The Layton Prophecy

by Tatiana March

  “Do you want me to make it a little later?” Miles asked. I could hear the effort he was making to sound casual. “One o’clock, instead of half past twelve?”

  “Better make it half past one,” I said. And then I bolted.

  Back at Mill Cottage, I grappled with Aunt Rosemary and threw her out of the kitchen. We’d run out of spaghetti. I found an unopened packet of tagliatelli with the sell-by date only a couple of months ago and started again with a fresh pan of water. The sauce was as thick as jelly by now. I salvaged it with a combination of water, tomato ketchup and red wine, experimenting to get the mix right.

  When Miles arrived, Aunt Rosemary wafted down the stairs in a pink wool dress, reeking of Oscar de la Renta. I was still in the kitchen. My skin itched with grease, my hair hung in limp strands, and two dark stains decorated my left sleeve, where dollops of ketchup had landed after I gave the plastic bottle a forceful shake.

  “That smells good,” Miles said gallantly.

  “Oh, it’s just readymade bolognaise sauce from a jar,” Aunt Rosemary chirped.

  I could have killed her.

  “You finish it.” I shoved the wooden spoon at her, barely resisting the temptation to scrape the sticky end against her pert pink bosom.

  “I’ll come and help,” Miles offered.

  I saw Aunt Rosemary’s eyes glaze over with terror. “That would be great,” I said with glee and ushered Miles toward the kitchen. Edging past them, I ran upstairs to change. It was only when I got there that I realized I’d forgotten to bring over any clothes from Rose Cottage. I considered raiding Aunt Rosemary’s wardrobe, but I decided it wasn’t worth risking my inheritance. And besides, pastel colors don’t really suit me.

  I stripped off the sweater and did my best to rinse out the ketchup stains. I pressed the sleeve dry inside a folded towel and slipped the sweater back on, ignoring the dampness. It didn’t really matter, I told myself. Men were not supposed to notice what women wear. As I returned to the kitchen and saw Miles flick a glance from me to Aunt Rosemary and back again, I judged that particular piece of traditional wisdom to be untrue.

  We sat down at the table laden with bowls of crisps and nuts. Miles didn’t waste any time. “Did you listen last night?” he asked Aunt Rosemary, pointing at the baby monitor on the shelf by the fridge.

  “Hmmm?” Aunt Rosemary gave him a coy look from beneath her lashes. She was acting particularly brainless, so I understood that she found the present male company very attractive.

  “Cut it out,” Miles said. “You’re no more a blond bimbo than I’m gay.” He was scowling. I realized he wasn’t flirting with her. He was issuing a reprimand for foolish behavior. I sat up straighter. I almost felt sympathy for Aunt Rosemary, but I hadn’t quite forgiven her for the readymade sauce remark.

  “I listened,” Aunt Rosemary admitted. A bit of demureness clung to her voice. “How did you know?”

  “I was fourteen when Cleo was born, and Francis lived nearby. I babysat a lot. I can recognize a baby monitor.”

  “The people who rented Rose Cottage last summer had a baby,” Aunt Rosemary said with an innocent face. “They must have left it behind.”

  Miles nailed her with a stern look. “Drop it, Rosemary. Or is it Rosie?” He kept scowling at her. “If you insist on wasting time with pointless lies and trying to pretend that you’re stupid, we’ll never get anywhere.”

  “It’s Rosemary. Not Rosie.” Her voice returned to normal, the vulnerable air gone. Her eyes narrowed. “And what’s this I hear about you marrying Alexandra?”

  Good old Aunt Rosemary. The old adage that attack is the best defense could have been coined for her. Blood surged to my face. Miles looked startled. He drew a sharp breath, and he must have swallowed something the wrong way, because he exploded into a fit of coughing.

  Aunt Rosemary leapt up and rushed around the table to pound him on the back. Miles held up a hand to stop her, but she carried on regardless. She didn’t stop until Miles caught her wrist and shoved her away. I told myself there’d been nothing personal in how he’d pushed me away earlier. He was a man who simply didn’t like his personal space invaded.

  “Where did you hear that?” Miles wheezed.

  “At the newsagents, and then again outside St Mary’s. That’s the church. And once more on the way down Mill Lane.” Aunt Rosemary grimaced at him. “The Vicar asked me to remind you that in this country you need to wait for banns to be read before you can get married and Holly Jameson wants to know if she can do the catering for the wedding.”

  “Goddamn it,” Miles said. “That’s one hell of an efficient communication system.”

  “I told you it would get all garbled up,” I told him through my teeth.

  Aunt Rosemary looked from Miles to me and back again.

  “He asked to reserve a table at the Royal Goat last night,” I explained. “He told Ron it was because he wanted to make a proposition to a lady.” I twisted around to frown at Miles. “I warned you it would become a proposal, and be all over the village by the following morning.” My voice held a bitter edge. With my track record, I didn’t want another failed relationship added to my name.

  “It’s all right.” Miles reached out to lay a gentling hand over my arm. “I told you, I was counting on that kind of misunderstanding.”

  “No,” Aunt Rosemary said sharply. “That’s not fair. You might have good intentions, but for Alexandra it will be a disaster. You’ve got to straighten it out.”

  The two of them glowered at each other across the table, like opponents in some mortal combat computer game.

  “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” I said, acutely aware that my brain didn’t pack equal processing power to theirs.

  Aunt Rosemary turned to me. “Miles is worried for you. He thinks that the Layton Prophecy is a real curse. Love and marriage will be your doom. He is trying to protect you by putting out a rumor that the two of you are together, so that everyone else will stay away from you.”

  “Oh.” I fidgeted with the damp sleeve of my sweater.

  “It’s no good, darling,” Aunt Rosemary said in a gentle voice. “Miles will waltz out of here in six months. You might not mind having your social life put on ice while he tries to remove the threat of the Layton Prophecy, but what will happen after?” She gave me a pained look. “Men will keep away from you, fearing that you’re on the rebound, and in the village, you’ll become the girl who gets jilted by one fiancé after another. Twice in a row will have the gossips in a frenzy.”

  “Shit,” Miles said.

  I buried my head in my hands. I’d spent enough time in Layton Village to know that Aunt Rosemary was right. Whatever I said, whatever I did from now on, the rumor, however false, had gained the strength of an indelible fact. In the eyes of the village, I was as good as engaged to Miles, who was now sitting next to me, crowding the kitchen chair with his solid frame, looking increasingly fraught.

  Back to contents

  Chapter Seven

  By some miracle, and aided by the rest of the red wine, we managed to get through the lunch without lapsing into long, tortuous silences.

  “Why didn’t you reveal your Layton connection to us as soon as you arrived in the village?” Aunt Rosemary asked Miles.

  He twirled a load of tagliatelli in his fork. “I wanted to wait until that law firm in Oxford had spoken to Alexandra. I didn’t want to be the one to reveal her father’s secrets to her.”

  I lowered my wine glass. “Crosland and Baxter told you about me?”

  “They wrote to Cleo to confirm that the second-in-line had been notified, in compliance with the conditions of the Layton Trust. For any practical matters concerning the Layton Manor, the lawyers write directly to me. Cleo has given me a power of attorney to represent her.”

  After that exchange, the conversation drifted on to mundane topics, mostly with Aunt Rosemary telling anecdotes about the village history. Miles spoke occasionally, between casting frequent worrie
d looks in my direction. The rest of the time he shoveled food into his mouth and chewed, in the efficient manner of someone who regards eating as a chore rather than one of life’s great pleasures.

  When nobody wanted anything more to eat, I shared out the remaining wine. Throughout the meal, my own glass had required the most frequent topping up.

  “I’m sorry.” Miles twisted sideways in the chair and propped one arm over the back. “I didn’t realize my comments would get blown out of all proportion like that.”

  “This is a close-knit community where most people are retired,” Aunt Rosemary lectured. “Things get magnified. People have nothing important to do, so they gossip and speculate about any stranger who happens to be passing through.”

  Miles ignored her, looking at me. “I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Forget it.” The wine was giving me heart and guts. I felt that I simply didn’t care what anyone thought.

  “Do you still want to help me?” Miles asked.

  “Of course.” I sent him a bright smile. “But it’s really Aunt Rosemary whose help you want. She’s the clever one. Although she can’t cook shit.” As soon as I’d said the words, I realized how tipsy I was.

  “I know.” Miles talked as though Aunt Rosemary wasn’t even there. “It took all my ingenuity to keep her from ruining the food in the ten minutes you were upstairs trying to rinse out the stains in your sweater.”

  That was the moment I fell in love with him.

  I’d always had an inferiority complex about Aunt Rosemary. She was so damn smart, and she had her sugar fairy looks, and on top of that she was a truly nice person. And, when she put on her helpless act, men simply collapsed at her feet.

  Miles was the first representative of the male sex I’d ever known to see right through her, treat her as someone who didn’t need cosseting and adoration. In fact, if there’d been any cosseting and adoration going on, it had come my way. I went all tingly inside as I recalled how he’d tried to warm me by rubbing my arms.

  Aunt Rosemary stared at Miles in mock horror. “Do you think my cooking is the reason why I’m left on the shelf?”

  “Could be,” Miles said with a straight face. “The way to a man’s heart really is through his stomach, you know.”

  Aunt Rosemary burst into her raucous belly laughter. As a child, I’d thought it was the happiest sound on earth. And I thought so again, because it told me that she had no romantic designs on Miles. When she was interested in a man, she never let them hear her laugh like that, but restricted herself to a ladylike titter.

  “I knew it,” Aunt Rosemary said. “I just knew it had to be my cooking.”

  Miles grimaced at her, and then winked at me.

  I beamed at both of them, a drunken smile on my face.

  After that, we moved into the living room and got to work. Aunt Rosemary stopped pretending to be fragile and reverted to her usual bossy self. She sent Miles out to the garage for logs and ordered him to light a fire in the enormous red brick fireplace. He didn’t seem to mind. While he labored, crouching on the floor, he kept sending me little stern glances over his shoulder that made my knees go weak.

  Once the flames were leaping, we pulled three armchairs in front of the fire and made what Aunt Rosemary called a ‘thinking circle’. Miles sat in the middle, the two women flanking him, our legs extended out to the heat. Step by step, we proceeded to review every scrap of information we possessed on the Layton family.

  “I don’t want to debate the curse,” Aunt Rosemary said. “Each of us can choose what to believe and what not to believe. The purpose of this project is to find out what the Layton Prophecy means, what gave rise to the rhyme, and trying to use that information to uncover a buried treasure.”

  Miles nodded, making a wordless sound of agreement. “I think I’ll have to go out to South Africa,” he added. “That’s the best place to start unraveling the past.”

  I’d been watching him covertly from the safety of the shadows that blanketed the room. His hair was all tangled up. The firelight glinted in his gray eyes. Although it was only afternoon, dark stubble already covered his jaw. A shiver ran through me as I imagined rubbing my palm against his cheek, and feeling the slight scrape of it.

  “Do you think the gold and diamonds might still be in South Africa?” I asked, wanting to hear his voice again.

  Miles propped his elbows over his knees and leaned forward. “They’ve got to be there, or Layton Manor.”

  “There’s another possibility,” Aunt Rosemary cut in.

  “What?” Miles glanced at her, quick and businesslike, not a look of lingering male admiration. I sank deeper into the big armchair and almost purred with pleasure.

  “They could be in America,” Aunt Rosemary continued. “You said your mother stripped Layton Manor bare. If the gold and diamonds were hidden in a piece of furniture, they’d have gone too.” Her brows arched. “Where’s the stuff now?”

  “In Cleo’s house.” Miles got up to throw another log in the fire. “Morristown, New Jersey. My mother gave everything to Francis when he got married, and when Francis died, Cleo and her husband inherited his belongings.”

  “What happened to Cleo’s mother?” I asked.

  “Out of the picture,” Miles said curtly, settling back in his seat. “They divorced when Cleo was eight. Francis got sole custody.” The brusque tone of his reply indicated he had no wish to dwell on the topic.

  “Did you check the furniture?” Aunt Rosemary got up and crossed the room to turn on the ceiling lights, banishing the shadows. Before returning, she fetched a notepad and pencil from the roll-top bureau by the window. Once she was back in her armchair, she began to make notes.

  Miles shook his head. “No, I didn’t check the furniture. I only started looking through the Layton Archives after Francis died and I went to stay with Cleo. When I learned about the prophecy and decided it was for real, I was in too much of a rush to get over here and see the ruins, and get to know the other Layton heiress whose life is in danger.”

  He raked a long, slow glance over me, an enigmatic smile playing on his lips. I tried to interpret the possessive way he appeared to be studying me, but found no explanation for it. All I knew was that his hungry look made me quiver inside.

  “I have another idea,” Aunt Rosemary said. “But I need to think.” She stood up, smoothed her pink wool dress and clutched the pad against her chest. “Why don’t we reconvene tomorrow?”

  Miles glanced at the chunk of steel strapped to his left wrist. “It’s barely five. We ought to keep going.”

  Aunt Rosemary shook her head. “I want to get on the internet, and I don’t like people looking over my shoulder.” She turned to go. “You two carry on. There’s another bottle of wine in the kitchen.” She threw Miles a frowning look over her shoulder. “And if you’re still here at dinnertime, it will be sandwiches, you hear me?”

  Miles gave her a lazy wave of farewell. Silence fell, only broken by the muted sound of Aunt Rosemary’s high heels on the carpeted stairs and the crackling of the logs in the fire. I felt like an awkward teenager in the throes of her first crush. I stared into the fireplace and told myself the roaring flames were the cause of the heat rising to my cheeks.

  “I’m sorry,” Miles said. “I didn’t realize that I was putting the kibosh on your love life for years to come.”

  “Don’t worry.” I made an effort to sound casual. “My life isn’t limited to Layton Village. I live in a town called High Wycombe. It’s halfway between Oxford and London. I just come down here on weekends.”

  He glanced at his watch again, appearing edgy.

  “You can go,” I said with a mocking tilt to my lips. “I’m sure you have other things to do. There’s no need to sit here and feel sorry for me.”

  “I wasn’t feeling sorry for you.”

  “Yeah. Right. Cruel to the core. You ruin my life, and you don’t even care.”

  He threw his head back and laughed, and when he stopped, he
continued to appear cheerful. “Come on.” He stood up and held his hand out to me. “Let’s go for a walk. I need some fresh air.”

  “Are you prepared to accept congratulations on our engagement?”

  He rolled his eyes but didn’t revert to his usual scowl. “We’ll go in the other direction, away from the village, toward Layton Manor.” His fingers curled in a beckoning gesture.

  I curled my hand around his and allowed him to pull me up to my feet. “It will be too dark to go walking on the road.”

  “I’ll bring a flashlight,” he said as he released me. “I’ll guide you.”

  I was left to get ready with a strict time limit of five minutes. The sleeve of my sweater had dried long ago. I bundled up against the wind, which had picked up and was rattling the tall sash windows at the front of the house. In a fit of rebellion, I took Aunt Rosemary’s white cashmere scarf, despite the risk that it might get dirty.

  Miles was already waiting outside. He made a dark shape in the dull light of the streetlamps. Those had only been extended to Mill Lane a couple of years ago, mostly because the vicar had lobbied the district council after he’d twisted an ankle during one of his frequent forays to rummage in Aunt Rosemary’s garage.

  When Miles heard the door slam, he turned around. A wool cap covered his unruly curls. Without their softening impact, he looked harsh, almost cruel. Perhaps my earlier teasing hadn’t been too far off the mark.

  “Come on,” he said, grabbing my hand and setting off down the road, away from the village and the streetlights.

  His strides were much longer than mine, and I struggled to keep up. He didn’t speak and I was grateful to stay silent, since I was quickly losing my breath. Where the road twisted sharply to the right, before it started to climb up the hill, the pale haloes from the streetlamps ended.

  Miles transferred his grip from my hand to my elbow, steadying me. “How do the authorities get away with the awful state of the roads?” he complained.