“I guess you could call it a wing.” He glances over at me. “Why are you grinning? What?”
“Sorry, it’s just so mad,” I say, unable to stop myself laughing. “It’s likeBeauty and the Beastor something. You have your ownwing.”
“It isn’t my own private wing, it’s for the whole family,” heexplains, a smile spreading across his face, the familiar crinkles appearing around his eyes. “And it’s way cooler than that castle inBeauty and the Beast.”
“That’s a big claim. The Beast’s castle is awesome. It has turrets and everything.” I gesture out of the window. “Brilliant. Now, when I’m in a car, it stops raining. But when I was walking, it had to pour down.”
“I thought you were enjoying your refreshing walk in the rain?”
“I was,” I say defensively.
“Whatever you say.” He grins, pulling up to a set of black iron gates.
A man behind the glass window of a booth looks up, sees Tom, and smiles, immediately pressing something to let us in. The car bumps over a cattle grid and the driveway stretches in front of us, lined with dramatic towering trees. As Tom dodges potholes, I lean forward in anticipation, waiting for my first glimpse of the great house. Eventually, it looms into view. I gasp.
“There it is,” Tom says warmly. “Welcome to Dashwell Hall.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dashwell Hall is magnificent. Rising from the rolling parkland, the large old stone house looks warmly golden and welcoming even under the gray sky, the hundreds of grand windows glinting. With wings stretching off at either side, there’s no wonder that the Swanns are able to find peace and privacy here while tourists mill about their extensive, palatial grounds.
A man wearing a high-visibility vest, his hands stuck firmly in his pockets, stands at the point the driveway transitions from clay to gravel and forks, one side leading straight ahead toward the house, the other veering up to a field. A sign reveals that to the left is parking and straight on is private. Nodding to the steward, Tom continues ahead, circling the striking stone fountain in front of the house and parking next to a silver Aston Martin.
“What do you think?” he asks, turning off the engine and unclipping his seat belt.
“I think…” I lean back in my seat to take it all in. “… your house may be better than the Beast’s.”
He laughs, watching me. “Except for the lack of turrets.”
“I can’t believe I’m staying here.” I peer up at the house through the windscreen. “It’s beautiful.”
“Let’s go in. Cordelia will be happy to see you.”
I climb out of the car and realize that the beauty of the house has distracted me from my current state. I crouch to wipe asmuch mud off my legs as I can, then straighten and reach up to my hair, yanking out my hair band and combing my hair with my fingers. I turn round to see Tom holding my wheelie case and the shopping, waiting for me.
“Sorry.” I hurry toward him, smoothing my damp coat. “Are your family all in at the moment? Right now, I mean?”
“They were in when I left, but there’s a chance they’re out,” he says, his feet crunching over the gravel toward the front door. “Why? Everything OK?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine. I wondered whether I might be able to shower and sort myself out before seeing everyone,” I explain, smiling up at him apologetically. “I’m not exactly looking my best.”
“You don’t need to worry about stuff like that. You look great,” Tom says matter-of-factly, brushing aside my concern with a wave of his hand. “But if you’re worried about it, I can show you to your room before anyone spots us coming in.”
As I thank him, the sound of tires on the gravel distracts us and we turn to watch a sleek blue sports car pull up to park behind the Land Rover. The doors swing open and two women emerge. One I recognize immediately.
Lady Annabel Porthouse.
The other girl must be related: they’re both tall and slender, with the same delicate facial features, pronounced lips, and honey-blond highlighted hair. Lady Annabel is wearing a long red skirt with a black polo neck, while her friend is in black skinny jeans, a billowing blue shirt, the top buttons undone, and high wedges. An odd choice of footwear for this weather. She hobbles over the gravel behind Lady Annabel, who is striding toward us with boundless energy.
“Tom, hi!” she shrieks, enveloping him in a hug. “We heard you were here for the weekend.”
“So lovely to see you!” the other in the wedges exclaims, when she finally catches up, giving him two air kisses and gripping his free hand. “It’s been too long.”
They turn to me, waiting for Tom’s introduction.
“It’s great to see you,” he says, sounding less enthusiastic. “This is Emily. She’s a friend of Cordelia’s. Emily, this is Annabel and her sister, Georgia.”
“Ah, yes,” Annabel says, lifting her chin defiantly. “Cordelia’s bridesmaid. So nice to meet you, Emily.”
