Free The Christmas Angel by Marcia Willett

emails. She glances at her watch: barely eight o’clock. It is much too early; he’ll hardly manage to get up to the village hall before breakfast. Meanwhile, she can smell bacon frying. Mo puts her head in at the door.
    ‘So you are up. Pa thought you were still asleep. He’s got a little plan to dig us out but he might need some help.’
    ‘I know what that means.’ Dossie comes out of the study and closes the door behind her. ‘It means lots of hard labour on my part and a great deal of shouting on his.’
    Mo chuckles. ‘It’s my fault, darling, I’m afraid. I suggested it. He gets so fretful if he can’t be doing. You know what he’s like.’
    ‘Don’t I, though.’ Dossie looks resigned. ‘OK. I’ll get dressed but tell him to save me some bacon.’
    Back in her room she checks her mobile again. There was a message from Rupert: Cant get car out. Gutted. How about u ?
    She texts back: Same here – and then hesitates. Is he asking if she is gutted or merely snowed in? She doesn’t want to sound too keen but she feels pleased that he is gutted. However, she wipes her message and starts again. No luck today. B in touch , and leaves it at that. But his message has cheered her. She feels excited, on the brink of something, and is almost glad that the meeting is postponed so that the expectation can continue to grow for a little while longer. He is disappointed: gutted. She hugs the sense of excitement to her and looks out upon the pastoral scene with equanimity now.
    Perhaps he’ll send another text; perhaps she’ll email him later on, just something casual. Dossie begins to dress, humming beneath her breath.
    ‘What are you doing?’
    Rupert slides the mobile into a small compartment in his briefcase and zips it shut.
    ‘Just checking messages,’ he calls. ‘This snow is going to be causing lots of problems. I shan’t be able to get out this morning. And you won’t be able to get home.’
    She comes carefully down the steep narrow staircase wrapped in a thick long dressing gown, huddling the collar up around her neck. Her morning face is slightly shiny and pallid, her brow creased into an expression of faint dissatisfaction: Kitty has never been a morning person.
    ‘Lucky I kept the wood-burner going overnight,’ he says. ‘I should go into the sitting-room if I were you. It’s cosy in there. I’ll bring some coffee in.’
    She gives a little unsmiling nod and he goes back into the kitchen, slightly irritated that she’s taken it into her head to pay this flying visit, but far too experienced to show it. The important thing is to keep the mood light. Kitty has a sixth sense where other women are concerned and there must be no hint of his lunch date with Dossie. Yet he can’t quite keep himself from smiling as he finds the percolator and makes coffee: Dossie sounds rather fun and he is looking forward to meeting her. But not today.
    Kitty turns her head as he carries in the coffee. ‘I still think it ’s crazy that you bought this place,’ she says. ‘Honestly, it’s miles off the beaten track.’
    He passes her the mug of strong, black coffee. ‘You know why I bought it,’ he answers, perching on the chair opposite. ‘I bought it because the owner was in trouble and needed to offload it quickly. I got it very cheap and I should be able to turn it round and sell it on and make a nice little profit.’
    ‘In this market?’
    ‘OK,’ he says easily, smiling at her, ‘then I’ll rent it out until the market improves.’
    She sits back in the corner of the shabby armchair, drawing her long legs up beneath her, folding her thin elegant hands around the mug. He sees that she is pulling herself together, shaking off the grumpy early morning mood that reflects the uncomfortable night on the second-hand bed. He wonders why she’s made the sudden dash down to see him and hopes it isn’t going to become a habit. After all, he gets up to Bristol twice a week. The truth is that he’s begun