Page 2 of Valentine Nook
Losing a friend and a fiancée in one night was hard enough to deal with, but as England’s “most eligible bachelor” is back on the market, two further issues have arisen.
One, Agatha Chase has taken to reminding me of her forewarning every chance she gets. Even if she’s correct, I don’t want to hear it. Therefore, I cut her off the second she opens her mouth.
And two, a slightly more exasperating matter, is my mother, who has made it her goal in life to set me up withevery single womanin British high society.
I’ve declined them all because I have no intention of dating again any time soon.
Anyway, as I was saying . . . my drive through the village this morning—and subsequently my good mood—was totally ruined.
It began as I passed the fountain and spied a larger-than-usual number of visitors crowded around it. Not that I count, but I don’t normally have to wait for them to move out of theway and was too deep in thought about what could have caused it to notice the giant moving vans parked outside Bluebell Cottage, where I used to live with Caroline.
I haven’t stepped inside since the night I found them.
Slamming the brakes, I make a sharp turn to avoid hitting a pile of boxes in the middle of the road and stop the car.
Not thebestplace to leave a pile of boxes, I feel. And then I realize boxes are everywhere. Boxes from the three giant vans take up almost the entire width of the road.
Peering into the open end of the nearest van, I spy several large house plants, furniture covered in movers’ blankets, framed prints . . . nothing that looks like renovation supplies —the only explanation I’d accept. But I already know it’s not that. The sixth sense twitching in my gut provides an unnecessary warning. The cottage was redecorated a few months ago, and it’s been empty since then.
Purposely empty.
Bluebell Cottage is something I’ve filed away under the subject ofThings I Don’t Want to Deal With Right Now, which you’ll also find next toLove Life.
“Watch it, mate,” one of the movers yells, shaking me from my darkening mood.
I lower my window, prop an elbow on the doorframe, and lean out. “Could you explain what’s going on here?”
Another couple of movers carrying a large, bubble-wrapped, and heavy—from the way their knees are tensed—object stop and stare at me. Becauseobviouslythey’re moving furniture. Moving furniture intomyhouse.
“Wassit look like we’re doin’?”
I point at Bluebell’s front door. “It looks like you’re moving furniture into that cottage.”
“Proper Einstein right here, fellas.” The mover laughs and continues on his way.
In the rearview mirror, I watch the rest of them shakingtheir heads in amusement as I shift into reverse, maneuver past the boxes, and hit the accelerator, taking off for Burlington Hall, my home.
I might not have the full picture of what’s happening, butI knowthat somehow my mother is involved in it.
Usually, when I approach Burlington, I like to slow the car and take my time driving through the gates. I love the way the road sweeps past the fields—currently slightly parched from the summer sun—and the horses grazing high above the valley where the stables and Foxleigh Park, the polo ground, lie.
If Thunder is out, he gallops over to run alongside me, whinnying for a scratch and any possible carrots or Polo mints I might have with me. I’ll stop to oblige him for five minutes.
Farther along, the herd of Aberdeen Angus dots the horizon, and it’s here where the turrets of Burlington Hall appear in the distance, growing larger and larger as the car continues its journey. Only when you turn the corner and pass through the long line of oak trees standing proudly like sentinels does it fully come into view.
A vast structure of pale Cotswold stone, set in three sides of a square with neat rows of arched windows across two floors. The asymmetrical turrets breaking up the chimneys staggered across the roof make it look ever-so-slightly French.
It’s magnificent.
And my breath catches the first time I see it. Every time. I’m filled with pride and gratitude for this place that’s housed my family for centuries.
Now, however, I’m too annoyed to take it in. I don’t even get to enjoy the perfect June day, where the sun is high in a cloudless kingfisher-blue sky. Instead, screeching to a haltoutside the front doors, I sprint out and go in search of answers.
“Mother?” My holler echoes off the hard surfaces of the entrance hall and the wide pillars on either side of the vestibule. “Mum, where are you?”
I wait, but there’s no answer. The only sound I hear is the barking of dogs getting louder, their nails clattering on the stone floor as they rush down the hallway to greet me. My mum may be choosing to ignore me. Her pet peeve with us as kids was when we stood and yelled for someone instead of going to find them. We argued that it was far quicker than spending half an hour searching, while they could move from room to room.
But today, I have no intention of waiting, and one way or another, I’m getting answers.
