3. VERENA GRAVENHURST
THREE
VERENA GRAVENHURST
The vehicle jolts, and I wake with a start. My cheek is pressed against the cool glass, and for a moment I’m dazed, unsure of my surroundings. Gravel shifts and crunches beneath the tires as we turn onto a side street, unease rapidly growing inside of me with each passing second.
“Miss Gravenhurst?” the driver says, pulling me from my daze.
His voice is just above a whisper, but sounds odd in the quiet cab.
He’s kept the music at a low volume, barely audible the entire trip from the city to Hollowcrest, allowing me to sleep most of the way.
My gaze flickers up, and our eyes lock in the rear-view mirror.
“We’ve just turned onto the estate road, Ma’am. Won’t be long now.”
I nod, offering him a forced smile even though my chest tightens with anticipation.
Leaning against the door, I swipe my sleeve across the glass to clear the condensation.
Beyond the window is another world entirely, like we’ve driven straight into a fairytale, instead of another city.
Thick trees line the road, with weeping willows cascading shadows along the path ahead.
It’s beautiful, in a tragic sort of way.
Sunlight filters between the trunks and swaying branches as we take another small turn onto a private street, and my breath hitches.
A manor looms in the distance, alluring and daunting all at once.
My throat tightens the longer I stare, but I can’t find it in me to look away.
Vines creep up the dark stones, twisting around tall spires that cut into the sky.
Narrow gothic windows sit on each side of the entrance, and when the cab comes to a stop at the bottom of the steps, anxiety takes root inside of me.
My mind can’t seem to wrap around this new reality.
That this place belongs to the same family I come from.
My heart hammers against my ribs, and I feel myself about to spiral.
I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere.
Just when I’m about to tell the driver to turn around and drive me back, to drop me off anywhere but here, my door swings open.
The cool air floods the small space around me, stealing my breath.
The man before me is tall, lanky and entirely too happy about my arrival.
His smile is warm and inviting, and his peppered hair and gentle brown eyes add a softness to his features, convincing me that he is a benevolent man.
“Miss Gravenhurst,” he says, bowing his head.
His voice trembles slightly. It should comfort me that someone else is as nervous as I am, but loneliness is all I’ve ever known, and it clings to me like a second skin.
The door hangs open, and his coat blows awkwardly in the wind as he steps to the side, waiting for me to step out, but I can’t.
My body remains frozen, my stomach twisting with nerves.
Everything about the property seems too grand, too different from the life that I’ve always known.
After a few moments of silence, he speaks again, snapping me out of my dissociation.
“M-Miss?” he stutters, holding his hand out for me to take.
I inhale a deep breath and lock eyes with the butler.
His smile is amiable, and suddenly, I feel a little better than I did moments ago.
With shaky hands, I grab my lone duffle bag from the seat next to me and step out of the car.
The gravel crunches beneath my boots as I take my first step on foreign ground.
He softly closes the door behind me, tapping twice on the roof to let the driver know it’s safe to leave.
As I listen to the vehicle drive off, I stare at the estate, apprehension swirling inside of me.
“Welcome to the Gravenhurst Manor, we’ve been expecting you, Miss Gravenhurst,” he says, lowering his head again.
Being addressed by my last name followed by a bow feels odd, and entirely too proper, but I don’t plan to stay here long, so I don’t bother correcting him.
I give him a tight smile, and he turns on his heel, paying no mind to my lack of enthusiasm. “Follow me, please.”
I trail behind him towards the front steps that are now occupied with whom I can only assume is the kitchen staff and cleaners.
They all wear matching attire, black and white with hints of deep purple threading.
A violent gust of wind sweeps by, whipping my hair to the side as I take a single step onto the stairs.
The sudden feeling of being watched sends a shiver down my spine, and I slowly rear my head, searching for the source of my unease.
A man, brawny and long-limbed, leans lazily against the archway of a vast garden, off to the side of the manor, half hidden by shadows.
His white t-shirt clings to his body, streaked with dirt, and his sculpted arms flex as he lifts the hem, wiping sweat from his face.
I catch a glimpse of his toned abs and a sharp V-cut that sinks below the waistband of his slacks.
It was only a heartbeat, but it was enough to make my pulse quicken.
His hair is dark and messy, like he had just run his fingers through it, and when his eyes meet mine, I feel like my lungs are being robbed of oxygen.
There’s aversion in his gaze. It’s subtle, but undeniable, and something about the way he watches me has me unsettled.
I swallow hard and take a deep breath when he breaks his intense stare, wandering into the garden without sparing me a second glance.
“Right this way!” the butler calls out, recapturing my attention, and it’s only then that I realize I’ve stopped following his lead and all of the staff have made their way inside.
I spare a quick glance back at the garden, and something akin to disappointment skitters beneath my flesh.
I shove it down, squeezing the strap of my duffle bag and quickly make my way up, skipping a step in between strides.
The door closes with a heavy thud behind me, and my feet remain frozen in place.
The foyer stretches wide, the ceiling so high it seems to disappear into shadow.
A grand chandelier hangs overhead, and not a single crystal that dangles from it sways, like the room is still and entirely undisturbed.
The walls are painted a deep purple, coated with a black damask design, giving the room a hauntingly eerie feel, yet looking entirely elegant against the dark oak trim.
Photographs and paintings encased in black frames line the walls, and the floor is a stunning black marble that’s polished so thoroughly I can see my reflection staring back at me.
A woman who stands out in a place like this, and not in a good way.
The butler clears his throat, and my eyes flicker to him. He waits dutifully at the bottom of an extravagant staircase that splits into two sides of the foyer, while holding my duffle bag in his hand. My brows furrow. I hadn’t even realized he took it from me.
“Are you well, Miss Gravenhurst?” he asks quietly, concern etched in his voice.
I shake my head, feeling like an imposter as I advance towards him.
“Please don’t call me that,” I snap, sounding harsher than intended, and he flinches.
“Sorry—” I say quickly, in a softer tone, shaking my head like it’ll rid me of my repulsive manners. He stays quiet and nods, fidgeting with the strap on my bag.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to raise my voice. Today has just been…a lot. Please, call me Ren from now on.” He beholds me for a moment before spinning on his heel and taking the first step up the stairs.
“Very well. Right this way, Miss—” He pauses, glancing back at me. “Ren,” he spits out, but his face is tortured, like it physically pained him to call me by a nickname. A light burst of laughter escapes me, and it’s the first time in a long time that I’ve heard that sound.
By the time we reach the top of the stairs, I’m out of breath. Ornate sconces line the opulent hallway, flickering in the dark space as he leads me to the room at the end of the hallway. He stops before the door, then pivots to face me.
“Your room, Miss Ren,” he declares, fishing a key from his tailcoat pocket and handing it to me. He pulls out a black envelope from that same pocket and pauses for a moment before he speaks again.
“This was also left for you,” he says, handing the letter to me. I graze my thumb over the purple wax seal. It’s smooth, unbroken, and marked with the same crest on the letter I received at the apartment.
“Please feel free to explore as thoroughly as your heart desires. The only prohibited space on this estate is your grandfather’s office in the left wing; the rest is yours to discover. Breakfast will be ready by seven a.m.,” he states, opening the door for me. “Any questions?”
Stepping inside, I place my hand on the door. “Just one.”
He clasps his hands before him, waiting patiently. “Yes?”
“What do I call you?” I raise a brow, and he perks up, a crooked smile pulling at his lips.
“Archibald Belmont the Third, Ma’am,” he says, holding his head high, clearly proud of his family name, and I recognize it from the first letter I received.
“Ah, thank you for your help this evening,” I dip forward in a mock curtsey, “Mr. Archie.”
Archibald stiffens at the nickname, then raises a finger to correct me. His mouth opens and closes, at a loss for words, and I slowly creak the door shut. “Goodnight, Archieee…” I tease and laugh when I hear his defeated sigh as he walks away.
My smile is short-lived as I press my back against the door, my head thumping lightly against the mahogany wood.
I drop my duffle bag at my feet and skim my fingers over the rough paper as thoughts of what could possibly be written in this envelope flutter through my mind.
I rip through the seal with ease, and sadness for a man I never knew consumes me.
My Dearest Granddaughter,