Chapter Eighteen

The next day we were in Yorkshire. It seemed a miracle to me, that it was as simple as getting on a train, and that only hours later I could be hundreds of miles from the city in which I had spent my whole life.

As the distance sped past, and we left the sprawl of the city behind, I felt no shame in pressing my face to the windows of our fancy first-class carriage. I had only travelled by train once before, and it certainly hadn't been in the sort of luxury that Oliver Lockhart seemed to take for granted. Mrs Finch, too, seemed as unflappable as ever, sitting quietly in the corner with her book.

As we moved further and further from London, it was as if a weight was being lifted from my chest, and I didn't understand why. Daisy's question of the day before rang in my ears. It's not as if you're going to be here for ever, is it?

Would I only stay at Bloom's if I didn't marry – or if I married someone who wanted me to continue working? Presumably such an arrangement would mean that the man in question would take over the shop. And did I even want to get married at all? My heart had been badly bruised by Simon, and the man was objectively a buffoon. Surely, it was better not to risk it, not to make myself vulnerable again.

After what had happened six months ago, such thoughts had been sealed away tightly in a box, but now that box had sprung open. I was forced to admit to myself that one day I wanted a family, and hard as it was to imagine, when I saw Izzy and Max together, I knew that if I ever did marry, then I wanted what they had – a true partnership between equals. But was such a thing even possible? Their relationship was nothing like mine had been with Simon.

As the questions tumbled noisily over one another in my mind, I goggled at the countryside unfolding outside the train: the neat handkerchief squares of green and yellow and amber, separated from me by the thin sheet of glass that felt cold under my fingertips.

The train moved so fast, and we shed the distance effortlessly, miles piling up behind us like a line of casually discarded clothes dropped on the way to bed. The world was, after all, so much bigger than London, and it had been – in the end – almost laughably easy to leave. I didn't think my life was small; it was busy and full of good work and good people, triumphs and the occasional catastrophe, and it was mine.

But.

That word lingered. But perhaps there could be more. It seemed more obvious here, setting out on this wild caper… There was more. If I wanted it.

I was giving myself a headache.

We changed trains at Peterborough for York, and it seemed only moments before we were arriving, spilling out on to the platform with the other passengers. Two hundred miles further from home than I had ever been.

"Barker should have brought the carriage to meet us," Oliver said, scanning the crowded station, as we made our way through the scrum. "I wrote to Beth, to tell her about our plans."

Catching my look of curiosity, he added, "Barker is my aide-de-campe, and Beth – his daughter – is my housekeeper."

"Aide-de-campe?" My brows lifted.

"It's Oliver's fancy way of saying he doesn't want to hire any other servants," Mrs Finch said. "Barker runs his household."

"Don't let Beth hear you say that," Oliver muttered. "Ah!" He straightened up. "There he is now."

With a flick of his wrist to the stewards who were carrying our bags, Oliver strode towards a carriage that was – as Daisy would say – bang up to the mark. Enormous, gleaming, gilded to within an inch of its life, with prancing gold unicorns painted on the doors.

I eyed it with alarm.

"Hideous, isn't it?" Oliver said sourly. "I told Barker to replace the last one – after your colleagues reduced it to tinder, actually – and when he kept coming to me with talk of springs and axels and seat cushions, I told him in no uncertain terms that I didn't care, didn't want to hear another word about it and to just buy whatever the hell he wanted. I believe this was his revenge."

Oliver looked at the fairy-tale carriage, suitable for Cinderella herself, like it was a mouldy old pumpkin.

"Here you are!" The man who must have been Barker stepped forward, all smiles. I'd place him somewhere in his fifties, and his accent was pure Yorkshire. "And this young lady must be your future bride!" His smile widened and he winked at me. I smiled back, knowing that Oliver's servants were in on the ruse.

"That's enough, Barker," Oliver growled.

"Just happy to see you taking steps towards settling down, young Oliver," Barker continued to tease him. Clearly used to this, Oliver only rolled his eyes, yanking the door to the carriage open.

"Barker, this is Miss Bloom and Mrs Finch," he said gesturing between us. "Mrs Finch, Miss Bloom – this is Barker. Feel free to ignore every word that comes out of his mouth. Now, get in."

"Oliver." Mrs Finch's tone was without emotion, and she said only that, uttering his name calmly while she treated him to a long look.

There was a pause.

"Apologies." Oliver's chin dipped. "I meant to say, would you care to get in?"

"Lovely." Mrs Finch reached out her hand, and Oliver automatically lifted his to help her into the carriage.

"Miss Bloom?" He quirked a brow.

"Thank you, Mr Lockhart," I said, sweetly slipping my fingers into his and allowing him to help me inside too. I got the impression that Oliver wasn't used to performing such social niceties, and this impression was confirmed by Barker's choke of laughter.

Swinging into the seat beside me, Oliver closed the door and stuck his head out of the window. "Can we get going now, please?"

Still chuckling to himself, Barker climbed up on to the box, and soon we lurched away, through the twisting streets and away from the middle of town.

The carriage was like nothing I had ever travelled in before. The seats were plush, soft velvet the colour of bluebells, and instead of the noisy rattle of a hackney over cobbles, the ride was smooth as glass.

Oliver lapsed into silence, and across from me, Mrs Finch pulled out her book once more. I returned to my new favourite pastime: staring out of the window. The view was hypnotizing – ever changing – and I watched avidly as we moved out of the city, and the scenery and the light altered in front of me like a magic trick.

"Oh!" I couldn't help the breathy exclamation that fell from my lips when we eventually emerged on to the moors. "Please," I managed, turning to Oliver. "Please can we stop? Just for a moment?"

He looked at me, his dark eyes inscrutable, then he reached up and knocked on the roof of the carriage. We came to an abrupt stop, and sending disjointed thanks over my shoulder, I yanked the door open and spilled out on to the road, almost falling to my knees in my hurry.

Green.

I had never seen such green. I was in the middle of the tumbling landscape, a lush covering of ferns and starry, purple heathers punctuated with rugged trees, the unmoving guardians of centuries. Peaks rose and fell, the scene undulating under the endless blue sky, and I could see for miles. Everywhere I looked was wild, untamed.

I only stood, utterly still, as if I could grow roots myself, as if – if I willed it hard enough – I could become a part of it all.

It was a dream. It was literally the stuff of my dreams, making me feel as though I knew this place, as though I had been here before. I felt my lips part, my eyes filled with unexpected tears.

A presence appeared at my elbow, and I blinked up at Oliver. Without a word, he handed me his handkerchief.

Ruefully, I wiped at my cheeks where the tears spilled over. "I really don't cry all the time," I quavered.

He gave a huff of disbelief. "All evidence to the contrary, Bloom."

I started at the casual use of my last name, without the "Miss" attached. It felt right coming from him – gruff and not quite polite. Not precisely warm but almost … friendly.

"It's so beautiful," I managed, steadying my voice and holding out the handkerchief. "I've never seen anywhere so beautiful before."

"Keep it," Oliver said. "You seem to need one often enough."

"Thank you," I said, tucking it into the sleeve of my dress.

"Are you ready to go?" he asked.

Reluctantly, I nodded, and he helped me back into the carriage. As we drove away, I skimmed my fingers along the end of my sleeve, brushing the edge of his handkerchief, curiously thrilled by the knowledge it was there.

We continued for another hour or so, perhaps longer; I couldn't tell you exactly, because I was too busy gorging on the scenery. It was a landscape you would never tire of – and it went on for miles.

"We're almost there," Oliver said finally, his voice breaking the quiet. Leaning over me, he pointed up to where the road climbed to the right. As we rounded a bend, I gasped again.

"That … that's your house?" I choked.

Oliver tugged at his collar, eyes flashing. "Yes," he said shortly.

I lifted my brows at him. "I thought you said it wasn't a castle?"

"It's not a castle," Oliver said stubbornly. "It's a hall. Lockhart Hall."

"Lockhart," I leaned towards him, close enough that I could see the almost black rim around his dark irises, and I pointed out of the window. "That is a castle."

And it was. Perched high on a jutting stone cliff that tumbled dramatically away on one side, it looked like the sort of castle that a demon king might inhabit. There were turrets twisting into the sky, for goodness' sake! And a thousand windows cut into the dark stone. It looked as though it should have banners flying, men in suits of armour stomping around, perhaps a dragon or two breathing fire to ward off inquisitive villagers.

I had thought Mrs Finch was exaggerating about the drawbridge, but there really was one of those too. It was lowered over a stream that ran a steep drop below the front gate. I supposed that when the drawbridge was raised, the house was an island to itself, completely isolated. From what I knew of Oliver Lockhart's character, that was probably just how he liked it.

We clattered across the drawbridge, and through the gate in the surrounding high stone wall that led to a small courtyard.

"These walls," I said, looking up at them. "This place was some sort of fortress?"

Oliver made a hum of agreement. "Those narrow cuts in the stone are arrow slits; archers could stand behind them and shoot at unwanted guests."

"How often have you used them on your unwanted guests?" I asked with a smirk.

"I haven't yet. But I have certainly been tempted."

"Speaking of whom," Mrs Finch murmured, and I realized that she was not distracted by the Gothic monstrosity in which we found ourselves – she had her eyes firmly on the three people stepping out of the shadowed doorway instead.

In an instant, I felt myself on edge. I was reminded, forcibly, of the reason we were here.

"Are you ready?" Oliver asked me, his mouth set in a grim line.

"Yes," I replied, fixing a sunny smile on my face. "Time to meet the family."