Ciara scowled down at Libby, who had one foot casually propped on the bottom rung of the ladder, with a glass of mulled wine in one hand and a mince pie in the other, and muttered through clenched teeth, ‘I nominate you to climb up here next Christmas.’
‘Oh, no, the pleasure will be all yours until a new member of staff is recruited,’ Libby called back, with a tad too much relish.
Given the amused expressions of all thirty or so of the other Loughmore staff, who had come into the hall to watch the final finish to the tree decoration and, more to the point, rush to the buffet table, to partake in the refreshments Libby’s team had organised, Ciara guessed they shared Libby’s entertainment at Ciara’s terror.
‘Gird your loins...’ That was what her granddad had used to say to her as she’d buried herself beneath her blankets as a teenager, when he’d called her before dawn in order to polish the vast marble floor she was now suspended over. To this day she still had no idea what that expression really meant, but she knew it had been his way of telling her just to get on with it.
Ciara’s mum was definitely cut from the same cloth as her grandad. As a child, whenever Ciara had grumbled about a playground slight or wished she had a sister to play with, or a dad who would come to watch her play football like all the other dads, her mum would say, ‘Don’t overthink things, Ciara. Accept that life is unfair, put a smile on your face and just get on with it.’
Which she now needed to do.
Tentatively she moved on to the next step, inhaling deeply of the pine-scented air, before humming a Christmas classic in the hope of channelling some of the festive spirit.
Every Christmas Sean cut down a Noble Fir from Loughmore Wood. It was always huge—it had to be to suit its new home, the Great Hall at Loughmore Castle, which lived up to its title by having a forty-foot vaulted timber ceiling. But this year Sean had surpassed himself by cutting down a stunning blue needle perfectly symmetrical twenty-four-foot specimen.
It had taken the gardening crew of five an entire day to transport it, install it and hang two thousand lights and the endless baubles the Benson family had collected over the years from the tree’s branches.
Sean had rather cleverly waited until the last moment to announce that it was a castle tradition that the newest employee always had the honour of placing the delicate porcelain angel.
For a few moments Ciara had actually bought that story. But then she had spotted the mischief twinkling in Sean’s eyes, and the elbowing amongst her fellow gardeners. Honour, indeed. More like the short straw. Obviously no one else wanted the task—especially when Libby’s mince pies were on offer.
She had tried to protest that technically she wasn’t the newest employee, given she had worked in Loughmore as a cleaner during her school summer holidays. But her protest had fallen on deaf ears in the buffet table raid.
Anyway, as the only female member of staff on the gardening team, and a conservation and heritage horticulturalist to boot, Ciara knew that, apart from Sean, the rest of the gardening team were sceptical about her role and her ideas.
Only yesterday there had been a stand-off between her and one of the others, who had wanted to cut some holly for decorating the castle. Ciara had tried to explain to him just how important the holly and its berries were for the birds and small animals, both as a source for food and shelter, but her colleague had shaken his head and muttered, ‘You’re pure cracked, Ciara...’ before walking away.
So, ignoring the screaming alarm bells in her brain, she had grabbed hold of the angel and begun the climb. It was only when she’d been halfway up the stepladder that the voice of reason in her head had finally broken through her indignation at her co-workers and pointed out that she was terrified of heights.
But now, determined to continue on, aided by the combination of singing and her refusal to look down, she soon reached the top of the tree. Gingerly she leant into the branches, trying her best to ignore the pine needles stabbing against her bare forearms.
The ladder wobbled ever so slightly. Below her she heard a few gasps.
‘Steady now...take it easy,’ Sean called up.
Ciara leant in even further, keen to get the job over and done with. Inching forward, she managed to place the angel on the top branch, using her fingertips to straighten it when she slouched to the left.
Below her, applause rang out.
She’d done it!
Her elation lasted all of five seconds—until it dawned on her that she now had to climb back down.
Gripping the rails, she began her descent, her feet blindly searching for each tread beneath her.
The Christmas tree was positioned in front of the Great Hall’s vast Pugin fireplace and a gold over-mantel mirror. A few steps down from the top, in a gap between the branches, Ciara grimaced when she caught her reflection in the mirror. Pine needles were scattered in her hair and a smear of dirt stained the collar of her denim shirt.
And then she saw him.
Standing at the heavy wooden entrance door to the castle. Silhouetted by the late-afternoon burnished gold sky.
Staring up at her.
She faltered mid-step, her heart dropping to her steel-toecap boots and then catapulting back up into her chest.
Was it really him? After all these years?
Below her the idle chatter of the other staff died away.
Ten seconds later all hell broke loose.
‘Your Grace! I had no idea... I understood from the estate office you were to remain at Bainsworth until the twenty-ninth, as is tradition.’ Stephen, the head butler at Loughmore, was barely able to keep the panic from his voice.
Ciara just about managed to find the next step on the ladder before turning to face the scene unfolding below her.
All the crowd had shifted away from the tree to stand a respectful distance from him... Tom Benson... Eleventh Duke of Bainsworth. Under one arm he was carrying a scruffy-looking terrier, who was panting and wriggling in his eagerness to be let down.
The Duke had spent his childhood summers here in Loughmore, adored and indulged by all the staff. But he had not visited the castle for the past twelve years. The newer staff had never met him before, and even those who knew him seemed uncertain of how to greet him or even who they were dealing with.
For the briefest second he glanced up at her, those silver eyes giving nothing away. Ciara gripped the ladder rail even tighter, feeling completely off-balance. He still had the ability to make the world more vivid, more exhilarating, just by being in the same room.
He had changed. At eighteen he had been boyishly handsome, with brown hair deliberately too long and a restless energy that had never seen him stand still. Now his short hair only hinted at previous curls, and all that restless energy seemed to have been turned inwards, transforming him into a silent observer.
The intelligence in his eyes was sharper, his tall and lean athletic build more defined. The smoothness of his eighteen-year-old skin was gone, replaced by the hint of a five o’clock shadow and faint lines at the corners of his eyes.
His grey wool overcoat, gleaming black brogues and the dark suit underneath were in keeping not only with his title but also with his position as the owner of a chain of globally renowned restaurants that bore his name—Tom’s.
The last time she had seen him he had been wearing faded jeans and a crumpled polo shirt. He had caught the last flight from London to Dublin one late September night. Ciara flinched at the memory of that night and how they had argued. Across the hall she