Three red felt stockings hung from the mantelpiece. They opened them…she and Frederick and William. In hers there was a treasure trove. An orange, an apple, a bag of nuts and a new penny tied in a scrap of silk; a sachet of potpourri, Pears soap and yards of silk ribbons for her hair plus a box of Egyptian dates, lavender water and a book of verse with the name Edith Kenton written on the flyleaf in her mother’s flowing script. Little things which had cost nothing but whose value was priceless to her.
Snowdrifts were banked outside the house.
Sleet and bitter winds rattled against the window panes and heralded the new year. The Christmas decorations had disappeared. The house was hushed and desolate without her mother’s laughter. It was the time for Uncle Peter to go away again. She saw the sadness on his face, and her mother’s eyes, blue like the sapphires she wore, were filled with tears …
Audra’s face was wet with tears…she had not realized she had begun to cry. She straightened up and brushed her eyes with her fingertips, tearing her gaze away from High Cleugh.
She lay down and buried her face in the cool, sweet-smelling grass, then squeezed her eyes tightly shut as she felt the sharp prick of tears once more. But now she did not bother to suppress them; instead, she allowed herself the luxury of weeping.
And she wept for those she had lost and for the past and for the way things had once been.
Eventually her tears ceased. She lay there quietly, staring up at the china-blue sky, watching the drift of the scudding clouds, ruminating on her beloved family and all of the things which had happened in the last few years.
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