Authors: Kate Hewitt
Striding
from the room with grimly focused purpose, he told himself what had happened
was a good thing. At least he wouldn’t be seeing Mollie Parker for a while.
Mollie
ran all the way home, her chest heaving,
her
sides
aching. She didn’t stop until she was in the cottage, the door slammed and
bolted, as if Jacob was the big bad wolf and she was Little Red Riding Hood.
She
laughed humourlessly at her rather bad pun. Jacob
was
a Wolfe, and he
had
been chasing her, after a fashion. Unlike Little Red Riding Hood, however, she
hadn’t stood her ground.
The
electricity had thankfully come back on, and Mollie quickly put the kettle on
and built up the fire. She stripped off Jacob’s clothes and kicked them in a
corner, knowing she would have to wash and return them at some point but not
able to think of it now.
A
cup of tea would soothe her. Stabilise her. A cup of tea, Mollie thought as she
swathed herself in her father’s old terry robe, could make everything better.
Yet
when she had finally seated herself in the rickety rocking chair by the fire, a
steaming mug cradled in her hands, she felt neither stabilised nor soothed.
She
felt like a complete ninny.
What
would Jacob think of her, running from the room like a spooked little girl, a
frightened child? Why on earth couldn’t she have said something cutting and
clever, worldly and wise? Instead she’d blushed and stammered and
ran
.
Groaning,
Mollie leaned her head against the back of her chair as the memory of what had
just happened washed over her in a shaming wave. She hadn’t had enough
experience of men, of
people
, in the
past five years to be able to handle a proposition like Jacob’s with the ease
and grace she wanted to. For too long the only person she’d really talked
to
had been her father, and he hadn’t always been able to
remember her name. The heavy toll of the past five years weighed on her now,
crippled her with its memory. She wanted to throw it off, had been about to
throw it off when she’d returned from Italy, yet with Jacob’s return and her
enforced stay at Wolfe Manor she found herself spinning on the same endless
wheel as before. Only this time she spun alone.
Tears—sudden,
stupid—pricked her eyes. When was she going to get over the hand life had dealt
her? When would she come to terms with the pain and loss of her parents’ deaths
and her own resulting loneliness? When could she start to live out the dreams
she’d woven so optimistically, dreams she’d detailed and embroidered during her
time in Italy, when she’d been so ready to take up the reins of her life again
and really start living?
Now
they felt completely wrecked, their fragile threads unravelling and frayed.
Restlessly
Mollie rose from the rocking chair, her mug forgotten on the side table. The
cottage felt cramped, its walls pressing in on her with its memories and
regrets. She could almost picture her father standing by the door, dressed in
his work clothes, expecting to walk out into the gardens he’d loved like
another child, Wolfe Manor in its heyday. Instead she’d had to lull him back to
this very rocking chair, take off his boots and tell him lies about how it was
raining or a holiday because he didn’t understand the truth: Wolfe Manor was
falling apart and the only people left amidst the shambles were the two of
them.
Master William needs me, Mollie. He’s
expecting me
.
Sometimes
her father had remembered that William was dead, that the children were
fatherless:
Master Jacob needs help,
Mollie. We need to help him the best way we can, by tending the gardens in our
care…
.
Yet
by then Jacob had been long gone, as had all the other Wolfe children. Save
Annabelle, none of them had said goodbye. None of them had even really known
she or her father existed.
Groaning
aloud, Mollie shook her head as if she could banish the painful memories. She’d
spent too much time in this cottage, watching, wondering,
waiting
.
Too much time in these gardens, caring for someone else’s
land.
She had to get out of here.
Now.
She
didn’t even bother with a coat, just slipped on her boots and headed out into
the damp night. A chilly wind blew over her, cooling her heated face. She
veered away from the landscaped gardens and headed instead for the lake. She hadn’t
been to the lake since she’d returned to Wolfe Manor; it was far from the house
and not necessarily in the realm of the gardens. Family lore said it was
haunted, that someone had once drowned in it. Even the villagers regarded it
with a certain amount of suspicion. Now its smooth black surface gleamed darkly
under the moon, and a few weedy reeds grew at its edge. Mollie stood there for
a while, breathing in the cool, fresh night air, letting it fill her lungs and
buoy her sagging spirit.
She
couldn’t change anything about the past, not the way her mother had died when
she was born, or her father’s lingering illness, or even the way she’d
responded to Jacob that very night.
But
she could change the future. The future—her own fate—was in her hands, and only
hers,
and she intended to make some changes. Starting
tomorrow she would reclaim her dreams. She’d get her own life back, the life
she’d envisaged in Italy, the life she had been dreaming for years of having.
Independent, purposeful, far from Wolfe Manor.
She took
another breath and let it out slowly, and then she turned from the still waters
of the lake and headed back to the cottage.
She
nearly tripped over the envelope that had been left on the flagstone doorstep.
Picking it up, Mollie slid out a piece of parchment. Her rose. And she realised
that Jacob must have delivered it while she’d been out at the lake.
They’d
both been unable to sleep, wandering in the dark, lost in memories. At that
moment she felt a sorrowful companionship with him, one she’d never expected to
feel. Slipping the parchment back into its envelope, she headed inside, knowing
that no matter how close she and Jacob might be in some matters, he was still a
stranger to her.
The
next morning was one of those fresh, clean days that only came after a
rainstorm. The sunlight glinted off every puddle, made the trees and leaves
shimmer with dew. Dressed in her smartest pair of trousers and a pretty,
feminine top of pale lavender, Mollie headed over to the manor. She wore
clothes she’d bought in Italy, and they felt like armour. Weapons to reclaim
the life she’d envisaged for
herself
, before Jacob
Wolfe had scattered all her plans.
She
lifted the heavy brass knocker on the manor’s front door and let it fall, the
sound echoing sonorously through the empty house. After a long, tense moment,
Jacob opened the door.
Mollie’s
gaze swept over him in an instant; he was dressed in a pair of loose grey
trousers and a black T-shirt that clung to the defined muscles of his chest and
torso, and his hair was damp with sweat. He didn’t smile.
‘I’m
sorry,’ she said. ‘Were you busy?’
‘Nothing too important.’
Jacob didn’t move to let her pass.
His tone, Mollie decided, verged on unfriendly. ‘May I help you with
something?’
‘I
need to talk to you.’
He
hesitated, and she realised he didn’t want to let her inside. Had she offended
him by running away? Or just bored him? ‘If it’s about last night,’ he finally
said, ‘I apologise. I never should have suggested such a thing.’
And
even though Mollie knew she should only feel relief, she felt disappointment.
Ridiculous, but real.
‘It’s not about that,’ she said, her
voice stiff with awkwardness. ‘Although thank you for your apology.’
Jacob
lifted one shoulder in a shrug. He still didn’t move. Mollie felt the
beginnings of a tension headache, as well as a growing sense of exasperation.
‘Could you please let me in? I prefer not to have conversations on doorsteps.’
Jacob
waited another long moment, so Mollie thought he might actually refuse. Out of instinct
she placed one hand flat on the door, as if she was afraid he’d shut it in her
face. At this gesture, Jacob gave her the faintest flicker of a smile and
stepped aside.
‘Come
into the kitchen,’ he said as he led her down a long narrow corridor. ‘It’s the
most habitable room in the house.’
This
morning the kitchen was awash in sunlight, not flickering with tempting shadows
as it had been the night before. Mollie saw the two plates from their dinner
were washed and stacked by the sink, and the aroma of coffee scented the air.
‘Would
you like some?’ Jacob asked, gesturing to the pot on the worktop.
She
nodded.
Best to keep this professional.
A business meeting, over coffee.
‘Yes, please.’
Jacob
poured her a mug and handed her the cream and sugar bowl before pouring his
own, which he sipped black. He arched one eyebrow. ‘How may I help you,
Mollie?’
She
got shivers every time he called her by name. It wasn’t often. Yet there was
something strangely, sweetly intimate about hearing Jacob saying her name, as
if it were a choice he made rather than a simple form of address.
She
pushed the thought away; it would hardly help her now. ‘I want to resign this
commission.’ Jacob’s expression didn’t flicker and Mollie went doggedly on.
‘It’s too big a job for me. You need someone more experienced.’
‘I
disagree.’
‘You
don’t even know,’ Mollie returned, frustration firing her words. ‘Do you have
any experience with garden design?’ She’d meant to scoff, but Jacob took the
question seriously.
He
cocked his head.
‘A bit.’
Mollie
blew out her breath in exasperation. ‘Well, even so, I can’t do it.’
‘You
made an agreement.’
‘I
didn’t sign anything.’
His
eyebrow arched higher. ‘I thought your word was enough.’
Mollie
flushed. He’d backed her into a corner and she hated it. She needed more
space
. ‘You could find someone else very
easily,’ she said. She heard the desperation creeping into her voice. ‘Someone
more qualified—’
‘I
told you, I never should have suggested there be anything between us but a
professional business arrangement,’ Jacob said. His voice was cool, with a bite
of impatience. ‘So if you’re worried—’
‘No.’
Her face felt on fire, right to the roots of her hair. She must look like a
carrot. ‘It’s not that.’ Jacob didn’t answer, and Mollie knew he wasn’t
convinced. He must think her the gauchest kind of girl, she thought miserably.
She’d run away last night, and she’d marched here in the morning to resign. Yet
Jacob’s offer—tempting, treacherous—had been a catalyst, not the reason. She
swallowed. Now was the time for honesty. ‘It really isn’t, Jacob.’ His name
sounded strange on her lips.
Another intimacy.
‘It’s
this house.
All the memories.
Don’t you feel them?’
She had instinctively dropped her voice to a whisper, as if the ghosts crowded
around them, listening. Jacob stared at her, utterly still. His eyes had
widened, his mouth parted slightly.