The Ice Seduction Read online

  What’s your problem? I want to ask, but of course I don’t. She’s seen Bertie drawing in the snow before.

  And then I get it.

  She doesn’t like me paying attention to what he’s doing.

  Mrs Calder marches over to Bertie and begins kicking out his stick figures with her flat, black shoe. ‘No more of that nonsense, Bertie. Life is about learning real things. Letters. Numbers. Not scribbling rubbish.’

  Bertie glares at her.

  ‘It wasn’t rubbish,’ I say, watching Mrs Calder’s face very closely. ‘Bertie was drawing a picture of something.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ says Mrs Calder. ‘He was just scribbling some shapes. They don’t mean a thing.’

  ‘I didn’t say they did,’ I say, watching her even more closely now.

  Mrs Calder is definitely nervous.

  ‘The two of you should come in for lunch,’ says Mrs Calder, looking at the scrapings she’s made with her foot. ‘Come along. We don’t want Bertie getting hungry.’

  Since when did you care about Bertie getting hungry? The first day I met him, you hadn’t even given him his breakfast …

  ‘Come on Bertie,’ I say, hauling him up and dusting snow from his shoulders. ‘Let’s go inside and get you cleaned up for lunch.’

  ‘No,’ says Mrs Calder. ‘You’re to go straight to the great hall. No cleaning up. Dirk is still here. Go straight to the great hall and stay there.’

  ‘O-kay,’ I say uncertainly. ‘Come on then, Bertie. I guess we’ll just have to use napkins or something.’

  57

  The great hall is quiet and empty, except for the clanking of pans and the clink of plates from the serving hatch.

  ‘Hi Vicky,’ I call out, taking off my sheepskin coat, and helping Bertie out of his fur-lined wax jacket.

  ‘Oh, hello hen. You’re early.’

  ‘I know. Mrs Calder ordered us inside.’

  ‘Give me a seccy and I’ll get the little lad’s lunch ready. And what do you fancy today, hen? I have homemade lasagne or chicken pie.’

  ‘Lasagne please,’ I say, helping Bertie sit at the table.

  Once again, I notice a food plate all made up ready. But there’s no one else in the hall. I wonder who it’s for.

  A second later, Vicky carries out a glass of milk and a plate of liquorice.

  ‘Oh Vicky, you didn’t need to bring that over,’ I say with a smile. ‘You’ve got enough to do.’

  ‘It’s no trouble hen. Here you go.’

  She puts the plate down next to Bertie, and he frowns at her.

  ‘He’s in kind of a bad mood,’ I explain. ‘He was scribbling something in the snow, and Mrs Calder came and kicked it all away.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’ Vicky asks.

  I shrug. ‘Beats me. She’s seen him drawing in the snow before, but it didn’t seem to bother her. I think it was because I was looking over his shoulder at what he was drawing.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ says Vicky. ‘And what was he drawing exactly?’

  ‘It looked like two stick women, and then a little stick boy.’

  ‘Oh.’ Vicky looks thoughtful. ‘Strange.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I say. ‘I don’t know what it means either. And I don’t know why it bothered Mrs Calder so much, the fact I was paying attention.’

  ‘There are a lot of secrets in this castle,’ says Vicky. ‘You should come into the village this afternoon. I have the afternoon off – I’ll take you out for a drink. We’ll talk.’

  ‘I’m looking after Bertie this afternoon,’ I say. ‘And we’ve been banished to the kitchen garden.’

  ‘What Mrs Calder doesn’t know—’

  ‘Usually I’d agree with you,’ I say. ‘But she really has been keeping an eye on us today. I guess it must be very important that Mansfield Senior isn’t disturbed.’

  ‘Oh, he left already,’ says Vicky. ‘I saw his car leave.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Pretty sure.’

  I hear a splashing sound, and turn to see Bertie pouring milk straight down his front.

  His woolly jumper is soaked through and so are his corduroy trousers.

  ‘Bertie? Why did you do that?’ I ask, taking the glass from him.

  Of course he doesn’t answer.

  ‘I’ll get you some napkins, pet,’ says Vicky, hurrying back to the kitchen.

  When she returns, I dab at Bertie with the paper towels, but it’s no good – he’s soaked through.

  I think of Mrs Calder, banning Bertie from the rest of the castle, and suddenly feel furious. While Bertie is staying here, this is his home. How dare she make out like he’s a nuisance? And right now, Bertie needs cleaning up. It sounds like his grandfather has left anyway.

  ‘Come on Bertie,’ I say. ‘Let’s get you up to your bedroom and get you into a change of clothes. If we bump into Mrs Calder, I’ll take the blame. We can’t go outside again in a snowstorm with you soaking wet. Even Mrs Calder has to see that.’

  I bustle Bertie along the corridor and towards the West Wing. But as we reach the top of a spiral staircase, I hear men’s voices.

  I grab Bertie’s shoulder.

  ‘Wait,’ I whisper.

  I can hear Patrick talking in a low angry voice.

  ‘It’s time you stopped blackmailing this family.’

  I hear a laugh.

  ‘Still trying to be the man of the house Patrick?’

  Patrick’s reply is cold and low.

  ‘I am the man of this house. The only real man here. There’s nothing manly about trying to extract money from an old woman and undermining your daughter at every turn.’

  ‘Ever the headstrong army officer, Patrick. But you’re not in the army any more.’

  ‘Just let my sister live her life,’ Patrick barks back.

  Another laugh. ‘Your sister has done plenty of living, believe me.’

  ‘She’s never asked for a penny from you …’

  ‘I don’t have time for this now, Patrick.’

  Oh god.

  The other voice … it must be Bertie’s grandfather.

  To my horror, the clatter of feet on the stairs.

  I pull Bertie close to me, but it’s too late to tiptoe away. Whoever is coming down the stairs is heading straight for us.

  I suck in my breath and pull Bertie against the cold, stone wall – kind of wanting to disappear into it. But of course we can’t.

  The footsteps get closer and closer, until a shadow falls on the steps and I see Patrick bounding towards us.

  His eyes flick to Bertie, then back to me.

  ‘I knew it would be you,’ he says.

  His blond hair is loose over his eyes and forehead, and his face is cleanly shaved today so the little scar on his cheek glows bright white.

  His long, muscular body fills the stairwell and his jaw tenses.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ His voice low and quiet. ‘Don’t you know my father is up there? Come with me. Both of you.’

  With a scoop of his arm, Patrick lifts Bertie onto his back, then grabs my hand and pulls me down the stairs. His long body moves silently, but fast – so fast that I can barely keep up.

  We reach the floor below, then head along a corridor and around corners until suddenly we’re right outside Bertie’s bedroom. But Patrick doesn’t stop there. He pulls us onwards, towards the West Tower.

  58

  Patrick takes out a key and unlocks the door to the West Tower. Before I know it, he’s pulling me up the spiral staircase and towards the room I hid in before, where I found the Just William stories.

  ‘In here.’ Patrick bundles me inside the room, then flicks the light on.

  With the light on, I see the room better than before. This time, I notice the bed is delicately carved with flowers and swords. It’s made up with bedclothes that have big, bold coloured circles printed onto them, and there are framed art prints on the wall.

  I recognize some of the prints – they’re by some pretty famous
artists.

  Patrick shuts the door behind us and lowers Bertie to the ground. Then he turns to me.

  ‘What the hell were you doing, walking around the castle with Bertie? Didn’t Agnes tell you my father was here?’

  ‘Yes, but Bertie spilt milk over himself,’ I say. ‘I had to get him changed.’

  Patrick glances down at Bertie’s wet jumper.

  ‘What’s the big deal with bumping into your father anyway?’ I ask.

  ‘Bertie’s presence embarrasses him. He likes to pretend he’s the perfect father. Anise having Bertie so young … let’s just say it doesn’t go down well at the country club.’

  ‘But why does everyone do what your father says?’ I ask.

  ‘Blackmail.’

  I frown. ‘Blackmail?’

  Patrick runs a hand through his hair. ‘It’s all to do with our good family name. I’ll tell you all about it one day.’

  ‘How about today?’

  Patrick laughs. ‘And you’re not a typical nosy woman?’

  ‘I never said I wasn’t.’

  ‘Let’s just say that my father has a few secrets. And those secrets mean that he can get his own way much more than I’d like.’

  He goes to Bertie and crouches down beside him. ‘Excuse the piggyback ride, little man. Am I forgiven?’ Patrick holds out his hand.

  Bertie reaches out and shakes it.

  ‘This is a nice room,’ I say, going to one of the colourful prints. ‘I wish I could have met your brother.’

  ‘So do I,’ says Patrick, his thick eyebrows pulling together. Then his eyes snap to the door. ‘Wait in here while I make sure my father is in another part of the castle. Then take Bertie to the village, away from this place, so he doesn’t bump into my father.’

  ‘But Mrs Calder told us to stay in the garden.’

  ‘She won’t be around. She’s out somewhere with Margaret.’ He turns to me. ‘I wish I could stay with you. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘I …’

  But before I can reply, Patrick has stalked out of the room.

  59

  After I get Bertie changed, I decide to listen to Patrick for once and walk Bertie into the village. If Patrick’s father is prowling around the place, maybe it’s best we’re out of the castle altogether.

  We crunch over the snow down the long path that leads onto the main road, then walk along it until we find a pretty village with a church, a bakery, a pub and rows of grey stone cottages.

  Everything looks closed and there isn’t a soul in sight.

  ‘This is a little different from Camden High Street,’ I tell Bertie. ‘Back there, you can’t move for people. Here, I think we’d be lucky to bump into anyone at all.’

  As we walk down the narrow streets, more snow starts to fall. Soon it’s a blizzard, the snow falling so thick and fast that we have to hold our hands up in front of our faces.

  A new coating of heavy white snow settles on the pretty little roads, and the whole village looks like a Christmas card.

  ‘We should get inside,’ I tell Bertie, as we trudge back towards the church and the main square.

  I try the bakery door handle, but it’s locked.

  ‘Let’s hope the pub is open.’

  It is, and I drag Bertie inside.

  There isn’t much to the pub – just a shiny wooden bar with brass beer taps, and a few oak tables scattered around.

  Just as I’m dusting snow from Bertie’s woolly hat, coat and gloves, I hear a familiar voice.

  ‘Hen! So you made it into the village then?’

  I see Vicky heading across the pub. She’s all bundled up in winter woollens, a big red scarf wrapped many times around her neck.

  ‘Vicky!’ It’s so nice to see a friendly face after the snowstorm outside. ‘I forgot. It’s your afternoon off, isn’t it?’

  Vicky nods. ‘Yep. Gregory’s too. Come join us!’

  She points over to the corner, and I see Gregory giving us a cheery wave from one of the rickety tables.

  ‘Is that okay with you Bertie?’

  Bertie nods.

  ‘Come on over and have a drink,’ says Vicky, linking arms with me. She pulls me over to a table and plonks me on a seat. ‘Here Bertie,’ she says, pulling back a chair. ‘You sit here and I’ll go see if the barman can’t rustle you up a glass of milk. And you hen? What are you drinking?’

  I smile. ‘Just a coke or something.’

  ‘Nothing stronger?’ She gives me a wink. ‘Mrs Calder will never have to know.’

  ‘Not while I’m looking after Bertie,’ I say.

  ‘Fine. I’ll get you a dandelion and burdock. It’s what everyone drinks around here.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, noticing a dusty old violin case beside Gregory. ‘Is that yours?’ I ask, pointing.

  ‘It certainly is,’ says Gregory, with a big smile. He’s wearing a flat cap today, and shorts with knee socks. ‘Would the wee lad like to have a play?’

  Gregory has barely got the words out before Bertie is sliding off his chair, picking up the violin case and snapping it open.

  For such a young boy, I’m pretty impressed with how carefully he takes out the violin, and how well he places it on his collarbone.

  Bertie tries a few seesawing motions with the bow, and although he’s no Vanessa Williams, I can see he has promise. He loves playing the instrument, I can tell.

  After a few minutes, Bertie hands the violin to Gregory.

  ‘You want me to play, lad?’ Gregory asks.

  Bertie nods.

  Gregory slots the violin under his chin, and begins a fast jig, rocking the bow quickly back and forth, dancing his body in time to the music.

  The men at the bar start tapping their feet and clapping their hands, and an old couple in the corner start dancing, kicking their feet up and down.

  I find myself clapping too, tapping my foot to the rhythm.

  ‘Sing along any time you like,’ Gregory shouts, standing up and jumping from one foot to the other as he plays.

  ‘Okay!’ I don’t know the words, so I make them up. My voice dances with Gregory’s fiddle.

  Pretty soon the whole pub is on its feet, and Vicky starts dancing too. She grabs Bertie’s hands and pulls him up.

  To my delight he smiles and lets himself be spun around.

  It turns into a great afternoon.

  Gregory plays and I sing. Everyone else dances. Bertie drinks milk, I drink dandelion and burdock, and soon we’re in the middle of a party. It’s like the whole village turned up to join in.

  As darkness falls outside, I realize it’s time to get Bertie back for his supper.

  ‘We’d better head back,’ I tell Gregory, as he pauses to rub resin on his violin bow.

  ‘Are you heading back to the castle?’ Vicky asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It must be nearly Bertie’s supper time.’

  ‘I should come with you then,’ says Vicky, checking her watch. ‘My shift will start soon.’

  We wave our goodbyes to Gregory, who carries on playing his violin as we head outside.

  The snow has stopped falling, and the whole village feels calm as we walk over the white ground.

  ‘So what brought you out to the pub this afternoon?’ Vicky asks.

  ‘Patrick suggested it. So we wouldn’t bump into his father.’

  We carry on trudging through the snow.

  ‘Have you ever met Dirk Mansfield?’ I ask.

  ‘Met him? Yes. A few times. He likes to throw his weight around, telling me what to put on the menu, that kind of thing. But he’s kind of charming with it. An old playboy really.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I say, taking Bertie’s hand to stop him stumbling. ‘We nearly bumped into him today. In the castle.’

  ‘Uh oh.’

  ‘But Patrick hid us. In his brother’s old room.’

  ‘Ah, Jamie Mansfield,’ says Vicky. ‘It was tragic he died so young.’

  ‘Patrick told me more about how he died,’ I say.<
br />
  Vicky nods. ‘He blames himself. But he shouldn’t. Jamie’s death was an accident. Patrick did everything he could to save him. Even running into the burning helicopter wreck. They had to drag Patrick away, or he would have gone up in flames too. Of course, his father says he should have done more.’ Vicky frowns. ‘Him and that witch Mrs Calder – if it wasn’t for those two, the castle would be very different.’

  ‘Does Mrs Calder have some sort of hold over Patrick’s father?’ I ask. ‘Patrick’s mother mentioned something.’

  60

  ‘Did she?’ Vicky frowns. ‘I don’t know anything about that. But I know Mrs Calder and Dirk Mansfield have some sort of understanding. He lets her have the run of the castle, put it that way.’

  ‘Mmm.’ I think about that. ‘What does Patrick think of Mrs Calder?’

  ‘He can’t stand her. Just like the rest of us. Especially since she’s always parading her daughter in front of him, trying to get a marriage proposal.’

  ‘Mrs Calder told me Patrick was spoken for,’ I say. ‘That her daughter was waiting for him to set a date.’

  Vicky laughs. ‘Did she indeed? She wishes. He isn’t interested in Margaret at all.’

  ‘I know that now,’ I admit. ‘Patrick told me.’

  ‘Patrick told you?’ Vicky stops walking. ‘Why would Patrick … Seraphina Harper, is there something going on you’d like to tell me about?’

  I blush. ‘No. I mean, not really.’

  ‘Not really?’ Vicky smiles. ‘Come on. Spill it. What’s going on?’

  ‘Not … much.’

  She grins. ‘Patrick is different since you came to the castle. More thoughtful. Like something or someone is on his mind …’

  I bite my lip. ‘Things have … okay, things have happened.’

  ‘What kinds of things!’

  We start walking again.

  ‘Oh, just … things. It’s a fling, that’s all. But it won’t do either of us any good.’

  ‘A fling?’ says Vicky. ‘Patrick? Having a fling? Oh no, no, no. He’s a decent man. If you and he are up to something, he must really have fallen for you.’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m just the nanny. And he’s my boss.’