by Kati Wilde
Beauty in Spring
Kati Wilde
Contents
Beauty in Spring
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Epilogue
Faking It All
Excerpt from Faking It All
Pre-Order: Going Nowhere Fast
Newsletter
Also by Kati Wilde
Beauty in Spring
1
Cora
“Are you sure about this, luv?”
It’s the first thing that the hired driver, George, has said since picking me up from my London hotel just before dawn, when the full moon still lingered just above the horizon. Since then we’ve traveled almost two hundred miles north, but the silence between us over the course of those four hours was a comfortable one. I’d been too preoccupied for conversation, with nerves tumbling in my belly, my heart full of hope, and my imagination racing as I pictured how Blackwood Manor might have changed in the ten years I’ve been away.
But I never imagined this. George stopped the car in front of the manor’s gatehouse—the house where I lived the first fifteen years of my life. The stone structure straddles the lane that leads to Blackwood Hall, and serves as the entrance to the estate. While I was growing up, never once were those wrought-iron gates closed. Instead they were always open, inviting visitors to continue on toward the great manor house that sits like a crown upon the escarpment overlooking the woodlands and beautifully tended grounds.
Yet now those gates are closed. The heavy rusted chain looped between the wrought-iron bars looks as if it has been there almost as long as I’ve been gone. A weathered sign reading “No Trespassing” hangs from the gatehouse arch. The gatehouse itself, traditionally the home of Blackwood Manor’s groundskeeper, appears utterly abandoned.
And those grounds are no longer beautifully tended. The overgrown lawn beyond the gate looks as if no one has held that position since my father left—since he took me from Blackwood Manor, the only home I’d ever known. The home I’ve been dreaming of returning to for ten years.
But judging by the disrepair of the gatehouse and estate grounds, that home looks as if it has been left to rot. And instead of nerves in my belly and a heart full of hope, now despair thickens sourly in my chest.
Why had I been brought here? When I was contacted by the Blake family’s solicitor two weeks ago, he said that my father’s former employers had learned of his recent death and wished to discuss the repayment of a debt. As far as I was aware, they hadn’t owed my father anything, and the solicitor hadn’t been forthcoming with details. All I could imagine was that perhaps a severance had gone unpaid when he’d left their employ and they intended to bestow it upon his only living relative. Whatever debt they owe, they apparently felt it needed to be paid in person, so they arranged for me to travel from the Seattle airport to London, then hired a driver to bring me here.
But why? Clearly the Blakes don’t live here now. If anyone still resided at Blackwood Hall, then those gates would not have gone unopened and chained for as long as they appear to have been. There would be some sign of the staff coming and going, because an estate and house of this size simply cannot function without people to care for it.
Yet obviously no one has been, and seeing the neglect feels as if a razor is slicing away at my heart.
The driver softly clears his throat. “Would you like me to take you back to the village, then, and see you sorted at the inn?”
I tear my gaze from the gatehouse’s sagging roof and broken windows. At the inn? A flutter of panic quivers through the heavy despair.
The reason I never returned to Blackwood Manor before now is simply because I couldn’t. Especially after my father’s long illness. Even before that, however, money has been scarce for years.
And although the Blakes bought my plane ticket and hired George to drive me here, those arrangements didn’t include a return trip—or a stay at a village inn. I assumed that would all be taken care of after I arrived. Blackwood Hall doesn’t lack for guest rooms…and, in truth, I’d hoped that I wouldn’t have to make that return trip back to the States. I’d hoped that there might be a place for me here, and that I’d either find employment on the estate—
Or something more. Because the estate isn’t the only thing I left behind.
It’s not the only thing I’ve dreamed of returning to all these years.
Because there’s always been Gideon.
Gideon Blake, with eyes as green as spring and a devil’s smile. Two years older than me, we grew up together on the estate, but he was never like a brother—and always a friend. Until he was almost more than a friend. But we never got further than a kiss and a promise.
Then my father left his position here and put half a world between me and Gideon.
Of course I knew that my return might mean nothing to Gideon, and that everything I’ve hoped for was just a silly girl’s dream—I can hardly expect him to remember a promise of love he made ten years ago, as a boy of seventeen—yet the possibility of finding a job on the estate hadn’t seemed so silly.
I never dreamed that no one would be here at all, though. So I can’t stay. But I’ve also got nowhere else to go. There’s nothing left for me in Washington and the little coastal town where my father and I lived, even if I could afford the plane ticket back.
But although there’s nothing for me here, either, I’d like to stay just long enough to say good-bye to the place.
After that…well, I’ll figure something out.
“There’s no need to take me back to the village,” I tell George. “I’ll get out here and walk up to the big house.”
“But the gate’s locked,” he points out.
“I have a key to the gatehouse, so I can go through that way.” Which is a lie, but I do know a way to enter the estate. When uncertainty tightens his mouth, I reassure him, “They probably just forgot which day I was coming. I’ll find someone up at the house.”
Though clearly unhappy with my decision, George obligingly retrieves my big rolling suitcase from the trunk. Outside the car, I pull on my lightweight jacket to ward off the chill in the air. The breeze sweeping across the grounds has a dank odor clinging to it, instead of the fresh and clean scent that I recall from years ago.
“You sure you’ll be all right, dragging that luggage up the lane?”
“It shouldn’t be a problem.” I extend the suitcase’s handle. “It’s not heavy, and the lane is paved. It should roll easily.”
“All right, then. Now I’ll be stopping at the pub in the village for a bite of lunch. I expect I’ll be an hour or so before returning to London, so you ring my mobile if you change your mind, and I’ll drive here to pick you up.”
His kindness helps to ease my despair, renewing my natural optimism and the hope that brought me here. Surely the situation can’t be so very dire.
Warmly I thank him, then wait until his car is out of sight down the narrow country lane before walking in the other direction. A stone wall surrounds the estate’s grounds, with access gates the size of a standard door installed at regular intervals around the perimeter. Even when I lived here, those particular gates were always locked, but that never stopped me—and Gideon—from using one of them before.
The gate on the east wall is missing one of the vertical wrought-iron bars. The narrow gap allowed us to slip through as children—though by the time he was seventeen, Gideon had almost grown too large to fit. The last time we’d attempted it, he’d had to fight his way through the gap.
My step falters. That last time had been the night of my fifteenth birthday. Ten years ago, minus almost one month. The night he’d first kissed me. The night that had ended with somet
hing—something, I still don’t know what it was—chasing us back to the safety of the estate. Then Gideon had gotten stuck pushing through the gap, and I remember the absolute terror and racing of my heart as I desperately pulled on his arm, trying to help drag him through, all the while hearing the growling approach of something through the dark.
I’d…almost forgotten about that. Because in the days following that night, my entire world fell apart. The next morning, Gideon came down with a terrible fever that worried his parents so deeply they’d flown him to see a specialist in Switzerland. Soon we received word that his fever had broken and he was on the mend. But even before they returned to Blackwood Manor, my father resigned and we left for the States.
I suppose in that time since, I told myself that Gideon and I simply overreacted to whatever had been out there on that moonlit night. I told myself that the overwhelming fear had followed hot on the heels of the thrilling excitement of our first kiss—and that we’d probably been spooked by a wild pig, but adrenaline and hormones had blown every snuffling grunt we’d heard into those ravenous growls and that bloodcurdling howl. Even right afterward, we’d been laughing at our own fear. Gideon had been limping as we’d crossed the grounds, because between my pulling and his shoving his big body through the gap in the gate, he’d ripped open a deep scratch on his leg. Yet we’d been laughing, giddy with sheer relief, and already teasing each other about who had been the more frightened—with Gideon claiming that the monster had been right on him at the end, and he’d demonstrated the hot feel of its breath against the back of his neck by bending his head and opening his lips against my throat, gently biting the skin there. I’ve never forgotten that. I’ve rarely thought about the rest, though.
Yet approaching the access gate now, my heart is pounding with remembered terror. My gaze scans the woods edging the lane, my heels tapping out a quick rhythm on the asphalt in my hurry to reach the safety behind the wall.
I haven’t grown much since I was fifteen. Turning sideways, I slip through the gap in the bars as easily as I did then.
But I can’t get my rolling suitcase through. I struggle with it until I’m breathless, but the suitcase simply won’t fit through the gap. Even if I unloaded the contents, the rigid frame still wouldn’t pass through.
Just lovely.
But not a real problem. Despite the gray skies, no rain is expected today. And when I reach the manor house, there will either be someone there or there won’t be. If it’s the first, we can come and collect my suitcase. If it’s the latter…well, then I’ll be rolling that suitcase to the village. So perhaps it’s easier to leave it here now instead of hauling it back and forth across the estate grounds—and there’s little fear that it will be stolen, since hardly any traffic comes out this way.
Even if it was taken, the suitcase contains nothing of real value, anyway. I only own one thing that I couldn’t bear to lose, and I wear that around my neck.
The thin gold chain and teardrop diamond pendant was a gift from Gideon on that same birthday. He’d fastened it around my throat moments before he kissed me—and moments after he told me that I’d only be wearing it until we were old enough for him to replace it with a ring, because I was meant to be his.
Sweet, I know. Young love always is. Except that moment had been far more than sweet. Even as a boy, Gideon had been intense, driven. At seventeen, he’d been like a force of nature—and he never made promises lightly.
Not that I intended to hold him to that promise when I returned to Blackwood Manor. Yet there was something between us, an affinity and attraction so strong that I’ve never experienced anything like it, not even briefly, with anyone else.
I’d hoped to find that again.
That hope doesn’t seem likely now, and as I start walking the gravel path leading through the woodlands and to the manor house, the thin chain of gold around my neck feels unusually substantial, almost heavy—as if reminding me of its presence, and of all the dreams and promises that will never be fulfilled.
A walk through these woods should have cheered me some. Unlike the gatehouse and the grounds, there’s no need to carefully maintain the groves, so the neglect visible around the rest of the estate isn’t so apparent here. And the cherry trees should have been bursting with blossoms, a sight beautiful enough to lift the heaviest spirits.
Yet bare branches greet me, instead. Not just the cherry—the horse chestnut and beech trees raise skeletal, naked limbs to the gray sky, as if this were the dead of winter instead of the first day of spring.
So instead of strolling leisurely along the path, appreciating the beauty around me, I find myself walking briskly with my gaze fixed ahead and with unease prickling the length of my spine. Aside from the sound of my steps, everything is silent.
Not even the birds are singing.
Oh, and why did I dress up for this trip? With the idea of asking for a position—and perhaps seeing Gideon again—I’d put extra effort into my appearance today, leaving my blonde hair loose instead of pulling it back, where I’d have been saved the trouble of dragging the long strands out of my eyes every time the breeze picked up. Beneath my windbreaker, I’m wearing a pretty white blouse over a swingy A-line skirt that flirts with my knees on every step. But those steps would be a lot quicker if I wasn’t wearing heels. If I were in my usual sneakers and jeans, the dread nipping at the back of my neck would have sent me sprinting along this path as fast as I could.
Instead I reach the clearing where Gideon and I used to practice hitting a cricket ball and stop in my tracks, staring in horror at the scene ahead.
One of the red deer that graze this estate and the nearby park has been slaughtered. Not just slain, as if by a poacher—but completely eviscerated, and what little remains of the flesh is scored by long, ragged tears. Blood splatters the surrounding grasses and leaves, and pools beneath the carcass in a thick, muddy sludge.
Red, glistening blood. This kill is only hours old.
Frantically I scan the grove, searching for whatever did this. But what could do this? We’re in the middle of England, not the wilds of Alaska. Yet the deer looks as if it was torn apart by a pack of wolves. There’s nothing like that here.
But if the estate has been abandoned, perhaps a pack of feral dogs now roams the grounds unchecked.
So screw my heels. Kicking them off, I scoop up the shoes and take off at a run, abandoning the gravel path for the softer grass along the verge. I don’t have many talents, but if there’s one thing I can do, it’s run. Fast, far. Every morning back at home, I took to the beach and went as far as I could. Ten years ago, it was to escape my father and his angry refusal to tell me why we’d left, why I was hardly ever allowed to leave the house—except for when I visited the beach. Then he got sick, and I ran simply so I could breathe. After he died, I ran because I had to go somewhere. No longer escaping, but searching—because I was no longer bound to the house or trapped by the fear he never explained. Yet still never finding anything.
Finally, though—I’m running to somewhere.
If not for the state of the grounds and the gatehouse, I’d never have known the residence had been abandoned, judging by the exterior of Blackwood Hall alone. The brickwork and windows are all intact, the grand Palladian facade with its columned portico untouched by neglect. It’s an enormous residence, built by one of the Blakes’ noble ancestors, with a central three-story block flanked by four separate wings, each one perfectly symmetrical and square. The austere design is relieved only by the towers that cap the corners of the central block, and the overall effect is an imposing, refined stability, as if the house might stand for a thousand years and still elegantly reign over this countryside.
I race up the stairs to the main entrance. From this vantage point, I can see across the great lawns, all the way down to the gatehouse. No pack of dogs is in sight, but I’m still not waiting outside. Not with the memory of that red, glistening blood still so fresh in my mind.
The doors aren’t l
ocked. The hinges squeak as I push through into the grand hall. Cold silence greets me, the soft slap of my every bare footstep echoing faintly against the alabaster decorating the walls and domed ceiling.
“Hello?” I call out.
No answer but the hollow echo of my voice.
This part of the house was rarely used, anyway. If there is anyone left—a housekeeper, perhaps—they would likely reside in the staff wing.
Quickly I head in that direction, passing through the narrow corridor that connects the central block to the southwest wing. Here the neglect begins to show. Cobwebs lurk in the corners. Dust blankets every surface. My feet are filthy with it, but the thought of putting on my heels—imagining the empty clapping echo of every step—seems more dreadful to me than dirty feet ever could be.
But there is another noise. A faint, metallic slithering. Trying to detect the source of the sound, I slow as I enter the kitchen, where every Saturday morning Mrs. Collins used to chase Gideon and me away from her freshly baked scones.
Then I pass a window and my heart plummets straight to the ground, two stories below, where the south garden should have been.
The garden is still there. But it’s dead. Not overgrown with weeds. Not untended with wildflowers running rampant through the carefully planted beds. Simply…dead. Nothing but withered stumps remain of the shrubs and roses, broken twigs littering the bare earth.
Hot tears burn at the back of my throat. That garden was mine. Not that it belonged to me—everything here always belonged to the Blakes. Yet it was mine to tend, mine to care for, and had been since I was old enough to plant seedlings at my father’s side.
And if ever there was a sign that the hope I’d clung to was a fool’s hope, that garden must be it. I held on to the memories of this house for so long, spent ten years awaiting the moment I would return. Yet nothing here held on to me. The soil itself had taken what I’d left behind and destroyed it.
