He laughed. “I did not.”
Clare sipped some of the soup. It was good, meaty, and rich. “I guess the storm caught both of us unaware.”
“Yes. And I bring up the storm’s suddenness to try to explain why I am being cautious.” Dorran continued to stir his soup, scooping up bits of vegetables then letting them drop back in. “Weather in this region can be unpredictable. But the storm appeared in less than an hour and has lasted for three days now. That is not normal.”
Clare lowered her spoon. “What are you saying?”
“I cannot be certain, but some part about this feels wrong. I intend to be cautious, to take precautions, to guard our resources. The storm may still clear, and the temperature may rise within a day or two. But we cannot rely on it. Lives are lost when people take good fortune for granted.”
Chapter Eight
Nestled in the kitchen, in the heart of the house and with Dorran beside her, it was easy to forget how vicious the weather was. But Clare could still picture the outside world blanketed in snow so thick that the ground looked like it might never resurface. She was used to storms lasting a few hours, sometimes as long as half a day. Three days of unrelenting blizzards wasn’t right, though. A sense of malaise crawled into her bones.
On the morning of the crash, Beth had been worried about something. She’d called Clare because of it. Worried about the storm? No, if it had just been a storm, I would have stayed in my house and weathered it out.
“If this is a worst-case scenario…” She spoke carefully, trying not to let her imagination run away from her. “How long could we live here?”
“I took inventory yesterday. We have an abundance of firewood, so heat will not be an issue. Food is more limited. We have tinned soup and rice but only enough to keep us for a few weeks. We have three kilos of frozen meat and a small amount of frozen vegetables.” He nodded towards the door. “We also have a garden.”
Clare frowned. “That’s got to be long gone, though, right? It would be buried under the snow by now.”
“Not quite. I will show you later. It is not planted, but it may provide food once the nonperishable goods are gone.”
“Right.” Clare dropped her spoon into her bowl. She knew she had to eat, but her mouth had turned dust dry. For the first time, she imagined what might happen if the snow didn’t let up. If deep winter had arrived early and the roads remained choked until spring, they would be trapped in Winterbourne. She couldn’t picture spending four months there cut off from the rest of the world.
There’s probably nothing to worry about. Like Dorran said, the weather around here is unpredictable. But it’s not like it will hurt to be prepared in case of a worst-case scenario either.
Clare swallowed. “I can help. With the garden, or the cooking, or repairing the house. Whatever you need.”
He blinked. “Thank you. But you should rest. At least for a while longer.”
“I’m feeling a lot better today.” That was the truth. The stiffness and the pains persisted, but she no longer felt as though she were about to collapse.
“I’m glad to hear it.” He rose and carried his empty bowl to the sink. “I’ll help you with your hair. Finish eating while I heat some water.”
Clare had been used to Beth washing her hair when she was a young teen, on the occasions when she tried to do something fancy with it. And the hairdressers washed it before cutting it. But letting Dorran run his fingers over her scalp was a strange experience.
He had her lean back in one of the kitchen chairs and draped a towel around her neck while he balanced a washbowl behind her. Traces of dried blood had matted her hair, but unlike Beth and the hairdressers, he was incredibly careful as he untangled it. He worked through the knots slowly, alternately using shampoo and conditioner from glass bottles. His thick eyebrows were pulled together in concentration, but otherwise, he looked serene.
The experience was far too intimate for Clare. Desperate for a distraction, she started a conversation. “This really is inside the Banksy Forest, isn’t it?”
“The estate? Yes.”
“I can’t believe I never knew it was here. It must be old.”
“Very old.”
“Older than the forest?”
“The same age. My family owns the forest.”
“Oh!” Pieces were starting to fall into place. “Does that mean they planted it?”
“Correct. Several hundred years ago. This and many other forests.” He scooped up a cupful of warm water and poured it over her hair, his other hand smoothing the suds out. Then the comb returned to a stubborn patch just above her temple.
Clare shuffled a little higher in her seat. She was still trying to get used to being touched by someone she barely knew. “Why did they plant them?”
“It was our business. We grew wood. It made our family wealthy.”
She tried to glimpse his face again, but his head was down as he tried to ease grime out of the tangle without hurting her. “Why didn’t they cut this one down?”
“Because the head of the family died unexpectedly. In her grief, his widow had a house built where no one could disturb her—inside one of the forests.”
Clare eyed the kitchen. “She must have been very rich. I had no idea wood growing could be so profitable.”
“It wasn’t our only business, but it was our mainstay. Under good leadership, wealth tends to cascade. Unfortunately, since the house was built, good leadership has been rare in our family. The estates—and the businesses—were passed down through generations and gradually sold as expenses exceeded income. Now we have almost nothing left. This estate. The Gould estate. And this forest.”
He sounded sad. Clare pulled the fur coat around herself a little more tightly. “Still, it’s more than a lot of people have, right?”
“True.” Dorran’s inflection didn’t change, but as the word hung between them, Clare sensed there was something more he was stopping himself from saying.
She lifted her eyebrows. “But?”
“I worry about the future.” The words came out carefully, as though he didn’t like to say them. “If we sold this building and lived modestly, we would have nothing to worry about. But my mother insists on holding this house and maintaining our traditions. Sixty full-time staff are not cheap. Repairing and maintaining a building this old and large is not cheap. We have money, but it flows out rapidly, and nothing comes in to replace it. By the time my mother is dead, I suspect we will be bankrupt.”
Clare tried to imagine how that must feel—to come from a family of historical significance, to live a life of decadence, but to know you would inherit none of it. Winterbourne Hall was massive and clean, but she doubted it would be easy to sell. Banksy Forest wasn’t a prime location. There were no beautiful views to attract luxury vacationers, and the snow made the place unlivable for nearly four months every year. The building, for all of the care that had gone into maintaining it, wasn’t modern enough to attract a fair price.
Dorran’s fingers caught on a snag, and Clare swallowed a gasp. He pulled back, sounding alarmed. “Forgive me.”
“It’s fine.” She laughed. “You don’t have to worry so much. You’re doing a good job.”