****
On Monday morning, my head felt fuzzy. I was tempted to call in sick, but I knew that Aunt Rosemary would sense something wrong and would wheedle the reason out of me. I’d avoided her the night before, telling her that I had to clean Rose Cottage, in case someone else interested in a holiday let turned up.
I knew that I wasn’t really sick. Just on edge, my thoughts rushing into all kinds of unpleasant directions. What if Miles hadn’t been honest with me about Layton Manor and his interest in the place? What if he had come out to England to investigate ways of breaking the trust, so his niece could sell? And, if he was lying about one thing, was everything else that had happened between us also a lie?
I skipped breakfast but was late setting off anyway. A layer of frost covered the windscreen. My breath billowed into a cloud as I labored to scrape away the ice. It seemed fitting somehow, for the world around me to be as cold as I felt inside.
The drive to Oxford took forever, and the day at work dragged on. I kept shaking my wrist, thinking my watch must have stopped. When I finally made it home to High Wycombe, I heated a tin of soup and bundled into layers of jumpers to keep warm.
After I’d finished eating, I checked my emails, and found a brief, impersonal message from Miles to say he’d arrived safely, and that his cell phone didn’t work in South Africa. He’d copied Aunt Rosemary. I told myself he’d been too much in a hurry to write a separate, more intimate note to me.
Feeling lonely, I took out the diaries that Miles had trusted into my care. He had provided no instructions, saying that he wanted me to form my own opinion. The only hint he’d offered was to pay attention to the dates. I inspected the notebooks. They were clearly the property of a wealthy man. The covers were bound in rich burgundy leather, and at one time they’d been embossed with a gold border. Now the gold was faded and the leather crumbled around the spine.
“Francis Roderick Layton” was written on the flyleaf of the first diary. I opened the other two. The last said “Lord Layton”, indicating that by then his father had died, and he’d inherited the title.
Longevity didn’t seem to run in the Layton family.
I shunted the three volumes into a desk drawer and went to bed.
Back to contents
Chapter Thirteen
It was really an impulse that made me do something out of character at work the following day. I didn’t usually find it easy to approach strangers, but perhaps after three months of friendly verbal jousting, Professor Maitland was no longer a stranger. I chose a quiet moment at lunchtime and walked over to his usual table in the corner of the ground floor reading room.
“Could I speak to you for a moment, Professor Maitland?” I asked.
A frown of alarm furrowed his brow, but it quickly passed. “Of course,” he said, and moved the wheels of his chair. “Fire away.”
“I’d like to ask your advice on something. I guess it’s a scientific question, in a way.”
For a moment, his face was without expression. Then he exhaled a deep breath, his shoulders sinking in what appeared to be relief.
“Is something wrong?” I asked. “Is this not a good time?”
He picked up a pencil from the table and toyed with it, looking agitated. “No, no. This is fine. It’s just that I...”
“Yes?” I prompted.
He threw the pencil back on the table. “I thought that perhaps you were offended by my banter and had come to complain.”
“Heavens!” I cried out, and then cast a hurried glance around. The reading room was almost empty, and nobody was glaring at me for daring to make a noise. “I enjoy it,” I assured him, keeping my voice down. “In fact, that’s why I feel comfortable to approach you with a stupid question.”
His face lit up. “So, get on with it.”
“Do you believe in prophecies? Like Nostradamus and the Fatima Prophecies?”
His eyes twinkled at me. “Someone’s promised you a tall dark stranger and you want to know if you should keep waiting for him to ride up on his white stallion?”
I blushed, but managed to hold on to my composure. “Well, actually, the tall dark stranger has already arrived. What I need to know is if there’s a chance that he’ll bring me harm.”
The professor’s brows shot up. He leaned forward, an eager look on his face.
“You see,” I continued, “my father comes from a family that has this...curse thing attached to them. My father and his cousin died in the manner predicted by the prophecy. I’d like your opinion if I should be worried. And if there are precautions that I should be taking.”
“Are you talking about a prophecy or a curse?” he asked.
“Is there a difference?”
“A prophecy foretells future events. A curse causes evil things to happen.”
I tried to recall what Miles had told me. “I guess it started as a prophecy of a future curse, and now the curse has come to pass. It’s meant to bring death upon me.”
Professor Maitland didn’t laugh. Instead, he spent the next thirty minutes asking me questions, until he understood every line of the prophecy, and knew as much about the history of the Layton family as I did.
“Damn these useless legs of mine.” He banged the arms of his wheelchair in frustration. “I need to get to the Radcliffe Camera.”
“I can bring out anything you want.”
He threw me an irritable look. “I don’t know what I want. This isn’t my field. I’d need to browse, to see what there is.” He turned to the desk and began to bash at his computer keyboard, muttering away, ignoring me.
“Professor Maitland?” I asked.
“You’d better go and have a cup of coffee or something,” he said, not tearing his attention away from his laptop. “Get your stamina up. There’s going to be a lot of carrying and fetching for you to do this afternoon.”
He wasn’t joking. I spent the rest of the day shuttling off to the Radcliffe Camera, bringing out piles of books and taking most of them straight back again, after he’d given each one a cursory glance. By the end of the day, I must have brought him a hundred books from the sections on theology, history, and anthropology. I couldn’t help recalling Miles sitting at one of the reader stations, surrounded by books.
That had been in the theology stacks.
If we’d split into two competing teams, Miles was ahead in the race.
With a heavy heart I accepted that I had no choice. I had to tell Aunt Rosemary about the offer from Dryfield Homes to buy Layton Manor. Why had Miles not mentioned it? It was unlikely he’d simply forgotten. Could it be that his real mission was to break the trust? Who believed in curses anyway? Perhaps the intrigue was just an excuse for him to hang around while he investigated the possibility of legal loopholes.
I was no longer sure if we could trust him.
I could imagine the pity in Aunt Rosemary’s eyes when she heard the news.
****
Before I got around to calling Aunt Rosemary that night, she called me.
“Alexandra,” she wailed. “All hell has broken loose. It’s a bloody nightmare.”
“What’s going on?” I asked, fear surging inside me. She rarely overreacted. For a moment, my mind conjured up images of fire and earthquake and financial ruin.
“There’s a constant stream of people banging on my door,” she complained. “And they’re all asking about Miles.”
I frowned into the telephone. “What are they asking about?”
“Anything!” she cried out. “Are you marrying him or not, is he going to restore Layton Manor and live in it, is the trust going to be broken, are you going to be entitled to anything if the land is sold.”
I told her what I’d learned from Holly Jameson about the offer of two and a half million pounds from Dryfield Homes for Layton Manor.
“Oh, Alexandra.” Her voice fell in sympathy.
I exhaled a sigh. “I know. Why didn’t Miles tell me?”
“Maybe he didn’t think it was wort
h mentioning,” Aunt Rosemary said.
“You don’t really believe that, do you?” I paused, and then my words tumbled out in a rush. “I keep wondering if he is trying to charm me, so that I’ll give him my support if he tries to break the trust and sell the land.”
“What are you talking about?” Aunt Rosemary said. “I thought you told me the trust can’t be broken.”
“Maybe Miles has come up with a way to achieve it. There are always ways to break rules if you know the right way to challenge them. Maybe he is in partnership with his niece. He said that he’s here on her behalf. He’ll figure out a way to sell the land and they’ll split the money. Something like that,” I finished miserably.
I listened to the silence while Aunt Rosemary tried to come up with something comforting to say. In the end, I spoke first. “Did you see the email from Miles?”
“Yes,” she said.
“I wish I could call him.”
“I’d like to come and stay with you,” Aunt Rosemary said, too caught up in her own distress to pay attention to mine. “I didn’t realize it would turn into a circus. I guess it is fifty years since people in Layton Village have clapped eyes on the owner of Layton Manor. They’ve all gone mad with excitement.”
“Miles doesn’t own Layton Manor,” I said sharply. “His niece does.”
“Darling, you know how the old folks in the village are. They’re stuck in the dark ages, when women didn’t own things. They still think that if something belongs to a woman, the real owner is the male next-of-kin.”
I didn’t point out that as my second cousin Cleopatra was married, her next of kin was her husband. I could just see how Layton Village had seized upon Miles, elevating him into some kind mythical hero returning into the fold. Miles had certainly played his part well, traveling incognito, ingratiating himself to the old boys in the pub by drinking beer and playing darts with them.
Perhaps even fabricating the rumor that we were engaged had been a part of his plan. That way, if we ended up on opposing sides of a legal dispute, he could convince people that my mistrust of him was nothing but the fury of a woman scorned.
My voice was flat as I discussed the arrangements for Aunt Rosemary to take the train to Oxford and meet me at the Bodleian Library the following day. I knew that her world had been turned upside down too. I couldn’t recall when she had last volunteered to spend a night away from Mill Cottage.
****
Aunt Rosemary appeared totally composed the following afternoon when she climbed down from a black taxicab at the main entrance to the New Library. I stood waiting inside, sheltered from the drizzling rain that drained the winter light, making it appear as if the evening had already fallen.
“I got you a temporary visitor card and a map of the Bodleian.” I held up a large brown envelope.
“I’ve already studied it on the internet,” she told me as she brushed raindrops from her shoulders. “I want the Radcliffe Camera. I’ve got a list of titles with catalogue numbers.”
“You need to check in your suitcase.” I ushered her into the building. “Why don’t you settle down in the reading room on the ground floor? I’ll take you to the Radcliffe Camera later.”
Aunt Rosemary gripped the handle of her trolley bag. “Where’s the ladies?” she asked with an air of urgency. “My hair is a mess.”
I waited while she checked in her bag and coat and visited the bathroom. She was wearing her pink wool dress and high heels in matching pink. Her feet made a trail of clicking sounds as we proceeded down the corridor.
“Actually, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” I told her. “I’ve asked him to help us with the research.”
Aunt Rosemary stopped in her tracks. “You’ve brought in someone else without consulting me?” she asked, glaring at me.
“It just happened.” My tone was defensive. “He’s eminently qualified. Don’t get into a huff.”
It took a while before she calmed down enough to set off again. The tapping of her heels sounded even louder as she stomped along, a mutinous look on her face. When we got to the corner of the reading room, I halted a few paces from the wheelchair.
“Professor Maitland?”
“What is it now?” He didn’t turn, or cease typing on his laptop.
“Is that the Diocese of Worcester website on blessings?” Aunt Rosemary moved closer and leaned in to examine the screen. “Do you think that a blessing could be used to negate the curse?”
Professor Maitland grabbed the wheels of his chair and spun around. Whatever he’d planned to say, the words died on his lips as his eyes fell on Aunt Rosemary. A slow blush crept up his neck and covered his face. That was only to be expected. The unexpected part was that Aunt Rosemary was blushing too.
I felt like tiptoeing away and leaving the pair of them gazing at each other, but someone had to behave normally. I stepped forward. “This is my Aunt Rosemary,” I said. “She’s come over for a couple of days to help with the research.”
“I see,” Professor Maitland said, making a quick recovery. “Are you saying that there’s a brain beneath those golden curls?”
Aunt Rosemary gave her raucous belly laugh. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy putting this one in his place.” She pulled out a chair and propped her laptop on the desk.
Instantly, both of them appeared to forget that I even existed. I marched off, secure in the knowledge that they’d need me again when they wanted something from the closed stacks.
****
I’d brought my car into the city to spare Aunt Rosemary the indignity of Park and Ride. I had also organized to work late that day, to pay back for the evening I took off when Miles came up to Oxford.
At around six o’clock, I took a break to have a sandwich. First, I went out to the reading room to check what Aunt Rosemary was planning to do about food. I found two empty chairs and a folded note with my name scrawled on top.
“Gone out to dinner. Back by nine.” It was signed from them both. At least I assumed that ‘Steven’ was Professor Maitland.
I stuffed the note into my pocket, feeling uneasy. I knew the effect Aunt Rosemary had on men. Even though she might not intend any harm, I feared that the professor might end up hurt. Then I shrugged my shoulders. So what? Everybody suffered a dose of heartbreak at some point or another. Why should he be spared— because he was disabled? I decided not to worry about it. He had a right to get his heart broken, just like anyone else.
The pair of them returned to their seats soon after eight.
I strolled over. “Did you manage to find something to eat?”
Aunt Rosemary couldn’t stop smiling. “Steven took me to this place at the end of a long narrow alleyway, and I got his chair stuck between the walls.”
“She’s a menace.” Professor Maitland’s blue eyes sparkled. “I shudder to think of the damage she’d do at the wheel of a car.”
“I’m sure it’s against the law to be drunk in charge of a wheelchair,” Aunt Rosemary cut in. “Steven got drunk, and he wouldn’t let me steer on the way back.”
“I only had two pints.” He cleared his throat. “And now, I’m afraid I need to ask you to get out of my way, so I can be off to the gents’.”
Aunt Rosemary grinned and sprinted up. Her cheeks glowed, so I assumed that she hadn’t let the professor drink alone. Her hair was damp and mussed, but she didn’t seem to notice. The toes of her pink shoes were covered with muddy streaks that would normally have her in fits.
“It looks like you’re enjoying yourself,” I said when Steven was out of earshot.
Aunt Rosemary fluffed up her curls. “We’re making good progress. He’s a very clever man.”
“And a charming one.”
“What?” Aunt Rosemary squinted at me. “No,” she said with emphasis. But she blushed again, and Aunt Rosemary hardly ever blushed.
****
The following day, we received another email from Miles. It gave contact details in Cape Town and asked about Aunt Rosemary
’s progress with the research. There was no personal message for me. My name wasn’t even mentioned. I told myself he wasn’t a man for sweet words, but deep down I knew that even the gruffest of lovers ought to manage at least a greeting.
For the rest of the week, I went about my daily tasks while Aunt Rosemary and Professor Maitland played with their books and computers. I don’t know what they were up to, but some of the other readers were getting annoyed by the frantic whispers and frequent bursts of laughter that emanated from their corner.
I was grateful when Friday afternoon came around and Aunt Rosemary and I decamped to Layton Village. And yet, the moment I stepped into Rose Cottage, I realized it had been a mistake to come. I should have remained in my apartment and done a few extra hours at the library, partly for the money, and partly for the distraction work would offer.
For in Rose Cottage, Miles seemed to be in every corner. I could hear his husky voice in the hall, smell his soap in the bathroom. And in the bedroom, the instant I closed my eyes, I could feel his fingers traveling up and down my skin.
I decided to only stay one night and drive back to High Wycombe on Saturday. I went downstairs, planning to visit next door and seek solace from Aunt Rosemary, but when I got into the living room, another smell caught my attention.
Not soap. Not Miles.
The smell of gas.
I rushed into the kitchen. The rings on the cooker were safely turned off. The central heating boiler on the wall didn’t make a hum. It was not programmed to come on automatically, as there was enough heat reflecting through from Mill Cottage to keep the pipes from freezing, even during the coldest nights in the winter.
I stepped closer and sniffed. No smell of gas.
There was only one more gas appliance, the mock-coal gas fire in the living room. Normally, I switched it on first thing, to get some heat until the radiators warmed up, but today I’d been too preoccupied with my memories of Miles.
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