Free Winter’s Children by Leah Fleming

inglenook fireplace. The table seemed to form a barrier between the two halves of the downstairs. There was a huge dresser full of pewter plates and resting there a telephone, unopened post and a stuffed curlew in a glass dome. She glanced at an old bill dated 1753 framed on the wall, and a salmon encased in its cabinet. The walls were lined with sepia photographs and larger portraits up the stairs. There was a smoky musty smell of dampness as their shoes echoed on the stone flags.
    In a side room Kay glimpsed a den of books, CDs, a sound system, a battered old sofa and a marble surround to the fireplace, a once formal room turned into the farmer’s den. The key to this man was music, she mused. The other doors were firmly shut.
    They mounted the staircase slowly, looking at the portraits with eyes following them up to the first floor, which opened into a formal sitting room, frozen in aspic, unused and chilly, with some fine Georgian furniture, and miniatures on the walls. This could be a pretty drawing room if the fire was lit and the curtains drawn back, for it faced south, with a magnificent view.
    ‘Do you ever use this room?’ she asked. ‘It’s gracious and well proportioned.’
    ‘Every blue moon when we had guests, but not now. It’s just one more place to heat. One of my ancestors built it for his wife. The rest are bedrooms on this floor.’ He marched them up to the next floor, opening piles of rooms full of junk, antique brass bedsteads and washstands. There was a spinning wheel that caught Evie’s eye but as she touched the wheel a shower of dust fluttered into the air and made them sneeze.
    ‘As you can see, there’s not much to Wintergill,’ said their guide briskly, dismissing his home as if he were an estate agent.
    ‘Oh, but there is. Every one of these rooms could tell a story – and the view!’ Kay enthused, admiring the spacious bedrooms. ‘There must have been wealth here to build such a place.’
    ‘Sheep made many a fortune until now,’ Nik replied, shrugging his shoulders. ‘It’s said Cromwell spent a night here on a table surrounded by guards during the Civil War. The Snowdens were for Parliament for a while but somehow they ended up right even after the Restoration of the King. They were Dissenters – puritans – and paid fines for worshipping at a chapel not the church,’ he added, sensing her interest. ‘I guess these stone walls could tell the history of Yorkshire, good times and bad. If I had more time, there’s a pile of old papers needing sorted out, deeds, wills and suchlike.’
    ‘How exciting,’ Kay smiled. ‘If you need any help with Latin …’
    ‘Thanks, but even farmers like me did Latin at school,’ he quipped, and she blushed, hoping he didn’t think she was patronising him. For a few seconds she could see the enthusiasm bursting out of his grim face. His eyes were blue – not cold ice blue, more the colour of Delft plates. Had the Norsemen left their mark in these hills and dales? she mused, looking at his tall outline, long legs and suntanned skin with interest. Then the warmth of the moment was gone and the grimness returned.
    Nik was anxious to get rid of these intruders. The woman was getting too close to what was dearest to his heart. He could sense her fascination with this ancient house or why should she give up a good claret to make this tour? He didn’t normally show people around or let them in through the back door to see the muddle he lived in. What he felt about Wintergill was private. Sometimes he felt it wasn’t just a house, it was a living, breathing being with a character all of its own.
    Wintergill had its own heart and soul. It belonged to no one generation, no one time.
    He was convinced it was his duty to keep the lifeblood flowing even if it was just keeping the roof sound and the walls intact. If he gave up farming, took his compensation, perhaps he could bring it back to full repair. That was about it. He could rent out the