Chapter Sixteen
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The thing is, it still doesn’t make sense. Ash might have lost Stella’s book – and damn him to hell for that – but what’s his excuse for not meeting me in Madrid? He must have had a change of heart. Even if some of his feelings for me were genuine, he knew that we couldn’t go anywhere, that he needed to cut his losses and move on.
And he has moved on. He’s with Beca now. He said he didn’t have feelings for her then, yet clearly they’ve developed from friends to lovers. The thought of him with her, or with any other woman, makes me feel as though I’ve swallowed glass, which is disturbing. My heart and head are so confused. I can’t reconcile my Ash with that Ashton. I don’t want to have feelings for either of them. I want to be over him so he doesn’t have the power to wound me again.
When I come home from work that day, there’s a package on my doorstep. I take it inside to the kitchen table and open it, pulling out five books by Sarah J. Maas: A Court of Thorns and Roses , A Court of Mist and Fury , A Court of Wings and Ruin , A Court of Frost and Starlight , A Court of Silver Flames .
My heart feels like it’s trying to escape from my ribcage as I open up the accompanying note.
Just in case you never read the last chapter. I’m so sorry I lost Stella’s book. I know I’ll never be able to make up for it, but I thought these might still help you feel close to her. It sounds as though she would have enjoyed the other books in the series if she was into sexy faeries.
He signs off the note Ash and his number, adding: Please call me when you’re ready.
I burst into tears.
I should have let him go years ago, and I certainly need to let him go now – so why is he making it harder for me?
I work straight through Thursday without texting him, and I’m relieved when Friday afternoon comes and I still haven’t cracked. We finish early on Fridays and the other cottage-dwellers are having another barbecue, so I go with Evan to the local supermarket to pick up a few bits and pieces.
‘How’s your first week been?’ he asks conversationally as we wander the aisles.
‘Good.’
‘Think you’ll be happy here in Wales?’
‘Absolutely.’ I’m trying to sound definitive. I want to get back to the joy I felt on Sunday when I first arrived. I was so happy going to work that first morning. I can’t let Ash sour this for me.
‘Got any plans for tomorrow?’
‘No.’ I glance at him out of the corner of my eye.
‘I wondered if you might fancy going to Chirk Castle with me. I haven’t been yet.’
‘I’d love that.’
‘Love’ is a slight exaggeration. I’m far too unsettled about Ash to think about anything happening with Evan, but I could do with a break from Berkeley Hall, that’s for sure.
When we return, we go straight to his cottage to unpack the shopping. The back door is wide open.
‘Hey!’ Harri says, coming inside with four empty beer cans. ‘We’re all down at Celyn’s.’
I still can’t get my head around the fact that Celyn is Taran’s older brother. I wonder if they look alike. Celyn is built like an oak tree and has a big black beard. I always imagined Taran to look a bit like Ash.
‘Cool,’ Evan says. ‘We’ll be with you shortly.’
Harri grabs a few more cans and disappears back through the door. Evan sorts us out for drinks, but I have a sneezing fit as we walk outside and accidentally throw some of my wine. He chuckles and determinedly extracts the glass from my hand before I can waste any more alcohol. As soon as I’ve stopped sneezing, I start laughing.
‘You’re a liability,’ Evan says warmly.
‘Yep.’
And then I see that Ash is sitting on a deckchair further along the lawn in full sunshine, watching us. I jolt violently.
What the hell is he doing here?
He puts a bright blue craft beer can to his mouth and tilts it, looking casual as anything in grey shorts and a grass-green T-shirt, his long legs stretched out in front of him.
‘Just going to put my bag inside,’ I tell Evan, pausing outside my cottage to unlock the back door.
As soon as I’m out of sight, I grab the note with Ash’s number and type out a new text message.
What are you doing here?
I peer out of the window in time to see him pull his phone from his pocket. He frowns at the message, and then lifts his chin and stares towards my cottage.
I watch, confident that he can’t see me from this angle, as he taps out a reply.
Having a drink with my friends.
I read it and snort derisively. Is he taking the piss?
Another message comes in: Have you got a problem with that?
Yes! I type back furiously.
Why?
I’m not coming out if you’re there!
I watch his jaw clench and realise that he’s annoyed. Good.
He’s typing something back to me.
What are you doing tomorrow?
The cheek of him!
Going to Chirk Castle with Evan.
He’s still staring down at his phone screen, his mouth pressed into a straight line. Does the thought of that bother him? I don’t know why, but I want it to.
Saturday night? he types back.
Out. I haven’t got plans yet, but I’ll make them.
Sunday.
I hesitate. That one wasn’t a question.
I just need a little of your time , he adds.
Why?
Because I can’t imagine what’s going through your mind right now. Give me a chance to explain.
Out of the blue, I feel devastated. I can’t keep him at arm’s length forever. Not when I work at his home. If he wants to see me, he can see me. If he wants to tell me his side of the story, he can do that too. And then he’ll leave me alone.
I’m frustrated at myself for how crushed I feel at the thought of Ash leaving me alone.
Where can we meet where no one will see us?
Down the farm track behind the sawmill, at the first bend in the road. 10.30am.
OK.
I watch him drain the rest of his beer, stand up and say his goodbyes.
At ten twenty on Sunday morning, I let myself out the back door of the cottage and walk down the farm track behind the outbuildings. They’re all locked up for the weekend, but I did talk to Jac, one of the workshop employees, on Friday night. He explained that the sawmill has ten members of staff and the workshop employs an additional four. He’s one of the four skilled woodworkers who make chairs and tables, so the Berkeleys do have a furniture workshop. Jac still had remnants of sawdust on his arms after the day’s work.
I feel as though ivy has taken root within me, coiling its vines around my insides as I walk around the bend in the road to see Ash, wearing a black leather jacket and denim jeans, sitting astride a retro-looking motorcycle. The word Triumph is written on the olive-green tank, a yellow line striking through it, and much of the bike’s silver machinery is naked and exposed.
Ash watches every second of my approach.
‘We going somewhere?’ I ask with a frown.
‘Yep.’ He passes me a matt-black helmet that’s hanging from the handlebars.
‘Where’s yours?’ I ask as I take it.
He nods at the helmet in my hands and shrugs off his battered leather jacket, waiting until I’ve pulled his helmet over my head and fastened it before handing me that too.
‘It’s a bit loose,’ I say of the helmet.
‘We’re not going far.’
‘Why aren’t we walking then?’ I ask as I slip my arms into his jacket. It’s still warm.
‘Because this is more fun.’
I feel a tingle beneath my ribcage at his playful tone.
It’s a pretty bold move to expect me to go along with this. What if I’d said no?
There was never any danger of that, though. I’ve always wanted to ride on the back of a hot guy’s motorbike.
I chastise myself for putting Ash in that category.
He pats the back of his seat. ‘Watch your leg on the exhaust. There’s a heat guard, but be careful.’
I’m wearing a navy dress and there’s every chance I’ll flash my knickers as I throw my leg over, but Ash faces forward to protect my modesty as I step up onto a small silver flip-down footrest. As soon as I’m seated, I feel myself slipping towards him, pressing snugly against the outer edges of his legs. His jeans feel rough against the delicate skin of my inner thighs.
‘Don’t you have a spare helmet?’ I ask over his shoulder. I don’t like that he’s not wearing one himself.
‘No.’ He pauses. ‘I’ve never had anyone ride pillion before.’
What, not even Beca?
He starts the engine before I can consider asking that question and it roars into life, then he places his hand on my knee.
He’s not wearing gloves and my heart jolts violently at the skin-to-skin contact, but it’s over within a second – he just gave me what I suspect was supposed to be a reassuring pat, because he raises his voice over the sound of the engine to say, ‘I won’t crash. We’re just using the forest track into the woods. I’d never take you on the road without proper protection.’
I tentatively slide my hands around his waist, my breath growing shallow at the feeling of his warm, hard body beneath my palms. He’s wearing a faded yellow T-shirt and I feel his stomach muscles tense under the worn-thin material.
He sets off and I clutch him tighter as we jerk forward, but then he turns off the dirt track onto an even narrower one – the width of a car – and takes off at a smooth, comfortable pace. High hedgerows line the track on either side, so I can’t see the surrounding fields, only the sky.
His dark blond hair is blowing wildly in the wind and if I tilt my head to look past him, I can see the sharpness of his jaw as it curves up towards his earlobe.
A shiver runs down my spine as a memory comes back to me of pressing my lips to that very spot.
I don’t realise I’ve adjusted my hold on him until I feel his stomach muscles contract again.
I’m hit with more flashbacks of our time on the beach, and emotion begins to gather like a storm inside my chest.
What’s the point of any of this? Why is he so desperate to explain? What if he has a reason for not meeting me that has nothing to do with the lies he told? I couldn’t bear to understand him only to lose him again.
But it’s too late to turn back.
The track climbs uphill and leads right into the woods, the leafy cover of oak, beech and maple snuffing out much of the light of the sun. The sound of the engine seems extra loud in our peaceful surroundings.
As we crest the brow of the hill, a two-storey log cabin with a pitched roof comes into view. It’s all on its own, encircled by tall trees.
Ash pulls to a stop and waits for me to get off before kicking his footrest down and swinging his long leg off the back.
He turns to face me. I’m already unclipping the helmet, but he takes it from me and it’s hard to gauge the look in his eyes.
Then he drops his gaze and hangs the helmet on the handlebars, seemingly avoiding watching me as I slip off the jacket. He takes that too, laying it over the seat before leading the way to the front door and opening it. It’s unlocked.
‘Was this Taran’s house?’ I ask, holding my breath as I wait for his answer.
He told me that his best friend had a house in the woods.
‘Yeah.’ His voice sounds rough.
So he didn’t lie to me about that.
It’s cold inside – colder than outside – but Ash goes straight into a small living room off the hallway and passes me a thick blanket hanging over the back of the sofa. It’s knitted from grey wool and is so soft – warm, too, as I discover within seconds of sitting down and snuggling under it.
He gets to work building a fire in the fireplace.
‘How was Chirk Castle yesterday?’ he asks over his shoulder.
‘Good,’ I reply. We’re doing small talk now? ‘It’s beautiful around here,’ I add.
‘It is,’ he agrees, hesitating before asking, ‘So you went with Evan?’
‘Yep.’
‘You know him from Wisley?’
I nod. ‘He trained me.’
I sense he wants to know more about the nature of our relationship, but I don’t enlighten him.
I’m not entirely sure how to explain it myself. Yesterday was nice, and the grounds of Chirk Castle were stunning – the topiary there is even more impressive than ours. It’s just hard to feel anything right now. I’m far too on edge.
‘Tea?’ Ash asks, straightening up.
‘Have you got any milk?’
He nods.
In his ordinary T-shirt and jeans, he looks more or less the same as he did in Lisbon. But he still sounds like Ashton Berkeley with his posh English accent. It’s more than a little disconcerting.
‘Thanks. No sugar,’ I add, steeling myself against him.
He walks out of the room, seeming oddly rattled himself.
I sit there, taking in my surroundings as I listen to the sounds coming from the adjoining kitchen: the kettle filling, cupboards opening, the clink of cutlery and crockery.
There are bookshelves built into the wall cavities on either side of the fireplace and they’re full of books, from fat, tattered paperbacks to tall hardbacks. I squint, trying to read the spines, and then I get up to take a closer look.
There are a lot of books about space here, and in front of the window is a brass telescope sitting on a wooden stand. It looks vintage.
I turn around to face Ash as he returns, drawing the blanket tighter around my shoulders. He meets my eyes briefly and sets down two mugs onto coasters on the low wooden coffee table.
‘Did you really study astronomy and physics at university?’ I ask, sounding wary.
He recoils. ‘Of course I did.’
‘So the stuff about Taran having a telescope and getting you into the stars …?’
He stares at me, alarmed. ‘Everything I told you was true.’
I scoff at that and he winces.
‘Who lives here now?’ I ask, returning to the sagging, faded sofa.
He sits down on a threadbare red armchair. All the furniture in here looks antique.
‘I do,’ he says to my surprise, clarifying it with, ‘Most of the time.’
‘With Beca?’
He shakes his head quickly, seeming almost perturbed at the idea. ‘She hates it up here,’ he explains in response to the confused look on my face.
Why would he choose to live in the damp, dark woods instead of in a grand mansion in the sun?
Things could be a little hectic at home …
Just because the ordinary house I’d pictured in my mind is different to the mansion he grew up in doesn’t mean the statement itself can’t still be true, I realise.
‘You told me you used to hang out at Taran’s house a lot; that things could be a little hectic at home. Did you mean it?’
‘I meant everything I said to you,’ he replies seriously, picking up a mug and passing it to me. ‘I struggled, growing up there.’
A shimmer of heat licks over my skin as our fingers brush and I stiffen.
He looks pretty tense himself as he picks up his own mug and settles back in his chair. The fire is blazing away in the fireplace, but I keep the blanket around my shoulders, needing the extra comfort.
‘Why did you struggle?’ I prompt.
‘That house has been open to visitors my entire life.’
I let out a small snort and he frowns, shifting on his seat.
‘Yeah, okay, I know how privileged that sounds,’ he says gruffly. ‘But can you please just try to imagine it? I’m not an extrovert like my mother. I’ve never felt comfortable walking around the grounds like she does.’
I’m conflicted. I don’t want to feel sorry for the son of a viscount.
‘My bedroom used to be in the Tudor wing of the house,’ he continues. ‘The building overlooking the courtyard?’
‘I know where the Tudor wing is, Ash.’
He has the grace to look self-conscious. And then he says, ‘Never mind.’ And I hate that he’s given up on trying to get me to understand.
He rakes his hand through his hair. It still looks windswept. A couple of strands fall forward into his eyes. He stares towards the window, his jaw clenched.
‘Tell me about your bedroom,’ I say, softening my tone. Silence. ‘Ash,’ I prompt.
‘Never mind,’ he says again, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
I wish I hadn’t shut him down.
‘I know how you feel about posh twats,’ he mutters, taking a sip of his tea.
‘Is that why you didn’t tell me?’ I ask. ‘About all this?’
‘I would have told you eventually.’
My heart squeezes. When?
‘I understand how much it must have freaked you out to hear me switching between accents, but it’s something I’ve done all my life,’ he says. ‘I spent just as much time in this house as I did in that one.’ He nods in the direction of Berkeley Hall. ‘Gareth and Carys were like second parents to me. Taran and Celyn were like brothers. Taran, especially, as we were the same age. I used to hang out at the workshop all the time. I felt comfortable there. I didn’t like to sound different, though, and at some point I just started speaking like the people around me. But then I’d go home, and my parents would freak out. They sent me off to boarding school, which I hated, but it’s what we do in our circles,’ he finishes sardonically.
I frown at the fire, taking a moment to process all that he’s said.
He sighs. ‘Haven’t you ever adopted a different accent to fit in?’ he asks.
I have done that. I did it when I went to private school, but I still made a conscious effort to sound like myself around Stella and my grandparents. Now, though, I simply sound like one person, not two.
Or do I? I put on a more proper-sounding voice to speak to his mother, but it’s only a mild adjustment, nowhere near as extreme as what he did.
‘It’s like someone who grows up to be bilingual,’ Ash continues. ‘They can switch between languages seamlessly.’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘Maybe not, but it’s not something sinister. When I was younger, it came so naturally. I was Ash here and at the workshop and Ashton back at the house and at school.’
‘You just wanted to fit in.’
‘What kid doesn’t?’
I’m beginning to get it. ‘And interrailing? You wanted to fit in there too?’
‘That wasn’t so much about me trying to fit in as me doing what felt most natural. I wanted to be off-grid, away from all that.’ Once more, he nods towards the house.
‘So you’re like two different people,’ I muse contemplatively.
‘Not two people. One. This is me, Ellie.’ He indicates his chest with one hand. ‘You met me . You know me .’ His eyes are gleaming, pleading with me to understand.
I drop my head, overwhelmed.
‘Like I say, I would have explained all this to you eventually,’ he reiterates. ‘It was only a matter of time.’
My heart feels heavy. ‘You’re speaking like you were intending to come to Madrid.’
‘I was.’ He sounds surprised.
I lift my head to look at him. ‘What happened then?’
He hesitates, breathing in deeply. ‘I don’t know if you had it in the Algarve, but there was a big storm the night after I left you. I managed to get a room in a shitty hostel and I slept with Stella’s book next to my pillow because I didn’t want to lose it.’ He seems distressed as he’s telling me this and my chest feels tight. ‘But I was out cold after barely sleeping on the beach and it must have fallen onto the floor and someone picked it up, because it wasn’t there in the morning. I was in such a panic, asking everyone I could see if they’d taken it, but whoever had it must have already checked out. Of course, we still had our Madrid plan, and I was determined to get there the day before so nothing could go wrong. I bought a new phone for when we met up so I’d never be without a way to reach you again. And then, two days before we were supposed to meet, my mother called me about Hugo’s accident.’
‘Who’s Hugo?’ I ask.
He stares at me, dazed. ‘My brother?’
‘Oh. You never told me his name, only that he was stepping into your parents’ shoes, running the family furniture business,’ I remember with a flare of irritation.
‘No. I said my older brother was stepping into my parents’ shoes, taking on the family business. You assumed I was talking about furniture.’
‘You let me assume it,’ I respond sharply.
He sighs and concedes with a nod.
‘So what about Hugo?’ I prompt, realising that we’ve gone off track.
‘He jumped off a bridge to go swimming in a lake and broke his spine.’
I gasp. ‘Oh my God.’
‘You really didn’t know?’ he asks. ‘It’s all over the internet.’
I shake my head, stunned. ‘It didn’t even occur to me to look up the family who owned this place before I took the job here. It was all about the garden for me.’
He releases a small, sad puff of air, his eyes fixed gently on mine. It’s a few seconds before he continues.
‘Well, he was in intensive care and my parents wanted me home straight away. For a fleeting moment I thought about going to Madrid first to tell you what was happening, but I had to get home in case we lost him. And then we did.’
‘He died?’ I’m shocked.
He nods miserably. ‘The day after I was supposed to meet you.’
‘Oh, Ash, I’m so sorry.’
He shakes his head. ‘I was in such a state. I found out that there was a café on the square and I called to ask if anyone would go out at three o’clock and look for a girl with red hair. There was hardly any phone reception at the hospital, but I managed to get through again to ask if they’d seen you. They said they hadn’t. I called again, asked if they could take another look. I offered to send money to cover the inconvenience, but they said it wasn’t necessary. I don’t know if it was the language barrier or whether they were fobbing me off, but they claimed they never saw you.’
‘I was late,’ I reveal, as the agonising memories flood back.
Eight days of stress and panic in the blistering heat, looking and never finding.
‘Did you ever go back to interrailing?’ I ask.
‘No, that was the end of it for me. It was kind of the end of everything.’ His voice sounds strained as he explains. ‘Hugo was seven years older than me. We weren’t close. He was the heir and he grew up knowing he had responsibilities, which he took seriously. It was different for me. I was allowed to pretty much do what I wanted, but Hugo always knew what was expected of him. After we lost him, I had to step into his shoes.’
He looks downcast, and then he pitches forward and places his hand on the armrest near to where I’m sitting, staring at me intently.
‘I would have met you in Madrid. I’m sorry I couldn’t.’
My eyes fill with tears.
‘Ellie,’ he murmurs, covering my hand with his.
My heart hurts so much at the contact because my body recognises him. The thought of pulling away is agonising, but I force myself to slip my hand out from under his grasp, still trying to make sense of everything.
‘So what were you planning to do?’ I ask melancholically. ‘Travel together for a few weeks and then call it off?’
His brows pull together as he shakes his head. ‘Why would I call it off? I don’t know what would have happened once we’d got back to the UK, but I thought we’d play it by ear.’
‘How was this ever going to work?’ I ask, flustered.
He seems lost for words, and a deep weariness comes over me.
‘I think you should take me home.’
He swallows. And then he nods, averting his gaze.
He drives me back to the cottage on his bike. I tap his stomach as we turn out onto the farm track, reminding him that I don’t literally want to be dropped at home.
‘You really don’t want to be seen with me, huh?’ he says drily as I climb off and remove his helmet, handing it back.
‘No.’ I slide off his jacket.
He frowns. ‘You know, I grew up with a bunch of those guys. They’re friends. None of them are worried about favouritism.’
I laugh. ‘Is that what you think concerns me? That’s a little entitled of you,’ I say acerbically.
‘You’re bothered about how this looks,’ he says slowly, and I can practically see the cogs in his brain whirring. His eyes widen. ‘Are you embarrassed about us?’
‘Does that surprise you?’
‘To be honest? Yes,’ he replies, shrugging his jacket back on. ‘I’ve never met anyone like you.’ He looks a little amused.
‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ I respond.
‘You should,’ he says, pulling his helmet over his head and flipping down the visor.
It’s the last thing he says before he rides away in the opposite direction.