Eyre House
Caitlin Greer
Praise for Eyre House
Eyre House’s gothic atmosphere, lowcountry setting, believable male POV, and twisting mystery combine to make it a unique and truly wonderful read. If you’re looking for something different in NA, this story delivers that, along with the staple of a sizzling romance brimming with chemistry, angst, and yes, really great sex.
~ Lyla Payne, USA Today Bestselling Author
of Broken at Love and By Referral Only
“Told from a male point of view, Eyre House is a refreshing page-turner that kept me guessing until the very end. Thrilling and romantic, Eyre House will take you through a roller-coaster of emotions, and at the end you won’t want to switch rides.”
~ Juliana Haygert, Author of Destiny Gift
and Breaking the Reins (August 2013),
co-founder and contributor at NAAlley.com
“Evan and Ginny’s story tugs you through a heart-rending ride of romance and self-discovery. Mysterious, suspenseful, sexy, and redemptive, Eyre House is a beautiful retelling that will keep haunting you long after you’ve finished reading.”
~ Alessandra Thomas, Amazon/B&N Bestselling Author
of Picture Perfect and Subject to Change
“After reading Easy and Warm Bodies at the beginning of 2013, and obsessing over both, I worried I wouldn’t find another book that could move me as much. Eyre House has earned a place right there next to some of my favorites.”
~ Jessa Russo, Author of Ever
Eyre House
Caitlin Greer
Eyre House
Copyright © 2013 by Caitlin Greer.
Cover design by CL Smith (humblenations.com)
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1484973387
ISBN-10: 1484973380
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.
For Laura,
my best baby sis,
who always believed in me.
Author’s note:
Edisto Island is a real place, though not entirely as I have portrayed it. The majority of the island exists as either a quiet, rural community, or as part of the Botany Bay nature preserve. There are ghost tours on the island, as well as some of the friendliest people you’ll ever meet. Up until recently, there were no hotels of any sort on the island—vacationers still mostly rent out beach houses for the duration of their stay.
The J.B. Legare tomb does exist, and the story shared on the ghost tour is a legitimate local story. As much as possible, I strove to stay as true to Edisto as I could.
Edisto is a quiet and happy community, full of rich Southern history and culture. The best way to find out more about it is to contact the Edisto Island Historic Preservation Society. They can be found at www.edistomuseum.org.
Chapter One
I swore under my breath for about the millionth time since leaving Charleston. The heavy pounding noise of the rain against my helmet as it picked up again didn’t quite drown out the deep rumble of my bike’s engine, but almost. Lightning highlighted the rural road ahead of me, and the marshes that surrounded it. It was hard to believe it wasn’t even 6:00 p.m. yet. The clouds rolling up the coast were dark as hell. Even with gear meant for this kind of thing, I was cold, wet, and tired.
I had wanted to leave early, make Eyre House by mid-afternoon, but social services just had to talk to me today. They’d called right as I was leaving the garage where I’d worked up until this morning, insisting I come in. It’d delayed my leaving until just before the storm hit, so I was left to make what should have been an easy hour’s ride in this fuck-truck of a rainstorm.
I hated them, and everything they’d supposedly done for me. Checking up on me, when they’d never given a damn in the first place, just shoved me from foster home to foster home.
Assholes.
So no thanks to them, my plans for arriving early to make a good impression with my new employer were shot all to hell. Instead, I’d be lucky to get there before dinner, and all bets were off on being presentable. I urged my bike faster and swore under my breath again. At least the road was empty. Seemed I was the only one stupid enough to be out in this weather.
Lightning cut the sky again, and my headlight glinted off a sign that announced the start of the McKinley Washington, Jr. Bridge. Once I crossed that mile-long stretch of concrete, I’d be on Edisto Island. I’d be free. I was nineteen in September, and if things went well this summer, I’d never need them again. No more foster system, no more state-aided housing, no more social services.
I smiled as my wheels left the blacktop and the concrete came up underneath me. The driving need that had pushed me from Charleston faded a little as my bike rose up above the river plain, and I eased off the gas. I’d been going too fast already, and concrete was way worse in this kind of weather than pavement. A little stupidity fueled by anger would end my bid for freedom before it had even begun, and I couldn’t afford that.
The world went all quiet, and the storm seemed to pause as the blackwater river flowed undisturbed below. For a moment, I could see the island as it stretched out ahead, and the ocean beyond. Surreal stuff, especially when I’d been on a motorcycle fighting this nightmare weather for more than an hour.
Then all at once, the storm crashed back in. Lightning forked into the river at my side. Electricity crackled through the air and over me, raising the hair on my arms. Thunder ripped a hole in the world, and in the burning afterimage, a big black shape loomed in front of me on the bridge.
My brain said it had to be a dog. My eyes felt too burned out to tell. My brain won, forcing me to squeeze the brake on my bike, willing me to stop and not hit whatever I’d seen.
The rain-soaked concrete made stopping that much harder. My tires squealed like a dying pig over the pounding thunder and rain as my bike skidded. Lightning flashed again. My path showed clear—no sign of any shape, dog or other—but I couldn’t fix my swerve. Too late. Too wet. Bike too heavy. My wheels screamed for purchase, the machine under me lurching left and right.
The world slowed to a snail’s crawl.
Fishtailing is way worse on a motorcycle. It’s all there, right in your face. Correct left, hydroplane. Correct right, fight for purchase again. Pull it upright in time for it all to happen again. Two seconds feels like an eternity.
One heartbeat to realize I was overcorrecting.
A second heartbeat to understand there was jack shit I could do.
A third heartbeat to lock in on the bridge wall that was suddenly way too close ahead of me.
And a fourth to know that all I could do was keep turning so I didn’t hit it head on.
The last had me praying to the Lord I didn’t go over.
Impact hurt like hell. The jarring, lurching stop. The rubber skidding and bouncing backwards, shaking my body like a dog with a bone. The punching pain as the bike slammed back upright and into me, knocking the breath from my lungs. Starbursts of screaming white fire as my knee pinched between the still-growling metal of my bike and the unforgiving wet concrete. More pain, higher, as the edge of the barrier cut into my ribs.
My body launched further forwa
rd, trying its best to take flight over the wall and into the Dawhoo River nearly seventy feet below. I teetered against it for a moment in panic, no air in my lungs, images of impact and pain and drowning playing in high-def through my head.
The weight of my bike just barely kept me nailed down. And when the panic pulled back enough for me to realize that momentum wasn’t going to send me to a tragic death below, I slowly pushed myself down from the wall.
It took me a few minutes to calm my pounding heart, and when I did, I thanked the Lord or whatever was listening that I’d been decelerating most of the length of the bridge. I’d only been doing about forty when it all started, and skidding had slowed me down more.
And even though I could see it all replay in my head, I wasn’t even really sure what had happened.
I took a few deep breaths to steady the shakes, wincing as my ribs pulled, and pushed my poor bike off of me and away from the barrier. Nothing seemed broken, but in this rain, I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to tell. I still prayed it would start again.
I dropped down on the crank, wincing at my ribs again. The engine caught with a stammering rattle that sounded wrong, but I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just the rain drumming on my helmet. I didn’t care. The rain had somehow managed to start coming down even harder, and I really just wanted to get out of it. And off this damned nightmare of a bridge. So I revved the engine, took a last look around, and let my bike carry me forward onto the dark haven of Edisto Island.
I made it through town before the engine cut out on me. It sputtered and died with a clanging noise that broke my heart. She was my pride and joy, rebuilt from scrap and ruin, and I loved my bike more than just about anything. But worse, it was Sunday night on a coastal island that had been nicknamed “Edi-slow” because nothing ever happened. And that meant I was stuck walking the rest of the way in my own private hurricane.
Fuck it to hell and gone.
I shook my head and gave my bike a shove forward. According to the GPS on my phone, I had a little over two miles to go, and they weren’t going to walk themselves.
2.3 miles. In heavy shit-ass rain. And storm dark. Pushing a classic bike that weighed over half a ton.
This was really about the farthest point from how I had wanted today to go.
By the time I’d hauled the bike up the drive, it was almost full-on night. The rain had just kept getting harder, and my knee and ribs ached from where I’d slammed into the bridge. The wet dog look wasn’t at all the first impression I had been going for. My protective gear was soaked through and weighed twice what it normally did. And to top it all off, I was too damn tired for words.
Eyre House loomed in front of me like a great big beacon of light. Leastways, it seemed that way from a distance. Like most old plantation houses, it was huge. Wide, white-columned porticos stretched across the entire front of the house, stopping only when they reached the wings that extended out either side. Dark shutters framed floor-to-ceiling windows, some of which glowed with a pale light through the storm. Wide steps led up to a bright porch, complete with overflowing planter baskets that hung swaying in the stormy wind. Classic lowcountry splendor, right down to the Spanish moss-hung ancient oaks that lined the drive.
Typical rich Southern judgment. Even in the storm, the house stared down at me, telling me I didn’t belong. Mocking me with a big, dry porch and bright windows.
I shoved my bike into motion again, deciding there had to be a servant’s entrance in back and I was better off going there. The house seemed to watch me as I went, the pale windows staring through the darkness. Or maybe that was my own judgment following me.
Around the back, a fancy colonnade stretched from the back terrace, row after row of tall white pillars standing along a covered walk to what looked like an old outbuilding converted to a garage, with apartments up top. Probably for staff. But as I got closer, I could tell my beacon of light wasn’t as shiny as it looked. Paint peeled in places, tearing in the wind. Tattered strips of paint hung peeling from the pillars, blowing in the wind, torn in ragged ribbons like a wild animal had gouged them out with ghostly claws. I shivered a little, remembering the bridge. My brain knew that the sea air deteriorated paint jobs faster. But I couldn’t help glancing around, just to make sure.
The wind gusted, blowing the long, pale strands of Spanish moss through the trees. In the darkness, they looked like phantoms. I shivered again.
You’re bein’ an idiot, Evan Richardson.
Shaking off the crawling feeling down my back, I sighed and pushed my bike on, glad to have a destination. The garage was closed, no small surprise, but there was enough of an overhang that I could at least get my bike out of the rain. I’d ask later if there was a good place to put it. All I wanted at this point was to get inside and collapse somewhere. To get out of the weather and away from my overactive imaginings. Grabbing the bags off the back of the bike, I trudged up to the house, forcing myself not to look back over my shoulder.
“Hello? Anyone here?”
I pushed open the door the rest of the way and stepped inside the dark room. The side door I’d found looked like it opened onto a mudroom, which was perfect. Nothing here that would be harmed by being dripped on a little. I scrubbed my boots on the entry rug and dropped my soaked bags, hoping the waterproofing had held. My helmet and jacket I hung on an available peg.
“Hello!” I called again, leaning out the door. I could hear activity down the hall, what sounded like your typical Southern kitchen—always in use, always in motion, always ready for guests. Full of the clash of pots and clinking of glass. Smelled like it, too. Seafood and onions and spice, with traces of sugar and nuts underneath. My stomach growled. I shivered and glanced back at my jacket, but it was dripping too much for me to want to put it on again. It might’ve made me look more presentable, but it also would’ve water-stained the hardwood floors, and I didn’t want that. My soaked shirt would have to do. I pulled it off real quick and wrung it out a little before throwing it back on. Marginally better, anyway.
I didn’t really feel comfortable wandering around the place, but standing in the mudroom wasn’t going to get me anywhere. The hallway was only dimly lit, but the blank white walls made it feel lighter than it was. Even if they were a little dingy and in need of a repaint. I caught the crash of pans to my left, and smiled. Definitely the kitchen. Someone in there was bound to know where I could find whoever I was supposed to talk to.
Except that I ran into someone as soon as I turned down the hall.
“Oh!”
We both stopped abruptly, shocked. She recovered first. “Sugar, you look like a drowned cat. Can I help you?”
She was older, maybe in her forties, I guessed. One of those women who always looked younger than she was. She had wavy red hair that probably always looked like she’d just stepped out of a stylist’s, and startling blue eyes. When she smiled, it lit her whole face. I couldn’t help but smile back, even though everything from her pearls to her pale blue skirt suit and matching heels screamed wealthy Southern family, and I was from the wrong side of Charleston.
At least I’d been smart enough to learn how to talk to the Richies.
“Pardon me, ma’am. I was looking for the owner, Mrs. Eyre? I’m Evan Richardson. I was hired on for the summer.”
“Oh, Evan! Good! I thought you’d be here much earlier, hon. I was startin’ to get worried.” She held out her hand while I tried to wrap my ears around the thickest accent I’d heard outside of Charleston’s Old Town. “I’m Catherine Eyre, the owner. And it’s Ms., not Mrs. Welcome to Eyre House!”
I took her hand with an apologetic smile. Ms. Eyre had a nice firm handshake that I immediately liked. “Thank you, ma’am. I’m sorry it’s so late. I’d intended my arrival to be much earlier.”
“As long as everything is all right, that’s what matters. You are all right, aren’t you? Good Lord, child, you’re shaking like a leaf in a storm!”
I grimaced and looked down at my wet clot
hes, trying to stop the shivering. “The unfortunate hazard of riding a motorcycle in the rain, I’m afraid.” And walking two miles when it stops working. “I had a minor accident coming over the bridge, but I’m fine.”
“In this weather, I’m amazed a ‘minor accident’ is all you had, darlin’. It’s blowin’ hard as a hurricane out there.” She looked me up and down with a sharp eye. “Well, come on now. Let’s get you settled in your room. You can take a hot shower and put on some dry clothes, and then let’s get you fed. You must be starving. Or we can do food first. You do look like you could use it. Growing boy like yourself, and all.”
I sighed with relief. “Thank you, ma’am. Warm and dry first would be best, I think. But thank you.”
“Nonsense. I’m thrilled you’re here. We’ve been short-handed since Jim broke his leg two weeks ago. The season started more than a month ago, and with Ginny still in school until the end of this week, I feel like I’m drowning.”
The lights flickered in time with a particularly loud burst of thunder. Ms. Eyre muttered something and looked up, then gave me a patient smile.
“Old house, old wiring. We do have a generator if it goes out.”
Not surprising. Just about everyone in hurricane country did. I nodded and she practically pushed me back to the mudroom, where I grabbed my duffel and backpack.
“Is that all you brought?”
“Yes ma’am.” All I own in the world.
She raised a single red eyebrow. “Now, Evan. I know you’re being polite and all. I also know your background. But if you’re going to work here all summer, you’re family. So I insist you call me Ms. Catherine.”
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