Page 6 of Not Exactly Mr. Darcy
With a muttered prayer for safety, she resumed her drive, soon passing the small primary school the lane was named after. A handful of students were playing in the schoolyard. On the right, a crumbling line of stone walls suggested a property of grand proportions. Her pulse rose, anticipation churning inside. The last time she’d seen inside Hartbury Hall must have been at least fifteen years ago. It was one thing to be forced by a heritage-loving mother to visit the stately home as a bored teenager, and quite another to want to see it as a history-obsessed adult. The foliage beyond the fence grew thicker, and then a sign proclaimed that Hartbury Hall lay only half a mile away. She gripped the steering wheel, waiting, waiting … there!
Dry stone walls curved up to reveal a grand entranceway and wrought iron gates like those marked out for kings. She pulled the car as far to the left-hand side as she could and gazed down the long, dusty driveway to where a tall, wide red-bricked house peeked past another grove of mature trees. But the closed gates and a chest-high chain signalled cars couldn’t pass, and a large sign announcing visiting times was covered with a tattered homemade poster that declared the Hall was closed. She chewed her lip, watching as another car—a Vauxhall—slowed to a stop, its occupants clearly frustrated the Hall wasn’t open.
One of their windows powered down. “You wanted to visit too?”
Americans. She nodded. “It’s a shame, but what can you do?”
“Well, it’s not like there’s a lack of historical homes to see in England, right?”
“Right.”
The woman flashed a smile, the man lifting a hand before they drove on. But something urged Liv to stay. Maybe it was the stories she’d heard about the Hall, maybe it was something about the sadness of this place—Joe’s wordtragedyseemed to hover, spectre-like, over the shuttered windows—but she couldn’t seem to leave. From somewhere a prayer rose. “Lord, bless this place.”
From beyond, a bird called, and then came a sudden gust of wind that left in its wake a warm, sweet scent and a promise. She blinked. Fanciful stuff. She was almost as bad as Katie with her dreams of knights and castles and Gothic lairs. She restarted the car and drove on to the south gate. There were days at Hooper’s Manor when visitors could see the gardens, even if the house was closed. If the gardens were open as Joe believed, then perhaps she could take a quick peek at the outside of the house too.
She reached the next entrance and turned in, only to find it absent of all cars. Maybe early afternoon on a Friday wasn’t peak garden-viewing time. No matter.
She parked, locked the car, then followed a path that led through trees to a boxlike structure that seemed to be the money collection point. It was empty, like the inhabitants had been raptured or something, so she poked the one-pound-coin entrance fee through the slot of the “Restoration of Hartbury Hall and Gardens” collection tin.
The place was silent, as if sleeping, and she had another Katie-like moment, as if she were Belle coming across the Beast’s lair. The gardens might be open, but they didn’t exactly scream hospitable, seeing the path needed a good weeding, and scuffed patches showed where the white gravel needed replacing.
As she drew nearer to the house, her heart shaded with sadness. Wooden shutters closed the house in darkness, and browned leaves lodged against the front door suggested it hadn’t been used in months. The place was quiet, eerily still, save for a bird whose call she couldn’t place. She pivoted, hands on hips, glancing up at the top of nearby oaks and then spotting movement as a small red-breasted bird sang hello.
Liv lifted a hand. “Hello!” Then swallowed a smile. If anyone was on the premises, they must surely think her very strange indeed, talking to birds like she thought herself Snow White. Maybe it was a good thing nobody seemed to be around to see her.
Her attention returned to the house, marvelling at its proportions, its quiet beauty, like it knew exactly what it was about and held no pretensions to be otherwise. This building seemed ten times the size of Hooper’s Manor, but she could see similarities in the symmetrical features, the red bricks and roof of slate, the chimneys with their coiled brickwork. Someone, once upon a time, had spent a great deal of money on this place. What a shame it seemed determined to hide its history within. She took some pictures, careful to capture the symmetry and “tell the story” like Elinor always said mattered with pics for social media.
Another bird call, another sweep of breeze, and she shivered. This enchanting space held sadness, and while she found the house beautiful and the gardens soothing, she didn’t want to stay. It felt too much like trespassing on someone’s grief. The tragedy that she still didn’t know about, one she’d Google as soon as she got decent Wi-Fi again.
The birdsong came again, the sweet silvery notes holding some similarity to the warble of the magpies from home. “Thank you for your music,” she called.
The bird twittered a response—maybe Katie wasn’t the only Bennett sister who’d watched too many Disney movies—and flew away, and she laughed at herself. Obviously someone needed to have a good night’s sleep. Now, where was the fountain that featured in the movie?
She moved past ragged lavender bushes, past roses in full bloom, and stopped to breathe in the red aroma of love. So beautiful. So lovely. So peace—
A hail of sharp barking accompanied a bullet of brown-and-white fur to snap and snarl at her feet. Her breath caught and her chest squeezed as the dog continued loudly protesting, its objections to her presence soon joined by another’s, a dark-haired man whose piercing whistle accompanied equally piercing blue eyes but whose scowl could shrivel rocks.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Liam Browne’s frown deepened as the terrier circled the trespasser, like she was prey. As CeeCee’s growling continued, the woman’s green eyes widened, her light brown hair and pale skin reminding him of the Long Gallery’s painting of a dryad. A dryad now being hunted by a dog that thought she was a wolf. “CeeCee, down!”
A click of his fingers brought CeeCee to heel. Heaven forbid he face another lawsuit. A man could only fight so much.
The woman backed away, and regret twisted as he noticed the tremor in her hands.
“I … I’m sorry.” Her voice was soft, holding the lilt of an accent as she put down a tentative hand for the dog to sniff. So, she knew something about animals. But clearly CeeCee was having none of it, her full-throated growl still holding suspicion, like she sensed Liam’s own doubts as well.
Another reporter? One of their spies? Or just an ignorant tourist? Did it matter? Whoever this stray was, she was in the wrong, was in the way, had proved an unwelcome disruption to his day. He’d been at the potting shed when he’d glanced up to see CeeCee sprint away. He’d glimpsed a dark blur near the rose garden and pulled out his earbuds, only to hear a soft laugh, the sound so much likehersthat he’d instantly followed. Sometimes he felt this place was still haunted by her.
“The gardens are closed,” he snapped, to hide the uncertainty thoughts ofheralways brought.
“Are they?” she asked.
CeeCee continued her loud complaint, and he bit back a sigh as he commanded the dog to lie down. “Didn’t you see the sign?”
She shook her head. His agitation rose. Honestly, how many blind tourists did one man have to deal with? “At the front? There’s an A-frame sign that says the gardens are closed.”
“I didn’t see that.”
