There’s no taxi waiting for me when I get off the train in Derbyshire.
I sit down on the lone bench and check my phone to see if Cordelia’s messaged to tell me the taxi she ordered is running late. There are no messages and no signal. I can understand why you don’t get a bar of reception out here. It really is the middle of nowhere. The station is tiny, a little bigger than a hut, and there’s a notice up reminding travelers that it’s closed at weekends and to get their tickets from the machine on the platform.
I was the only passenger to get off at this stop and, even though I don’t want to be late turning up at Dashwell Hall, it’s quite nice to feel as though I’m the only person for miles. It’s so peaceful out here. I wrap my coat around me and take in the vast surrounding countryside. In the distance I can see horses grazing and sheep dotted about the fields. It looks like a scene out of a Jane Austen novel. Except for the train tracks and me plonked in the middle in my polka-dot dress, long black coat, and ankle boots.
A few minutes into the wait, I wonder why the taxi is held up—maybe stuck behind some cows trying to cross the road or something equally lovely. I don’t get much time in London to just sit and do nothing, and if I do, I’m usually on my phone, but without any signal there’s not much I can do. I’m forced to sit and appreciate the world around me. The birdsong. The peace. The fresh air. The gray clouds worry me a tad, considering there’s no shelter with the station closed, but the taxi will no doubt be here any minute.
About fifteen minutes in, I’m a little fidgety. I don’t want to be too late showing up this weekend, not just because of manners but also because there’s a lot to do. I’m desperate to see the house and start working out how we can make Cordelia’s vision come to life. The evening with my parents has given me the boost I needed to feel excited about this wedding again. Yes, it feels like an impossible and daunting task, but ultimately it’s Cordelia’s decision, not mine, and all I can do is be there for her when she needs me.
Half an hour later, I stand up on the bench, holding my phone as high as possible to see if I can get some signal. But there’s nothing.
Forty-five minutes in, I’m in full-on panic. I pace around, trying desperately to see what’s down the winding, narrow road leading to the station. Did I get off at the wrong stop? I recheck the sign and it’s definitely the right place. Maybe I gave Cordelia the wrong time? I scroll through my messages and confirm I told her the correct one. The taxi is either held up or isn’t coming and has decided it’s not worth letting me know. How infuriating! I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere with no signal. They would surely know that anyone stranded here is in a tight spot and the idea of letting down the Marquess and Marchioness of Meade can’t be good for business around here …
Another reason for the taxi’s no-show pops into my head. It seems by far the likeliest scenario.
Cordelia never booked one in the first place.
ARGH! How could I have been so stupid? She’s been trying to sabotage me from the beginning. Why would she happily book a taxi for me so I could join the weekend? I can’t believe how naïve I am to have believed her.
“What a BITCH,” I say out loud, to no one. A cow moos in the distance.
A raindrop lands on the side of my nose.
Brilliant.
I grab the handle on my wheelie case and grumpily walk down the road away from the station, holding my phone in front of me as I go, checking the screen every few seconds. There must be a signal somewhere along this road, and as soon as I manage to get a bar, I can google a local taxi company. It starts to rain lightly and I hate myself for not bringing a coat with a hood. Did I pack an umbrella? I must have done. But, if so, it will be in my wheelie case and I can’t be bothered to unzip it on the road and fish it out.
The road goes on forever. Not one bar of signal makes an appearance and no cars pass. The rain gets heavier, water trickling down my face, as I continue, praying that a taxi miraculously appears and I’m wrong about Cordelia. I stop to tie up my hair, which is damp and scraggly, now plastered unpleasantly to my forehead and neck. I’m watched by the curious sheep in the field next to the lane. Most are lying in the shelter of a tree, snuggled together. I’m so jealous, I can’t look at them anymore.
“This is ridiculous!” I cry, deciding it’s time to search for that umbrella.
Crouching, I try to unzip the wheelie case just a little so that the rain doesn’t ruin all the clothes I’ve brought for the weekend, stick my arm in and scrabble about inside. I can’t find it blindly, so I open the case fully and have a good rummage.
“Fuck’s sake,” I grumble. It’s in the zipped pocket on the front. “That’s perfect. I’ll turn up to Dashwell looking like a drowned rat, all my clothes for the weekend ruined.”
A sheep bleats sympathetically. The animals are feeling my pain.
The station road eventually comes to a crossroads where there is a sign pointing me in the direction of Dashwell Hall and an actual pavement on both sides. Encouraged by this sign of civilization, I check my phone again just in case. Raindrops splatter over the screen despite my attempts to shield it with the umbrella. Still no signal. And nothing else for miles. Looks like I’m walking all the way there.
“Please don’t be too far, please don’t be too far,” I whimper, setting off, knowing full well that it is quite a long way because I looked at it on a map and I remember it being a good drive from the station.
After a while, my wheelie case goes over a stray stone, causing me to stumble and stub my toe. Yelping, I stop to give myself a moment. I feel like I might burst into tears. I do not deserve this! I hate Cordelia. I. HATE. HER. And why is there no signal? How is there anywhere in this country still with no signal? This is the twenty-first century! What is wrong with this place?
“ARRRRRGH!” I scream in frustration, closing my eyes, clenching my fists, and stomping on the ground to let all my anger out.
A car horn beeps behind me and I jump out of my skin. I spin around to see a mucky old Land Rover crawling slowly toward me. I’m saved!
I drag my wheelie case over and the window rolls down so I can speak to the driver.
Oh. Fuck.
“Emily!” Tom takes in my appearance, his eyes wide with shock. “What are you doing?”
The joy at being saved from my current predicament makes way for an overwhelming wave of humiliation. I can’t imagine what I look like but it can’t be anything good. My makeup is surely running over my face and my hair is scraped back into a wet bun. I also have mud splattered over my legs, splashed up from the wheels of my case.
“Oh, hi.” I smile, trying to appear nonchalant. “How are you, Tom?”
“Were you planning on walking to Dashwell?” he asks, ignoring my question. “I thought Cordelia had booked you a taxi.”
“My train got in a bit earlier,” I lie, wiping my forehead. “I forgot there was no signal out here. I thought the walk would do me good.”
As tempting as it is to tell everyone how much of a bitch Cordelia really is, I also know that ratting her out to her brother is not the way forward. The only way this might work is if she starts to trust me. Until then, I have to play along with her game.
Her horrible, crazy game, which includes me breaking into houses in the middle of the night. And being stranded in the middle of the countryside.
Think of the money, think of your career, think of the future clients …
“You thought you’d walk in the rain?”
“It’s very … refreshing.”
“It’s quite a long way to Dashwell on foot,” he says, looking at me as though I’m insane. “Let me give you a lift.”
“Oh!” I pretend I’ve only just thought of this. “Are you sure? I’m happy to walk if you’re off out somewhere.”
“Get in,” he says bossily, climbing out and picking up my case. “I’ll put this in the boot.”
I follow his instructions and, pulling myself up into the passenger seat, I feel a huge sense of relief. Ideally, Tom would not have seen me looking such a mess, but at least I’ve managed to get a lift. I get a mirror out of my bag and quickly check my reflection, groaning at the mascara I’d carefully applied this morning smudged around my eyes, my foundation splodging around my nose, my lipstick nonexistent. I start reapplying as Tom gets back into the driver’s seat and shuts the door.
“You’re a big walker, then,” he asks, setting off.
“Sometimes,” I say, trying discreetly to wipe away the mascara under my eyes with my finger. “It’s nice to be in the fresh air, out of London.”
“Sure.” He grins. “And, as you say, the rain is very refreshing.”
I feel flustered, watching him drive. His arms are all tanned and freckly and kind of flexed with his hands on the wheel. I drag my gaze away from him to look straight ahead. Who knew arms could be so sexy?
“You’re lucky I found you,” he says, interrupting my thoughts about his arms and making me blush, as though he might have been able to read my mind. “This road is quiet. Most tourists in the area don’t come through this station as it’s not part of Paxton, the village where the B and Bs and shops are. This station is closer to the hall but very isolated.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” I say, putting foundation on my nose and blending it in. “How come you’re not at Dashwell this morning?”
“Cordelia wanted some fresh fruit for smoothies,” he explains, jerking his head at the bags in the back seat. “There’s a farmer’s market on Saturdays nearby and I volunteered to pick it up.”
“That’s nice of you.”
“It’s not completely selfless,” he admits. “Have you ever had one of her smoothies?”
I shake my head.
“You’re missing out. They’re delicious. She said she’d make one for me if I got the ingredients. I’ll get her to make enough for both of us. Although you’re probably after something a bit more warming.”
“A cup of tea would be good.”
“How was your friend’s birthday dinner?”
“It was lovely, thanks but I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to come up here last night.”
“You didn’t miss much. During dinner, Cordelia and Mum had an ugly fight over the menu choices for the wedding.” He sighs, carefully turning a tight corner. “It was very boring and loud for the rest of us.”
“Did they come to an agreement?”
He laughs at such a ludicrous thought. “I’m not sure they’ve ever agreed on anything.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice him looking at me curiously before he speaks again.
“It’s really nice having someone who gets my sister. It sounds strange, but she makes it difficult for people to like her. I don’t understand her most of the time, but she’s a good person. One of the best, really. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one who sees that.”
“Hmm.” I keep my mouth shut and wonder for the first time whether he’s as nuts as she is.
“I’m surprised you forgave her so quickly over that stupid escort rumor she started.” He grimaces.
“I’m not an escort,” I say, mortified he’d heard about it.
“I know!” He laughs. “Bloody hell, Emily, of course you’re not. She just has the weirdest sense of humor. I told her she was lucky to have you as a mate after that strange prank.”
“Yeah, well, you know what she’s like,” I say, clearing my throat and desperate to change the subject. “Was it weird growing up in a house that’s filled with tourists all the time?”
“It was a bit. Still is. But we have a private section they don’t come into.”
“When you say section, do you mean wing?” I ask, making him shift in his seat.
“I guess you could call it a wing.” He glances over at me. “Why are you grinning? What?”
“Sorry, it’s just so mad,” I say, unable to stop myself laughing. “It’s like Beauty and the Beast or something. You have your own wing.”
“It isn’t my own private wing, it’s for the whole family,” he explains, a smile spreading across his face, the familiar crinkles appearing around his eyes. “And it’s way cooler than that castle in Beauty and the Beast.”
“That’s a big claim. The Beast’s castle is awesome. It has turrets and everything.” I gesture out of the window. “Brilliant. Now, when I’m in a car, it stops raining. But when I was walking, it had to pour down.”
“I thought you were enjoying your refreshing walk in the rain?”
“I was,” I say defensively.
“Whatever you say.” He grins, pulling up to a set of black iron gates.
A man behind the glass window of a booth looks up, sees Tom, and smiles, immediately pressing something to let us in. The car bumps over a cattle grid and the driveway stretches in front of us, lined with dramatic towering trees. As Tom dodges potholes, I lean forward in anticipation, waiting for my first glimpse of the great house. Eventually, it looms into view. I gasp.
“There it is,” Tom says warmly. “Welcome to Dashwell Hall.”