I pick my way around the perimeter of the house, waving off Atticus and trying to come to terms with the utter devastation surrounding me.
It’s unbelievable and heartbreaking.
Such a great house with grand rooms and fine furniture reduced to ruins. Mounds of brick, dust and rubble piled high next to partial walls barely defying gravity and likely to crumble with the first gust of a summer breeze. Blistered wood and centuries-old oak panelling that lined the long corridors and reception rooms, now ash beneath my feet. Hundreds of ancient oak beams lie all around, charred and glistening with pockets of molten black substances oozing from the cracks in the wood. Evidence of the fury of the flames that engulfed the Hall, where the heat was so intense it melted and melded materials into new forms. So much destruction, deadly mountains of broken glass, bricks, remnants of pieces of furniture too sturdy to succumb to the fire but torn apart by the violent explosion which blew the house to smithereens, Atticus’s home. My heart aches; his must be in pieces.
I reach the end of the walled garden and face the part of the house that is still standing, only just by the look of it. The glass in the windows of the orangery is blackened with smoke but is intact. The scorched paintwork is flaky in places, yet it is still mostly white, and I think the East Tower directly to its left is the reason it survived at all. The tall structure must have shielded the delicate extension from the blast. The front part of the house that led to the tower was levelled flat by the explosion; however, the tower itself looks untouched. Nevertheless, Atticus said it wasn’t safe, and I have no reason to think he’s lying. I can see him in the distance, carefully working his way through the rooms that were once his playground, and my heart twists with a mix of the sadness he must be feeling and fear, because what’s left of the building doesn’t look nearly safe enough to be wandering around.
“Be careful!” I shout, and even from here, I can see his bright white teeth smiling wide as he waves off my worry with a mocking two-fingered salute. Stubborn arse.
I take the footpath around the edge of the meadow along the riverbank and down toward the boathouse. The sun is high and warms me to my bones through the thin material of my summer dress. I feel a gentle smile when I stop for a moment and absorb the full strength of the English sunshine on my face, closing my eyes as the beams hit me full on. I bask in the heat and begin to lose myself. All I can feel is the rise and fall of my soft steady breaths, the warm sun stroking my skin, and all I can hear is the thrum of nature surrounding me. The smell of summer fills my nostrils, and like the bell in the village shop, I am bombarded with memories. I let them filter across my eyelids like a movie of my life in slow motion. Fun and laughter, adventure and excitement battle with loneliness and isolation, heartache and more loneliness; mostly the latter dominates each recollection. I loved it here, yet the only happy memories involve my time with Atticus.
It’s a truly beautiful place, but even nature’s most stunning vistas are rendered lacklustre if you have no one to share it with.
The tall reeds and bulrushes rustle with the light breeze and the long grasses on the verges team with life. The vibrant cacophony of nature provides the backdrop with buzzing bees, crickets chirping, mice and more scuttling in the thick undergrowth, hiding from sight if not sound. The river meanders through the fields, and I don’t turn back until the sun has peaked past midday and my legs are aching, itchy too, from making my own path through the fields. My bare legs are striped with slashes of red from the brambles and nettles, cuts, and grass rash, yet I didn’t feel a thing.
The river spills out on a bend and wraps around a tree where the bank has eroded, creating a small island with shallow water and small sandy dunes. I slip my flip-flops from my feet and wade in to the crystal clear pond, sinking into the warm silt bed until my toes are completely submerged. I wriggle them and relish to cool respite the water brings to my legs. The skin on my neck and shoulders feels tight from too much sun, and I scoop some of the water in my hands to pour it over myself. It’s not like there’s anyone around to see if my dress becomes a little see-through. The water trickles down my neck and wicks quickly through the thin cotton. It feels good. The material is slick to my skin and cools me. The breeze makes my skin prickle with goosebumps.
I know I’ve caught way too much sun, and I’m an idiot for not bringing a water bottle. Just the thought makes my mouth feel like I’m sucking down on a cotton ball the size of my fist. I scoop some of the river into my cupped hands and purse my lips.
“Don’t do that!” A deep voice bellows from behind a dense hedgerow in the corner of the cornfield. I jump and spin, twisting my ankle and plopping hard down onto my bottom, waist deep into the river.
“Shit!”
“Oh my, miss, I’m sorry.” The voice chuckles and a man’s head appears above the branches of the hedge. He works his way toward me and along the border and opens a gate I knew was there, only it was so overgrown I hadn’t thought it was still in use.
“Angus, you scared the life out of me.”
His kind eyes crinkle his weathered face. The old gamekeeper must be sweltering in his wax gun jacket, flat cap, and hunter boots, although I can see uncharacteristic concessions to the heat of summer; his shirt collar is open at the neck, revealing a riot of curly grey hair, and the threadbare sweater he always wore is missing. Simply looking at the layers makes me sweat.
“I didn’t mean to scare you, miss, but since you were about to drink a handful of river there, I thought, rather than catching a nasty case of Weil’s disease, it might be worth the risk of getting a fright from an old man.” He raises a knowing bushy brow, and I grimace. I should know better; I do know better. I was just so thirsty. Not so much mind reading as assessing the bloody obvious, Angus lifts his silver hip flask from his deep pocket and throws it my way.
“Here have this.”
I snap catch it between my palms and flip the lid. Gasping for liquid, I suck it down in large unladylike gulps. Big mistake.
“Oh god, is that whiskey?” I cough and splutter my question, feeling the familiar burn at the back of my throat.
“Trust me, its better than the river.” He chortles.
“I’m not so sure.” I toss the flask back to him and pull myself to standing, balancing on one leg as my ankle throbs with pain and won’t bear any of my weight just yet. The water sloshes and slides down my body, slicking my dress to me like a translucent second skin. The patch of leathery cheek above Angus’s grey whiskers turns beet red. I look down and snap my arms over my breasts and place one hand where a fig leaf is currently needed. “Oh god!”
“Here lass, take this.” He shucks his gun jacket and offers it with his arm outstretched.
“Actually I’m not sure I can. I’ve twisted my ankle and—” I don’t finish my objection. “Oh no Angus, you’ll get—”
“A little water never hurt no one.” He strides into the river, the water soaking up to his knees, and only his overly thick calves are preventing his boots filling to the brim. He sidles next to me, one arm around my waist, his bony hand on my hip, and his eyes fixed forward. “Now hold on to my shoulders. I can’t quite lift you, but I can help you to my truck at least, and get you back home.” For an old man, he’s surprisingly strong and spritely. He picks up most of my weight with the one arm and steps us quickly from the river and over to his battered Land Rover truck.
He drops the tailgate and helps me sit, disappears for a moment, returning with my flip-flops and an old towel, which looks like it belonged to the dogs.
“It’s clean.” He assures me after giving it a furtive sniff. I take the towel and dry off my legs; my dress is too wet and will to have to air dry. He helps me into the front passenger seat, and I use the towel to cover the seat. The leather is long past needing protection, but in the glare of the sun, the dark leather retains heat like a fire pit and it’s likely to fry my arse. I shift around to face Angus when he is about to turn the ignition.
“Thank you.” He gives an awkward nod and an odd frown pulls his face into a troubled expression. He takes his time before he speaks, the rumble of the old engine almost completely masking his mumbled words.
“I guess it should be me thanking you.”
“Excuse me? Sorry Angus, I didn’t catch that.” He kills the engine and repeats himself. I shake my head with confusion. “How is that exactly?”
“Well, keeping an old codger like me employed when there are men far more able to take care of the estate.”
“Atticus told you?”
“He did. You must know I had nothing to do with the fire. I was visiting my son. You know I would never—”
“I know Angus, you loved that place almost as much as my mum.” I place my hand over his; the bony knuckles are a little too white for my liking. He draws in a deep breath and lets out a heavy sigh. The sound fills the space between us with regret. He was close with my mother at one time, and although I never knew the specifics, I can see in the sad depths of his pale grey eyes there was something.
“I never held with what she did to you, lassie.”
I give a light shrug because I don’t know what to say, and I can see whatever he’s wrestling with is weighing heavy on his old bones. “I never saw her again after the trial, not like I had, I mean. I was grateful to her for not getting me fired. She was thick with Mrs Kraus, and she could’ve easily done that. I don’t know why she didn’t.” He sniffs.
“Thank you, but honestly, don’t look at me for answers when it comes to my mother. I have none.” I pat the back of his hand hoping my breezy tone lifts his concerns and lightens the sombre mood. It’s done now, in the past, and I so want to move on.
“Well, like I say, she was thick with Mrs Kraus, and although she never told me what, she always believed Mrs Kraus was biding her time before she made good on some promise.”
“Hmm, I guess I can give her that much. My mother was a fool when it came to Mrs Kraus and Mrs Kraus did very nearly make good on her promise.”
“Which was?” He tilts back in his seat as if trying to focus on some great puzzle I’ve proffered, when the answer is all too evident.
“Making sure I got what was owed.” I point to the mound of destruction blackening the horizon, and Angus looks horrified at the suggestion I leave hanging ominously in the air.
Cass appears at the door as Angus’s truck motors to a nosy halt outside the lodge gate. He drops whatever he was holding and rushes from the front door to my side of the truck. His eyes narrow when he clocks my dishevelled state.
“Christ, are you all right? What happened? I knew I shouldn’t have let you go alone.”
“Would you stop? I’m fine. Twisted ankle and a little dehydrated, nothing a hot bath and a few glasses of wine can’t fix.” He pulls the door open, and it creaks and drops a little on its hinges with only the stubborn rust holding it together. I lift my bottom to allow him to slide his arms under and around me. He lifts me carefully from the truck, cradling me against his body like I’m some recovered precious treasure. He scowls at Angus as if somehow it was the old man’s fault.
“Angus saved me a long walk home, so no need to give him the evils.”
“He’s seen you half naked; he’s lucky he’s alive.” He grumbles low and menacing, the vibrations ripple from his body to mine.
“Thank you, Angus.” I call over my shoulder as Atticus strides off without a backward glance, slamming the front door as soon as we are safely inside.
“A little dramatic don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t.” His face darkens, and I shiver from more than the icy chill in his demeanour.
“What’s wrong? Atticus, you’re scaring me.” He places me on the sofa in the living room, the lumpy cushions sag around my body and the dark shadow from Atticus looming makes me shiver.
“You got this.” He picks a cream handwritten envelope from his back pocket, holding it in front of my face and as far away from his body as is physically possible without dropping it.
“And?”
“It’s from him.”
“Him who?”
“There’s another him, besides me?” His lips thin in a tight, sarcastic smile.
“Logan, how do you know? Did you open it?” I swipe the envelope from his hands, and he seems to bristle with irritation.
“No, I didn’t, I wanted to but thought you might not like that.”
“Ya think!?” I snark.
“I’m trying here, Tia,” he snaps back.
“Yes…you are, very.” His jaw tightens and he steps away, his hands flexing into fists, tension radiating off his broad shoulders in seismic waves.
“I’ll get some ice for your ankle and run you a bath.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t move from here until I’ve checked you over,” he clips, but I’m already distracted by the letter burning my fingertips. He walks out and hovers at the threshold, and his shoulders sag when I pick at the edge of the letter. My heart rate has kicked up, and my butterflies feel like pterodactyls.
My Love,
Fuck, I hope I can still call you that. You have to let me. You have to love me Tia, I won’t survive this if I lose you, and I had to lose you if we are to survive this.
I know it makes no sense to you right now. People in love don’t treat each other the way I’m treating you. I get that, and it breaks my fucking heart that I had to push you so very far away, but this is nowhere near a fucking normal situation.
It’s in another fucking universe.
I can’t begin to tell you the terror that courses through my veins at the thought of my sister hurting you, because she won’t just hurt you, Tia, she will kill you, and I can’t…I won’t let that happen.
This is the only time I will contact you, a handwritten letter with no digital footprint is the safest way. Even then, more than one letter will be a risk I’m not prepared to take.
I will sort this.
Give me time, I’m counting on that ‘always’,
My hands are shaking when Atticus returns, sits close and places his large hand over mine, effectively quieting the tremors.
“It was from him right?”
“Yes, although he didn’t sign it. How did you know?” My heart pounds, and I’m a swirling mess of confusion. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to do.
“A hunch.” He shrugs. His eyes flit between mine and the letter beneath our hands. “After what you told me, what he said when he kicked you out, why he did what he did, if I was him, I’d need to clarify enough to not lose you completely. I’d need to let you know somehow, and if he’s the paranoid hacker type, it makes sense he’d revert to snail mail.”
“He must’ve written this while packing my fucking bags for it to get here today.” My voice catches, and I swallow down the hurt with the lump it caused.
“Probably. What did it say?”
“Not much, not much that makes sense anyway.” I hand it to Atticus.
“I know what it doesn’t say.” He takes a moment to scan the letter, and I feel every second of that stiffen in his body beside me.
“What doesn’t it say?”
“It doesn’t actually say he loves you.” He slaps the paper.
“It couldn’t. If his sister intercepted…” I shudder and feel an icy chill and a surge of sickness in my gut. “I can’t remember if I told her he had told me he loves me. Logan thinks not or I would be dead already. He wouldn’t risk putting it on paper, not now.” I take the letter and slowly fold it back into the envelope. I feel utterly exhausted, sick and tired right through to my bones. It’s going to take more than a hot bath to warm my soul.