Chapter 15 #2
By evening, I’m aching, arms sore, the hallway half-prepped, paint cans lined up like soldiers.
I’m brushing sweat off my forehead when a van’s rumble pulls me up short.
Its tires crunch on the gravel outside. Who can that be?
I’ve got everything I ordered. Why is everyone bothering me today?
I stomp to the door, ready to wave off whoever it is.
I open my door and find a courier, clipboard in hand, a box at his feet marked ‘Fragile.’
“Delivery for Lauren Hutton,” he announces, thrusting the clipboard at me. “Sign here.”
“But I’m not expecting anything,” I say, frowning.
He shrugs, unbothered. “It says Lauren Hutton, and it’s this address. You’re her, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, signing, curiosity nudging past my irritation.
He’s gone before I can ask more; the van’s tires squealing away.
I look at the box inquisitively. How strange.
I drag the box inside. Whatever is inside has some weight and solidity to it.
The box is well packed too. I get a knife from the kitchen and slice it open.
Tissue paper rustles under my fingers as I lift it.
Suddenly, my breath catches.
What?
A Tiffany lamp sits inside! I sit back in amazement and stare at it.
Not even daring to breathe, I carefully pull it out of the cardboard box and set it on the floor.
Blues and greens swirl on a heavy and intricate bronze base, exactly like the one I lost. This one however, is even better.
The colors are even more translucent and vibrant, and it’s in pristine condition.
No cracks at all. It’s breathtaking. Every tiny detail screams of the finest craftsmanship and intention.
This is no reproduction, but an original worth many thousands of pounds.
I can’t believe it.
How has it been delivered to me? Did the man in the antique shop make a mistake and send me an original instead of a reproduction? My heart races, disbelief mixing with awe. This isn’t mine. No way.
I seize my phone from the counter and dial the antique shop, my fingers trembling as I press the screen, each ring stretching my nerves tighter.
Mr. Sherridan answers, his voice traced with confusion.
In the background I can hear the faint clatter of his shop—glass clinking, a distant customer’s voice.
“Hello, Miss Hutton? Is this about the refund?”
I explain about the new Tiffany lamp that has just arrived.
There is a pause, then his words come out slow and suspicious.
“Another lamp? Uh- I’m afraid I don’t understand.
We didn’t send anything to you, Miss Hutton.
The one you purchased was destroyed, as I explained.
I have no record of a replacement.” His tone carries a trace of unease, as if he fears I am accusing him of some error.
My breath catches, a cold certainty settling in my chest. “You’re sure? Nothing at all?” I press, needing him to confirm what I am beginning to suspect.
“I’m certain,” he replies more firmly now. “We didn’t send any lamps. Maybe it is from another shop?”
“No, I haven’t been in contact with any other shop. Anyway, if it’s not you who sent it then it’s fine. I… uh… thank you for clarifying.” I end the call and slowly set the phone down on the counter, my brain racing.
Then my eyes swivel and lock on the lamp, and the undeniable realization crystalizes in my mind, like a lock snapping shut in a quiet room.
The lamp is from Hugh. It has to be from him.
Who else would be this creepy, intrusive, bothersome, and manipulative as this?
He knows I can’t possibly keep such an expensive gift, and I’ll have to return it.
So really, it’s just an opportunity to rub my nose in his wealth without having to actually spend any money.
Cruel man! Or it is a calculated move by a man for whom money is no object, a bribe wrapped in beauty, meant to soften me, to buy my compliance, my land, my surrender.
My thoughts spiral back to yesterday, when I was wrestling with the porch’s warped boards.
The splinters were biting into my fingers, and my shirt was sweat-soaked when his butler appeared as stiff and polite as ever.
He handed me another invitation to tea at the manor. I read the message on the thick card.
I understand that you’re occupied with your renovations, but I would greatly appreciate the opportunity to become acquainted with my neighbor, if nothing else, then to foster goodwill.
Yeah, right. As if his only intention is to get to know me better. He just wanted to trick me into selling up. I was so irritated with his insistence, I nearly ripped the invitation right in front of his staff, but I managed to control myself.
“Once again, please tell him no,” I responded firmly, then I went back to work.
I was sure, after two clear no’s, he would be ashamed enough to ignore me, just as I wanted to ignore him as well. But now I can see that I have greatly underestimated his will to be a never-ending thorn in my side.
Cecelia’s warning as she leaned close with her cake and her gossip echoes in my mind. He will stoop to anything to get what he wants, she had said, and now I completely believed her.
Her words cling to me now, fueling the anger that flares hot and fast, drowning out some of the lamp’s allure.
I think of Ann, her freckled face innocent as she called Hugh a loner, someone who keeps to himself and avoids the village’s clamor.
Two stories, two Hughs—one a predator, one a recluse. Which is true? It does not matter.
This lamp is his game, and no matter how much I want to keep it, I refuse to play.
I recall Cecelia telling me of his ruthlessness, how he tried to buy this cottage from my grandmother, a lonely old woman clinging to her family’s home, and this image stokes my rage even further.
Raw fury surges inside me, burning away any awe I felt for the lamp’s glow.
Does he truly believe I am so easily swayed that a shiny gift will make me forget his pressure, his insistence on my land?
I am not some naive girl he can dazzle with wealth.
I am done with his nonsense, done with him assuming he can manipulate me into submission. Offended, and my chest tight with indignation, I storm out, the cottage door slamming behind me.
The path to the manor stretches before me, short but daunting, the hedge rising like a barrier, its leaves dark under the fading light.
Beyond it, the manor’s stone walls stand cold and smug, a fortress of privilege.
Well, I am ready to breach it. My shoes crunch on the gravel, each step determined, my breath coming in quick, heated bursts, fueling my resolve.
I rehearse my words, venom lacing every syllable.
“Keep your bloody gift, Duke of Whatever,” I mutter, picturing his face, that sexy crooked smile from when we saw each other in the village. “Send someone to collect it and leave me the hell alone.”