A Winter's Wish Read online

  Tis the season to be jolly…isn’t it?

  Amelia is at breaking point. She’s just lost her job and Doug, the love of her life, still hasn’t broken up with his girlfriend. Surely a trip to the quiet countryside is just what she needs!

  Phil is about to leave beautiful Buttersley for the other side of the world! The sunny shores of Australia will mean a new life with his girlfriend, but something is holding him back…

  Ella has never felt this way before – Jake O’Donnell is the most gorgeous man she’s ever seen. And the more time she spends babysitting his kids, the more her feelings grow!

  Stan should be happy. He loves his wife and their adorable baby girl more than anything! So why, when everything’s finally going right, are they arguing more than ever?

  One thing’s for sure, even when Buttersley’s first snowflakes begin to fall, it’s never too cold for love to blossom…

  Perfect for fans of Trisha Ashley, Cathy Bramley and Claire Sandy.

  Available from Alice Ross

  Countryside Dreams

  An Autumn Affair

  A Summer of Secrets

  A Winter’s Wish

  Forty Things to do Before You’re Forty

  A Winter’s Wish

  Alice Ross

  www.CarinaUK.com

  ALICE ROSS

  escaped her dreary job in the financial services industry a few years ago and has never looked back. Dragging her personal chef (aka her husband) along with her, she headed to Spain, where she began writing witty, sexy romps destined to amuse readers slightly more than the pension brochures of her previous life. Now back in her home town of Durham, when not writing, she can be found scratching out a tune on her violin, walking her dog in wellies two sizes too big (don’t ask!) or standing on her head in a yoga pose. Alice loves to hear from readers, and you can follow her on Twitter at @AliceRoss22 or on facebook.com/alice.ross.108.

  A huge thank you, as always, to my fabulous editor, Charlotte Mursell, for all her input, guidance and hard work on this book. It is very much appreciated.

  A special thanks to the Carina design team for all three covers in the Countryside Dreams series – I absolutely love them.

  And finally, a humongous thank you to Kaisha and Eva for their invaluable help with all my (many) child-related questions. ‘Wowatoes’ – who knew!

  For the gorgeous girls in Galashiels

  Thank you for all your encouragement with the book – and the laundry!

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Book List

  Title Page

  Author Bio

  Acknowledgement

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Extract

  Endpages

  Copyright

  A few days earlier

  ‘Guess who’s coming to stay,’ announced Annie O’Donnell in the kitchen of The Cedars.

  Seven-year-old Sophie began jumping up and down. ‘Who? Who?’

  ‘Aunty Amelia.’

  Sophie ceased jumping and yanked the zip of her tiger onesie all the way up to her hairline.

  Husband Jake’s cheese and pickle sandwich came to a halt midway to his mouth.

  Two-year-old Thomas dunked Mr Potato Head into his full pot of yoghurt.

  And Pip the dog rolled over and played dead.

  The response was much as Annie had expected.

  Chapter One

  In her walk-in wardrobe, clutching the handle of her empty suitcase, a surge of panic swept over Amelia Richards.

  What on earth had inspired her to accept her sister’s invitation to Yorkshire? Yorkshire for heaven’s sake. She couldn’t even recall the name of the out-in-the-sticks village where Annie lived. Buttersworth, or Butterton, or something resembling a low-fat spread. More to the point, what did people wear there? She very much doubted the residents of Butters-whatever-it-was-called would be tottering about in Ted Baker pencil skirts, fitted jackets and six-inch Manolos. Her usual weekday attire.

  Not, she hastily reminded herself, that she would have need of such attire again. Not for a while at least. Because it wasn’t just sartorial problems triggering this fit of panic. Her job situation – or, rather, lack of job situation – was adding to her fragile state.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Amelia, but with the new restructure, we’re going to have to let you go.’

  Have to let you go. For the last three days, ever since they’d floated across the managing director’s walnut desk, those words had rebounded around the confines of Amelia’s head like a snooker ball refusing to find a pocket.

  ‘And I know there’s never a good time for these things, but I hate to have to break the news just before Christmas,’ he’d added.

  Amelia couldn’t have cared less about the timing. She was too busy beating herself black and blue. With the benefit of hindsight, she should have seen this coming; should have known that, in the cut-and-thrust world of finance, no one was safe; that even the enviable benefits package lavished on her by the UK’s largest insurer didn’t include job security – especially after the company had been gobbled up by a massive American corporation.

  And gobbled it they had. But Amelia had seemingly not been to the usurper’s taste. She’d been spat out. Discarded. Abandoned. Her pride subjected to a monumental battering. She should have got out before being pushed, taken the initiative, followed her instincts. But she hadn’t. She’d sat back and let them screw her up and toss her aside like a used sandwich wrapper. Never, in all her twenty-nine years, had she felt more stupid.

  Admittedly, though, stupid was one thing Amelia was not. Desperate to do well, she’d worked her socks off at school, her efforts being rewarded by an impressive stream of qualifications and accolades: Head Girl, Head of the Debating Society, President of the Chess Club – and, ultimately, a scholarship to Cambridge, where she added a double first in Mathematics to her collection.

  Before she’d even left university, Providential Assurance had dangled a ridiculously juicy carrot before her. They’d spotted her potential, nurtured her career, supported her through the maze of actuarial exams, promoted her with astonishing regularity right up to head of department. Next step would be board member.

  Except now it wouldn’t. At least not with Providential.

  Of course Amelia knew once she put herself back on the job market, she would likely be bombarded with offers. But she couldn’t face it. Not yet.

  She felt winded, like she’d been run over by a tank. Confidence crushed. Self-esteem shattered. Ego bruised. And she was tired. So very very tired.

  She needed a break.

  From London.

  From Doug.

  And for all she could afford to jet off to any of the world’s exotic, exclusive locations, she didn’t want to. The mere thought of facing a bustling noisy airport brought on a mild panic attack. Instead, a yearning for quite the opposite had overtaken her: one for all things familiar. England in winter might not be everyone’s ideal, but Amelia, in her present confused state, could think of nowhere more perfect. Frosty mornings, roaring log fires, steaming mugs of hot chocolate, long evenings curled up with a good book, and hearty country walks wrapped up in six layers of clothes was exactly what she needed.


  She’d considered booking a little cottage where she could indulge in all of the above, but for all she couldn’t face swarms of people, neither could she face being alone. As pitiful as it sounded, she needed to be around people she knew – to feel cosseted and cared for. Not that she expected her sister, Annie, to cosset and care for her. Why would she when the two of them had never been close? Yet, for some reason, when she’d received the crushing redundancy news, Annie had been the first person, after Doug, that Amelia had wanted to speak to – had felt an overwhelming desire to speak to. And as soon as Annie had answered the phone, she’d known why. Her calming manner, sensible words and pragmatic advice had momentarily lifted Amelia’s spirits. And when Annie had invited her up to Yorkshire, she’d found herself accepting without a moment’s hesitation.

  Of course, in hindsight, she realised Annie had probably only asked her out of politeness – probably hadn’t thought for a second that she’d say yes. But despite these misgivings, Amelia couldn’t think of a better place to escape to, to lick her wounds and regroup. And so, despite her sartorial deliberations, she’d made up her mind. She was going to Yorkshire.

  *

  ‘Hi. I’m home.’

  ‘Hi. We’re upstairs. In the bathroom.’

  Stan Suffolk heaved a weary sigh, before dumping his laptop case and jacket onto the sofa, and making his way up the creaky old staircase of Pear Tree Cottage.

  In the bathroom, he found his wife, Bea, kneeling at the roll-top bath, propping up their nine-month-old daughter, Maddy, whose chubby form was surrounded by sweet-smelling bubbles.

  ‘Doesn’t she look adorable?’ sighed Bea, without so much as glancing at Stan. ‘She’s been brilliant today. I’m sure she even tried to say “mumma”. Some babies do talk as early as nine months, you know. I’ve been reading about it.’

  ‘Wow. That’s great,’ said Stan, sinking down onto the closed loo seat. And it was great. Every tiny thing their firstborn achieved was wonderful and Bea had every right to make a fuss about it. ‘So you’ve had a good day then?’

  ‘Amazing. We had a lovely time at playgroup. We sang Santa songs and made some Christmas cards with glitter. I took loads of pictures. Maddy looked so cute in her new Rudolph tights, didn’t you, munchkin.’ She swiped a bubble onto the child’s tiny nose. Maddy giggled, causing Stan to almost smile, before a yawn cut in first.

  ‘They’re all on Facebook.’

  ‘What are?’ Stan rubbed a hand over his face.

  Bea turned to look at him and tutted. ‘The photos of Maddy in her new tights.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to say hello to her?’

  Stan stifled another yawn. ‘Of course. But I’ve only been in the house thirty seconds.’

  Another disparaging glare followed. ‘You can take over here while I sort out her supper. One of the girls from playgroup recommended Popeye Pasta with Savoy Spinach.’

  Stan opened his mouth to enquire if Savoy Spinach was a class above Travelodge Spinach. But just as quickly he closed it again. Bea had that air of briskness about her that told him she wouldn’t find his quip the least bit amusing. At the mention of food, though, his stomach emitted a loud groan. He was starving. He’d driven all the way to Sheffield for a stupid twenty-minute meeting, then been stuck in traffic on the M1 for two hours on his way back to Leeds. His subsequent late arrival back at the office hadn’t gone down well with his boss, who’d been chomping at the bit to offload yet another heap of mind-numbingly dull spreadsheet requirements onto him.

  Not that anyone appeared remotely interested in his day.

  ‘Here.’

  He started as Bea tossed a towel in his direction. It had a penguin’s head attached to it.

  ‘She can have another five minutes in the water. She likes you to bob her pirate ship up and down. Oh. And make sure you dry her properly before you put her pyjamas on.’

  Stan said nothing as he slipped off his watch, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and crouched down at the side of the bath to take over the propping up of his daughter.

  ‘Look now, darling, Daddy’s going to play pirates with you. Isn’t that lovely,’ cooed Bea, before whisking out of the room.

  Maddy evidently thought otherwise. Her huge blue eyes grew wide. Her bottom lip quivered. And before Stan could utter any reassuring platitudes, she let out a blood-curdling scream.

  As if by magic, Bea reappeared. ‘What have you done to her?’

  Stan gawped. ‘Nothing. I just … Well, nothing. Nothing at all.’

  ‘You must’ve done something. She doesn’t bawl like that for no reason.’

  ‘I didn’t. She just – Well, I don’t know. I don’t think she likes me very much.’

  Bea tutted – which, Stan had noticed, had become an increasingly frequent occurrence these days. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she chided, plucking the baby out of the water and swathing her in the towel, the penguin head perfectly perched atop Maddy’s damp blonde curls. ‘Of course she likes you. You’re her father, for heaven’s sake. The problem is that you don’t spend nearly enough time with her.’

  Stan’s patience, already stretched to the limit by his crap day, began to twang dangerously. ‘And just when am I supposed to do that?’ he demanded, raising his voice above the wails of the baby. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m at work all bloody day.’

  Bea narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t you dare swear in front of Maddy. And don’t raise your voice. You’ll upset her.’

  The way the child was hollering, Stan couldn’t imagine her being more upset if Thomas the Tank Engine had run over Iggle Piggle. Not that he deemed it helpful to point that out.

  ‘I’ll have to settle her down,’ Bea huffed, strutting out of the room, baby and all. ‘It’s probably best if you stay out of the way.’

  No change there then, Stan almost added. Since Maddy’s birth, he’d spent a great deal of time “out of the way”. He’d been relegated to the sidelines. Shown the red card. Sent off. His newly assigned role in the house, apart from the obvious one of provider, seemed purely to annoy the female contingent.

  As the door to Maddy’s bedroom slammed shut, he sank down onto the bathroom floor, raked his hands through his thinning hair, and wondered how it had all gone so horribly wrong.

  *

  Goodness, mused Amelia, driving along Buttersley’s main street lined with quaint, tastefully adorned little shops, and trees twinkling with fairy lights in the dusky afternoon. She certainly hadn’t been expecting anything this pretty. Not that she’d been expecting anything really. Until the last few days, she’d never given a moment’s consideration to where her sister lived. She and Annie had never been close. With their parents emigrating to Goa the year Amelia started Cambridge, family get-togethers hadn’t featured much in their lives.

  Then, of course, there was the age difference. Barrelling into the world almost a decade after her sister, Amelia always suspected she’d been a mistake rather than the “lovely surprise” her mother insisted. Nevertheless, the gap had resulted in the girls’ lives rarely colliding. Even in times of crisis – like when Annie had her first child and was subsequently dumped by her partner – Amelia played no part in the ensuing drama, far too focused on her university studies to permit any outside interference. It had been Annie’s best friend, Portia Pinkington-Smythe, who’d rescued her from that drama, offering Annie the job of caretaker at Buttersley Manor – her ancestral family pile. It was there Annie had met and subsequently married the celebrated author, Jake O’Donnell, and given birth to her second child two years ago. Amelia hadn’t made the wedding. She’d been on secondment in Providential’s Hong Kong office.

  Indeed, the only time Amelia had made any date with Annie and her little family was when they trooped down to London, when Jake had an appointment with his agent, or a book launch. Amelia would meet them for lunch, although admittedly her mind was generally more on her pending afternoon schedule than forging familial bonds.

 
To be honest, she had no idea why she’d experienced the need to call Annie with the redundancy news. She certainly wasn’t in the habit of exchanging confidences with her sister. Or with anyone, for that matter. Over the years, she’d mastered the art of becoming emotionally self-sufficient – out of necessity, she acknowledged, rather than choice. But who was to blame for that? Nobody but herself, that was who.

  Thankfully, before she could become even more maudlin, she spotted a sign pinned to the side of a huge oak tree, proudly bearing the name of The Cedars. Without further deliberation, she swung her Mercedes Coupe off the main road and up the narrow drive towards the house. And what a house, she concluded a minute later as she parked on the semi-circular sweep of gravel in front of the white two-storey Georgian villa. It looked utterly adorable; like it hadn’t changed at all in two hundred years; like Ms Austen herself could swan around the corner at any moment. But it wasn’t Ms Austen who sailed out of the bottle-green front door with an enormous holly wreath pinned to it. It was Amelia’s sister, Annie, looking effortlessly pretty in faded jeans, a white Arran jumper, and beige Ugg boots.

  Amelia, in a grey tailored trouser suit and high heels, immediately wished she’d worn something more casual. But that thought was swiftly nudged aside by the warm, welcoming smile on her sister’s face. Such a warm, welcoming smile that a rush of unaccustomed affection surged through Amelia. Desperate to cling on to what was left of her equilibrium, she sucked in a deep breath, tucked the sides of her honey-blonde bob behind her ears, forced the corners of her lips upwards, and prepared to greet her sibling.

  ‘Hi,’ Annie gushed, as Amelia scrambled out of the car. ‘I’m so pleased you’ve arrived safely. And before it’s too dark. How was the drive?’

  Before Amelia could reply, Annie enveloped her in an embrace. Amelia didn’t normally engage in shows of physical affection. She found it easier to keep people at arm’s length – to maintain a respectable distance between herself and her fellow man. But, with her sister’s arms around her, breathing in her subtle scent of roses and fresh bread, something tugged at her heart, bringing tears to her eyes.