Chapter 1
Wattle Vale
New South Wales, Australia
It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that when people have bad news to share, they never look you fully in the eye. Olivia Bennett saw the way Felicia Morphett’s eyes lowered, the way her artfully made-up face had instantly morphed to sympathy upon Liv’s entry to the principal’s office. “Hello, Olivia. Please take a seat. This won’t take long.”
Her stomach tightened. Uh-oh. That didn’t bode well. Surely if the ever-loquacious principal of Wattle Vale Secondary College had good news, this would take more time than “won’t take long.” Liv willed her face to a look approximating her usual eagerness, even as the desperate flame of hope within wavered. A window revealed the ominous wintry grey of June’s last day, as a eucalyptus tree tossed its leaves in Antarctic-laden winds.
“I’m sorry, Olivia—”
Liv braced as Felicia sighed. No one ever said “I’m sorry” before giving you good news. No one ever said “I’m sorry, but you’ve won a new car!” or “I’m sorry, but it’s not cancer!”
No, “I’m sorry” could only mean one thing.
“—but I’m afraid that we’ve chosen to go with Belinda instead. Your interview was good, but I’m afraid she hit hers out of the park. She’ll move
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into the permanent history position from next semester.”
Hope—so long her friend—flittered away in a rush of emotion and words she could never say. Felicia seemed relieved, as if she’d finally found a way to get rid of the odd little duck who’d never quite fit in with the militants who patrolled these classrooms. Teachers whose faces wore stress like a crown and whose strained features revealed lines etched by battles with high school students over many years. Teachers who had long ago lost the get-up-and-go enthusiasm that had spurred Liv to establish everything from a history club to a student-led Bible study on school campus during the past six years she’d worked as a casual teacher at Wattle Vale.
Felicia kept on talking, her artificial face—was Doreen right that Felicia had had work done?—pulling into lines of artificial sympathy that matched her artificial words as Liv tried to pull the tattered shreds of dignity around her crumbling mask.
What would she do now? She’d worked so hard, hoping, praying for a miracle to leave the uncertainty of supply teaching and short-term contracts and finally be assigned to a permanent history teaching post in the school’s Humanities department. She’d watched person after countless person promoted to such positions around her, all to no avail. When Doreen Hitchcock, the head of Humanities, had announced they were recruiting for a permanent role and invited the current pool of casuals to apply, she’d taken Liv aside and told her the role was as good as hers if she wanted it.
A wave of unwelcome emotion threatened her composure. Her students might appreciate her compassion for them—various parents might have murmured over the years that Liv put the human into the Humanities department—but just how good was this waterproof mascara?
“Olivia? Are you okay?”
Liv hauled up her chin. She would not let this woman see her upset, see her pain. “I’m fine.” She swallowed, willing her squeaky voice to sound normal. “I guess I’m a little surprised. Doreen told me that I was the preferred candidate for the position.”
“She shouldn’t have done that,” Felicia murmured, glancing at her watch. There was a lot Doreen shouldn’t have done. Like assured Olivia the job was hers. Like gossiped about their boss. Like pretended to be Liv’s friend. “So, what does this mean for my future here? Will you consider me for any upcoming jobs in English? You know I’m qualified in that too.”
“I, er, of course.”
That hesitation pushed words into her mouth. “Are you sure? That doesn’t sound like you will.”
“Of course I will. You should know you have been a well-respected member of the staff here for quite some time.”
Liv swallowed a disbelieving chuckle. Since when had she been respected? “So, you definitely will?”
“Yes. You’ll be the first to know.”
The doubt must have somehow made it onto her face, for Felicia said impatiently, “I said I would. Now, please, I have another appointment.”
Liv awkwardly rose from the too-low seat.
“I’ll be in touch.”
Sure she would. Liv dipped her chin, noticing with a flick of satisfaction the way Felicia’s gaze dropped, as if convicted. She held her head high as she walked past the deputy’s office, past the suddenly silent office ladies—so they’d known too?—and blindly made her way up the stairs, barely noticing as students scattered like they recognized the broken shards of her teaching dreams. She grasped the plastic-coated bannister at the top of the stairs to steady herself.
“Hey, Miss, are you okay?”
“Just dandy.” She dredged up a smile for the senior student. “Hey, don’t forget to make some time for fun among all your studying over the winter holidays, okay?”
He promised and wished her a good break too.
“Thanks.”
Her smile slipped as she headed up the empty corridor to the staff room. Seemed like her break would last longer than his. How could Felicia have given the role to Belinda? Belinda, whose interest in history was limited to Trojan wars because of the hot guys in the movies—she’d admitted such after a few too many drinks on one staff social night—and who had completed zero postgraduate studies, and would never volunteer at a place like Hooper’s Manor, the old Georgian-era mansion in the next town over now run by the National Trust. Had that been the problem? Had Liv missed out on the job because her volunteer work meant she couldn’t attend every staff social activity like Belinda had, so she wasn’t considered a team player?
She moved into the Humanities staff room that they shared with the Geography department, thankful it was empty, and blinked back stubborn tears. Custard. She needed custard. Stat. Not for her the temptations of
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comfort-eating chocolate, unless it be chocolate custard. Anyone could do chocolate. Or ice cream. Or cheese. For Liv it was always custard. Especially on those days that ranked with the worst in her life.
Wiping her cheeks, she opened the small refrigerator, barely noticing the drift of cool air over her skin. Where was her tub of emergency custard? Ah, there, behind Doreen’s prepackaged diet meal, which would often prove the starter before a sandwich or sausage roll. There was a reason Doreen’s diets rarely worked. She ripped back the foil and plunged in the bamboo spoon—the geography teachers were all about sustainability these days— and savoured the sweetness. Lord, help me keep it together. Show me what to do with my life.
For a moment peace filled the space, and she revelled in the quiet, until the door squeaked open.
“How’d you go?” Doreen asked.
Liv closed her eyes. As if the head of the Humanities faculty didn’t already know. She slowly turned to face her, hoping her nose and eyes didn’t seem too red, or that maybe she could put it down to a winter cold or something. “I didn’t get it.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
Why didn’t her “sorry” sound any more genuine than Felicia’s had? Anyway, there was no way Doreen wouldn’t have known already, as she’d have the final say in who she wanted as part of her teaching staff. How Liv hated not feeling like she could trust people. Anger propelled words from her mouth. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
“I, um, I’m afraid I wasn’t at liberty to speak.”
Neither was Liv, apparently, thanks to an unfortunately timed lump of regret clogging her throat. Why had she tried so hard to impress this woman who’d obviously lied to her about what she was going to do?
The heater clunked on, doing little to disperse the coldness filling the room on this last day of winter term. Three weeks’ break would begin tomorrow. Three weeks to figure out where next to apply for work. She might love the kids here, but no way did she want to work with these people again. Come to think of it, it was just like Felicia to wait until the last day before giving her the flick, with no word of warning to the classes she now wouldn’t have the chance to say goodbye to. There was a word for that.
She pivoted on her heel and shifted to her desk. Well, not her desk, apparently. Not anymore. She slowly began removing folders and special
treasures, including the Jane Austen magnet her mum had given her when she first started teaching: I Randomly Quote Jane Austen. It wasn’t precisely true—that was more her sister Katie’s domain—but it kept the memory of her long-ago literature studies alive.
Her phone flashed a silent message: “Any word yet?”
She sank into her seat, conscious Doreen was watching her as she tapped out a reply. “Didn’t get it.” Sad face emoji.
A second later her phone flashed again. “I’m sorry.”
Yep. She sensed the genuineness in this reply. Mum was a prayer warrior and had been praying for weeks now. For Liv’s job. For poor Gran’s upcoming hip replacement surgery. For Mum’s own health worries.
The reminder drew her to shoot up a few prayers of her own, before replying with a “Custard helps.”
Her screen lit. “Custard tart at the café with your name on it.”
She quickly tapped a “Thanks” and then leaned back in her chair, as Marta and some of the others returned from the staff common room and the teachers’ lunch held to mark the end of semester.
“Hey, here you are,” Marta called. “You didn’t come back after you went to see Felicia.”
Liv pressed her lips together. Shrugged.
“So, how’d you go?”
Liv cut her a glance and gave the thumbs-down.
Belinda entered, beaming, and rushed straight to Doreen.
“Thanks so much for those tips on what to say. I got it!”
Liv’s mouth dropped. Had Doreen really helped Belinda get the position? Indignation rose, hot and sticky.
“Seriously?” Marta muttered.
Yeah. Liv thought that too. But saying anything more was unwise. Especially with Doreen’s bat-like hearing. Although, now that Liv apparently wasn’t considered worthy enough to be a part of the team, she didn’t have to pretend to be a team player anymore, did she? Not when Doreen had basically lied to Liv by telling her the job was hers but had been helping Belinda on the side, and Belinda had exploited Liv’s generosity in lending her materials over the years. Ugh. She hated feeling deceived and used.
She stood and, with a grand sweeping motion, cleared the remnants of desk paraphernalia into a cardboard box, a movement as clichéd as any recently dismissed person on TV, yet satisfying all the same. “Yep, after six
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years working here, looks like I’ll have to love you and leave you.” Fake smile. “So, seeing I’m not wanted, and I don’t have class scheduled for this afternoon, I’ve got some things to do.”
“Hey, we’ll catch up for dinner soon,” Marta said.
“Sure,” she said, knowing Marta’s words held more good intentions than true promise. She picked up another box of history DVDs and weighty tomes borrowed from the library, glanced at Doreen, whose look fell away, and then lifted her chin and exited. Just an hour and a half to return these things to the school, to find and wish her—former—senior students well for the future, and she’d be free.
G
Ninety-five minutes later, she was pulling into a rare free parking spot outside The Silver Teapot. The tea shop sat squeezed between a hairdresser’s and an antique shop in a historic terrace row on Wattle Vale’s main street. The family business was her parents’ pride and joy, apart from their four daughters, or so they often said.
The tea shop door opened with a tinkling bell, and she nodded to the patrons, mostly mothers with small children celebrating the end of term like she’d hoped to, with delicate cups and fragrant teas, her mum’s scones and her dad’s fancy pastries.
“She’s here!” her youngest sister Katie called to the back. She offered Liv a wry smile as she wrestled a large tray filled with a tiered china plate of goodies and two filled teapots to a table wedged in the front corner.
With less than half an hour until closing, Liv could either throw herself a pity party and lick her wounds or put on an apron and help. She threaded her way through doily-laden tables to the door in the back labelled Employees Only, received hugs and commiserations from her mum and dad, dumped her handbag, threw on an apron, and helped serve customers until the sign on the door was turned to Closed at four on the dot.
By this stage her mother had laid out a table of their own in the back corner, complete with several teapots holding their favourite brews, teacups, and a freshly baked yellow custard tart, which accompanied some of the non-seller sandwiches and cakes of the day. Afternoon tea had always been a ritual in the Bennett household, a legacy passed down from Veronica Hastings, their maternal grandmother always insisting that nothing beat a good cuppa and a slice of cake. Except—Liv eyed her plate holding the
promise of golden sweetness—a good custard tart.
A rattle at the door saw Katie jump up and admit Elinor, who juggled part-time jobs doing graphic design and social media work with her art-major studies. She offered a small smile—hugs weren’t Elinor’s thing—and joined them at the table as Mum peppered her with questions about her day.
Okay, that was nice, but it wasn’t Elinor who’d been snubbed today. Liv eyed her sister over a cup of English breakfast and swallowed a mouthful of hot tea flavoured with the tiniest amount of disappointment.
Somehow the conversation turned to Gran and her upcoming hip surgery, and the day’s frustration melted away in renewed compassion for her grandmother. How hard it must be to be facing surgery all alone, half a world away. It was a good thing Mum’s cousin Harriet would be there to look after her when Gran left the hospital to recover at home.
Katie’s phone buzzed, and after a couple of taps and swipes the second-eldest Bennett daughter showed on the screen.
“Hey, you’re all there?” Emma-Jane worked at a start-up tech company in the city, and didn’t often make it home, despite being only ninety minutes away on the freeway.
“We’re all here,” Katie sang back.
“Here for what?” Liv asked, glancing between them. Something that looked an awful lot like guilt washed across five faces, and for the third time that day she noticed people not looking her in the eye. “What’s going on?”
“Look, we discussed this before, and now it seems you are the logical choice,” Emma-Jane—EJ to family and friends—said.
“When did you discuss what?” At the awkward looks sliding between her family members, Liv pulled out her phone. The WhatsApp family chat had blown up since she’d sent the message about losing her chance at a permanent job earlier.
Liv read the messages, as her mother murmured something about Gran and cousin Harriet. Her eyes widened. “Since when couldn’t Harriet care for Gran?”
“Since two hours ago,” Mum said. “She called me. Her colitis is playing up, and her doctor has recommended that she not leave York and travel all the way to Hartbury, and definitely not do anything like the lifting and such that caring for your grandmother will require.”
“Which is why we thought of you, hon,” Dad said, patting her hand.
“I can’t, not with the business taking off. And now you’ve just lost your
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job, it makes sense that you’re the one who should go,” EJ chirped from the phone.
Bless her. Her seemingly boundless energy might make EJ the sister Liv was most like, a sister whom she loved, but sometimes Liv found her hard to like. Her directness was just so. . .direct. Even through an iPhone screen.
“The girls can’t leave their studies and jobs,” her mother said, glancing at her youngest daughters. “And between our health challenges and the business worries, your father and I can’t leave for a trip to England, much as I’d love to see my mum again.”
Her mother’s voice held a wistful note that wrenched guilt within. Yes, Mum’s most recent bout of cancer meant spending a day’s travel in flights to care for her own mother wasn’t wise. And even if Dad didn’t have baking skills that demanded he remain to helm The Silver Teapot, Liv had long received the impression her grandmother had never quite forgiven John Bennett for taking her only child to live on the other side of the world.
“Wow. Um, I need a moment to think. It’s not that I don’t love Gran, it’s just unexpected.” And she’d come to the café anticipating custard, tea, and sympathy, not a trip to a tiny village in England to care for an elderly relative she’d only met in person twice.
“Please consider it, love,” her father said. “It wouldn’t be forever.”
“How long?” A stray shaft of wintry sunlight hit the café’s namesake, the silver teapot that had travelled from England three decades ago. Gran’s teapot. Liv’s eyes burned. How could she even question doing this? Family comes first, Mum always liked to say.
“It’s only for a few weeks, possibly a month or two,” her mother said. “Just until her hip is better and she’s able to walk again.”
At the age of seventy-nine, Gran’s recovery wasn’t likely to be speedy. “A few months?” What would that mean for finding another school? Jobs starting partway through semester were as rare as hen’s teeth.
“Until she’s better.” Her mother’s sigh wafted across the hum of cars beyond the café’s closed doors, traffic that signalled peak hour in their little town of Wattle Vale. “I thought you’d love the chance to return to England. You enjoyed your visits there before.”
Yes, she had. But there was a world of difference between a holiday visiting historic sites and as many of the places she’d read about in books as she could, and being the nursemaid for an elderly, at times cantankerous, woman. Even if she did love her.
“Just think, you might meet your Mr. Right,” romance-obsessed Katie said, with a glance at their mother. The apple hadn’t fallen far from that tree.
Mr. Right? Please. If only. Small-town pickings for single Christian women were close to nonexistent. And if memory served correctly, Hartbury boasted a population one-tenth of Wattle Vale.
“That’s right!” Her mother’s eyes shone. “Maybe you’ll find your Mr. Darcy at last, just like when your father swept me off my feet and brought me here to Wattle Vale.”
Liv restrained an eye roll, knowing her mother thought she was being helpful. But her mother’s Austen obsession—amplified when her marriage meant she became Elizabeth Bennett in her own right—hadn’t stopped at simply naming her daughters after her favourite Austen heroines. Except for Olivia, of course. Mum had a near equal obsession with Olivia Newton-John, whose battle with breast cancer at the same time as Mum’s first diagnosis had seen her firstborn named after the famed singer.
“I don’t care about meeting Mr. Right. I just need a minute to get my head around all this.” Liv took a sip of tea. “It’s been a big day, just in case any of you have forgotten what happened to me today.”
“Of course we remember, darling,” her mother said, squeezing her hand. “I’m sure it was terrible.”
“Thank you.” A smidgen of satisfaction that the injustice was finally being recognized stole through her chest. “Felicia might say she’s all about supporting staff, but it’s obvious she plays favourites.”
“I’m really sorry, honey,” Dad said, his tone sincere. She could always count on him.
“But hey, all things work out for good, right?” Elinor, the second-youngest sister, said. “Maybe you’ll get the chance to visit Hartbury Hall. That’s nearby, isn’t it?”
“I seem to recall Mother saying the house is mostly closed these days,” Mum said. “But at this time of year you should still be able to visit the gardens.”
The gardens made famous in the underrated 2015 film adaptation of Pride and Prejudice, thanks to a certain kissing scene—totally Regency inappropriate and definitely not in the book but thoroughly romantic nonetheless—near an Italianate fountain in the pouring rain. The movie had fuelled a hankering to see the fountain, and the gardens had been closed the last time they were in that part of Worcestershire.
Maybe having the chance to get away, to be in a part of the world Liv
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had adored, would help clear her head, see her heart healed, and help her gain perspective again. And all with the added bonus of getting to know her grandmother more and helping her recover.
“Fine. I’ll go and be Gran’s nursemaid.”
“Oh, you’re an answer to prayer,” Mum said with a gust of relief. “I didn’t know what we’d do otherwise.”
“Find a carer? Surely that’s got to be cheaper than me flying to the other side of the world.”
“Yes, but a paid carer won’t care for Mother like you will.”
True. Compassion for her grandmother wound around her, drawing her heartstrings tight. Gran had some bark about her, but she’d always been kind to Olivia, and it must be lonely living in a tiny village with nearly all her family halfway around the world. Mum had invited her to come live with them many times, but Gran had always refused, saying she preferred her garden and friends to the unknown of life Down Under. Maybe this would be the chance to help Gran see sense and finally give up the creaky old cottage in Hartbury and come live with them.
And as Liv finally tucked into the delicious yellow disc of comforting custard, a flicker of the old hope-tinged excitement that usually lit her days returned. To see Pemberley at last? Okay, this could be an adventure.
Chapter 2
Who would’ve thought, just a week after that day of shock and surprise, she’d be driving her grandmother’s ancient Morris Minor around the English countryside? It was funny how fast some things could change. One day: a decision. The next: phone calls to Gran, airline tickets, more phone calls, and the commencement of packing. One of the benefits of having English relatives was Liv didn’t need the rigmarole of visas. Her British passport (courtesy of her mother’s ancestry) was a golden ticket to England, the Old Dart, home of her forebears, that had seen her land at Heathrow two days ago. The warm breeze from the wound-down window whipped through her hair as she drove down the narrow lane, both sides high with blossom-laden hedges, like she was living in a Beatrix Potter fantasy. She’d already had one near miss with a tractor and was thankful for a slightly wider grassy verge that had allowed her to swerve. She didn’t know how people who usually drove on the right—the wrong—side of the road managed; it was hard enough getting used to the width of roads that seemed half of those in Australia. But it was easy to get distracted with these views of patchwork hills, the villages of creamy stone, and the heady scent of summer infusing the air. She pulled up outside the village shop-and-post-office, the stone building’s wooden-framed windows adorned with neatly ordered rows of enticing jars and bottles, and none of the garish advertising that she
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acquainted with supermarkets back home. Elinor would call this aesthetically pleasing, evoking a “cottagecore” vibe. Liv just thought it charming. After visiting Gran in the hospital this morning she’d planned a big shop to replenish household supplies.
And when she pushed on the wooden door into the village shop, she tumbled into another world. This was nothing like a supermarket back home. Instead, the wooden shelves groaned with a fascinating array of everything from pickles to fresh produce, flowers to chocolate, locally made honey to cleaning products and hardware supplies. She pivoted on her heel, drinking it all in. Hessian sacks of potatoes lay next to wooden buckets of onions—like they had been artfully posed there, ready for Instagram. In the corner, near a display of newspapers and magazines, was a sign that said Post Office, behind which was a shelf consisting of tiny pigeonholes with letters stuffed inside. She moved to the fridge and saw a glory of English cheese. Her taste buds kicked into gear. Oh, to try them all! Wait—did they do custard?
“You there.”
Liv jumped, turning as a wizened old man she hadn’t noticed before came out from behind a wooden service counter. “Oh, hello!”
“Ah. You be Veronica’s granddaughter, roight?” He nodded. “I can tell by the accent.”
“Yes, I’m Olivia Bennett.” She smiled.
He tapped his chest. “Joseph Banks. Old Joe they like to call me round these parts. Young Tobias at the church said he saw you driving her car. Staying at her place too?”
“Yes.” The thatched black-and-white timber cottage was as beautiful as any idyllic scene painted on the old Cadbury chocolate boxes that decorated her family’s café. “I’ll be looking after her when she comes home from the hospital.”
His face softened. “She’s a fixture in our village. It’s not the same without her here.”
Liv could imagine so. Her visit to the hospital this morning showed Gran was a force to be reckoned with, even on pain meds. “I don’t suffer fools gladly,” she’d muttered, when a physiotherapist had begged her to try certain exercises, and Gran had refused.
“The doctors have said she’ll be there a few more days. She’s in a bit of pain.”
“Good thing you’re here to look after her.”
Mr. Darcy
“Yes.” Her heart settled into assurance. It was good to be here. Maybe it was the soft blue skies—never quite as vivid as back home—but the sunshine had helped to bring ease and recalibrate her soul. And leaving all her worries back in Wattle Vale was like turning the page in a book. Here she could relax and be herself. Whoever that was these days.
He nodded. “We don’t normally take to outsiders here, but seeing you’re Veronica’s girl, well, we’ll make an exception.”
“I appreciate that.”
He reached up and tugged two envelopes free from the shelf and handed them to her. Gran’s mail. “So, when do you next see her?”
She explained about her plans to see Gran each morning during hospital visiting hours, which left the afternoons free to explore.
“Mm. The biggest attraction around here used to be Hartbury Hall, but it’s closed nowadays,” Joe said.
“I thought stately homes would be open in summer. Isn’t now the peak tourist season?”
“Aye, but ever since the tragedy, well, the master has kept it shut.”
Tragedy? A faint inkling of something her grandmother had once said rang softly. Was it wrong to look interested? Best to not lose any brownie points by getting too personal with the locals. Better save that question for Gran.
“The gardens are still open, though,” he continued, rubbing a hand along a grizzled jaw. “Try the south gate, if the main entrance isn’t open.”
So, she could finally see the famous fountain where Mr. Darcy’s kissing scene had produced countless Instagrammed imitations? Yes, please.
She made her purchases, promised to pass on the mail and Joe’s best wishes and to stop by the next morning for a bunch of flowers to give Gran, and exited the shop. Across, the Duck Inn—she smiled—held welcoming tables outside a pub that looked several centuries old. Nearby, ducks squabbled happily in a small pond near a stream that gently meandered below graceful willows.
A middle-aged woman wearing an apron nodded as she collected empty glasses, and—hands burdened by calico bags of groceries—Liv settled for a smile and a called “Hello!”
“Veronica’s granddaughter?” the greying woman said, putting down her stack of glasses and crossing the empty road. “My, but you look like her.”
She did? Well, Liv had always thought Gran had been something of a
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beauty back in the day, so she’d take it. “Does everyone know I’m here?” she asked, putting down her bags.
“I should think so. We don’t get much excitement here, so when Veronica had her fall, and then we heard family was coming all the way from Australia, well, we put two and two together and got you.”
“I’m Olivia Bennett.”
The woman nodded. “I remember you from your last visit, what, ten, fifteen years ago? Marge Simmons.” Her head tilted to the pub. “You look like you could do with a good feed, so pop on by when you get a moment.”
“Thank you, I will.” Liv gestured to the shopping. “I better get this home first.”
“You’re doing a good deed, love.”
Heat sparked the back of her eyes, and she nodded and moved to the car as the other woman walked away. How had it come to this, that validation from a near stranger fed her soul? Was she so starved for approval that she lapped it up like Gran’s superior tabby cat slurped his milk?
She stowed her shopping, her thoughts turning to her arrival when she’d made the acquaintance of little Tom. He certainly hadn’t been expecting her, arching his back and hissing in warning when she arrived late at night to a dark cottage. She was glad to have made friends with him quickly, though, discovering the treats that Gran obviously used, treats that she’d needed to replenish as part of the shop today.
Back at the cottage, she put away her purchases then relocked the house, although she kept the windows slightly open to let the fresh warm air chase away the mustiness inside. She hurried back to the car, casting a glance at the neglected garden. One day soon she’d whip the garden into shape, as part of her surprise for when Gran returned home. But that day was not this day. This day was devoted to exploring.
Heart knots untangled. God was good, and her arrival after nearly twenty-four hours on a plane (via China, the cheapest way) held little of the jet lag she recalled from previous trips overseas. Trains had taken her to Birmingham, where she’d met her grandmother in the hospital and been assured by the doctors that, provided Gran stayed healthy, she’d be released in the next few days. Gran had reassured Liv that her cottage in Hartbury awaited her and that her car was insured with Liv’s name as a driver and at her disposal in the hospital’s parking area. Liv had thanked God she didn’t need to stay at a cheap hostel and then driven forty-five minutes down the
Mr. Darcy
M5 to reach the charming village of Hartbury. And now, after the visits and the past days of cleaning and restocking Gran’s fridge and pantry were done, she was free to explore.
A glance at her phone—Gran’s Morris Minor was too ancient for SatNav—revealed the road outside Gran’s cottage door soon merged into School Lane, which led, unsurprisingly, to the local primary school. She steered the car in that direction, taking her time as she drank in the pastel vistas. In the distance, church spires rose in a muted sky, and leafy trees beckoned with offers of coolness. The sun felt softer here, with none of the harshness of back home that saw her skin burn every summer.
A honk behind her caused her to swerve then almost drive into a hedge. She braked hard, her head slamming against the headrest. “Excuse me?”
A glance at the dusty red Land Rover saw the driver pass, not sparing her a glance. She exhaled. “Well! Apparently not everything around here is charming.”
She slowly unpeeled her white-knuckled grip from the steering wheel and carefully reversed. Okay, so maybe peak tourist season had some downsides. Like drivers with issues. That didn’t have to spoil the rest of the day. 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.
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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 word tragedy seemed 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
Mr. Darcy
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?”
G
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!”
Carolyn Miller
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 like hers that 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 of her always 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.”
“Are you—?”
“I saw the one about the house being closed, but there was no chain across the drive like there was with the main entrance.”
He gritted his teeth, gesturing her to head back to the car park, with another click and pointed finger at CeeCee to make her stay. In his years of working here he’d come across all sorts of tourists, from the persistent who insisted he open the house just for them, to the careless who dropped cigarette butts and litter like they thought they owned the place. How would they like someone to treat their house like a rubbish tip?
She shot him a look but didn’t argue, probably realizing he meant business. Just as well. He was sick and tired of people treating him like—
“See?” She stopped, pointing to the car park, empty except for an ancient Morris Minor.
Huh. So where had—?
Oh. He hurried to the collapsed A-frame and picked it up, dusting off the side that proclaimed Gardens Closed. He pointed to it. “See?”
“Well, I do now.”
Pique rose at her dry response. “You should leave,” he grouched. She nodded, and her easy compliance drew another moment of disconcertment. He wasn’t used to women who submitted easily, although something about this woman’s angled jaw and flashing light-filled eyes suggested she wasn’t as meek as her nod suggested.
He watched as she moved to her vehicle, opened the door, and then hesitated. “Before I go, can I ask if you know why the gardens are closed?”
“The owner doesn’t want visitors.”
“Oh.” She sighed.
“What?” He winced. Why was he asking her questions? She needed to leave, and questions only meant she’d stay.
“It’s just a shame.” She looked around, her lips tilted with pleasure. “It’s just so beautiful. Whoever does the gardens here must be run off their feet, but they’re doing a great job.”
Did she mean to sound condescending? He wasn’t doing a great job. Ten men could barely do the gardens justice. His eyes narrowed. She blinked and seemed to draw into herself, the golden smile fading. “Did I say something wrong?”
“You need to leave,” he said, more harshly than he wanted. But it seemed to work, as she dipped her chin, hopped in her car, and drove away.
His fingers clenched, and for a moment he hated himself for how he’d spoken. But she couldn’t stay. Women like her were trouble. And he’d been troubled enough for six lifetimes and had no wish for any more. So it was a good thing he’d never see this disconcerting woman again.
