Excerpt from Winter Solstice by Rosamunde Pilcher, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Elfrida said gin and tonic, and watched while Gloria Blundell went to pour her one from the well-provided table at the far end of the room. She then replenished her own glass, with a generous hand for the Scotch.

Returning, "There. Hope it's strong enough. You like ice? Now, sit down, be comfortable, tell me about your little cottage."

"Well . . . it's little."

Gloria laughed. "Poulton's Row, isn't it? They were built as railway cottages. Are you frightfully cramped?"

"Not really. I haven't got much furniture, and Horace and I don't take up much room. Horace is my dog. A mongrel. Not beautiful."

"I have two Pekes, which are. But they bite guests, so they're shut in the kitchen with Mrs. Muswell. And what made you come to Dibton?"

"I saw the cottage advertised in The Sunday Times. There was a photo. It looked rather dear. And not too expensive."

"I shall have to come and see it. Haven't been inside one of those little houses since I was a child and used to visit the widow of some old station porter. And what do you do?"

"Sorry?"

"Garden? Play golf? Good works?"

Elfrida hedged slightly. She knew a forceful woman when she met one. "I'm trying to get the garden straight, but it's mostly shifting rubbish so far."

"Do you ride?"

"I've never ridden a horse in my life."

"Well, that's straightforward anyway. I used to ride when my sons were boys, but that's a long time ago. Francesca's got a little pony, but I'm afraid she's not all that keen."

"You have sons as well?"

"Oh, yes. Grown up now and both married."

"But . . . ?"

"I was married before, you see. Oscar's my second husband."

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

"Nothing to be sorry about. My son Giles works in Bristol and Crawford has a job in the City. Computers or something, totally beyond me. Of course, we had known Oscar for years. Saint Biddulph's, Raleigh Square, was our church. He played divinely at my husband's funeral. When we married, everybody was astonished. That old bachelor, they said. Do you have any idea what you're taking on?

It was all marvellously intriguing. "Has Oscar always been a musician?" Elfrida asked.

"Always. He was educated at Westminster Abbey Choir School, and then went on to teach music at Glastonbury College. He was choirmaster and organist there for a number of years. And then he retired from teaching, moved to London, got the post at Saint Biddulph's. I think he'd have continued there until they carried him out feet-first, but then my uncle died and fate decreed otherwise." Elfrida felt a little sorry for Oscar. "Did he mind saying goodbye to London?"

"It was a bit like pulling an old tree up by the roots. But for Francesca's sake, he put a brave face on it. And here he has his music room and his books and scores, and he does a little private coaching, just to keep his hand in. Music is his life. He loves it when there's an emergency and he can play for morning service in the Dibton church. And, of course, he's always sneaking over to have a little quiet practice all on his own." Behind Gloria, quietly, the door from the hall had opened. Talking away, she was unaware of this, but, realizing that Elfrida's attention had strayed, turned in her chair to peer over her shoulder.

"Oh, there you are, old boy. We were just talking about you."

Winter Solstice by Rosamunde Pilcher. © August 1, 2000. Used by permission.