Free A Week in Winter: A Novel by Marcia Willett

them both. Stuart needs me, Dave doesn’t.’
    As the weeks passed he’d learned of her joy when she’d been offered the teaching post, her struggle for the flat, the worries about her parents, who were very frail. Her love for her son was wholehearted, practical,vivid. Coming home to Selina was an unfortunate contrast—and he’d fought to resist his growing disloyalty—but the temptation was too great. Mary’s courage and vitality warmed him, attracted him, and soon he ceased to struggle too hard against it.
    Could Selina possibly have suspected his growing attachment? It was impossible to imagine her living permanently in Cornwall; nevertheless the battle was now joined and he must make some kind of move. But what?
    ‘Lunch!’ Her voice echoed up the stair and he instinctively responded, tidying his papers, putting the top on his pen, before going downstairs.

Chapter Seven
    Whistling softly to himself, Rob Abbot stirred up the thick paint with a piece of wood and dipped the paintbrush into the gleaming white. The office was empty now—except for the old desk, which was too battered and worm-eaten to be valuable—swept and cleaned out ready to be decorated. The outside door was open to a brilliant, sparkling day, and he worked quickly in the icy, invigorating air, irritated by the thought of the imminent interruption. He glanced at his watch, pressed the lid back firmly on to the can of paint and crossed the small passage to wash the brush out under the cold tap in the cloakroom. Leaving it to dry, balanced on the edge of the Butler sink, he went through to the kitchen, closing the inner door behind him. It was warm in here after the chill of the office and he blessed Lady Todhunter for agreeing that the Esse should be lit. The kettle was singing and he made himself a mug of tea, looking about him critically, pleased with what he’d achieved.
    He paused, mug halfway to his lips, imagining that he heard a footstep. After a moment he took a deep breath and drank some tea. The old farmhouse was getting to him, no doubt about it. He often felt that there was another presence in the house with him: steps overhead, a door closing quietly, voices in the garden. Perhaps it was so in all old houses, if one spent enough time alone in them, but Moorgate wasn’t just any old house. Moorgate was special. It must be hard to have to part with such a place but he could understand that Lady Todhunter was rather too elderly to up sticks and move into such an isolated situation.
    The slamming of a car door alerted him and he set down his mug and passed swiftly through to the sitting room. A young couple were standing in the lane, a sheaf of particulars in their hands, staring at the house. Standing well back he watched them for a moment, noting the new four-wheel-drive vehicle, the smartly casual clothes, the confidence with which they stood together, comparing the photograph with reality. Presently they opened the gate and trod up the path to the front door.
    He waited for a moment, composing himself, before he opened the door to them.
    ‘Ah, Mr …’ The young man consulted his sheet of paper. ‘Mr Abbot, is it? I think you’re expecting us. Mr Cruikshank telephoned you earlier. I’m Martin Baxter. This is my wife.’
    She smiled briefly but her eyes were already glancing past him, trying to see into the hall beyond. They were rather older than he’d first guessed, probably late thirties, and he experienced an odd, irrational desire to slam the heavy oak door in their complacent, well-groomed faces.
    ‘How do you do? Yes, I’m Rob Abbot. Come in, won’t you? I often show people round to save Mr Cruikshank the drive from Truro if he can get me on my mobile.’
    She was already in the hall, opening the door to the sitting room, exclaiming. Martin Baxter shrugged, smiling, implying that, having let them in, Rob was now surplus to requirements.
    ‘We’ll give a shout if we need any information,’ he said. ‘OK? I