Page 22 of Beyond the Hedge Maze

“Unfortunately for you both, I am retained by the estate. Therefore, I serve at the pleasure of the Lord of the manor. Which is not you.”

On any other occasion, Oliver may have been able to appreciate the devious glint in Mr. Stillwell’s eyes, but he was too busy spiraling.

“The title is mine! There is no precedent whatsoever that dictates it can bypass a generation! I am the new Earl.” Charles was red in the face, his fist gripping the front of Oliver’s shirt.

Mr. Stillwell’s voice took on a new edge when he spoke again. “That may be so, but that has nothing to do with the estate’s legacy. A ceremonial title does not guarantee property possession; not anymore. I’m going to have to insist you take your hands off my client, and see yourselves out of my office before I get the authorities involved.”

Charles’s grip on his shirt tightened for a quick second before he let go, and Oliver exhaled. He looked to his mother. Maybe she would be on his side, that she’d tell his father that he was being irrational. He thought maybe, just this once, she’d stand up for him. But of course, that wasn’t the case. She had just as much to lose by the estate transfer. Oliver was painfully reminded that he probably wasn’t worth losing.

Patricia hovered by the door her husband had stormed out of, turning back to face Oliver. “I am absolutely disgusted with you.”

The silence was palpable after his parents’ exit. A tenuous thing that both Oliver and Mr. Stillwell were hesitant to interrupt. Oliver rubbed his eyes, feeling the contacts shifting under his closed lids. He couldn’t wait to leave and take them out.

The room was bleary when Oliver finally opened his eyes and turned his attention to Mr. Stillwell, hovering behind his desk. He regarded Oliver with sympathy. “Unfortunately, young Lord Oliver, they are the least of your problems.”

***

Oliver walked back up the high street, and instead of making a left to head towards the cozy McNamara family cottage, he kept walking until he cleared the boundaries of the village proper and was on the road to the estate.

His phone had been buzzing steadily in his pocket. A stream of texts and calls that he wasn’t ready to acknowledge. It sat alongside a folded up letter from his grandfather, his name scripted on the front of the envelope. Mr. Stillwell had handed it to him with a sad look upon his face after they discussed the particulars of the estate transfer and early access to his trust, but Oliver wasn’t ready to open it. There was too much to process; his life was thrown into an unexpected chaos.

As he walked the familiar path, Mr. Stillwell’s words echoed in his mind.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, the estate has operated at minimal capacity over the last couple of years. A house and grounds of that magnitude have proportionate expenses, and surely you noticed the reduction in staff,” Mr. Stillwell explained.

When had the estate started to fail? Was it when he had left for Eton or Oxford? Or had it been right from the start? He couldn’t believe that he had been so ignorant not to notice. When did Rose become the last person working there? When had the bedrooms on the top floor been closed off and no longer used? How had he missed every single sign?

“Your grandfather had made some sound investments around the tech boom that kept the place going for a time, but those funds have now been depleted since that market evened out.”

Oliver’s feet moved on autopilot, his legs carrying him towards his home without thought. The gravel crunched under his feet as he headed up the drive, past the row of trees and to the house. His childhood memories felt cloudy, like they were unreliable; the rose colored glasses torn off his face.

“He was a great man, Oliver, but he was stubborn. I was able to convince him to contact professionals to help manage the estate a few years prior, but nothing came of it. He wasn’t willing to take their advice, it seems.”

He hesitated at the front door, the key in his hand wavering outside the lock. His eyes newly appraised the door, catching on places where the walnut had chipped, its dark color faded in patches that caught the most sunlight. He took a step back and frantically took in the state of the front porch. Cobwebs spanned the corners above his head, there were cracks in the concrete under his feet, and suddenly, his hand was shaking so hard that slotting the key into the lock was impossible.

Oliver staggered backwards, nearly slipping off the first step. He abruptly turned and stumbled down the remaining stairs, tugging off his suit jacket as he went and carelessly dropping it on the ground. That stifling feeling from the church pews had returned, and he greedily sucked in as much fresh air as he could as he stumbled down the path through the gardens.

He first passed his grandfather’s vegetable patch, and was rewarded with a momentary bit of relief. Other than a few weeds that needed pulled since his death, it had been well maintained. But that was the only thing that had been. The grass surrounding the property was overgrown, the spring flowers left unpruned, the lake almost unrecognizable from the film of algae that had taken residence on its surface. It wasn’t solely a springtime neglect, a lack of time to tackle the new growth of the season—this had been years in the making. Right under Oliver’s nose.

He wanted, needed, something grounding.

Like they had done earlier, his feet automatically carried him where his heart had wanted to go, and soon he was standing in front of the entrance to the maze. The Enter sign had fallen from its post and was laying on the ground. Oliver bent to retrieve it, clutching it to his chest before reattaching it.

When he was a child, the hedges had seemed twenty-feet tall. He would turn one corner and be bathed in the light that shone through the leaves, and another turn would descend him into a shadowed darkness. It was magic and nature all twisted up together, making something extraordinary.

But now the hedges were dense and overcrowded the path. He shouldered his way through, numb and confused. As another twig snagged at his shirt, he tried to recall the last time he had been here. He knew it hadn’t been this unkempt, he knew it. He’d remember. Right?

A small branch caught Oliver on the side of his neck, and he hissed. He pressed his hand against the skin, and was surprised when he pulled it away to see a tiny droplet of blood. He wiped it on his pants and continued to push forward.

Without thinking, he had taken a detour away from the center path. He regarded the wall of white hydrangeas, blooming and wild, their buds expanding onto the walls to the right and left, the stone bench that supported memories both happy and sad. But it wasn’t the time to sink into those memories. Backtracking, he left their spot and along with it, his thoughts of Jesse. Locked away for another time and place.

Finally, he was at the straight that would lead him to the fountain. What comfort he thought the muses would provide, he didn’t know, but he sought them out anyway.

Maybe he wanted to gaze upon Euterpe’s face and see his sadness reflected on hers, or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe he wanted to be closer to his grandfather. That here, Oliver knew he’d feel his presence. Maybe he hopelessly wanted a sign, a foreign entity to swoop in and tell him what to do, how to proceed with his life.

Once he arrived at the center of the maze, the warm breeze caressing his face, the sound of birds singing in the distance, no clarity came.

There was no sign.