‘All but Mr Fielding. He’s around somewhere, taking more photographs.’

‘Of course he is.’ They shared a smile, which reaffirmed Josephine’s liking for Archie’s childhood friend. ‘There’s plenty to keep him busy here,’ she said. ‘This is really lovely – a proper traditional Christmas. We could be anywhere over the last two hundred years.’ It was true: the scene in front of her, framed by the church, had a timeless simplicity about it. There was a balcony outside the door, accessed by a set of steps on each side, and it had been beautifully decorated with garlands of greenery. Holly berries glinted in the morning sun, picking out shards of colour from the stained glass 156wherever the church was lit from within, and the peal of bells cut through the air with a gentle civility; although she was no churchgoer herself, Josephine wondered why they all worked so hard each year to smother the heart of Christmas with more elaborate preparations. ‘Does everyone on the island come to the service?’ she asked.

‘Yes, except for one or two of the older residents who find the climb too much these days, and we make sure we have a concert down in the village for them so they don’t feel left out. I know we all sigh when Mr Fielding enters the room, but this is the main reason I was happy to let the newspapers in – not for the glamour of Hollywood and not even for the money they’re donating to the fund, but for the chance to show off what we do here. I wanted the islanders and the family to have something to be proud of. It feels like the end of something, this Christmas, so it will be nice to have it on record.’

‘Were you hit badly by the last war?’

‘We lost our fair share of men.’

‘And grief resonates in a small community, over and above the personal sense of loss.’

‘Yes, I suppose that’s true, but we’re a resilient lot. Most of the families on the island have lived here for generations, and there are a couple with connections that go back hundreds of years. They’re sea-faring people and their ancestors sailed all over the world, so they’re no strangers to danger and tragedy. And they’re fiercely loyal to the Mount. We’re lucky to have them.’

‘And they you, I suspect,’ Josephine said, admiring the unsentimental respect in Hilaria’s words. ‘How long have you been here?’ 157

She misunderstood the question and answered on behalf of the family. ‘The St Aubyns bought the Mount in 1659, but they were stewards here even before that.’

‘And you personally?’

‘Oh, I see – sorry. I came in 1908, when I was fourteen. I’ll miss it, when the inevitable happens. Two griefs for the price of one.’

And a heavy price, Josephine thought – for Hilaria and for the island. It seemed deeply unfair that St Michael’s Mount would be deprived of someone who obviously ran it well and cared so deeply about the people who depended on her, but it wasn’t the time to discuss the injustices of inheritance and Hilaria didn’t seem the type to wallow in self-pity or the sentence of her departure. Even so, the two of them were roughly contemporaries, both at an age when the pleasures of Christmas were also its sadness, and Josephine knew that Hilaria’s everyday concerns must have been magnified a hundredfold by the intense melancholy of the season.