‘I can’t believe she’s been gone fifteen years,’ Moire said.

‘No, neither can I.’ She squeezed her sister’s hand and raised her glass. ‘Happy Christmas.’

20

2

Hilaria St Aubyn sat at the window in her father’s study, going through the final preparations for Christmas before discussing the arrangements with her housekeeper. It was contrary of her in a home this size to gravitate so often to one of the smallest rooms, but she loved everything about it: the oak-panelled walls and family portraits that acknowledged her long connection with the Mount; the old partner’s desk, from which she ran the estate business, taking over new duties each year as her father grew older and more frail; the chair where she sat most evenings, watching the sun setting over the sea and loving the sense of peace and satisfaction from another day safely navigated.

The habitual winter traditions seemed more poignant than ever this year, coloured by the knowledge that this might be her last Christmas here. Her father was in his eighties now, and the grief of losing two much-loved wives in the space of a few years had damaged his health; when he died, his title and the island would pass to Hilaria’s cousin, and she would be forced to leave the life that had been hers since she was a girl. There was little point in resenting the laws of inheritance, still less in being sentimental about a home she had loved from the moment she arrived, but she couldn’t help the fear that came with knowing that her sense of purpose would be lost along with the right to be here. Like her parents, she felt responsible for those who lived and worked on the Mount; 21hers wasn’t the only family to have been here for generations, and she loved and respected the islanders for their loyalty and pride; she had hoped to see them through the difficult years ahead, but it was unlikely that she would see out another war here. As her inevitable departure from the Mount grew closer, she found herself increasingly sensitive to the changing seasons and the markers of an island year, acutely aware that it might be the last time she would oversee the daffodil harvest or bathe off the rocks at Cromwell’s Passage; the last time she would come home and feel that overwhelming flood of love as the castle came into view. And now, perhaps, the last Christmas, its joy half stifled by uncertainty. This must, she thought, be exactly how it felt to know you were dying.

There was a knock at the door, just as the grandfather clock in the corner prepared to strike the hour, and she smiled at Nora Pendean, glad to be saved from her thoughts. ‘The drawing room looks magnificent,’ she said, gesturing for the housekeeper to sit down at the other side of the desk. ‘Every year I think the tree can’t get any better, and every year you prove me wrong.’