The Ice Seduction Page 7

  ‘Don’t climb any more trees,’ says Patrick gruffly, taking his gun from his back and putting it under his arm again.

  I watch him stalk away through the snow and the brown bracken.

  He’s so much a part of these woodlands. The way he moves so effortlessly over the rocks and through the shrubs. I bet he knows his way through these trees blindfolded.

  It’s only when he’s gone I realize how fast my heart is beating.

  28

  Bertie and I spend the rest of the morning walking around the woodlands. He doesn’t say anything, but sometimes he stops to look at things. Birds. Insects. He’s really interested in the wildlife.

  At lunchtime, we head back to the hall and Bertie fills up on liquorice sticks and milk, while I have Vicky’s steak and kidney pie with a mountain of mashed potato. Then we head back out into the woods and spend the afternoon walking around.

  I can tell Bertie is, well … not exactly happy, but he likes it out here. I guess if he’s been playing Xbox for months and has been banned from using the grounds, he must feel like a caged bird set free.

  And l feel like that too. Which surprises me. I thought I loved the city, but I have to admit that I feel clean and fresh and free out here. So different from a day in Camden, when I can’t wait to jump in our foot pump shower and get the pollution off my skin.

  The air is so clear that just breathing it in makes me feel healthy. And the mountains – wow, everything is just so beautiful.

  It gets dark early up here, so when dusk falls Bertie and I head in for supper.

  Bertie has liquorice and milk again.

  I have roast chicken and apple crumble.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to try any of this?’ I ask, digging my spoon into the crumble. ‘It’s really good.’

  I’m not expecting any response. But to my amazement, Bertie shakes his head.

  ‘No?’ I say.

  Bertie drops his head down and looks at his plate.

  Finally. A response. Okay, so Bertie only shook his head, but it’s something.

  After supper, Margaret Calder arrives to give Bertie his tutoring.

  She has a mean-looking face like her mother, but unlike her mother she wears bright red lipstick and has her raven black hair cut into a sharp, chin-length bob. And she’s dressed in a fitted black business suit with swoopy designer shoulder pads.

  Margaret walks right into the hall while Bertie is still finishing his milk. She taps him on the shoulder without even looking at me.

  ‘Come along, Bertie. Time for your lessons.’

  Her brown eyes are covered with designer black-framed glasses, and she would be strikingly pretty, if her face didn’t look so annoyed.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, pushing the bench back. ‘You must be Margaret.’

  Margaret gives me a curt nod, then ignores me. ‘Come along Bertie. We have work to do.’

  ‘What sort of work do you do with him?’ I ask.

  Margaret throws me a pitying glance. ‘Nothing a nanny needs to worry about. Things that will prepare him for the adult world. Mathematics. Grammar. But he’s very behind. Very, very behind. Not the best of pupils.’

  ‘There are no bad pupils, only bad teachers right?’ I say innocently, dropping my spoon into my crumble dish. ‘Isn’t that what they say?’

  Margaret’s brown eyes narrow. ‘Not where Bertie is concerned.’

  ‘Doesn’t Bertie need some other kids around at his age? Maybe that would help him learn better.’

  Margaret looks me up and down. ‘I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand, but children like Bertie learn better alone. Come on Bertie.’ She pushes Bertie’s shoulders.

  ‘Should I come with you?’ I ask.

  ‘Why would you do that?’ says Margaret.

  ‘Well. It’s my first day with Bertie. I want to spend as much time with him as possible. And also, Bertie can show me where his bedroom is when he’s done. I get kind of lost in this place …’

  ‘Yes.’ Margaret looks me up and down again. ‘You look like the sort of person who gets lost.’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘Meaning?’

  Margaret ignores me again. ‘Come on Bertie.’ She’s just shepherding him away, but then she turns and looks back over her shoulder. ‘Have you seen Patrick today?’

  ‘Yes,’ I tell her. ‘In the woods earlier.’

  Oh shit. I want to clamp a hand over my face.

  Well done Sera! You and your big mouth …

  Margaret stops walking. ‘You were in the woods? With Bertie?’

  ‘I … um … no, it was just me.’

  Margaret’s eyes bore into me. ‘You were alone? In the woods? With Patrick?’

  ‘Y-es.’

  She looks me up and down again, taking in my jeans and home-printed sweatshirt. I guess next to her designer suit, I don’t look up to much.

  She presses her lips tight together. ‘I plan to marry Patrick Mansfield this year. So consider him spoken for.’

  ‘That’s what I heard,’ I say. ‘Not that it matters to me, anyway.’

  ‘Good.’ She marches away, pushing Bertie along with her.

  ‘Wait!’ I call out. ‘Where will you be?’

  ‘I told you. You won’t be needed any more this evening. Take a break.’

  ‘But what about Bertie’s bedtime? Who’ll put him to bed?’

  ‘He doesn’t need someone to put him into bed. He’s five years old, he’s perfectly capable of undressing and sorting himself out. I just send him to his bedroom when he’s done.’

  My mouth opens and closes. Did she really just say that?

  ‘With no one to say night night to him?’ I ask.

  ‘He doesn’t need a nanny to say night night to him,’ says Margaret. ‘His mother’s not here. While she’s away, staff should know their place. The boy will go to bed by himself. That’s what he’s used to. Don’t try to mess up his routine. Or I’ll be having words with my mother, and you’ll soon find yourself out of a job.’

  With that, she marches Bertie away.

  I take a seat, quietly fuming, trying to work out how I’m going to find Bertie’s bedroom.

  There’s no way I’m letting Bertie go to bed with no one to say night night to him. He’s a little boy, for crying out loud. He needs to know he’s loved before he falls asleep at night.

  I hear a crash in the kitchen, and Vicky saying, ‘oh bothering heck.’

  I get to my feet, picking up plates and bowls.

  ‘Vicky?’ I near the serving hatch, and see her sweating over a huge sink of washing up. ‘Are you okay?’

  She turns to me and smiles. ‘Fine, doll. Just dropped a pan.’

  ‘Any chance you could help me? I need to find out where Bertie’s bedroom is.’

  ‘Haven’t you been there already? I thought all that little lad did was play computer games?’

  ‘I was there this morning, but I’m shit with directions.’

  ‘Of course I’ll help you. Is it okay if I get this place cleaned up first, though? Then I’ll take you up there.’

  ‘Sure! Do you need a hand with this washing up?’

  ‘I’d love that. Worst part of the job.’

  ‘Here.’ I push open the serving door with my hip and drop plates and bowls into the sink. ‘I’ll do it. You go put your feet up. You’ve worked hard enough doing all our meals.’

  ‘Wouldn’t hear of it,’ says Vicky. ‘We’ll do the washing up together, and that’s that.’

  29

  After Vicky and I finish the washing up, she leads me through the castle towards Bertie’s room.

  ‘I have a good way of remembering how to get around this place,’ she tells me, as we walk down dark corridors. ‘You see the tapestries? They all match the wings of the castle, east and west. The battle ones are all in the East Wing and the church ones are in the West Wing.’

  She leads me up a flight of stairs. ‘I’m guessing you’re in the East Wing, right?’

  I think a
bout that. ‘Yes. I think Mrs Calder said it was the East Tower …’

  ‘She shouldn’t put the nannies up there – it’s freezing. No wonder so many girls leave.’

  ‘Do you think that’s why so many nannies have left early?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ says Vicky. ‘I think they leave because of Bertie. He’s a hard child to handle. I’ve seen some scenes in the great hall, believe me. He can really blow. I mean, biting, kicking … the works.’ Vicky sighs. ‘I don’t blame the little lad for being in a bad mood. I mean, I’d be in a bad mood if all I ate was liquorice and milk.’

  ‘Do they … do any of them leave because of Mr Mansfield?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Does Mr Mansfield ever sleep with the nannies? Have one-night stands with them and leave them broken-hearted?’

  Vicky laughs. ‘No way! I wish he did sleep with the staff though ... He’s so fit! I shouldn’t say that, I’m spoken for. But he is gorgeous, isn’t he? No, Mr Mansfield isn’t like that. I’ve never heard of him doing anything like that. Ever. He’s a good man.’

  I decide to change the subject. ‘Was Bertie always this way?’ I ask. ‘I mean, there must have been a time when he ate other things, right?’

  ‘I guess there must have been,’ says Vicky.

  ‘Where was he before he came here?’ I ask.

  ‘Poor little lad,’ says Vicky, shaking her head. ‘He’s been passed from pillar to post his whole life. He was with his Grandfather for a time, down in Glasgow. But then that all went wrong and they had enough of him. I don’t know what happened.’

  ‘Poor Bertie,’ I say. ‘That makes it worse, in a way. That he had something of a family life, and then he lost it.’

  ‘He isn’t the most normal of lads,’ says Vicky. ‘Make sure you keep your eyes on him. He went at one of his nannies with a knife.’

  ‘Even if he does that to me, I won’t leave,’ I say.

  ‘I’m glad,’ says Vicky. ‘He could do with someone who sticks around.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I think,’ I say, and we smile at each other.

  ‘Well, here we are,’ says Vicky, opening an oak door.

  Inside is Bertie’s bedroom, miraculously clean and tidy. I guess someone must have come along and cleaned everything up. Probably Mrs Calder.

  ‘I’d better get back to the kitchen, hen,’ says Vicky. ‘In case anyone else needs a hot meal. Mrs Calder usually comes for her supper about now. And she sometimes asks for an extra meal. For who, I can’t guess.’

  ‘Thanks for showing me up here,’ I say. ‘Do you stay in the castle too? I mean, sleep here?’

  Vicky shakes her head. ‘I live in the village nearby.’

  ‘With your family?’

  ‘With my boyfriend. Well. My sort of boyfriend. I mean, we’re … complicated. But anyway, if you see a bicycle wobbling out of here in the snow and dark tonight, that’s me.’

  I smile at her. ‘Make sure you cycle safe out there.’

  Vicky laughs. ‘Me and safety don’t mix. I’m clumsy as anything. But there’s no cars, so it’s all right. Talking of safety, though, don’t go in the West Tower, okay? It’s down there. At the end of the corridor. Just go to Bertie’s room and Bertie’s room only.’

  ‘Mr Mansfield said that,’ I say. ‘And so did Mrs Calder. How come it’s off limits?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ says Vicky. ‘Something to do with Jamie, I think. His bedroom used to be up there.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jamie Mansfield, hen. Patrick’s wee brother.’

  ‘Did he live at the castle then?’ I ask.

  Vicky looks sad. ‘He used to. But Jamie passed away a few years back. Military accident. His helicopter got shot down. Patrick was there. He practically pulled the helicopter apart to get Jamie out. But it was too late.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ I say. ‘Poor Patrick.’

  ‘I know,’ says Vicky. ‘Terrible isn’t it? And then Patrick’s grandmother died soon afterwards.’

  ‘Was Patrick close to his grandmother too?’

  ‘Oh yes. He loved her to bits. So much so that he left the army when she died. He’d promised her that he’d look after the castle woodlands. Protect them from poachers. And that’s what he did. She was a lovely old woman, Patrick’s grandmother. I miss seeing her around the place.’

  ‘And Jamie’s old bedroom is up there?’ I ask. ‘In the West Tower?’

  ‘Yes. But no one talks about it. It’s like Jamie never existed. Like he’s a big secret. But then that’s this castle for you – full of secrets. Well, see you later hen.’

  She disappears down the hallway.

  30

  Wow.

  Patrick’s brother died. I think of how it would be if something happened to Wila, and feel my heart beat hard in my chest. It just doesn’t bear thinking about.

  Suddenly I hear a voice.

  ‘Let’s hope you do better next time, Bertie.’

  Oh shit. It’s Margaret Calder. How can they have finished so early? I check my watch. Bertie should be studying for another half-hour at least.

  Oh shit, shit, shit.

  I can’t let her see me. For Bertie’s sake as much as mine.

  I whirl around, turning left and right, but there’s nowhere to hide. I’m in a long, stone corridor with not so much as a curtain in sight.

  I can hear Margaret getting closer from one end of the corridor. And at the other …

  Don’t go into the West Tower.

  I hesitate, staring at the closed oak door ahead.

  Then I hear Margaret’s voice again.

  ‘Hurry up Bertie.’

  She’s getting closer. I make my decision and run down the corridor to the closed oak door. There’s a beautiful brass stag nailed onto it.

  I rattle the handle, but the door is locked.

  Now I’m totally trapped, and I can hear Margaret’s footsteps clip clapping up the stairs. She’s really close now.

  Desperate, I give the handle a shake but the door is firmly closed.

  What now? In a few seconds, Margaret will be in the corridor, and I’m in plain sight.

  I kneel to the lock and peer through it, trying to figure out how the mechanism works. I’ve had to fix the lock on our boat plenty of times after break-ins, so I kind of know how to spot weaknesses.

  I see a loose piece of metal inside and unclip my watch. Then I push the thin end of the metal strap into the lock, and twist it so it bunches up.

  Click!

  The metal springs aside and the lock opens.

  I grab the door handle and pull it open, then dart behind the thick oak just in time to hear Margaret’s footsteps in the corridor.

  I’m breathing hard.

  Did she see me?

  I kneel to the lock and see her tugging Bertie towards his room.

  I don’t know.

  I smell must and damp.

  Cold air flows around and I hear a scuttling that could only be a mouse.

  Or a rat.

  An icy sliver of moon shines through an arched window nearby, throwing light onto a tiny winding staircase.

  I need to hide somewhere. I can’t stay here. What if Margaret saw the door move and comes looking for me?

  I’m about to feel around for a light switch, when I realize that actually my eyes are getting used to the dark. And it’s better to have the light off anyway – I don’t want anyone seeing light through the door crack and finding me in here.

  Carefully I climb the staircase.

  At the top there’s a long corridor with a door right at the end. The corridor is pretty dark and I don’t fancy walking down it. But there’s a door right next to me too.

  I try the door and find it open.

  Darting into the room, I close the door carefully behind me.

  The room is lined with dusty old shelves, piled high with books and boxes.

  There’s a bed in the room too. And an art easel, with loads of squeezed out, dried up old tubes
of paint.

  On one side is a rail of men’s clothes – young people stuff like jeans, sweatshirts and bright-coloured shirts. They don’t strike me as the sorts of clothes Patrick would wear – they’re too … I don’t know, out there. There’s a bright lilac shirt and skinny jeans and a paisley suit. Patrick is more of a man’s man – all army fatigues and plain jackets.

  There are piles of books around the place too – all sorts of books. Poetry and crime novels. They look too bright and fun for this draughty old castle. There’s a stack of children’s books on one shelf – Just William stories and stuff like that.

  And music scores … I find my hand going to them and stroking their glossy covers. I miss playing music.

  On one shelf I see a photo of a man who looks a lot like Patrick. It’s not Patrick, though – this man’s hair is much darker and shorter, and his face is thinner.

  The young man is smiling and he has his arm around a beautiful blonde girl, who is grinning like she just won the lottery.

  Under the picture, it says:

  Jamie Mansfield back from leave, with Clarissa.

  I wonder why Patrick has left all his brother’s things in this room?

  Well. I guess it’s none of my business.

  I wait long enough for Margaret to come looking for me, but she doesn’t. I guess she didn’t see me.

  Phew.

  When I’m pretty sure the coast must be clear, I sneak out of the West Tower. I can’t lock the door behind me, but that’s something I’ll just have to live with. Hopefully no one will notice.

  I knock on Bertie’s door.

  Before I can whisper a hello, the door is pulled open and I see Bertie, standing there in black pyjamas.

  Bertie doesn’t flinch or anything. He just stands still, looking mournful and confused.

  ‘I came to say night night,’ I whisper, with a smile.

  Bertie stares at me for a moment. Then he blinks and takes a step back, opening the door wide.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, sneaking into the room and helping Bertie close the door. ‘I’m trying to be quiet because Margaret told me I shouldn’t come up. But I couldn’t let you go to bed all by yourself. Shall I read you a bedtime story?’