saw a rusty ball of fur streak across the snow. Most people would have mistaken it for a fox, albeit a pale version with white socks.
‘Digger! Happy Christmas. I can’t wait to give you your present!’
Ignoring her, Digger dashed round the snow in demented circles.
‘Stop showing off,’ laughed Esme.
Digger’s arrival meant that Mrs Bee was up and breakfast was probably waiting. Today was not a day to be late.
Esme went straight into the kitchen to find Mrs Bee. The housekeeper’s name was actually Mrs Bumble but ever since she could remember Esme and her sister had called her Mrs Bee. She could hear the clink of cutlery coming from the dining room but the housekeeper was nowhere to be seen. A delicious smell of roasting turkey filled the room and an orderly line of Pyrex bowls, overflowing with potatoes, carrots and Brussels sprouts, sat on the Formica tabletop, while baking trays brimmed with chipolata sausages, bacon rashers and round patties of stuffing. Esme stared in delight. It was hard to imagine how just half an hour in the oven could crisp the patties into Esme’s favourite part of Christmas lunch, drenched in steaming satin-smooth gravy poured from the silver sauce boat.
In the middle of the table stood Mrs Bee’s majestic Christmas cake. Freshly iced, it bore a remarkable resemblance to the snow-covered world outside, its thick, white frosting smothering what lay beneath. As a final touch, a miniature Father Christmas in his sleigh had been positioned in the centre. After snapping off a sugared icicle, Esme skipped out of the kitchen and ran upstairs to get dressed.
Pushing open her bedroom door she saw Mrs Bee staring at the dirty china plate from her stocking. Startled by Esme’s arrival, she looked up.
‘Esme!’ she said. ‘Where on earth have you been? Your mother and father are already having their breakfast. Och and look at you! That snow is melting all over the carpet. How could you have gone out in this weather? And in your wee nightie. Come on, your father will want to leave for church soon. You know perfectly well he hates to be late.’
‘Don’t be angry, Mrs Bee, it’s Christmas! And look at all my presents. How lucky am I? Look, this little dog is just like Mummy’s.’
‘Is this a dandy brush I see?’ said Mrs Bee, her tone softening as Esme ran towards her.
‘Yes! Homer will be so pleased. Although I don’t think I’ll be able to visit him today, will I, with the snow? Oh, Mrs Bee, happy Christmas! I can’t wait to show Mummy my presents.’ She was about to ask her what she had found in her stocking when she remembered again that poor Mrs Bee had no family of her own to give her presents; thoughtfully, Esme had decorated an old cake tin with pictures of pretty flowers cut out from a discarded copy of Country Life.
‘Your present from me is under the tree, Mrs Bee,’ she reassured the housekeeper.
‘Och, how lovely!’
‘I can’t believe it’s a proper white Christmas. It’s made everything just perfect.’
Mrs Bee swept Esme’s hair back from her forehead. ‘I’ll be staying nice and warm indoors today, Esme. The snow gives me chilblains. Now, what’re you going to wear for church?’
‘I want to wear a dress. The cream-and-white one. It’s my favourite,’ Esme said, dropping onto the bed. She stroked the sparkling silver tinsel adorning her headrest. Suddenly, an idea popped into her mind that made the prospect of wearing a dress even more enjoyable. ‘I know, Mrs Bee – I’ll make this tinsel into a halo! Just like a Christmas angel. Daddy will love it!’
‘Oh, he will, darling. I can just imagine his face when he sees you dressed up all pretty.’
Esme pulled on her dress and stood still as Mrs Bee coiled the scratchy foil around her head. Peering at her reflection in the mirror she clapped her hands together. ‘Just like an angel!’ she said. Her clear blue eyes shone with excitement. Her long blonde hair fell over her shoulders, the tinsel covering a jagged fringe she had cut with the kitchen scissors in a bid to hide a chickenpox scar above her left brow. A rosy bloom from the cold flushed her cheek.
Mrs Bee smiled back at her. ‘Now, off to breakfast with you. That’s enough dilly-dallying for one morning.’
‘Thanks Mrs Bee!’ Esme said. She couldn’t wait to show her new outfit to her family.
Her parents and sister were eating breakfast at the large oak dining table, silent, just like any other day. The only noise was the muffled sound of Christmas carols coming from Mrs Bee’s radio in the kitchen.
‘Happy Christmas, everyone!’ said Esme, giving her mother a big hug.
‘Happy Christmas, darling,’ her mother said softly, returning her daughter’s embrace with one that felt as light as air. She gave a listless smile.
Esme’s heart sank. This morning was a bad morning. Couldn’t her mother just try to be happy on Christmas Day? She decided to help her along.
‘Have you seen the snow, Mummy? It’s so beautiful and all ready and waiting for you, like a big white carpet with crystals everywhere. You’ll love it and I can’t wait to show you. I’ve already been outside to test it out for you and it’s all soft and welcoming…’ She broke off as she caught Sophia’s look and her father’s clenched jaw. It was no good.
‘Happy Christmas, Daddy,’ she said, trying to make him feel better. ‘Do you like my halo?’
‘It’s lovely, darling,’ said her father, his voice spiky, ‘but you aren’t an extra in a pantomime. You’ve nearly missed breakfast. Quickly now, sit down and have something to eat. And before we leave, I want you to take that silly tinsel off.’
Esme looked over at her sister, praying at least she would tune into their unspoken pact of trying to make their mother feel better. It could be exhausting but sometimes, between them, they could make her smile and join in, if only for a few moments. Occasionally, there were whole stretches when their mother was very, very happy, excited about the smallest thing, but even then she could suddenly stop mid-sentence and drift away again.
But Sophia looked gloomy, as though she had already given up, and her tone was spiteful.
‘You can’t wear that, Es,’ agreed Sophia. ‘It looks silly. We’re going to church not a fancy-dress party.’
Sophia, also blonde and blue-eyed, was dressed almost entirely in navy blue, the wall of colour only broken up by a white frilled collar.
‘Well you just look like an old maid,’ said Esme, rapidly blinking to stop tears from falling. She looked forlornly at her plate: half a grapefruit, a boiled egg and one piece of toast. Mrs Bee always made sure that breakfast on Christmas Day was disappointingly small so as not to ruin the family’s appetite for her Christmas feast.
Esme glanced at her mother. She was concentrating on her grapefruit, eyes downcast as she methodically put one segment after another into her mouth. Her spoon rose timidly before each bite, the juice making her cough. Sip of tea. Wipe of lips. Back to the slow process of eating.
‘Diana, can you pass the butter?’ her father asked.
Esme’s mother didn’t react and she knew her father was testing her to see if she would. Sophia looked at her sister and pursed her lips. In a protective reflex, Esme passed the pat of Anchor across the table.
Mrs Bee always said that her mother had her ‘head in the clouds’ when she wasn’t listening. It was like she was dreaming with her eyes open, her mind far away in another land.
‘Thank you, Esme,’ her father said, smearing a thick layer of butter on his toast, smartly topped with a big dollop of marmalade.
Esme watched as he took an enormous bite and looked over at his wife. She’d noticed him doing that a lot lately, even more so than usual. He often seemed worried about her but sometimes he seemed cross that she was so distant. He tried to make her happy by giving her the most beautiful things, even when it wasn’t a special occasion. Esme loved watching her mother open the old brown leather boxes with Phillips of Bond Street in gold writing embossed upon them. Mrs Bee always said that the best things came in small packages, but when bad days became bad weeks even these gifts didn’t pull Esme’s mother out of the grey mist in which she lost herself. Her father bought them to make her happy and when she wasn’t grateful Esme felt sorry for him and made up for her mother’s lack of interest by telling her what amazing taste her father had.
‘Mummy, you haven’t shown us your present from Daddy yet. What did he give you?’
