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We certainly did not.
I wiped my sodden hair out of my eyes as my wet skirt slapped against my bare, shivering knees.
Our weeklong holiday at Meddleworth was off to a…predictablestart.
CHAPTERFOUR
Bree: Mina, when you get a chance, give me a call. I can’t see Grimalkin anywhere.
She hasn’t come for her dinner.
It’s possible the ghosts scared her away, but ducks are normally the animals who can see spirits, not cats. (Don’t ask me, I don’t make the rules.)
I figure she’s probably sleeping somewhere, but I want to check on her. Anywhere she might be hiding?
Heathcliff picked up all the bags and we followed Jonathan a short way along the muddy maintenance track and piled into his enormous range rover. We drove through a beautiful wood to emerge on the edge of a wide lawn, laid out with neat rows of parterre gardens and a long, rectangular pool that had overflowed its concrete border. Wide, deep puddles reflected the grim, grey skies.
“There she is, Meddleworth House.” Jonathan grinned as he gestured to a towering edifice of grey stone that I assumed was the castle. Meddleworth was technically a castle, and it still had the original gatehouse and some crumbling curtain walls (although we hadn’t got to see them thanks to Morrie’s shortcut), but it had been converted into a stately home in the seventeenth century. I’d had Quoth describe the pictures to me, and I knew it was a long building finished in the Italianate style by Sir Charles Barry with its low-pitched roof, projecting eaves, imposing carved cornices and pediments, and a plethora of romantic loggias and balconies. All I could make out now was the faint outline of the impressive building, but it was enough to form an impression.
Plus, I bet it was warm.
It’s beautiful, Quoth whispered inside my head, his talons digging into my shoulder. I knew he hadn’t intended to show up at Meddleworth in his bird form, but his clothes were now somewhere at the bottom of the river, and if he shifted now, he’d make quite an impression.
Jonathan parked up around the corner decide an old outbuilding and started off across the muddy lawn, walking at a brisk pace. Morrie’s long legs had no trouble keeping up with him, and Heathcliff walked with me and Oscar, laden down with all our bags. Quoth took off, telling us that he’d meet us in the room later.
“Have you worked here long?” Morrie asked Jonathan.
“Aye, for most of my life. My father was the old groundskeeper, back when this was still a stately home and the Bollstead family were—” he trailed off, then scratched his head. “Let’s say that things have changed around here with Donna’s new innovations.”
He said innovations like it was a dirty word. I assumed he was talking about the luxury spa that the current owner, Donna Bollstead, had installed. Personally, I was hoping I’d be able to find an hour or so away from the retreat where I could try one of the treatments.
Oscar, of course, thought it was a grand game to walk me through the puddles. By the time we reached the castle, we were cold, muddy, and miserable.
But that changed the moment Jonathan flung open the doors and ushered us inside. The entrance foyer was lit by an enormous, glittering chandelier that drew my eyes immediately. Warmth from a roaring fire permeated my bones. We made our way squelchily around the perimeter of the room so I could learn the space, and Jonathan stopped at every suit of armor, gilded portrait, and sword display to tell us about the history of the place. He was a walking Meddleworth guidebook.
“When my father was a boy, he once hid in this suit of armor.” Jonathan rapped his knuckles lovingly on a shiny set beside the reception desk. “It was during one of the infamous Meddleworth writing retreats, and the famed poet Caspian Steele was complaining loudly about a cockroach in his shower when the knight’s hand stretched out toward him, beckoning him from beyond the grave. Caspian ran out of the hotel and never came back. He wrote a poem about the day – one of his best, although I’m no judge; I don’t really understand poetry. But it’s hanging on the wall in the restaurant…”
Jonathan ducked his head into the restaurant, where staff members were bustling about, preparing the tables for tonight’s literary feast. Although only four writers were attending the retreat, the reception drew people from the publishing world from all over the country. My chest flipped with excitement. I was going to meet some of my literary idols tonight.
And hopefully, my future colleagues.
I hope I brought the right outfit.
“Arf!” Oscar reassured me as he trotted after Jonathan.
“Guest rooms are on floors one and two of the south wing,” Jonathan explained as he led us up a carved, winding staircase. “Below is the restaurant and the conference rooms and library and drawing rooms where the retreat will be held. In the north wing, you’ll find the spa and gym and meditation room, as well as the art studio in the old servants’ quarters, and the pottery workshop and forge in the outbuildings.”
Morrie rubbed his hands together gleefully, apparently already forgetting about the harrowing experience he’d just put us all through. “I’m looking forward to being oiled.”
Jonathan pushed a door open and ushered us inside. The room was enormous, with whitewashed walls, huge stone lintels, and heavy, antique wooden furniture. I loved it instantly. “Here is your suite. You have these two rooms with a view over the grounds. Isn’t there a fourth member of your party?”
“Er, yes.” I leaned against the window just as Quoth fluttered down and perched on the sill. “He’s…arriving separately.”
“I hope he gets in soon. We’re due for another thunderstorm tomorrow night, and the weather is going to start getting worse in an hour or so.”
“He’ll be here,” I said. “He didn’t try to take a shortcut.”
Morrie held his hand over his heart and flopped onto the bed. “Ow, gorgeous, I’m bleeding.”
