Beauty in Summer

by Ella Goode

  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 something—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. 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 grove, 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 employment—and perhaps seeing Gideon again—I’d put extra effort into my appearance today, leaving my blonde hair loose. Instead I should have pulled it back and saved myself the trouble of dragging the long strands out of my eyes every time the breeze picks 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 tha
t 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.

  Judging by the exterior of Blackwood Hall alone, I’d never have known the residence was abandoned. 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 locked. 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, nothing but 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.

  There’s nothing for me here. And instead of sweet nostalgia, every memory is bringing nothing but pain.

  Feral dogs or not, it’s time to go.

  Blinded by tears, I turn back the way I came—and feel a faint sliding touch at the back of my neck. Immediately I shudder and flinch, thinking of those cobwebs, trying to bat away whatever just crawled across my skin.

  But it’s only my necklace. The pendant must have gotten turned around. Except…

  I can’t twist it back into place. The fine chain is snug around the front of my throat—and snug around the back of my neck—but my fingers can’t locate the diamond pendant at the end of the chain.

  Forget the pendant, though. I can’t locate the end of the chain. Instead I turn and stare in stunned incomprehension at the glittering line of gold that trails behind me—starting at my nape and continuing the length of the corridor, where it disappears from sight.

  What the…?

  Shaking my head in confusion and disbelief, I slide my fingertips over the fine links around my neck, searching for the clasp.

  There’s no clasp. Instead the seamless chain circles my throat like a collar, with a golden leash that leads back toward the grand hall.

  I follow it, uneasily aware that there’s no slack forming in the chain as I go. It should be trailing behind me in an ever-increasing loop, but instead all of the loose length is simply…disappearing. Or shrinking. It’s not being taken up from the other end, because the chain ahead of me isn’t being pulled in that direction. As if the chain is only as long as it needs to be, and that length is the distance between my neck and wherever the chain ends.

  Which isn’t in the great hall. The chain leads across the domed chamber, past the long gallery still decorated with marble statuary and great paintings, and into the corridor connecting to the southeast wing.

  The family wing.

  Heart thundering, I pass through the main parlor—and here, finally here, there is not just abandonment and neglect. Though the wing clearly has been neglected. But the dust has not lain undisturbed. Instead it’s as if someone has lived here and cleaned the rooms haphazardly, though not with the dedication of a household staff.

  Cleaned the rooms…and destroyed some of them. Stuffing spills out of slashed upholstery. Silk wallpaper hangs in ragged strips. Shattered mirrors reflect shards of my face—the broken glass cleaned from the floor but the frames still hanging on the walls.

  And there’s blood. None of it fresh, but in faint handprints along the walls, and faded splotches in the rugs. I don’t immediately recognize what those rusted stains are, but as soon as I do, it seems that I can’t stop seeing it. There’s blood everywhere.

  Yet it’s all smudged, indistinct. As if someone tried to clean it.

  The level of destruction increases the deeper into the wing I go. And unless the chain is anchored outside somewhere, there’s not much farther to go. The only rooms remaining in this direction are the solarium…and Gideon’s bedchamber.

  His room is the least ravaged, but only because nothing remains except for his big four-poster bed—as if every other piece of furniture and the rugs had been utterly destroyed or discarded.

  This is where the chain ends, wrapped around the leg at the head of Gideon’s bed. White linen sheets cover the mattress—and they’re clean, though rumpled and unmade, but I can’t mistake the faint, rusted stains for anything except more blood that didn’t come out in the wash.

  Hands shaking, I fall to my knees and attempt to pull the chain free. But it’s not wrapped around the thick wooden leg, I realize. Instead the fine links seem to pierce through the solid oak, the diamond teardrop hanging from the opposite side as if it had been pinned there. Desperately I p
ull, thinking that if I pull hard enough the diamond will pop off and the chain will slide free, yet there’s no give at all, and the pressure of the thin gold links against my palm and fingers threatens to cut into my skin.

  I need a glove—or something else to protect my hand.

  With frantic purpose, I strip off my jacket and wrap the fabric around my palm before gripping the chain again and hauling back with all of my strength, bracing my feet against the wall and throwing my weight into it.

  Nothing happens…though the chain should have snapped. It’s a fine piece of jewelry but a gold necklace isn’t that strong.

  It also usually doesn’t stretch the length of a manor house, then shrink to less than three feet long. Right now it extends from the bed frame to my neck with no slack in between.

  This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

  The realization is a reassuring one, easing my panic and calming the racing beat of my heart.

  This can’t be real.

  So I’m dreaming. I must have fallen asleep in the car and now I’m dreaming.

  Okay. My ragged breathing slows. Okay.

  I’m okay. Just having a dream filled with some really disturbing symbolism.

  But it’ll end when I wake up. Letting go of the chain, I rise to my feet and look around the room. Gideon’s bedchamber has its own access to the solarium—which, when we were young, was his favorite room in the entire house. The door leading to that glass-walled chamber has been torn away; nothing remains but the twisted, broken hinges. Gray daylight spills through the doorway.

  And I know this is only a dream—a nightmare—yet still my heart freezes when I hear the soft growl coming from that room. Still my body begins trembling when I see the hulking shadow of…something prowling toward Gideon’s bedchamber.

  Something. Or someone.

  Pulse thudding in my throat, I drop into a crouch beside the big bed, caught in an agony of indecision. If I run for it, surely the noise of my pounding feet and the slithering chain would alert them. If I stay right here, remain very quiet, maybe whatever is in the solarium won’t realize I’m hiding. Silence seems like my best option.