‘Aren’t you tempted to just sometimes jump in?’ Annie said to Mr. Fairbrother, as she sat beside the old man beneath a canvas awning on the lakeside, the lines of their fishing rods disappearing into two holes they had cut in the ice a few metres offshore. A light snow fell around them, pattering gently on the awning like the padding of animal paws. The sun was low in the sky on the other side of the lake, and far around the lake to their right, the lights of Undercastle glittered.
‘I fell in once,’ Mr. Fairbrother said. ‘Not an experience I’m keen to repeat.’
‘But, wouldn’t it make you feel alive?’
‘I feel alive enough already,’ Mr. Fairbrother said. ‘The ache in the old thighs when I get home from an afternoon of weeding certainly isn’t no figment of the imagination.’
Annie was silent for a moment, thinking about Ray, who had departed on the steam train in the morning. Despite her protestations, he had refused to take or give her any contact details. If he couldn’t come back, he said, it was better that she not dwell on it. And if he could, she would know.
She had felt like her heart was breaking beneath the thundering wheels of the train.
‘You’re thinking about that young man, aren’t you?’
Annie nodded. ‘I’m trying not to, but I can’t. It’s kind of stupid isn’t it? I mean, I barely knew him. There was just something … a connection that I’ve never felt before.’
‘You know, it can come in different ways,’ Mr. Fairbrother said. ‘Love, I mean. You can know someone for years and it slowly builds up on you, or it can hit you like a bolt of lightning. Will it last? Who knows? I think we all like to think it will, but sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. First saw me wife in Preston. She was standing on the other side of a fountain and our eyes met.’ He slapped his hands together hard enough to make Annie jump, then grabbed for his fishing rod as it slipped off his knees. ‘I thought that was it. I walked round there, asked her if she wanted to get some fish’n’chips, and we were married a month later.’ He sighed. ‘Didn’t last, though. She had a wandering eye. I held things together as long as possible, but in the end I had to let her go. For those first few years though … I wouldn’t trade them for owt. And now, it’s different. The kids … we’re close. You know, they’re all coming for Christmas.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, fancy that. Gonna have a right knees up, drink too much sherry, eat more Christmas pudding than the rest of the village combined.’
‘That sounds lovely.’
‘So try not to get too down about your young man. You had those moments, however brief. If there aren’t owt more, hold on to those with every ounce of your strength, because even when they’re just memory, they’re still there.’
‘I think I’m going to….’
Too late, Annie began to sob. Mr. Fairbrother put an arm around her and patted her on the shoulder.
‘There, there—oh, feel that! We’ve got one!’
Annie’s fishing line jerked, the rod nearly falling off her knees. She grabbed hold of it, keeping it steady. Then, wearing gloves, Mr. Fairbrother gently lifted the line away from the ice.
‘Reet, gently, start winding him in.’
Annie did as she was instructed, and a couple of minutes later a fine salmon broke out of the hole, flapping on the ice.
‘Nice one!’ Mr. Fairbrother said. ‘Reet, that’ll do us. Let’s get back to the house, see if we can tempt her downstairs out from her cave to cook it up for our tea. Not sure I can handle beans on toast again.’
Back at Stone Spire Hall, they found Isabella in the kitchens, joyfully stirring a vat of baked beans, humming a Christmas song to herself as she turned a wooden spoon with two hands like a witch’s enthusiastic young apprentice.
‘No sign of Marge again tonight?’ Mr. Fairbrother asked.
Isabella shook her head. ‘Resting,’ she said. Then, leaning her head over on to her shoulder, she gave a chuckle and resumed her stirring.
‘Is it worth me trying to talk to her?’ Annie said. ‘She didn’t want to speak to me before, but I suppose I could try again.’
Mr. Fairbrother smirked. ‘You could use your authority on her,’ he said. ‘After all, you’re the boss, and if there’s something Marge respects more than owt else, it’s rules.’
Isabella lifted her hands, made a growling motion, then giggled and grabbed for the wooden spoon before it disappeared into the beans.
‘All right,’ Annie said. ‘I’ll give it a try.’
She left them to finish preparing dinner, Mr. Fairbrother muttering something to Isabella about putting the fish in the microwave, then headed up the corridor to where Mrs. Growell had her rooms. She paused outside Mrs. Growell’s door, took a deep breath, then gave a sharp knock.
There was a long pause, then finally, a quiet voice said, ‘Yes? Who is it?’
‘Ah … it’s Annie. Ah, Miss Collins.’
The door opened a crack. ‘Oh, Mistress. I do apologise. I’ve been feeling under the weather of late but I hope I can resume my duties in the morning.’
Annie closed her eyes for a moment, then tried to imagine she was refusing someone for a mortgage. ‘Mrs. Growell … I demand that you tell me what’s going on. It’s not like you to behave in this way. If you’re sick, you need to let me know. And if you’re not … you need to explain yourself.’
She was sweating, but hoping the light in the corridor was too dim for Mrs. Growell to notice. The housekeeper stared at her for a moment, her face tensing, then she gave a curt nod.
‘Very well. Please come in.’
Mrs. Growell stepped back from the doorway, holding the door for Annie to enter. Mrs. Growell’s suite was smaller than Annie had expected, two small rooms with an en suite bathroom. Barely bigger than a budget hotel room, there was space in one room only for a bed and desk. In the other was a two-seater sofa, a small television, and a bookshelf.
‘You live a … ah, frugal life,’ Annie said. ‘Wouldn’t you like a room with a window?’
Mrs. Growell looked at her, eyes widening just enough to show a hint of surprise. ‘You mean … move upstairs?’
Annie nodded. ‘You don’t even have a window down here.’
Mrs. Growell looked down at her feet. ‘It was always convenient to be close to the kitchens,’ she said. ‘And I wasn’t one to complain to Lord Collins.’
‘About that … what happened the other day? With the suit? Ray didn’t mean any harm. He didn’t have anything to wear.’
Mrs. Growell nodded again, then went to a bedside table, opened a drawer and took out a slim photo album. She sat down on the bed and set it on her lap. After a moment, Annie sat down beside her.
‘I don’t have many photographs,’ she said. ‘As you remember, your grandfather didn’t approve of cameras. I suppose I allowed myself a brief rebellion.’
Annie chuckled, thinking it was an attempt at a joke, but Mrs. Growell said nothing. She lifted the album’s cover, and to Annie’s surprise, the first picture was of a much younger, smiling Mrs. Growell holding a newborn baby in her arms.
‘Mrs. Growell … I had no idea.’
Mrs. Growell nodded. ‘No one did. A nurse took this picture … the father wasn’t present. He didn’t know either.’
Annie stared. There was something about the child—
Mrs. Growell turned the page. A baby, drinking from a bottle. A toddler, sitting among a pile of toys. The same toddler, hair much longer, stacking blocks as high as her head.
The page turned. A little girl of pre-school age, standing beside a squatting Mrs. Growell, that all-too-rare smile beaming out of her face. And more, a sense of pride, of achievement, of … love.
And the child, hair tucked behind her ears, had become familiar.
‘Is that … Isabella?’
Mrs. Growell nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘But I thought she was left on the steps of the hall—’
‘She was.’
‘But the first picture?’
Mrs. Growell nodded. ‘That’s my secret. It was I who left her there.’
‘She’s your daughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t understand….’
Mrs. Growell turned the page again, and this time revealed a photograph which appeared taken professionally. Isabella, around five years old, wore a light blue school jumper, a grey skirt, and a joyful smile. Mrs. Growell, standing on one side, looked dressed up for a ceremony, while on the other side was an older man….
‘Is that him? Is that my grandfather?’
Mrs. Growell nodded. The man was handsome in a faded way, an actor past his prime, a sports star with his playing days long behind him.
‘It was her first day of school,’ Mrs. Growell said. ‘I convinced him that we should represent her as parents would. It took some effort to talk him into it, but in the end … he agreed.’
Annie’s grandfather had a thin smile on his face, one forced for the camera. Annie gave a little gasp as she recognised the suit he wore as the same one Ray had put on. She looked up at Mrs. Growell.
‘That’s why you got upset.’
Mrs. Growell nodded. ‘After the day Isabella was born, that day was the happiest day of my life. And the memory of it … was almost too great to bear.’
Annie nodded, then immediately frowned. ‘But … wait a minute.’
She stared at the photograph. In it, Mrs. Growell looked to be around fifty, Annie’s grandfather much older, at least sixty, maybe more. But in their faces, and in Isabella’s—
‘He was Isabella’s father, wasn’t he? Oh my god.’
It had happened one night after too much to drink, after Mr. Fairbrother had gone back to his own cottage, leaving Mrs. Growell and Wilfred alone. They had got to talking, and one thing had led to another. Mrs. Growell, who had always harboured a secret admiration for her employer, had hoped it might be the start of something, but Wilfred had immediately withdrawn back into his own private thoughts. Mrs. Growell, saddened, but bound by duty, had slipped neatly back into her housekeeping role and said nothing more about it.
And then she had found out she was pregnant.
Already into her mid-forties, Mrs. Growell had considered all the options available, but in the end the desire to be a mother over anything had won over any other option. However, the fear for what it might mean for her job meant she had to make a few adjustments.
Forever the master of appearances, she began to subtly change her clothing in order to disguise the growing bump, then, when it became too much to hide, she invented a story about a sick relative that needed to be cared for, and took a sabbatical for a few months, moving down south, where she had her baby. Then, upon her return, she sneaked the newborn Isabella back into the house.
To Annie’s even greater surprise, it turned out that Diane Jenkins had been in on the secret, slipping into the house through a service door to look after Isabella while Mrs. Growell took care of her housework duties. Eventually, though, Mrs. Growell decided that another plan was needed to bring Isabella’s existence out into the open, but in a way that wouldn’t jeopardise her position within the household.
Sneaking outside one night before clearing the dinner things away, she left a basket containing a six-month-old Isabella on the doorstep, rang the bell and then waited for events to unfold. Wilfred, by that time living within his search for magic, had been easily fooled. And Mrs. Growell, who managed most of his accounts, had taken care of the necessary paperwork.
‘He became her father, without realising he was actually her father, and I became her mother,’ she said. ‘All the while pretending in front of him that I wasn’t actually her mother. In private, however … I was always her mother.’
‘Does Isabella know?’
‘She’s grown up believing that I was her mother,’ she said. ‘Your grandfather told her she came from the fairies, but I’ve told her the truth.’
‘And he never realised?’
Mrs. Growell chuckled. ‘He was a good man, your grandfather, but he was also an obsessed man. Obsessed with his searches for whatever truths he wanted out of life, and blind to whatever was going on around him.’
Annie puffed out her cheeks and let out a long breath. ‘This is hard for me to take in. I mean … it’s such a deception.’
Mrs. Growell sighed. ‘It was and it wasn’t. I wanted to tell him the truth, but he enjoyed the lie more. He thought she was some kind of magical creature, and doted on her as a result. Had he known she was merely his own daughter….’
Annie nodded. ‘I see. I have one more question. Mr. Fairbrother said there were no tracks left in the snow, which was one reason Grandfather thought she was delivered by fairies. How did you manage that?’
Mrs. Growell actually chuckled. ‘I waited until the storm had died down, then climbed out on to the porch roof through an upstairs window,’ she said. ‘I used a wire coat hanger on a string to lower Isabella’s basket, then I poked the doorbell with one of Mr. Fairbrother’s gardening poles.’ She chuckled again. ‘And people say I’m so unadventurous.’
Annie pointed at the photograph of the three of them together. ‘Is this the only one you have of the three of you?’
Mrs. Growell nodded. ‘The only one of us as a true family. That day … that was a wonderful day.’
And with that, to Annie’s amazement, Mrs. Growell began to cry.