Kisses and Lies (10 page)

The branch rocks dangerously beneath me. One foot slips out from under me.

“Scarlett!” Jase shouts desperately.

With the other foot, I push away from the branch, diving forward. As I fly through the air, I realize I have absolutely no idea how deep the lake is. I know you can row in it, which means it has to be a few feet deep—I hope—I pray—because by now I’m completely committed to my dive, aiming out into the middle of the lake, avoiding the fountain—

I hit the water. The cold shocks me like a slap. Immediately the water pulls down at my clothes, and the next second my hands bang into the bottom of the lake. Terrified that my head’s going to be next, I manage to push away into a sort of somersault, rebounding off the bottom. My heavy, water-soaked limbs flip over my head, and I splash and land awkwardly, clumsily, but more or less safe.

I get my feet under me and stand up, gulping air. I reach up to push my hair out of my face, my arms weighted by the water in my clothes. My lovely cashmere sweater that my grandmother gave me, which I wore to look pretty for Jase! I hope it’ll be okay. And then I think what an idiot I am for even remembering my sweater at a time like this. I look over to the edge of the lake. Jase has jumped down from the tree and is running toward me. His dad grabs him, and they grapple together.

Jase is yelling, “Dad! Let go! I have to see if she’s hurt!”

“She’ll be fine,” Mr. Barnes shouts. “She was asking for it, silly little mare! Dancing around on that branch, showing off for you!”

“I dared her to—Jesus, why does it matter why she was doing it?” Jase struggles to get free from his father’s grip. “You could have killed her, Dad, you stupid bloody—”

“Don’t you talk to me like that!” his father bellows, raising one hand.

Jase grabs him by the wrist, stopping the blow. They stand there, strength against strength, locked in a weird kind of stasis. I don’t move either. I stand there in the middle of the lake watching them, unable to believe my eyes. Unable to understand why Mr. Barnes is acting like this.

Jase suddenly lets go of his father’s wrist and ducks. The pent-up force in his father’s arm makes him fly forward, over Jase’s bent back, and he hits the grass as Jase pushes him away and sprints toward me. I should move. I’m up to my chest in cold water, freezing, but I stand here and watch Jase as he takes a flying leap and lands in the lake.

“Gaah!” he yells, shaking his head, water droplets flying from his tight curls. “Cold!” He wades toward me, taking long strides which the water impedes, so it’s like watching him walk in slow motion.

Behind him, his dad is getting to his feet.

“Jase Barnes! Come back here right now!”

“Are you okay?” Jase calls urgently to me. “Scarlett?”

I look down at my palms, which are grazed and just starting to bleed a little from being scraped along the rough bottom of the lake. The water must be slowing the bleeding down a little, so maybe the damage won’t be so bad. It doesn’t look terrible. But then, I’m probably in shock.

“I think so,” I reply.

“You flipped!” he says.

“I did that deliberately,” I explain, “so I wouldn’t hit my head—”

“God, I thought you hit something in the water.  .  .  .”

His face is so anxious, so concerned, that despite the drama and craziness of the situation I can’t help but feel happy he’s so worried about me.

“Jase!” His father is still shouting from the edge of the lake. “Get away from her!”

“Dad, do you know who this is?” Jase says, slow-turning to look at him. “This is Scarlett Wakefield! Lady W’s granddaughter! If anyone’s got a right to be here, she does!”

For a moment, I think it’s all going to be resolved. Mr. Barnes, standing so bullishly glaring down at us, his fists on his hips, his face red and swollen, is going to realize what an awful mistake he’s made thinking that Jase had brought one of the Wakefield Hall girls to a place that’s so strictly out of bounds. He’s going to apologize and reach down a hand to help us out of the water. He’s going to—

“I know exactly who she is!” he yells. “Scarlett Wakefield!” He points at me. “If I ever see you hanging round my son again, I won’t answer for my actions. You stay away from him, or it’ll be the worse for you!”

That’s it. That really is it. I stride through the water, amazed at how fast I’m moving, anger giving extra power to my legs. I grab at the balustrade and haul myself out of the pond with a whoosh of water flooding off my clothes, the lake catching at my completely drenched trainers and refusing to let them go till I kick it away from me. I climb up and stand on the balustrade, where I’m taller than him: I’m not jumping down onto the grass, where he can tower over me.

“This is my land,” I say. “Mine and my family’s. I’m a Wakefield, and you’re nothing but a bully. And when you tell me what to do on my land, you’ve gone too far.” I raise one sodden arm and point at him. “If you ever threaten me again, if you ever come near me again, I’ll tell my grandmother and you’ll get sacked.” I’m panting for breath after my near run through the lake, but I can hear how serious I sound nonetheless. “Don’t think I won’t do it, because I will. I swear to God I will.”

Mr. Barnes is staring at me with his jaw dropped. I stare back, my eyes narrowed, refusing to let him intimidate me.

Finally he mutters something that I’m sure I don’t want to hear, and turns away.

“Jase!” he screeches over his shoulder. “Lock up and get back to the cottage. I’ve still got words for you!”

He’s walking away. I’ve done it. I’ve bested him.

But as I look at Jase wading across the lake, I know it’s been at a heavy cost.

Because Jase won’t meet my eyes. In order to stand up to his father, I had to remind both the Barneses that we’re not equal here. I’m a Wakefield, and the Barneses are the gardeners who’ve worked for my family for generations. We’re not equal at all.

I blame Plum for behaving like a spoiled princess, but isn’t that what I just did? Okay, I may not exactly be spoiled, but didn’t I just use my princess status? With my rank, I intimidated Mr. Barnes, and even though he definitely needed to be intimidated, it still feels like a hollow victory, because it may have ruined everything between me and Jase.

If there was anything left to ruin, of course. Because his psycho dad might have succeeded in doing it all on his own, even before I jumped up on my pedestal and started laying down the law.

Jase and I part ways after he locks the gate. I walk down the path that will take me round the tennis courts, behind some hedges. Hopefully, I’ll be concealed all the way back to Aunt Gwen’s house.

I don’t turn back to look at Jase. What would be the point? He certainly won’t be turning back to look at me.

I squelch home, my feet so wet that I eventually take off my socks and trainers and carry them. The tarmac path is rough underfoot, but I barely notice. I can’t believe how bad this afternoon has turned out. How could this happen? How could something so nice go so badly wrong? Why does Jase’s father mind so much that we’re hanging out together? My head’s spinning with questions and I have no way of answering any of them. I want to cry. I want to lie down on my bed and burst into tears and never stop crying.

I can’t help wondering if Mr. Barnes knows anything about me and Dan’s death. Could he have heard my grandmother and Aunt Gwen talking about it? Is that why he doesn’t want me around Jase? I could understand that, I guess. But that wouldn’t explain his incredible hostility, or the fact that he could have killed me when he shook the branch I was standing on. It wasn’t as if he caught me kissing Jase and dragged me off him, after all. That would make sense. But putting me in that much danger—it’s insane.

My phone rings as I let myself into the gatehouse, and I sprint upstairs faster than I’ve ever run, thinking it might be Jase. No one else will be ringing me: I don’t have any friends but Taylor, and she wouldn’t want to risk interrupting me in the middle of my date with Jase. I’m counting the rings desperately as I hurtle upstairs—there are five and a half before it goes to voice mail. I tumble into my room and snatch at the phone at four and a half rings. There isn’t enough time to see who the caller is, just enough to thumb the Answer button and say, breathlessly, “Hi!”

“Is this  .  .  . Scarlett Wakefield?”

It’s a woman’s voice. Not Jase. I bite back the tears and say, “Yes,” wondering who it can be.

“Scarlett  .  .  .” She takes a long, slow breath. “This is Flora McAndrew. Dan’s mother. My husband and I got your letter by this morning’s post, and we’ve been talking things over.”

I want to sit down, but I can’t, and not just because I’m soaking wet and dripping on the floor. I’m totally gob smacked as I go through to the bathroom, the phone clamped to my ear, not wanting to miss a word Mrs. McAndrew’s saying. I can’t believe she’s ringing me so soon: I posted the letter only yesterday morning. I didn’t expect to hear from her for at least a day or so—that’s always assuming she decided to get back to me at all. The first-class post must be a lot better than I realized.

“It was  .  .  . nice to hear from you.” Her Scottish-accented voice is hesitant. “We were wondering—well, what you wrote about wanting to meet us, and talk about his last minutes, really struck a chord with me. I know we saw you at the inquest, but we were so overcome with grief that we barely took in anything you said. And if you have something of Dan’s that you’d like to return to us  .  .  .”

I sit down on the edge of the bath, clutching my mobile tightly, like I did with her son’s limp body.

“So we were wondering,” she goes on, “would you like to come up here for a few days? To the castle? Dan’s brother and sister will be back for half-term, you could meet them and maybe answer any questions they might have about Dan’s”—she gulps hard, but recovers herself—“about Dan’s last moments?”

I can’t say anything. My throat has temporarily closed up.

“Scarlett?” Mrs. McAndrew asks, sounding very nervous. “Would you like to come? I thought this Friday to next Monday, a long weekend. Or maybe you have plans for half-term already.  .  .  .”

Through some act of God, I finally find my voice.

“No,” I say, swallowing hard. “I don’t have plans.”

I also don’t have any time to think about whether or not I can go through with this, which is what I told myself I’d do before sending the letter to the McAndrews. Honestly, I thought I’d be capable of taking this next step, but now I’m unsure and scared.

None of that matters, though, because Dan’s mother is waiting patiently for an answer.

My teeth are chattering with bitter cold and anxiety, but hopefully she doesn’t hear that when I say, “Thank you very much for asking me, Mrs. McAndrew. I’d really like to come.”

“WE’RE SUPPOSED TO BE PARTNERS!”

“Lizzie Livermore?” My grandmother stares at me, her lips slightly pursed, one hand raised, turning the pearls in her necklace. “I’m not quite sure I approve of this new friendship, Scarlett. A perfectly pleasant girl, but a follower, not a leader. And she has neither brains nor breeding.”

“It’s not really a friendship, Grand—Lady Wakefield,” I correct myself.

Mistake! Beep beep! Mistake! My grandmother jumps right on that one.

“Not really a friendship? Then why, after staying with her last Saturday night, are you proposing to spend part of your half-term break with her as well?” she inquires, her blue eyes narrowing.

I recoup quickly.

“She’s very nice to me, and I miss London,” I say convincingly. “But mainly”—I look away here, as if it’s hard for me to say the next part—“mainly it’s because I can tell Aunt Gwen doesn’t want me around too much. I really don’t think she’d like me kicking round the house for a whole week with no school to go to. She’s used to having it to herself. I thought it would be easier on her if I went away for part of the time.”

I’ve been saying this mostly to a portrait of a Wakefield ancestor in a crinoline, her hair in unflattering ringlets, holding a parasol and a small dog and looking rather uncomfortable, which hangs on the far wall of my grandmother’s office. It’s always weird looking at the family portraits, because they’re either the spitting image of my grandmother or of me. Which I expect means I resemble her more than I realize.

Ooh, that’s a scary thought. I glance back at my grandmother, picturing her at my age, with my dark curls. It’s impossible, though. I can’t imagine her a day younger than she is now. And are my eyes really that bright shade of turquoise? I don’t think so. Mine are paler, more aquamarine. And my skin isn’t as pale as hers—Grandma is as white as a piece of copy paper. She definitely has more striking coloring than I do.

To my surprise, I see that her expression has actually softened. She’s stopped turning her pearls as well, which is always a good sign.

“I see,” she says, slowly, as if she’s saying it more to herself than to me.

“Taylor McGovern is staying here this half-term ’cause—because—her parents are still on their archaeological site and she can’t go and visit them. So when Lizzie invited me, I thought—”

My grandmother holds up a pale, wrinkly hand.

“There’s no need to explain further, Scarlett,” she says. “You may go to stay with Lizzie.”

“Thank you, Gr—Lady Wakefield!” I exclaim enthusiastically.

Then I wonder if I’ve sounded too keen at the prospect of spending my short holiday with Lizzie. But my grandmother isn’t suspicious: she looks rather sad, actually.

“Scarlett?” she adds as I’m on my way out of her office.

Holding the door, I look back. Seated behind her huge mahogany desk, my grandmother should look tiny by comparison. It’s the desk that used to belong to the Wakefield men, made in the Victorian era, with a green leather studded top, very faded now. Desks for ladies of that period are tiny little things, with fold-down tops and a series of pretty little pigeonholes for party invitations and dressmakers’ bills. I know, because Grandmother has one of them, too.

But, sitting behind this monster of a desk, in a very modern swivel chair, Grandmother looks like the queen of all she surveys. Her white hair’s shining, her pale blue cardigan with pearl buttons is neatly done up over a pristine white blouse. She’s a modern version of all the Wakefields in the portraits. The office is paneled in mahogany and painted dark red where there isn’t paneling: it’s supposed to be imposing, so parents and badly behaved girls summoned before the headmistress are daunted as soon as they walk in. But that’s just an extra. My grandmother doesn’t need this setting to be imposing. She can manage that all on her own.

“Yes?” I say, almost expecting some words of consolation at my having to live with Aunt Gwen.

“Just make sure you don’t become too influenced by Lizzie Livermore,” she says firmly, adjusting some papers on the desk. “She’s a very silly, flighty girl without a thought in her head, and she’s much too concerned with fashion and frivolity. And her father’s the height of nouveau riche. Not a connection I want for my only granddaughter.”

“No, Lady Wakefield,” I say dutifully, closing the door.

I can’t help grinning to myself. My grandmother really is as tough as old boots. Trust her to get in a comment like that at the end, just when I thought she might be letting down her guard a bit.

I just hope I’ve inherited half her backbone.

Lucky it went so well with my grandmother. Because it went as badly as it could possibly have gone with Taylor. She’s furious when I tell her about Mrs. McAndrew’s invitation. I’ve seen Taylor angry before, but not like this. A few weeks ago, she didn’t really know me, and it wasn’t personal. Now, it is.

“How could you not tell me you were writing to her?!” she yelled at me. “We’re supposed to be partners. We’re in this together!”

“Try to understand, Taylor. I just need to do this on my own for a while,” I explain.

Taylor’s fists are resting on her hips, her legs planted just as firmly a couple of feet apart. All of her muscles seem to be bulging, and Taylor has a lot of muscles. She’s frowning so much her thick dark eyebrows are almost joining up. Anger has made her look like a cartoon version of herself.

“I’m not saying you should have sat down with me to write the letter,” she continues, “but you could at least have told me you were sending it! Or that you found out that Callum is Dan’s brother. Jesus!”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Look, I wasn’t deliberately cutting you out or anything like that. After I read the obituary, I just had an idea to write to her and I sat down and did it and posted it off straight away, that’s all  .  .  .”

“You still could have told me,” she insists.

I feel really guilty. Taylor has helped me out so much in trying to find out who killed Dan and put herself on the line for me many times. She even took the risk of going through Plum’s bag, when if anyone had caught her, she could have been arrested. For a moment, I wonder if shutting her out was absolutely necessary.

“I thought we were a team,” she’s saying furiously. “I thought you felt the same way.”

I look at her helplessly.

“I don’t know if I can always be a team on this,” I blurt out. “You didn’t even know Dan, Taylor. You weren’t there when he died. But I was. I’m the one he was kissing—I’m the one everyone thought had something to do with killing him. This is really personal to me and I need some space to deal with it on my own.” I pause for breath, shocked by what I’m saying. I’ve never realized this before, not so clearly, but now it’s put into words I realize how true it is. I’m begging her to understand.

“You could at least have asked if I could come up to Scotland with you,” Taylor complains.

“I couldn’t do that!” I exclaim. “It’s just going to be me and the family there—I’d have felt ridiculous asking if I could bring a friend.”

“Whatever,” she says coldly. “Have a great time in Scotland solving your mystery.” She puts a nasty spin on the your, and I can’t blame her. “Don’t bother to send a postcard,” she adds sarcastically.

Then Taylor McGovern, my only true friend, turns and stomps away.