Christmas Nights Read online

  It was a cornerstone of the foundation’s ethos that inherited wealth should be used for the greater good of those people who were most in need—mainly through health incentives followed by education. The island had a desperately poor record on both issues. There was one exclusive private hospital for the rich, and a handful of shamefully ill-equipped and badly run clinics for the poor. The wealthy sent their sons abroad for private schooling and groomed their daughters for the right kind of marriage, whilst the poor—if they were lucky—made do with state education which ended when a child reached fourteen. Fortenegro did not have proper senior schools for its brighter children, never mind colleges or a university. There was no middle class. Any islander who did well enough to make any money tended to leave the island, seeking better opportunities for themselves and their families.

  It could all have been so very different. Fortenegro was rich in natural assets, which included its mineral deposits, its climate, and its scenery.

  Max would probably be in Barcelona by now. Ionanthe looked at the telephone on the desk. In a normal relationship a man separated from his partner would surely telephone her, ostensibly to assure her of his safe arrival, but in reality because of their shared need to hear one another’s voice. But of course hers was not a normal relationship, and even less a normal marriage. Her own thoughts pressed on her heart like hard fingers on a painful bruise, making her want to withdraw from the hurt they were causing.

  ‘Highness, the car is waiting.’

  Ionanthe nodded her head in response to the Count’s information.

  The air was colder today—a warning that winter was almost here, Ionanthe recognised, as she looked up towards the hills already cloaked in snow.

  In only a few days it would be Christmas. Christmas. She could feel the familiar sadness settling on her like the drift of winter snow. Christmas had once been her favourite time of year. But Christmas was a time for sharing, for loving, and she had no one with whom to share her love or the deepest secrets of her heart. She had no loving, caring family with whom to spend this special time of year.

  In Brussels she had dreaded the build-up to the season, forced to listen and watch as her co-workers prepared excitedly for their Christmas break, talking of their happiness at the thought of ‘going home’ or being with someone special. Christmas could be the cruellest time of year for those without love, as she well knew.

  According to the Count, the court made no special plans for Christmas; when Cosmo had been alive he had always spent from late December until the end of January away from Fortenegro, ‘enjoying himself’.

  Ionanthe burrowed deeper into the camel-coloured cashmere coat she was wearing—another item she had worked and saved hard for. Ionanthe was a believer in ‘investment’ items of clothing. Throw-away clothes, like throw-away relationships, held no appeal for her. Perhaps because of her childhood, she yearned for those things that would endure and on which she knew she could depend.

  A little to her surprise, the waiting equerry was holding open the front passenger door of the sturdy four-wheel drive vehicle waiting in the courtyard. Its darkened windows were an affectation that made Ionanthe suspect that the vehicle must have been one of the many carelessly purchased by Cosmo.

  Even more unexpected was the fact that the car was without its driver. But Ionanthe didn’t realise that until she was in her seat and the equerry was closing the door and moving round to the driver’s side of the vehicle, holding it open for the man now coming down the steps towards them.

  Ionanthe’s heart whooshed to the bottom of her ribcage as though caught up in an avalanche. Max! It surely couldn’t be him? But it was! Just for a moment the sweetest and most intoxicating surge of joy filled her—but then reality cut in. He couldn’t possibly have changed his mind because he wanted to be with her. And she shouldn’t want that to be the case.

  She watched guardedly as he got into the car, unable to stop herself from saying, almost accusingly, ‘You’re supposed to be in Barcelona.’

  ‘I am supposed to be,’ Max agreed. ‘But my meeting was cancelled.’ It was the truth, after all—even if he himself had been the one to do the cancelling. ‘And I decided it would be a good idea if we were to visit your castle together. It will help to reassure people of our unity, and of course of our commitment to one another and to them.’

  Ionanthe gave a small shiver, despite the delicious warmth of the car’s interior. ‘I really don’t think that would be a good idea,’ she protested.

  ‘You don’t? Why not?’

  Why not? Because her escape had been about preventing any intimacy between them, not promoting it. But of course she could hardly tell him that.

  ‘My grandfather didn’t use the castle very much. It’s old-fashioned, and not very well equipped with mod cons.’

  ‘Really? I understood from your sister that your parents had spent what she described as “a fortune” on installing modern plumbing and central heating.’

  Ionanthe’s heart sank. Her parents had modernised the castle—much to the anger of her grandfather, who had never ceased complaining about what he considered to be a waste of money. Eloise had taken the same attitude as their grandfather, begrudging the money spent and claiming that such luxuries as bathrooms and central heating were wasted on the staff who looked after the castle.

  ‘That was nearly twenty years ago. I’m not even sure the central heating system will still be working.’

  ‘If it isn’t then we shall just have to find some other way to keep warm, then, shan’t we?’

  The swift hiss of Ionanthe’s betraying breath should have pleased him, but instead it made him feel like stopping the car and taking her in his arms.

  To punish himself, Max continued briskly, ‘After all, I’m sure your staff must have found one. It would be uncomfortable if not impossible for them to endure the cold of the mountain winters if they had not.’

  Was Max genuinely expressing concern for others? Or was he simply using them as a means of mocking her?

  ‘The boiler and the fires are fed by logs cut from trees that fall or have to be felled,’ she explained. ‘It is hard work, and the logs have to be eked out carefully when there are bad winters.’

  ‘You make it sound very unpleasant, but I dare say those who live there are accustomed to it. Or do they wish for an easier life in a less harsh environment?’

  Max’s question made Ionanthe tense. What was the true purpose of his questions and his obvious determination to visit the mountains? Was he merely making conversation, or did he have a darker purpose in suggesting that her people might wish to abandon the mountains and live somewhere else? It was, after all, beneath the mountains that the coal lay—on land he owned, which bordered what was now hers.

  What was he trying to prove in giving Ionanthe the opportunity to confide in him? Max wondered grimly.

  She wasn’t going to play Max’s game, Ionanthe decided. She had already learned the painful cost of doing so, hadn’t she?

  ‘It is their choice to live where and how they do,’ she answered, giving a small shrug as she did so in an attempt to express a lack of interest in the subject that would bring his questions to an end.

  But Max gave her a hard look and suggested, in an even harder voice, ‘And since you do not have to endure their hardship it is of no concern to you? Your sister expressed much the same view. I should perhaps have expected that you would share it.’

  Was he trying to suggest that she didn’t care about the lives of those who depended on her? Now Ionanthe was really angry.

  ‘For your information, I do not slavishly adopt the views of others. I formulate my own. And if you knew anything about history then you would know that in many instances—from the Scottish Highland clearances to the wholesale movement of people from their terraced houses to the planners’ rabbit hutch post-war flats—when people have been taken from their environment and resettled against their will it has led to the destruction of their sense of community, ad
ding to their ills rather than lessening them. If my people wish to move and change their way of life then of course I shall do my best to aid them in that endeavour. But I will never force it upon them.’

  There was real passion in her voice, Max acknowledged. Passion and conviction. But was there also honesty?

  They were approaching the turn-off they needed to take from the coast road, but before Ionanthe could let Max know it was coming up he was signalling to make the turning.

  As though he knew what she was thinking, he told her curtly, ‘I visited the castle with Eloise, shortly before our marriage.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have liked that.’

  The words were out before Ionanthe could stop them. Now he would think she was jealous and mean as well as everything else, Ionanthe thought miserably, unable to look at Max for fear of what she might see in his eyes.

  ‘Eloise was always a city and bright lights person,’ she explained lamely. ‘Neither she nor our grandfather liked the castle.’

  ‘But you did?’ Max guessed.

  ‘It was my family home when our parents were alive. My mother loved it, and because my father loved her he was happy for them to make their home there.’

  Ionanthe’s voice softened and warmed as she spoke of her parents. Eloise had barely spoken of them or her sister at all, Max remembered.

  ‘My parents had so many plans—especially my mother. She wanted—’Abruptly Ionanthe stopped. That was what you got from allowing your emotions to take over. You were in danger of saying things it was best not to say. Her mother had been a reformist, a pioneer in her way, who had felt passionately about the importance of education and who had proved her commitment to her beliefs by setting up her own small school for the children of those who worked in the castle and on its lands. It had been Ionanthe’s own special and much loved task to help the very little ones with their letters.

  Watching the way her expression softened, Max thought she had never looked lovelier. Her emotions had brought a luminosity to her skin and her eyes, a sweet approachability that was not vulnerability but something stronger and deeper—as though a path had opened up between them. As though…

  Lost in her memories, Ionanthe continued softly, ‘At this time of year my mother would send my father out into the forest to bring back a Christmas tree. It had to be tall enough for the star to touch the ceiling in the grand hall, and its lower branches wide enough for there to be space beneath them for all the presents my mother would wrap for the children. She always seemed to know exactly what each child most longed for. Many of the toys were made in secret in the estate’s carpentry shop—dolls’ houses and cribs for the girls, forts and trains for the boys, puppets and so much more… We made our own decorations too—my mother was very artistic. The time around Christmas always seemed to be filled with our parents’ laughter.

  ‘At New Year my parents held a large party, with lots of guests coming to stay, but Christmas itself was always for the children. We’d have snow, of course, being in the mountains, and there’d be snowball fights and ski races. To me as a child Christmas was the best time—magical and filled with love and happiness. When my parents died it was as though they had taken Christmas with them, because it was never the same afterwards. That was when my grandfather moved permanently to his apartment in the royal castle.’

  Her words had brought an ache to Max’s throat, a need to open his arms to her and hold her safe within them, a longing to tell her that somehow he would find a way to make Christmases magical again. How on earth was he going to be able to stick to his principles if just listening to her talk about her childhood was going to put his judgement in the balance and weight the scales heavily in her favour?

  Max told himself that he was glad that he was driving, because that at least stopped him from touching her. ‘And you and Eloise? Where did you live after your parents’ death?’ he asked, trying to sound detached.

  His question caused Ionanthe to look at him. Hadn’t Eloise told him anything about their childhood?

  ‘Grandfather took Eloise with him. They were always close.’ She wasn’t going to say that Eloise had been their grandfather’s favourite and make herself sound even more pathetic and jealous. The plain, unwanted grandchild who had been pushed into the background to mourn the loss of the parents who had loved her as her grandfather had not.

  ‘And you?’ Max persisted. He was frowning now, as though angered by something.

  ‘I went away to school. It was what I wanted and what my parents had always planned.’

  No need to say that their parents had planned to send them both, not separate them and favour one above the other.

  ‘What about you and your childhood?’ Ionanthe asked him, wanting to divert their conversation away from herself.

  ‘Me? I was an only child.’

  ‘And your parents?’

  ‘Dead. An accident.’

  The curt voice in which the information was delivered warned Ionanthe not to pursue the subject—and yet she wanted to. Because she wanted to know all there was to know about him.

  And so what if she did? Wasn’t there an old adage about knowing one’s enemy?

  Enemies? Was that what they must be?

  Whilst they had been talking the road had started to climb steeply. Small patches of snow lying in the hollows gradually became more widespread, until up ahead of them the whole landscape was white—apart from where the trunks of the trees were etched dark and the sheer face of the rocks showed grey with age.

  A flight of geese cut their perfect V formation across the sky—heading, Ionanthe guessed, for the large natural lake that lay just below the snow line.

  ‘Some of the older estate workers swear that there were once bears in the mountains,’ she told Max with a small smile. ‘But my father always used to say it was simply a story to scare us children.’

  It had started to snow. Thick fat flakes drifting down from a grey sky. How she had once loved the first snows of winter, hoping they would fall thick and deep enough to keep her parents in the castle with them. She hadn’t recognised then how hard the harsh weather made the lives of those who worked on the land—tenant farmers, in the main, with flocks of goats and sheep. If there was mineral wealth beneath these sometimes cruel mountains then surely it belonged to those farmers?

  Christmas. He hadn’t realised how close it was, Max admitted. The foundation had a special fund that provided money for various charities to help those in need at this special time of year.

  Max remembered the year his parents had given him the best present he had ever received. He had been sixteen, and he could still remember the thrill of pride he had felt when they had told him that they were giving him his own small area of responsibility within the foundation. He had been given a fund-raising target to meet. He had delivered newspapers, cleaned cars and run errands in order to earn the money to make that target, and no target he had met since had been as sweet. Because his parents had been killed shortly after his eighteenth birthday, and from then on there had been no one to praise him for his endeavours.

  The four-wheel drive was equipped with snow tyres, and they were needed now that they were above the snow line.

  They were nearly there. Once they had gone round the corner they would be able to see the castle. Ionanthe folded her hands in her lap. It was foolish to feel so excited. She wasn’t a child any more, after all. Even so she caught and held her breath as they rounded the next bend, expelling it on a long sigh at the sight high above them, on its small plateau on the mountainside, of the castle, its topmost turrets disappearing into the heavy snow clouds.

  It was truly a fairytale castle—all turrets and crenulated battlements, its exterior faced with a white limestone that made it look more as though it was made from icing sugar than the granite the facing concealed.

  The small ornamental lake in the grounds where she had learned to skate would be frozen. Her parents had held skating parties there with coloured lanterns suspended
from the branches of the trees that overhung the lake to illuminate the darkness. Ionanthe remembered lying in bed with her window wide open, despite the cold, so that she could listen to the adult laughter.

  They had reached the long drive to the castle now, and the trees that bordered it were so heavy with snow that their branches swept right down to the ground.

  The light had started to fade, and one by one the lights were coming on in the castle, to cast a warming welcoming glow from the windows. In the courtyard people were waiting for them, eager hands opening the car doors, familiar voices exclaiming proudly, ‘Your Highness.’

  Retainers she remembered as formidable adults not afraid to chide an over-active child were now bowing and curtsying low to her.

  Impulsively Ionanthe reached out to take hold of the arms of the cook, remonstrating with her. ‘No, Ariadne, please. There is no need.’

  ‘Hah, I see you still hold the same republican views as your mother,’ the elderly woman snapped sharply. ‘Well, there are those of us who still respect our Sovereign, and if we want to show that respect then we shall.’

  Max was hard put to it not to laugh. The small red-cheeked woman reminded him very much of a Greek cook his parents had once employed. She had run the whole household, and Max suspected that this woman did the same.

  ‘So you’re a republican at heart, are you?’ He couldn’t resist teasing Ionanthe as they were ushered inside.

  ‘Ariadne likes to think so,’ was all Ionanthe would allow herself to say.