Who Needs Mr Willoughby?. Katie Oliver
She studied Marianne with a twinkle in her eye. “I know I can trust you to behave yourself and stay out of trouble while I’m gone.”
“I should hope so,” Marianne said. “I’m not Annabelle, after all.”
“No, but like Annabelle you’re a young woman, and a pretty one, at that,” Lady Violet remarked. “Which proves a much more dangerous state of affairs when it comes to things like temptation and the opposite sex, you know.”
“I very much doubt I’ll encounter either one during my walk,” Marianne said, and pushed her own chair back. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll have a look round, and drive into the village later. And I promised I’d give mum a call this afternoon.”
Lady Violet nodded as she rose from the table. “Yes. You must do just as you like, my dear. There’s a credit card in my desk in the library; use it to buy yourself some suitable clothes.”
Suddenly ashamed of her ungrateful behaviour upon learning she and her family would be living here at Barton Park, Marianne gave the older woman a warm smile. She vowed to remember that she and her mother and Elinor owed Lady Violet a great deal for her generosity. “Thanks. That’s very kind of you.”
“I’ll come and find you and say goodbye before I go.”
Marianne stood as well. “Please do. I’ll be in my room. I haven’t unpacked yet.”
“As little clothing as you brought? Unpacking shouldn’t take you above five minutes.”
“No, I suppose not.” As she followed Lady Violet out of the dining room and across the entrance hall to the staircase, Marianne could barely conceal her excitement.
Soon her chaperone would be gone, and she’d have this entire, ginormous place to herself – well, except for Bertie and Mrs Fenwick, of course.
At the top of the stairs she gave Lady Violet a demure smile and continued on to her room.
You must do just as you wish, my dear.
“Thanks, Lady V,” Marianne murmured, and smiled as she shut her door and leant back against it. “I plan to do just that.”
The limousine containing Lady Violet and her driver had barely cleared the property two hours later when Marianne, freshly showered and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, made her way downstairs.
She was halfway across the entrance hall to the front door when Mrs Fenwick appeared.
“And where are you off to, miss?” the housekeeper asked as she dragged an ancient Hoover from the closet and plugged it in.
“I’m borrowing the car –” she held up the key she’d retrieved from the peg by the pantry door “to go have a look at our house. Then I think I’ll go to the village and have a shop and a look round. I should be back in plenty of time for dinner.”
“Does her ladyship know of your plans?”
Marianne felt a flicker of annoyance. “Yes, she does. She said I might use the car – and her credit card, so I can buy myself some clothing. I didn’t bring the proper north country things, apparently.” She shrugged. “Only shorts and T-shirts.”
“And do you know where the cottage is, Miss Holland? Barton Park’s a rather large estate.”
Marianne’s smile faded and she reddened slightly. “No, I don’t. But I expect I can find it.”
“It’s at the north end of the property, where the grazing land adjoins Allenham.”
“Allenham? I don’t know it.”
“Allenham Court,” Mrs Fenwick explained. “It belongs to Eugenia Smyth. Lovely place it is, too, though not half so large – or grand – as Barton Park. Just follow the dirt road behind the stables until it brings you round to the apple orchard. You’ll see the cottage by the stream. Can’t miss it.”
“Thanks. It sounds really…erm, picturesque.” Marianne opened the door. “I have my mobile if I should get lost. I’ll see you later, Mrs F.”
Mrs Fenwick grunted. “Right. No shenanigans, mind, or I’ll call Lady Violet straight away and let her know. Then I’ll call your mother.”
“No shenanigans,” she promised. “After all,” she added as she went down the steps, “what sort of trouble could I possibly get into up here in the back of beyond?”
***
Marianne made several wrong turnings in the estate car until, jolted nearly to death by the rutted road, she finally found their new home.
It stood at the top of a gentle rise, surrounded by fields and a stone wall, bordered on one side by a stream and a somewhat neglected apple orchard on the other. Fruit hung heavy on the trees and perfumed the late-August air with the scent of apples. Bees droned and branches snapped underfoot as she got out of the car and approached the former hunting lodge.
It’s perfect, Marianne thought. Just like something out of a fairy tale.
She tried the door, but it was locked, and she didn’t have a key. Disappointed, she went to one of the front windows and cupped her hands against the glass to peer inside. She saw a drawing room. The floorboards were dusty, and the furniture – what little there was of it – was draped with sheets.
But such was to be expected. The house was larger than she’d imagined, with spacious rooms and a wide, central staircase in the entrance hall. A chandelier draped in cheesecloth hung from the ceiling; the windows had deep sills, and the fireplace, although empty, was clean and swept clear of ashes.
A mutter of what sounded suspiciously like thunder rumbled off to the south, and Marianne stepped away from the window. The sky had darkened and the wind had picked up, sending leaves scattering. Clouds gathered and skimmed across the sky.
It was time she headed back to find the village.
She was nearly to the car when she spied a tree house nestled in the crotch of a great, gnarled oak behind the cottage. Curious, she made her way up the grassy slope to investigate further. A rope ladder dangled from the branch. It looked old, but sturdy.
Marianne eyed it in consideration. She’d love to have a peek inside the tree house. But the clouds were scudding across the sky and the first few drops of rain fell.
She hesitated, undecided. I really ought to get in the car and go back to Barton Park. But the temptation to see the tree house’s interior won out over her hesitation, and she decided to climb up and have a look.
Marianne gripped the rope in both hands and thrust her foot on the lowest rung, testing it to see if it would hold her weight. It did. Encouraged, she continued to climb.
She was nearly at the top when one of the ropes groaned, creaked, and gave way with a snap. Marianne let out a gasp and clutched at the remaining rope, hanging on as tightly as possible even though her palms began to burn and her heart pounded so fast she feared it might burst. The ground was now an alarming distance below her dangling feet.
Stay calm, she told herself, and forced down panic. You’re nearly to the top. Just pull yourself up the rest of the way, it’s not that far, climb inside the tree house, and wait out the storm in there.
She’d almost reached the deck when it began to rain in earnest – no spring shower, this, but a driving, cold, relentless rain that left her drenched in seconds. Her hand slipped on the rope, slick now with damp, and as she did her best to hang on, she wondered how much longer before she lost her grip and fell. Her throat constricted.
This storm – or whatever it was – had literally come up out of nowhere. If I can just focus on holding on, she thought, and not panic, I’ll be inside the tree house in no time –
Just