The Reluctant Heiress

Coming Home

The interior of the oversized car, some modified Bentley maybe, was entirely black leather – because of course it was – and set up more like a limo or a black cab than anything else. It was impossible to ignore the way it screamed ‘look at me! I’m stupidly rich.”

 I huddled in the far corner, hugging my rucksack to my chest.

My father, on the other hand, made sure to select the seat diagonally across from me, about as far away as was physically possible. The print of his chosen broadsheet was a barrier between us, a fortress built from paper and type-neat words. Words that would have been too small for me to make out if I’d dared to look in his direction.

I might have asked what the headlines were but the idea of my father’s cool, flat voice in such a small space made me squirm closer to the door handle.

Do it for the boys. Do it for them. They need you.

So, here I was…in the back of a stranger’s car with no idea of where I was going or what was going to happen when I got there. It was exactly like those stories’ parents told their kids to keep them safe – about children being snatched off the street and carted away after talking to a stranger who offered them sweets.

Or perhaps I was the lead in some bad fairy tale, being chauffeured to her destiny in the back of the nicest car I’d ever been inside of.

My father’s sinister smile, the way he’d eyed my brother’s like a wolf flashed in my mind and I had a sinking feeling that this tale was being written by the Brothers’ Grimm… nothing here was going to end well for me.

Ridiculous, I snorted quietly to myself and tugged my rucksack close enough to rest my chin on top.

Just how many girls, or anyone really, would jump at the chance of sudden, inexplicable wealth? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands? The latter probably – it had to be at least as many people as put on the lottery every week.

But I didn’t care about money, not really. Not the way that other people did. What was the point of it beyond moderate comfort anyway; just enough to enjoy a comfortable life? Maybe a little extra to help the boys when they needed it.

And yet, here I was. The lucky winner of the upper-class jackpot, no fairy godmother needed.

I knew that the life I had left behind was pitiful. I wasn’t stupid. I knew we were poor and pathetic; I’d felt hunger twist my guts more nights than I cared to remember. But at least I knew that life. I’d seen the huntsman for myself and knew when to flee. I’d kept breadcrumbs in my pocket and under my bed. I knew, knew the ups and downs of my life. I had it memorized and branded black on my heart.

Just how many nights had I ushered the boys into my room and spun them tales of my own? Barely a whisper in the dark, I’d weaved together the words I’d stolen from the books of my childhood as their small bodies encased me in warmth. Junior and Andrew on the sides, Teddy on my lap asleep already. The difference was that my stories always had a happy ending, where everything was just right and where princes and paupers where loved equally. It was one of the few things I could do for them, to extend their fragile childhood.

And now I’d forced junior to take up the mantle. I’d ended his childhood-

No, I couldn’t think about that. I would not cry in front of my father, newspaper between us or not. Instead, I let my face sink into my bag, trying to breathe as quietly as I could.

I was on the cusp of a new life; the one I’d have to lead to keep the boys warm and fed, to keep my mother alive and maybe even happy. But here was something I’d wanted forever, the only thing I had wanted, and I longed for that house. Our house, built from rotting gingerbread and the hope of something better. It was a blight in my stomach, that twisted irony, a leaden weight I couldn’t shift.

What was the saying? Be careful what you wish for.

I should have kept my damned cotton candy dreams to myself, buried in the depths of my heart.

A small sob escaped me, the smell of my bedroom – faint damp and the vanilla candles that I liked to light after Johnathon went to bed - rushing in to fill up my lungs. I sucked it down greedily, not caring if my father saw, and my chest loosened a little. I hadn’t been aware of the tightness of my ribcage about my lungs, of how shallowly I’d been breathing.

It made it a little easier to bear, to have a piece of home.

Heaving another sigh, drawing in another breath of home, I lifted my head. The rays of the midday sun streaked through the tinted windows, blinding my already bleary eyes. Squinting to try and clear away the spots dancing in my vision, I leaned against the warm glass. I’d probably leave a smear of sweat but I didn’t care.

How quickly the tall, hoary buildings of the city had given way to the fresh, bright greens and butter yellows of the English countryside under the influence of the chauffer’s heavy foot. It was lovely, truly beautiful as it whirled by. A stretching landscape of colour so intense that the spring breeze sat on my tongue and the cut grass tickled my nose…despite the closed windows and stale air-con air blowing through the car.

This was the first time I could remember ever leaving the city limits. I had no idea where we were, what road we were driving along, or even what our destination was. ‘The Park’ my father had called it like that told me anything. England was full of parks.

I soon gave up trying to read the road signs as they blitzed past. It wouldn’t change anything.

The only sign that we were getting anywhere was the lines of ever-thickening woodlands on either side of us. Pressing in close as lovers, they threatened to swallow up the narrow, winding road whole.

In all the best – and worst – of fairy tales, the woods are a place for wicked deeds and wicked hearts. Would ‘The Park’ be enclosed by the forest, by those tall, imperious pines? I guessed that I would find out soon enough.

Surely it would be better to close my eyes and block out the shady copse, to try and steal a moments peace, than to speculate? Who knew when I would be able to scrape together another.

I must have dozed off to the quiet lullaby of the engine because the next thing I knew, my father’s voice was scraping through the trailing smoke of my dreams. “Ah, here we are. Briarthorn Park.”

The car rolled to a crunching stop beneath us, the engine cutting out and taking the last of my dreams with it. Leaving me to suffocate in the sudden silence alone. Swallowing in an attempt to wet my bone-dry throat, I fished out my knock-off Aviators and slid them into place on my nose. Like putting on armour.

I watched as my father folded his newspaper straight down its crisp seams and set it aside. Probably for some poor sod to pick up later. He noticed my gaze, I was sure of it, but he didn’t acknowledge me as he gracefully unfolded himself and slid out through the door someone else opened for him.

I had to wonder if the permanent, smug, near-sneer that he wore came with wealth? Part and parcel of having every order obeyed and every whim catered to.

Would my face crack if it tried to mould to such a hateful expression? Or would it slide into place like it should have been there all along? Grumbling under my breath, low enough that it wouldn’t travel outside the car, I promised myself that I wouldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t let them change me.

With only a small pause, I scrambled out after my father. My foot caught on the trim of the door, sending me careening into a solid wall of black cloth. Well, I lacked my father’s elegance. The wall rumbled around a deep chuckle that ghosted over top of my sleep mussed curls.

“Careful, sweet.”

The purring promise turned my blood to ice even under the sun. I peeked up, abashed, to see my reflection staring back at me with wide eyes, skin paling in the glass of the dark shades perched atop a previously broken nose. Several times broken.

“s**t,” I pushed off of the behemoth, nearly stumbling over some gravel when it slid around under my feet. The man laughed again, the sound grinding in my ears. “Sorry-”

“Language,” my father snapped, looking at me sharply over his shoulder.

I didn’t care. I was too busy trying to keep one eye on the ground and the other on the man who was sizing me up for dinner. He was f*****g huge…built like a Rugby player twice over and dressed like a James Bond extra.

He had to be security. There was no way he could be anything else, looking like that.

But something was unsettling about the way he moved, his head tilting as he gobbled up the sight of me. Like a hawk waiting for a mouse to move in the grass. Predatory.

“You’re dismissed, Rosier,” my father said, clapping his guard on the shoulder before turning and walking toward the house-

The house-

My mouth fell open in an unflattering moue and I swore I could taste the coming rain on my tongue, feel the clouds skim across my palate. Felt it skip, and frolic, and dance. It was like the first true breath I’d ever taken. Everything that had come before proven a lie.

I hadn’t realised how stuffy the car was until the crisp air caressed the skin of my collarbone.

It was like nothing I had ever experienced. Ever.

Tears welled in my eyes as I thought of the city parks I loved so well. Bark and gravel playgrounds that were the only green spaces I had ever been able to touch and taste. The boys loved them as much as I did. Oh, I’d thought them jewels hidden amongst slate and granite.

How could I have been so, so wrong?

They paled so obviously, like finger paints next to an oil landscape painted by a master.

“Wow,” I breathed, spinning to try and take it all in.

I couldn’t- it would take weeks, months even, to see all of it. Rich, lush ornamental gardens, a neatly clipped lawn out to the side. The forest that edged the estate, so far away that I couldn’t make out individual trees. The hills in the distance.

Mother nature filled me with her life, left me cleaner and fuller, yet smaller and more wistful than I could have dreamed.  The sweet perfume of parched pine rushed to greet me, filling me to brimming with something I couldn’t name.

“I’m sure you’ll find the manor to your liking.” I jumped when my father pressed a hand to the small of my back, pushing me towards the house.

Gorgeous didn’t even begin to describe Briarthorn Park. It was, had to be, something out of the wildest of fairy tales. Or an Edwardian fever dream. The house was robust and yet genteel; old and yet new to me all the same. It had the beguiling charm of the English countryside, it’s walls draped in ivy, but the grounds were bursting with plants from all over the world.

“You live here? All alone?” I croaked when I eventually found my voice, unable to stop my sweeping, greedy eyes. Is that why he wanted me here?

He didn’t strike me as the type of man who was lonely.

“Alone? Don’t be ridiculous,” my father snorted.

A weight settled between my shoulder blades, sinking into my spine like a dull knitting needle. With the hair on my neck standing on end, I turned to see Rosier leaning against the car, chatting through the window to the driver. How could I have forgotten about him so quickly?

Gravel shifted beneath me.

With the glasses on I couldn’t be sure…but I thought that he was looking at me. His head dipped, a slow and leering smirk taking over his face. Any lower and I’d see his eyes over the rim of his glasses...

Tearing my gaze away, I looked up at the house again. So that I wouldn’t have to look at him. I could ignore the tingling on my back if I tried hard enough. I could distract myself-

Was my father right? Would I like this place? Was ‘like’ even the right word for something so perfect, so…intimidating. Unbidden, I thought about my little flat once more, wishing once upon a time. It would be cosy, charming. Nothing like this Country Living-Esque manor. I could see the pale-yellow walls so clearly; like the sun, or a buttercup in spring…

How quickly my dream had slipped through my grasping fingers, laying in tatters around my feet. Perhaps their decay could nourish the immaculate lawn, clipped and mown into lines like something out of a fertiliser advert. After all, they were no good to me now.

“Margaux!”

I followed my father, trying not to feel like a lapdog called to heel.  The chill shadow of the house sitting atop my head and shoulders was still nothing compared to the burning stare I felt lingering on my back.

Gripping the strap of my rucksack for dear life, right over my fluttering heart, I rushed over the threshold into the belly of the house.