Elizabeth Edmondson - The Frozen Lake - A gripping novel of family and wartime secrets

Perdita hastily unwound her arm from his. ‘This is my brother, Edwin, Miss Hartness.’

Eyes sharp with disbelief raked him from head to toe. ‘He looks very old to be your brother.’

He was amused. ‘I think my grandmother let you know I would be coming.’

‘The headmistress received a telegram from Lady Richardson to that effect, I believe. We don’t usually let our girls leave with their brothers. You girls without parents do make difficulties for the school.’

He turned to Perdita. ‘Do you have any luggage?’

The mistress answered for her. ‘The girls’ trunks and boxes were sent by railway two days ago. Perdita has an overnight case.’

Miss Hartness still looked suspicious; did she think he was a fraudster planning to abduct the girl? He was fond of his sister, but the woman should realize that if he had such intentions, he’d pick a dazzler, not a gawky girl like Perdita.

The woman was still talking. ‘Now, I really do think …’

He was spared her probably unflattering thoughts, since at that moment a bird-like figure, elegantly clad in a scarlet coat with a modish hat perched on her sleek head, darted out of the throng. ‘Edwin, darling, are you here to pick up Perdita? This is my Grace, only a baby, her first term at the Ladies College, isn’t it, darling?’

A diminutive girl with her fair hair tied in two tight plaits looked up at her mother with calm grey eyes. ‘Oh, Mummy, don’t call me a baby.’

Edwin kissed the woman, shook hands with the solemn child, who gave him a cool look and then skipped aside to talk to a friend.

‘Hello, Lucy,’ he said. ‘Is Rollo with you?’

‘He’s gone to see where Watkins has got to, it’s always such a mêlée here after the end of term service.’ She leant up to peck him on the cheek. ‘Lovely to see you, darling, they say the lake may freeze from shore to shore, if so, nothing will stop us coming over after New Year. Give my love to Caroline and Henry, won’t you? Goodbye, Perdita, have a wonderful Christmas, of course you will, Christmas is always heaven at Wyncrag.’

Miss Hartness’s expression lost some of its suspicious edge, although her mouth was still set in a tight line. ‘You know Mrs Lambert, I see.’

‘She’s a cousin.’ He could tell that although the mistress was pleased to have a positive identification for him as the genuine article and not a brotherly impostor, she didn’t altogether approve of the vivacious and elegant Lucy Lambert.

‘Very well, Perdita,’ said Miss Hartness. ‘You may go.’

‘Merry Christmas, Miss Hartness.’

He urged Perdita along, as she called out farewells and seasonal good wishes to friends and teachers. ‘Buck up, old girl. We’ve a long drive back to Westmoreland.’

‘Is it true?’ she asked. ‘Is the lake frozen?’

‘Not yet, but Riggs says the frost will hold, and if it does, the lake should freeze from north to south and east to west.’

‘Freeze over completely? I do hope it does, I long for it, every year, but it never happens. Will I be able to skate across to the island?’

‘Certainly you will, and from one end to the other if it freezes as hard as it did last time.’

‘When was that?’

‘The winter before you were born.’ He took her arm again. ‘It seems a long time ago, and here you are, a young lady.’

‘Just a schoolgirl. Not a young lady, sadly.’

‘Why not a young lady?’ They had reached the west door and were out in the cold air. There was the unmistakable smell of coal fires; the jumble of houses along Stonegate and Petergate each had a column of smoke rising into a cloudless sky.

‘It’s all right for schoolgirls to look like I do. For young ladies, it’s hopeless.’

He caught the note of despair behind her even tones.

‘You look very nice to me, old thing.’

‘You’re my brother, you’re used to me. But anyone else would just think, awkward, overgrown schoolgirl.’

‘Who else?’

‘Oh, everyone,’ said Perdita. She changed the subject. ‘Where have you parked the car?’

‘In St Helen’s Square. Not far. Where’s your overnight case?’

‘Our suitcases are all lined up on the pavement beside the motor coaches, over there. Where shall we lunch?’

‘I thought we’d stop at the Fox and Hounds. They do a decent meal there, and I expect you’re hungry.’

They drove north through Boroughbridge and on to the Great North Road. It was cold inside Edwin’s car, and white puffy clouds began to drift across the sky as the easterly wind strengthened.

‘Plenty of snow on the ground already.’ Perdita was glad of the rug that Edwin had tucked around her. She huffed on her fingers to warm them. ‘Is the road clear?’

‘It was yesterday, and it hasn’t snowed seriously for two or three days.’

‘Did you take any photographs on the way?’

‘A few. The light was very strange in the early afternoon, just before dusk. Very clear, good contrasts.’

They sat at a table in front of a roaring log fire at the inn and ate hearty platefuls of ham and leek pie. They were the only customers apart from a couple of local shepherds, and the landlord, a burly man with bushy eyebrows, had time to chat. ‘Blowing up for a bit of a storm, I reckon. Best not linger if you’ve far to go.’

‘Westmoreland,’ said Perdita, scraping the last spoonful of custard from her pudding plate.

Edwin got up from the table, pulling it out so that Perdita could get past. He settled the bill and they bid the landlord and his customers a cheerful goodbye before going out to face the blast of the wind, now blowing from the north-east. It sent flurries of snow dancing around the yard of the inn as Edwin opened the car door for Perdita. He wiped the settling flakes from the windscreen and the small rear window before getting in and coaxing the car back into life.

After a few miles, the skies lightened, and the snow petered out, leaving paths of smooth, unbroken whiteness among the boulders and rocky places. Where the snow lay sparsely, the tough moorland sheep, fleeces thick with ice and snow, searched for tufts to tear away and chew briskly as they eyed the car driving past on the narrow, winding road. There were few other vehicles. They passed a farm cart, the big shire horse placing his huge hooves with care on the uneven surface, his back protected from snow by an old blanket the carter had thrown over him. The driver sat under a battered felt hat, shoulders hunched against the cold, reins bunched in a mittened hand. He gave them a slow salute as he pulled to one side to let them through. A post van came the other way, acknowledging the presence of other people in this desolate place with a cheery hoot of his horn.

Perdita was stiff and very cold by the time they reached Sedburgh, and thankful when her brother suggested they might stop. ‘We can stretch our legs a bit.’

‘You mean you want to take some photographs,’ she said. She scrambled out of the car and stood stamping her feet as she blew on numb fingers.

‘Just the street here, with the dusk coming on, and lights showing in the windows.’

‘A long exposure job,’ said Perdita, who liked to help her brother with his work. ‘Have you got a tripod in the car?’

‘On the back seat.’

The locals went to and fro about their business with hardly a second glance at him as he set up his apparatus. One or two stopped to greet him, and the vicar halted his striding steps for a few minutes’ chat. ‘You’ll need chains further on,’ he said as he went on his way.

Perdita didn’t ask if Edwin had chains. Born and bred in the north, she took cold winters and blocked passes for granted; any driver who ventured out at this time of year without a set of chains tucked away inside the boot was asking for trouble. Edwin would have a shovel, too, and a powerful torch tucked into a pair of gumboots thrust down behind the driver’s seat.