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‘It’s one of the many things we can talk about on the drive back to the capital,’ Aiden said, loud enough for everyone to hear, as he thumped the boot closed again.
Max groaned. ‘I am going to have to listen to relationship stuff for hours?’
Caro handed him a set of headphones. ‘I got two for Christmas,’ she explained. ‘Apparently nobody likes listening to the soundtracks of my documentaries when I’m watching them on my tablet.’
‘Funny that,’ Edward said, drily, and she glared up at him.
‘Have you said goodbye to everyone?’ I asked Max, and then turned to Aiden for confirmation too. I’d already done the rounds before heading out to load the car. I’d only been saving the hardest for last – and it turned out, I might not need to do that one at all. ‘Then I guess we’d better get going.’
‘Yep.’ Aiden clapped Edward on the back, murmuring what sounded like a thank you in his ear, then bent to give Caro a proper hug, which she returned with enthusiasm.
‘Do you have to go?’ she asked plaintively.
‘Afraid so,’ Aiden replied. ‘It’s time for me to move on, I think.’
‘You’ll come back soon though, won’t you?’
Aiden glanced across at me. ‘I reckon so, don’t you?’
I nodded. Rosewood had a way of getting under your skin, it seemed. And now I was out of secrets for it to steal from me, I was quite looking forward to visiting again.
‘You’ll have to,’ Edward pointed out. ‘There’s this wedding you’re all invited to…’
‘And besides,’ I said, looking at Aiden. ‘Moving on doesn’t always mean you have to leave everything else behind.’
He smiled, softly, and I knew that, however much talking we still had to do, we were going to be okay. As long as we were moving forward together.
‘Okay, everyone, in the car,’ I said, and Max and Aiden obeyed, leaving me to hug my brother goodbye. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
‘Very soon,’ he confirmed. ‘Now drive safe.’
I nodded, and let him go.
As we pulled away, I realised that the whole family had come out to wave us goodbye, and Aiden and Max both returned the gesture enthusiastically, windows wound down and both shouting out their farewells.
I smiled, and tried to concentrate on the road. Until I realised there was an extra person standing on the steps, almost hidden behind the others, but his orange jumper bright in the winter gloom, waving us away from Rosewood.
I swallowed, and bid Nathaniel Drury a final farewell, too, wondering if he’d still be waiting at Rosewood when we returned – or whether, one day, he’d find the strength to move on, too.
I hoped so. And I hoped there were as many wonderful things waiting for him as there were for me.
If you loved visiting Rosewood in the snow, indulge in another trip and discover all the wonders waiting for you in the summer in the first book,
The Last Days of Summer
Out now
Prologue
‘Home isn’t a place, Grace. It’s a feeling. An overwhelming emotion that, once you’ve felt it, you can’t live without.’
‘A bit like love, then?’ Grace asked.
I nodded. ‘Sometimes, I think they might be one and the same thing.’
Going Home, by Nathaniel Drury (1980)
I like to think that there’s a book for any feeling, any emotion, any problem. In my world, the cure for what ails you is always a new story, or, sometimes even better, an old one. Some might say it’s a distraction, a diversion from whatever is wrong with your reality. But for me, I often find the answers I’m seeking within the pages of a book – or at least by the time I’ve followed a story from beginning to end, I have a new perspective on my own problems.
I think I read more books in the two years after I left Rosewood than ever before in my life. Or since.
Sometimes I’d read romances, to remind myself that love could end happily. Sometimes I read fantasy novels, for the joy of a high quest and magical solutions. Sometimes I read literary fiction, to experience the world through another’s kaleidoscope. Sometimes I read children’s books, to escape to a simpler time.
And whenever I felt homesick, I read my grandfather’s books, and imagined I could hear him speaking the words to me.
I was homesick that Saturday morning in May, when the first phone call came.
Dressed in my pyjamas and dressing gown, I’d decided to laze around my tiny flat in Perth, Scotland, drinking too-strong black coffee and nibbling on endless pieces of toast, until I felt better. But instead, I found myself moving around the flat restlessly, a copy of Going Home in my hand, absorbing a page or two at a time before my own memories overtook me.
Nathaniel always claimed that the house in the story wasn’t Rosewood, the same way that Biding Time wasn’t about him and my grandmother, Isabelle. But as with all his books, every time I reread them, I found another hint, another clue, that led me towards the truth. Like a treasure hunt Nathaniel had laid out for me, he hid patches of his own history, his own life, in his fiction, waiting for me to find them.
Like the house. However much he denied it, the description of Honeysuckle House in Going Home matched Rosewood to the letter. Not just the honey-coloured brick, symmetrical Georgian design, or the twelve chimneys, or even the white marble steps leading up to the front door. There was something about the feel of the place – the way he described the sun on the terrace when the gin and tonics were being poured, or the coolness of the middle room when the rain came down outside – that made it feel like home to me.
I flipped a few pages through the book again, pausing at a description of Honeysuckle House.
When the afternoon sun alighted on the windows, the whole house lit up, as if it were night and every light inside had been left on. Inside, the house could be cold – Grace’s mother had decorated it in the latest styles, with lots of white and sharp edges. But she couldn’t cool the natural warmth of the house as I looked upon it, or sharpen the corners of the worn golden brick exterior. And when the house filled with people… Ah, that was when Honeysuckle House came alive. And so did Grace.
I put the book aside. I didn’t need Agnes’s descriptions of Grace’s house – not when I had my own memories of Rosewood. Of the Rose Garden, the Orangery, the sweeping staircase that dominated the main hallway. Of Nathaniel’s study, every inch crammed with books and papers.
And of Nathaniel, most of all. The way his voice boomed and echoed around Rosewood, or how he poured his drinks too strong, or how every meal became story time, somehow. How every little event of his day became a hysterical monologue by the time he’d finished telling it. And how he knew to listen, sometimes, and just be there – a warm, comforting, reassuring presence I’d relied on my whole life.
I’d always have my memories. It was just hard to imagine not knowing when I’d next be there in person. When I’d see my family again.
The phone rang, and I put my book aside, reaching past my empty coffee cup to answer it.
‘Saskia? It’s your grandfather.’ As if I couldn’t tell from his voice. ‘Now, tell me, did you see the ridiculous invitations your grandmother picked out for this Golden Wedding thing? You have to come home and help me through it.’
I frowned. ‘Golden Wedding?’
‘Fifty years of wedded bliss and she wants another damned party.’ Nathaniel’s voice dropped low, as if he were afraid someone might be listening. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got something in mind to fire up the festivities. You really don’t want to miss it, Kia.’
It wasn’t as if I didn’t want to go home for my grandparents’ Golden Wedding Anniversary. Isabelle and Nathaniel Drury knew how to throw a party, after all, and this was sure to be a big one. The sort of shindig people talked about for decades to come. In fact, people still told stories about the first ever party they held at Rosewood, back in 1966. There were reports in the society pages. Couples met at Isabelle’s parties, or got engaged – or even
pregnant. But they weren’t the sort of parties I imagined when I thought of the sixties – I’d seen photos. Isabelle’s parties required full evening wear, champagne, important people – and enough drama to keep people gossiping for weeks afterwards.
There hadn’t been a party at Rosewood since Ellie’s wedding, as far as I knew. I didn’t want to miss it – and I really didn’t want to be the person at the hypothetical future dinner table saying, ‘I don’t know, I wasn’t there,’ when someone asked, ‘And do you remember the bit when…’
I just didn’t know how welcome I’d be when I got to Rosewood.
‘I didn’t get an invitation,’ I said, as lightly as I could manage. ‘But I take your word for it that they’re awful.’
