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CHAPTER 30
The plane would be taking off about now and heading to Málaga. She should be on it, flying back to her uncomplicated life in Spain – sun, sea, lazy afternoons under the palm trees, and two jobs that she could do in her sleep. Two jobs that she was due to start again tomorrow.
Instead, she was driving through a rain storm across Dartmoor to confront a man she’d hoped never to see again. And her sunny, simple life abroad was going tits up.
Here, out on the moor, the clouds were so low they’d settled like mist on the high ground ahead of her. At least she wasn’t far now from High Tor House. It would be good to get this over with. But was the road moving? She suddenly realised the tarmac ahead was covered with swirling black water. A stream had burst its banks in the downpour and was blocking the way forward.
‘Not now,’ she groaned, slamming on her brakes and pulling the car onto the sodden grass. The road was impassable.
Pulling her jacket from the backseat, Rosie got out of the car and held out her hand. The rain had stopped for the moment but the glowering grey sky was threatening more downpours. In the distance, she could just make out the high chimneys of the Eppings’ mansion. There was nothing for it – she’d have to walk, and she’d be quicker going in a straight line over the moor rather than following the curve of the road.
The landscape stretched around her, vast and deserted, as she picked her way across the rough ground. Weathered boulders littered the earth, ready to trip her if she lost concentration, and the carcass of a sheep, picked bare by scavenging insects, only added to her low mood. Life and death were all around her.
The stream currently flowing across the road blocked her way again on higher ground, but here the rushing water was still within its banks. Someone centuries ago had bridged the stream with huge, flat slabs of stone and she gingerly made her way across, trying not to look at the torrent beneath her feet. The chimneys of High Tor House were still visible above a ridge of ground that didn’t seem to be getting any closer.
Cresting the ridge at last, Rosie spotted sheep scattered across the landscape and between her and the back of the Eppings’ magnificent house stood an ancient circle of pitted stones.
When she reached them, she brushed her hand over one of the lichen-stained stones and felt a tingling across her shoulders. Ancient magic, or the chill that was seeping deeper into her bones with every passing minute? The chill, she decided, ever pragmatic. But she stopped for a moment in the centre of the circle. If her mum were here, she’d start swaying to the beat of ‘unseen forces’ and channelling the stories of the men and women who once walked this land. She always reckoned that stone circles were mystical places for communing with the long gone.
It was a load of rubbish and yet… with only two bored sheep to observe her, Rosie began to spin with her arms outstretched. Rain dripped off her nose as she turned and let out a loud yell. Her mum would have called it a primal scream, and boy, it did feel good to let out some of the emotion that was churning inside her.
Liam’s fraught face loomed in her mind, his expression when he had told her that his farm was doomed and accused her of betraying him. Did he really think she would stoop so low as to save Driftwood House at the expense of his home and livelihood? Did he think so little of her? Tears stung her eyes as she spun and spun and yelled some more into the cold, damp air.
She stopped, feeling dizzy and ridiculous, which was when she spotted two figures in the distance. Standing together, with black clouds bunched behind them, they were watching her.
‘Wonderful!’ muttered Rosie, as tall yellow grasses swayed in the wind and a bird screeched overhead. The Eppings, out taking a stroll, had just seen her behaving like a total loon. Though what people in their right minds would choose to walk in such filthy weather?
No one moved while Rosie deliberated between fight or flight. Fleeing back to the car was tempting, but Liam’s farm was doomed unless the Eppings changed their minds. Rosie put her head down and started walking towards the couple.
They watched her approaching, Charles in a blue waterproof jacket and Cecilia, like a crow, in black from her boots to her hat. She was the first to speak.
‘Why are you here again? I thought we’d made it clear that you weren’t welcome.’
She seemed more wary than angry, thought Rosie, feeling her feet sink into the muddy ground. ‘I need to speak to you, please. Just for a few minutes, then I’ll be out of your lives forever.’
‘Are we supposed to take your word on that? You seem adept at turning up out of the blue.’
‘I promise you I’m leaving for Spain as soon as I can book a flight.’
‘I thought you were leaving today.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘I have my sources. You’re not the only person with spies in this county.’
‘I don’t have spies anywhere.’
‘Yet you knew about our hotel plan and now you’re stalking us.’
Rosie laughed because the accusation was so ridiculous, but Cecilia stared, her face pallid next to the black of her jacket. She looked hostile and a little bit scared.
‘I want you to go,’ she said, her voice harsh and shrill. But Charles put a hand on his wife’s arm.
‘Let the girl speak, Cecilia.’
‘You don’t have to listen to what she has to say.’
‘I think I do.’ He turned to her. ‘Why are you here, Rosie?’ It was the first time he’d called her by her first name and a shiver went down Rosie’s back. ‘You should have received word that Driftwood House is no longer being demolished. My wife has been persuaded to change our plans.’
