10. Vivienne
Vivienne
Twenty minutes outside the city, my head already feels lighter—clearer—the way it does after you recover from a cold and can finally breathe through your nose again.
I lower the car windows and let the warm August breeze swirl around me.
I can feel my body relax deeper into the leather seat the further I drive. Why don’t I do this more often?
Time flies by, aided by Agnes Obel’s haunting voice through my speakers.
Half an hour later, I’m pulling through the ornate metal gates I adored as a kid.
My heart rate speeds up as I get closer, both from excitement and from being here alone for the first time in my life.
After several bends in the driveway, my favorite place in the world comes into view through the trees.
Three stories of indestructible limestone, faded to a warm gray by centuries of harsh Wesbournian weather, with a cluster of turrets and towers framing both ends.
The house looks like a grumpy housekeeper who pretends to be annoyed by your presence but always keeps the cookie jar stocked for you anyway.
Ivy climbs from the ground all the way up to the dark slate roof, sending its fingers into any crack that allows it, creeping around the mullioned windows and doing its best to cover every surface like a dark green shag carpet.
It gives the place an enchanted look, softening that rough and terrifying exterior. The housekeeper’s smile.
I park the Rover, wishing I could bolt inside immediately the way I used to when I was little—no worries about luggage or life back in the city or engagement rings that snag on cashmere sweaters and bring tears to your eyes if you stare at them too long.
Just wild abandon as you rush in to greet all your favorite rooms, knowing the next two months will be the happiest of your life.
The slam of the car door echoes across the moor because there’s nothing here to absorb the sound.
The closest trees are on the north side of the house, but even those are nearly a quarter mile away.
Popping the liftgate, I walk to the back to get my bags, which fill the entire trunk.
I’m questioning why I felt the need to bring so much stuff when I hear the crunch of gravel behind me.
I turn to find Cassian walking toward me in dirt-smudged jeans, a black T-shirt, and a sheepish smile.
The sight is so unexpected, it takes me a second to find my voice.
“Cassian!” It comes out high-pitched, thanks to the adrenaline flooding my veins. Why is he here?
We exchange the world’s most awkward hug, and I can hardly feel his hands on me at all, as if he’s afraid he’ll contract a fatal disease if he touches me. He smells like earth, sweat, and smoke. He smells like home—both of my homes.
“What are you doing here, Cass?” I ask, peering up at him. His dark hair has flopped into his eyes as usual, and I fight the urge to brush it off his face.
He explains that his dad broke his leg and that he’s here to help out, but I’m having a hard time concentrating.
I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here—besides Mateo, of course—but Cassian’s father is as much a part of the park as any of the rest of us.
He draws as little attention to himself as the library does, which is to say, none at all. He’s simply there when you need him.
And now Cass is here to take his dad’s place, but he’s as likely to blend into the backdrop as a thunderstorm. He couldn’t be more dissimilar to Mateo if he tried.
“Is everyone else coming later?” he asks, breaking into my thoughts.
“Nope. It’s just me. I needed a break.”
“You don’t usually come here alone.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” I say.
He stares at me for several beats, then nods. “Got it. I’ll stay out of your way.”
Is he also going to tame the wind? Because he has as much of a chance of doing one as the other. “When have you ever been in the way?”
“First time for everything,” he says with a shrug.
I laugh, and the look in his eyes makes my heart skip a beat. If he intends to look at me like that for the next two months, I’m not sure I’ll be able to walk down the aisle without sobbing. I’m not sure I would’ve come if I’d known he would be here.
Which is worse: slow suffocation in the city or death by sword in the country?
He helps me unload my luggage, and the entire time, my body is sending up signal flares.
We deposit the bags in my bedroom, then he’s gone with a mumbled “see you later.” My first instinct is to reply “I hope not,” even though that’s so ridiculously far from the truth, it’s laughable. So I simply say, “Okay.”
I flop backward on the bed, staring up at the white medallioned ceiling but not really seeing it.
Everything is going to be fine. Cass and I will hardly see each other.
I’ll be wrapped up in wedding details, and he’ll be busy with the property.
There’s no reason our paths even need to cross.
Besides, I’ll be going back to the city nearly every weekend, which will give the housekeeping staff a chance to clean.
As much as I long to explore the house now that I have it all to myself, I need fresh air more. After changing into a pair of riding breeches and pulling my hair back into a braid, I head to the stables. On the way, I send a text to Bash.
Me: Why didn’t you tell me Cass is staying at Belgrave?
My brother is atrocious at responding to messages, so when my phone vibrates several minutes later, I’m genuinely surprised.
Bash: Why would I?
Me: Because I told you I’m coming down here?
Bash: And??
I roll my eyes and stick my phone back in my pocket. I should be relieved that Bash doesn’t think the situation warrants any more attention than that. And anyway, anything involving men will have to wait; I’m here to see Rhya.
I hear her familiar nicker as I punch in the security code for the barn. “Hey, girl,” I call as I step inside.
The scent of hay, leather, and equine fills my nostrils, and I breathe deeply as I walk down the center aisle. A dozen horses stick their heads over their gates in greeting. Rhya gives a soft whinny and stomps on the ground when she sees me.
The head groom emerges from the staff quarters, surprise in his eyes. “Ms. Wilson. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“Sorry about that,” I say, giving him an apologetic smile. “Last-minute decision.”
“No worries.” He inclines his head toward Rhya. “She’s glad to see you.”
I turn my attention to my mare, scratching the spot behind her ears the way she likes so much.
Rhya is a fourteen-year-old dark bay Holsteiner, imported from Germany when I was nine.
She’s opinionated, smart, and extremely competitive.
We’re a good match. She’s probably the best friend I have, although Marlowe and Sutton would both scream in outrage if they heard that.
Pressing my forehead to Rhya’s muzzle, I say quietly, “I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you more often.”
She gives a tiny, annoyed snort.
“Things have been really busy.” Even though I’m relieved to not be competing this year, I’ve missed her.
I gently scratch the white star on her forehead, and she bumps my shoulder with her nose. I laugh. “Yes, I brought you peppermints, you greedy old thing.” Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the candies I grabbed before leaving the house.
She scarfs them down in one second, then licks my hand.
“You’re very welcome.” I run a hand along her neck. “How do you feel about going for a run?”
Her ears perk up, and I grin. Nothing clears your head like riding over the heath.
Ten minutes later, Rhya and I are flying across the pasture, heading for the heathland. She clears the fence easily, jumping coming as naturally to her as breathing.
Belgrave Park has been in our family for generations. It stretches for acres in all directions, even though the size is decreasing as more and more land is being sold off to pay for the property’s upkeep. It breaks my heart, but I’d rather lose some of it than the manor and property altogether.
The grounds directly surrounding the house contain the back terrace, nine formal gardens, several different orchards, a swimming pool, tennis court, front lawn, orangery, and greenhouse.
Beyond all of that is the stables, the forest, the pasture lands, and the moor with its haunted whistling and craggy rocks.
In the valley below, I see the house where Cassian grew up and where his father still lives, its thatched roof as familiar to me as the heather beneath my mare’s hooves.
The lump in my throat grows as I ride past. Rhya’s muscles ripple beneath my legs, and I relish drinking in the peat-scented air while the wind rushes past my ears.
The country landscape does its best to erase the thoughts lingering in my mind, but it’s not entirely successful.
Because no matter how far I ride or how full my lungs grow, the question remains.
How am I supposed to survive the next few months?