Who Needs Mr Willoughby? Read Online Free PDF Page A

shenanigans, mind, or I’ll call Lady Violet straight away and let her know.
Then
I’ll call your mother.”
    “No shenanigans,” she promised. “After all,” she added as she went down the steps, “what sort of trouble could I possibly get into up here in the back of beyond?”
    ***
    Marianne made several wrong turnings in the estate car until, jolted nearly to death by the rutted road, she finally found their new home.
    It stood at the top of a gentle rise, surrounded by fields and a stone wall, bordered on one side by a stream and a somewhat neglected apple orchard on the other. Fruit hung heavy on the trees and perfumed the late-August air with the scent of apples. Bees droned and branches snapped underfoot as she got out of the car and approached the former hunting lodge.
    It’s perfect
, Marianne thought.
Just like something out of a fairy tale.
    She tried the door, but it was locked, and she didn’t have a key. Disappointed, she went to one of the front windows and cupped her hands against the glass to peer inside. She saw a drawing room. The floorboards were dusty, and the furniture – what little there was of it – was draped with sheets.
    But such was to be expected. The house was larger than she’d imagined, with spacious rooms and a wide, central staircase in the entrance hall. A chandelier draped in cheesecloth hung from the ceiling; the windows had deep sills, and the fireplace, although empty, was clean and swept clear of ashes.
    A mutter of what sounded suspiciously like thunder rumbled off to the south, and Marianne stepped away from the window. The sky had darkened and the wind had picked up, sending leaves scattering. Clouds gathered and skimmed across the sky.
    It was time she headed back to find the village.
    She was nearly to the car when she spied a tree house nestled in the crotch of a great, gnarled oak behind the cottage. Curious, she made her way up the grassy slope to investigate further. A rope ladder dangled from the branch. It looked old, but sturdy.
    Marianne eyed it in consideration. She’d love to have a peek inside the tree house. But the clouds were scudding across the sky and the first few drops of rain fell.
    She hesitated, undecided.
I really ought to get in the car and go back to Barton Park.
But the temptation to see the tree house’s interior won out over her hesitation, and she decided to climb up and have a look.
    Marianne gripped the rope in both hands and thrust her foot on the lowest rung, testing it to see if it would hold her weight. It did. Encouraged, she continued to climb.
    She was nearly at the top when one of the ropes groaned, creaked, and gave way with a snap. Marianne let out a gasp and clutched at the remaining rope, hanging on as tightly as possible even though her palms began to burn and her heart pounded so fast she feared it might burst. The ground was now an alarming distance below her dangling feet.
    Stay calm
, she told herself, and forced down panic.
You’re nearly to the top.
Just pull yourself up the rest of the way, it’s not that far, climb inside the tree house, and wait out the storm in there.
    She’d almost reached the deck when it began to rain in earnest – no spring shower, this, but a driving, cold, relentless rain that left her drenched in seconds. Her hand slipped on the rope, slick now with damp, and as she did her best to hang on, she wondered how much longer before she lost her grip and fell. Her throat constricted.
    This storm – or whatever it was – had literally come up out of nowhere.
If I can just focus on holding on
, she thought,
and not panic, I’ll be inside the tree house in no time
–
    Just then, lightning struck a tree a few yards away with a terrifying, ear-deafening crack. Marianne screamed, and her grip slackened and she fell, hurtling downwards and landing on her back. The fall knocked the breath from her.
    For what was probably a few seconds but seemed much longer, she lay stunned, as thoughts whirled like