Page 23 of The Secret Christmas Library

The door opposite hers opened at exactly the same time, and she caught a glimpse inside; Theo’s room was green where hers was red.

She supposed that was how the household staff would have kept track of it, back in the day when they had a full staff, and not just Bonnie working wonders all on her own.

She was perfectly friendly, but Mirren still found it creepy, as if, when there was nobody in the house, Bonnie simply shut herself away in a box.

Theo walked into the corridor. Mirren stared at him.

‘You brought that?’

‘Of course,’ said Theo. ‘Who comes to a castle without formal wear?’

He was immaculately attired in black tie, his bow tie a little floppy, his white shirt perfect. His dark hair was slicked back, making him look even more darkly handsome than usual, particularly when he smiled at her.

‘You look very nice.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mirren. ‘I’m wearing a blanket; do you think they’ll notice?’

Theo rolled his eyes. ‘Only if you insist on saying “Hey everyone guess what I’m wearing a blanket,” he said.

‘I know you are very keen on reminding us how you’re an honest working-class child of the soil or whatever it is, but we all get it: you hate the parasitical upper classes, even while you’re currently working for them, so okay, Millie Tant, can we just go downstairs, with you looking quite lovely, and not be quite so chippy during dinner? ’

Mirren gave him a look, stung.

‘Oh, come on, don’t give me that look. I just complimented you. Also, if you’re going to be so insistent about the fact that you don’t go to a lot of smart places, I should warn you in advance, dinner is going to be terrible.’

And then, by way of consolation, he offered her his broad arm to go down the great, grand staircase, and, not knowing quite what else to do, she took it. The scent of his expensive Penhaligon’s aftershave reminded her, briefly, of the year before. Why did he have to smell so good, dammit?

In contrast to the rest of the house, which was now doused in gloom, presumably made even worse by Jamie taking out half the light bulbs from other places, the Chinois drawing room was easier to find this evening, blazing as it was with light.

The faded turquoise and bright bees-and-flowers wallpaper glowed gently.

An extremely old record player was playing jazz, rather fuzzily.

Jamie and Esme were at opposite sides of the room, evidently still not talking to one another.

Esme was standing by an open window as the storm raged outside, smoking furiously, even though the wind kept blowing her cigarette out.

Jamie was by a wooden art deco cocktail bar, mixing some brown liquid in heavy glasses. He added maraschino cherries carefully.

‘Old-fashioned?’ he asked carelessly, and Mirren found herself beaming.

Jamie looked at her rather strangely. In fact, had Mirren only known it, he was indeed finding it strange.

Not many people in this house smiled for no reason.

Not many people smiled, full stop. Plus, she looked different – Jamie didn’t know much about women’s clothes, but this was definitely something nice.

And the reason Mirren couldn’t seem to stop this stupid grin from spreading across her face was similar.

She hadn’t been able to stop herself being excited by the fact that Jamie was wearing .

. . Well, of course he would be – why wouldn’t he?

This was just what dressing for dinner meant, up here.

Nonetheless, he was wearing a real, honest-to-goodness, true-life kilt, without any self-consciousness whatsoever.

Mirren hadn’t really ever given much thought to tartan, but this was a faded blue, green and orange, a country-looking design, with a heavy old sporran on it.

He wore it with a plain white shirt and a tweed waistcoat.

Normally she would have thought of kilts as being quite funny, but somehow she really liked this.

It suited him so well. He looked . . . he looked more at home.

Not quite so anxious, rather more rugged.

He caught her eyes on him and looked up. ‘You look nice,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ said Mirren, blushing and accepting the drink he handed her.

She bit her lip; she’d noticed him noticing her smile and didn’t want to admit that the reason she looked so happy was that coming into a castle drawing room dressed in a beautiful dress and the lord of the manor handing her a cocktail felt like the stuff of fantasies.

‘Oh,’ said Esme, turning in from the window. ‘That’s a nice colour on you.’

Mirren was even more surprised to get a compliment from Esme. ‘Um, thanks! There’s loads of dresses up there.’

Esme rolled her eyes. ‘Christ, yes. Another nail in the coffin of the McKinnon family coffers. Darling spendthrift Mama.’ She frowned. ‘Mind you, she doesn’t need all that stuff where she is. I’m going to have a rummage. I bet some of it is worth a bit.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ agreed Mirren.

‘Esme!’ said Jamie reprovingly.

‘What? Shut up – you don’t inherit everything IN THE WARDROBES!’

‘Well, I do, actually, but I don’t care about that. I meant, this is Mum’s stuff.’

Esme rolled her eyes. ‘I won’t tell her if you don’t.’

‘Where did you say your mum is?’ said Mirren, smoothing down her dress, which now felt a little odd to be wearing. They were talking about her as if she was dead.

She sipped her drink, which was warming and utterly delicious, the whisky soft and smoky, not harsh and abrasive as she usually thought of it, with a bright edge of clementine. There were cloves in the glass too, and the delicious maraschino cherry. Theo was already halfway down his.

‘She got out,’ said Esme drily. ‘Sometimes being a girl does work in your favour.’

‘She had a small trust fund,’ explained Jamie. ‘She took it and went to St Tropez . . . ’

‘Where she got taken in by an increasing pool of gigolos,’ said Esme. ‘Some of the oiliest men in the history of the universe. Then she got married and moved to Australia. I don’t know how far the trust fund goes these days either. We certainly haven’t got one.’

‘You don’t see her?’

‘Only when she wants something,’ said Esme. ‘I’m glad you found those gowns, actually; I can stave her off a little longer.’

‘But she’s your mum!’ said Mirren. She fell out with Nora all the time, but only because they loved one another so much.

The siblings looked at each other.

‘She wasn’t around that much when we were small,’ said Jamie. ‘That’s why we spent so much time here.’

Mirren felt it once again. Slightly sorry for these ridiculous rich people who had everything. It must have shown in her face because Theo gave her a stern look, then quickly raised his glass.

‘To . . . a successful outcome,’ he said, that rather wolfish smile spreading across his face.

Esme closed the window and came into the centre of the room, then they clinked glasses. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I notice you guys haven’t told me how you got on today . . . ’

Everyone went slightly quiet, looking at Jamie for a way forward.

He looked torn; on the one hand, Mirren guessed, he wanted to share what they knew and what they had yet to find out.

On the other, it was entirely possibly he didn’t trust Esme one bit – he didn’t seem to; didn’t trust her not to behave exactly as her mother had, taking what she could get and then disappearing.

She was very happy it wasn’t a decision she had to make – and, thankfully, that great shuddering bell came once more.

‘Lucky you,’ said Esme. ‘Saved by the bell.’

Theo and Mirren followed the siblings as they trailed out into the corridor. It was ridiculous, Mirren found herself thinking, that it took so long to get anywhere in this building. As though they deliberately made life less convenient for themselves.

‘What do you think about telling Esme?’ Mirren whispered to Theo.

Theo glanced at the great arched window at the end of the corridor. The world remained a maelstrom, and they were still completely hemmed in by the falling snow.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘nobody is going anywhere. She’s going to be staying here. It’ll be a bit daft if she just follows us about the entire time.’

‘But Jamie hired us. It’s his house.’

‘I know,’ said Theo. ‘It’s a bit of a shame, though: I think she’d be the brains of the outfit.’

He glanced at Esme, in what Mirren worried was a rather admiring way, as she stalked her way down the corridors, utterly at ease in the half-light.

She was wearing a pair of tight trousers teamed with a combat jacket and a light shirt and heavy boots; a little piratical and very sexy, Mirren concluded, a little glumly.

Her spiky hair stood up straight from her head: she looked remarkable.

Suddenly her red dress felt absurdly old-fashioned, as if she was dressing up for a costume party.

They walked past shut-up rooms, and one with a door cracked open, which Mirren noticed was full of great dark shapes covered in white drapes. It was incredibly spooky.

‘What’s that? Ghost furniture?’ she couldn’t help asking.

‘Music room,’ Jamie replied without stopping. ‘It’s to preserve the instruments.’

‘It doesn’t work,’ said Esme. ‘All the harp strings pinged aeons ago. If you hear music in the night, it’s definitely the ghosts.’

‘There’s ghosts?’

‘Oodles!’

‘Esme!’ said Jamie.

‘You didn’t tell them about the ghosts?’

‘No,’ said Jamie shortly. ‘Because it’s absolute bollocks of the first order.’

‘Everyone thinks that, when there are other people around,’ observed Esme.

‘Once you’re on your own in the middle of the night, well, it’s a different matter.

’ She looked straight at Mirren. ‘Listen for the floors creaking. The people who live here, who know their way around . . . we know how not to creak. But if anything unwanted shows up . . . ’

Mirren couldn’t help but shudder. They arrived at another set of double doors with light beneath them and she thought how strange it was to walk past the rows and rows of closed-off rooms, all dusty and miserable and spooky – then here and there find a tiny remnant of what the entire house would have been once, a room full of light and colour, clean and bright and lively and waiting for them: they had reached the dining room.