Beauty in Spring (Beauty #1)(3)
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 groves, 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 a position—and perhaps seeing Gideon again—I’d put extra effort into my appearance today, leaving my blonde hair loose instead of pulling it back, where I’d have been saved the trouble of dragging the long strands out of my eyes every time the breeze picked 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 that 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.
If not for the state of the grounds and the gatehouse, I’d never have known the residence had been abandoned, judging by the exterior of Blackwood Hall alone. 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.