Chapter 12

12

I step into the foyer, my cheeks warm with happiness. It could have been the wine, but I think it's more likely due to the company.

Morgan Ashton-Drake fascinates me in a way no one else ever has. It's not just that he's gorgeous because, oh my god, I want to lick that man like a six-foot lollipop of sticky-sweet yumminess.

No, it's… well, actually, I can't explain it. A tug of awareness deep in my gut tells me this man is somehow important. Not just to me, but maybe to his grandfather too, or maybe it's just me being overly optimistic as usual. This is all probably going to end in spectacular disaster, which is what usually happens when I try to do something good.

"Ellis, there you are," Rosie says as she closes the office door and locks it for the night. "I thought you might be with our American guest. Checking his bedding is up to scratch." She grins.

"Don't be ridiculous." I set the heavy tray I'm carrying on the reception desk. It's laden with a huge, steaming mug of Aggie's incredible hot chocolate and warm, freshly baked cookies. "I'm not just going to jump into bed with Morgan. He's off-limits."

"Why?"

"Uh, maybe because I don't even know if he's into guys." I begin to tick the reasons off on my fingers. "And then there's the fact that he's Mr Ashton-Drake's grandson, and also that he's a sort of guest and it wouldn't be very professional of me to show up at his room with a bottle of chocolate sauce and ask if he minds if I lick it off his naked torso."

"So you have thought about it."

"Of course I have," I reply, unabashed. "Thought it over in great detail, but that's where he's staying. Firmly in the spank bank labelled things I probably shouldn't think about during self-gratification but I won't admit to, so it doesn't count ."

She snorts loudly and changes the subject. "You on your way up to see Mr Ashton-Drake?"

I nod. "I get the feeling seeing Morgan churned up some feelings, so I'm just going to check in on him before bed."

"Do you want me to?" She wraps her chunky knit cardigan around herself tightly to ward off the night chill. "I'm on my way up to my room anyway. I can stop in."

"Thanks, but it's fine. I'll do it."

"Okay, then. Well, I've locked up down here and checked the forecast for tomorrow. Even heavier snows heading in."

"We better double-check the heating and see if anyone wants extra blankets for their rooms, then."

"I'll do that first thing after breakfast." Rosie yawns. "Night, Ellis."

"Night, Rosie." I watch as she climbs the stairs and disappears.

Looking around the dimmed lobby, I smile happily to myself. I really do love this place with my whole heart and can't imagine having to live anywhere else. Shaking my head, I remind myself not to dwell on negative thoughts. We're going to find a way to save this place, I just know we will.

Picking up the tray I turn towards the stairs. I've barely set one foot on the bottom step when Bertie and Roger appear next to me, startling me so much I jostle the tray and only just manage to right myself and prevent hot chocolate from sloshing over the side of Mr Ashton-Drake's favourite mug.

"Oh, my goodness," I gasp with a small laugh. "Don't you two sleep?"

Roger grins. "Oh, honey, we don't need to."

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" I begin to climb the stair flanked by my two oddball ghosts. "If this is about saving the hotel, I still haven't come up with a plan yet. You'll have to be a bit more patient."

"No, lad," Bertie booms heartily, the sound shocking in the stillness of the sleepy hotel. "We just thought we'd check in on our favourite fleshie."

"As nice as it is to be anyone's favourite anything, would you mind terribly not referring to me as a fleshie? It makes me sound like a sex toy."

"Well, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" Roger winks cheekily, and I blush all the way to the root of my hair.

"Have you been snooping around in my room?"

"Not exactly." He raises one brow and I burn even redder if that's possible.

"Oh my god, you weren't watching me, were you?" I gasp in utter mortification.

"Relax, sweet boy." Roger lights a cigarette and waves his hand airily as he blows out a thin trail of ghostly smoke. "I'm very respectful of your privacy. I was just floating around when I happened to see you perusing your… collection."

"Oh my god," I mutter, knowing I could probably toast marshmallows on my cheeks right now. "I don't get out much."

"Oh, hush now, darling," Roger purrs. "There's nothing wrong with that. I'm a little jealous, to be honest. They barely had anything to choose from when I was alive. Honestly, you'd have never got me out of my room if I'd had a variety like that."

"Yes, well, as enlightening as this discussion is," Bertie cuts in, "you do know you've got the real thing on the fourth floor."

"What?"

"My great-great-nephew." Bertie wiggles her brows. "I have it on good authority he's into chaps." On the last word, she gives a final wiggle of her brows for emphasis.

"Have you been listening in on people's private conversations again?" I sigh. "That's really quite rude."

"Tosh," she sniffs. "Couldn't help it if the lad talks loudly."

"If he's in the privacy of his room, you most certainly can help it," I admonish her gently. "Please stay out of the guests' rooms."

Bertie huffs. "Still, your dinner date seemed to go well."

"It wasn't a date." I can't help the smile tugging at my lips at the thought of him though.

"Sure, it wasn't." Roger snorts. "I could practically see you making heart eyes at each other."

"That is absolutely not true," I protest. "He was just being kind, and it's not like he had many other options for company. Mr Pennington has barricaded himself in the study to write his next novel. Rosie was in the office watching, ironically, re-runs of The Office , and Aggie never leaves the kitchen. Plus, I don't think she'd be good company for Morgan unless he wanted an in-depth discussion on how she sharpens her knives."

"You two looked like you were enjoying yourselves though?" Bertie nudges. "Eh?"

I frown slightly, not really sure what she's getting at. "Yes, I did enjoy his company. It's nice to have someone new to talk to. After all, I haven't left the hotel in weeks, and even then, it was just to pop down to the village for Mrs Braithwaite's homemade preserves for Aggie."

"Oh, I do remember those." Bertie beams. "She uses the same recipe as her mother, Vera, did. I used to have Vera's preserves on my toast every morning when I was alive. Vera was a fine-looking woman, used to pop in for tea and scones every now and then." She winks salaciously at me. "If you get my drift."

I pause abruptly and turn to look at Bertie. "You and Mrs Braithwaite's mother?"

"What?" Bertie says innocently. "Her husband couldn't have found his way around a woman's lower portions with a map and a compass." She grins at me. "And I have always excelled at orienteering."

"Is that what you call it?" I laugh and begin climbing again.

"We're getting a bit off topic." Roger rolls his eyes. "We were on the subject of you and Morgan."

"There is no me and Morgan." I sigh. Not that I wouldn't have been tempted. "He's not staying and he's Mr Ashton-Drake's grandson. It's too messy even if he were interested."

I'm totally lying. If he showed even the slightest bit of interest, I'd be climbing that man like a jungle gym. What can I say? It's been a really… really long dry spell. "Why do you both care anyway? Don't you have more important otherworldly stuff to concentrate on?"

"Why, what have you heard?" Bertie says, shooting a look at Roger, who gives her a shrug and a what? Don't look at me, I haven't said anything look.

"Okay, what's going on?" I ask as I finally reach the top staircase and make my way down the corridor.

"Nothing?" Bertie replies, avoiding my gaze. "Absolutely nothing at all. Everything's tip-top and nothing out of the ordinary is going on at all."

I glance over at Roger.

"Nothing," he adds, echoing Bertie.

"Okay." I shrug and stop in front of Mr Ashton-Drake's door. "Now shoo, you two. Mr Ashton-Drake has had a trying day, and I don't want him any more stressed than he is. Given your penchant for eavesdropping, I'm assuming you know that the doctor said it's not good for his heart."

Bertie's eyes soften as she looks at me almost affectionately. "You're a good lad, Ellis. I couldn't have asked for someone better to look after Cedric."

Before I can open my mouth to say anything, both of them flicker out, and I'm once again alone in the silence of the corridor.

I'm not sure I'll ever understand those two.

I carefully balance the tray on one hand and raise my other fist to knock.

"Come," a gravelly voice calls from the other side.

Opening the door, I step inside and close it behind me with a quiet click. Looking up, I see Mr Ashton-Drake in his striped blue-and-white pyjamas and tartan dressing gown, brown leather carpet slippers on his feet.

"I've brought you a hot chocolate and a couple of Aggie's cookies. She baked them fresh this evening just for you."

He settles down into his armchair beside the crackling fireplace and harrumphs. "I suppose you'll be mashing it all up and feeding it to me with a straw soon."

"Only if you ask nicely." I grin and set the tray on the table beside him, then reach up to grab his favourite blanket that I crocheted for him and tuck it over his legs. "There's a chill in the air tonight." I hand him the mug. "They're forecasting heavy snow again."

He huffs. "That's nothing. When I was a kid, the snow got so deep around here it used to fall over the tops of my wellies. Clifford and I would drag out sleds up to the big hill by the old oak."

"I know it." I smile when he takes a sip and glances up at me.

"We'd spend hours playing out there in the woods …" He trails off, lost in memory.

"Do you miss him? Your brother? He's been gone a long time, hasn't he?"

"I miss them all. I'm the last one," he says quietly.

"You're not the last one. You still have Morgan."

He stiffens, and I remind myself to tread carefully. "Sit down, Ellis," he snaps. "You're making my neck ache."

I slip onto the armchair opposite him on the other side of the fireplace.

"You didn't bring a cup for yourself?" he says after a moment, wrapping his bony fingers around his mug and most likely enjoying the relief the warm brings his arthritic hands.

"I had a late dinner," I reply. "I'm still full."

"The stew was good." He takes another sip before picking up a cookie. "I sent my plates down in the dumbwaiter." He nods towards the small square wooden shutter set into the wall.

On the other side is a small lift on a bell and pulley system which is just large enough to place trays and plate in. It's over a hundred years old, but it still works, and although I always make sure I bring his meals up in person, it does help having him send his empties down. I'm used to the profusion of staircases in this place, but there are times when I wish we had a lift to all the floors. I sigh quietly; this place really could use some modernising.

"What you huffing for over there, lad?" Mr Ashton-Drake slurps his chocolate loudly and proceeds to dunk a cookie, which then disintegrates into a soggy lump and drops back into the mug with a plop.

"Nothing." I give him a pleasant smile. It's not like he isn't aware of the financial state of the hotel—it is his property, after all—but I don't like to heap more worry on him if I can help it.

"Doesn't sound like nothing." He continues to stare into his mug with a small frown, as if trying to figure out if he's better off using his fingers to retrieve the cookie or letting it dissolve completely and just drinking it. "You sound like an asthmatic chipmunk."

I chuckle lightly. "There are worse things, I suppose."

"What's on your mind, boy? You may as well spit it out. Some of us aren't getting any younger, you know."

"You'll live to be a hundred. I'm certain of it."

"Which is not as far off as you might think." He gives up on trying to look for the remains of his cookie and takes a gulp of the now lukewarm drink. "Stop stalling. Either tell me what's on your mind or go to bed. It's getting late."

"I just want to say sorry."

"What for?" Mr Ashton-Drake looks over at me, confused.

"Earlier, with Morgan. I feel like I just sprung his visit on you and then steamrollered right over you without considering how you might feel."

"If it makes you feel any better, you're a very sweet-natured steamroller." He sets his mug down on the table, now empty but for a sugary sludge in the bottom.

"Still, I'm sorry," I murmur. "I was so excited you had family coming to visit you. I didn't really stop to think you might not be happy about seeing him. After all, you haven't seen him since he was a child."

This time he sighs loudly. "It's complicated."

"I would never presume to invade your privacy and ask for details, but whatever happened between you and him?—"

"He didn't do anything," Mr Ashton-Drake mutters quietly. "Go in that drawer." He points to an old 1950s sideboard.

I do as he says, rising from my chair and opening the large curved middle drawer. Inside are several old photo albums.

"Bring me the red one."

Again, I do as instructed and pick up a small album with a dark red leather cover. Handing it to him, I take a seat on the footstool beside him. He leafs through several pages until he finds what he wants and then hands it back to me.

Glancing down at the open page, I see Mr Ashton-Drake sitting on a blanket on the grass by the largest oak tree on the grounds. He's wearing a tweed suit and his hair is darker, shot through with grey. He also has fewer wrinkles, but what's really startling is that his head is tilted back and he's laughing. Really laughing. It's like the joy is seeped into the page.

Next to him is a man whose appearance gives me a jolt. He could be Morgan's double, albeit a few years younger and slightly less serious than Morgan appears to be. The man in the photo is looking at Mr Ashton-Drake and smiling, and on his lap is an adorable dark-haired boy clutching a toy train.

"Is this?—"

"Morgan? Yes." He nods. "He was three, I think, when that was taken. Right here on the grounds, not far from the pond where we taught him to swim."

"We?"

Mr Ashton-Drake reaches out with his own twisted, trembling finger and taps the man in the picture.

"My son, Elliott," he whispers, and the pain in his voice hits me somewhere deep inside, making me hurt for him. "My wife, Edith, took that picture. She adored our grandson from the moment he was born, loved him as fiercely as she loved our son. I'm not sure where Elliott's wife, Lillian, was when that was taken, lying down most probably. She seemed to suffer from an inordinate amount of headaches, but the truth is, I don't think she ever quite warmed up to life here at the estate, or even to England in general. She was American."

He taps the book again and I turn the page to reveal a close-up of a stunning blonde woman.

"That's Morgan's mother."

"She's very beautiful," I mutter, studying the picture.

I can see hints of Morgan in her striking features. A little around the eyes, the shape of her nose—but other than that whisper of shared genetics, Morgan is a carbon copy of his father. It must have been so painful for Mr Ashton-Drake to see Morgan looking the way he does.

"For a moment, I thought he was Elliott," he confesses so quietly I almost miss it, confirming my suspicions. "Morgan was only six the last time I saw him… when Lillian took him to…" He breaks off and clears his throat. "I suppose somehow he's always remained a child in my mind. Of course he's not. He's already lived ten years beyond the time Elliott had."

"What happened to Morgan's dad?" I ask softly.

"Aneurysm," he replies as he traces his fingers over the blanket. "A ticking time bomb in his head none of us knew about. He stood up from a chair and the next thing we knew, he was falling. He was dead before he hit the ground. There was nothing that could have saved him, they told me, and that he wouldn't have felt it. He was only twenty-nine years old. I was still grieving my Edie, I'd only lost her the winter before, and then I was burying my child."

"I'm so sorry." I reach out and lay my hand over his, feeling the dry, papery skin stretched thin over his fragile bones.

I'm surprised when he lifts his other hand and lays it over the top of our joined hands, patting my skin, but he doesn't let go.

"I didn't cope well, shut myself in my room," he admits. "Lillian said she was taking Morgan to see her parents, and she never brought him back. By the time I'd pulled myself together enough to call and ask to see him, it had been over a year and Lillian had already met that American fella. She said Morgan didn't remember a lot of what happened. She'd had him in therapy and apparently the doctor or whoever they were said that he'd suppressed a lot of his memories from the grief. Lillian thought it might be better for him to have a clean break and start afresh."

"But that's terrible." I frown. "He was still your family."

He shrugs. "Like I said, Lillian never really adapted to life here. I think she did love my son, and lord knows he was dazzled by her, but I don't know if their marriage would have survived long term. She allowed Morgan to keep my son's name even when she married her second husband. I guess I just didn't have it in me to fight her. I started thinking maybe he would be better off somewhere new and exciting. Somewhere filled with adventure and opportunities instead of being surrounded by sadness like I was. In the end, I retreated further and further into my rooms because there wasn't anything out there for me anymore."

"That's not true," I tell him softly. "We're here. We can't ever replace your wife or your son, but we're your family and we love you. That's why we're all still here."

He reaches up and pats my cheek. "You're such a good lad. I hope life is kinder to you than it has been to me."

"Mr Ashton-Drake." I draw in a breath. "You still have Morgan."

"It's too late. We're strangers."

"It's never too late. He's here, isn't he?" I reply. "No matter the reasons that brought him here, he's here now. Why don't you spend some time getting to know him, get to know the man he is now?"

He shakes his head. "What's the point? Like his mother, he won't stay."

"But—"

"Nope, no point, might as well leave things the way they are." He releases my hands and pulls the blanket from his knees, then takes the photo album from me and tucks it reverently back into the drawer. "I'm tired now, I think I'll go to bed."

There isn't anything I could say to him right now that would help, but I at least feel like I understand him a little better. I rise from the footstool and cross the room to the door, with him shuffling along behind me to see me out.

I open the door and step out into the hallway. "Goodnight, Mr Ashton-Drake."

"You may as well call me Cedric," he says gruffly.

"Really?" I turn and beam at him.

"Might as well." He shrugs, and I hear him mutter sourly as he closes the door, "I'll probably be dead soon anyway."