The Hermit of Aldershill Manor

Chapter 1Charlie Ash should have expected rain, on an English countryside afternoon. Unfortunately, he hadn’t thought about it. As usual, he thought rather helplessly: exactly the way his life seemed to be going lately, the way he kept not seeing things, not realizing, until they snuck up and hit him on the head with thunderstorm force. Like Aaron leaving. Like the finality of a closed door, an emptied closet. Or like large fat raindrops, here on a soggy garden path, a good two miles from the spires and crenellations of the historic Aldershill Manor. He’d gone for a walk because he’d arrived early, tossed his luggage into his assigned scholarly guest room in the east wing, texted his parents that, yes, he’d made it across the Atlantic safely, and then immediately wanted to explore. The skies hadn’t opened up yet, and rolling green grass and tall ancient trees and herb-scented kitchen gardens and a winding silver ribbon of stream had all tempted him. Statues, marble and granite, arched in classical curves and twists. He’d heard there was a lily-pond, the subject of multiple paintings over the centuries. He’d been on a plane, and then a train, and then in a car, for way too many hours, coming from Los Angeles. So he’d grabbed a light jacket, and he had sneakers on, and he’d thought he’d be fine. The universe, of course, had chosen now to pour water onto his head. And all across the sprawling lapidary violets and marigolds and ferns and hedges. And dirt—now mud-river—walking paths. He said, aloud, “At least it’s pretty?” He did always try to be optimistic. A few ruffly blue flowers bobbed at him in thanks, and shed raindrops of their own. Charlie, being here to look at estate records and eighteenth-century economic trends, knew next to nothing about horticulture, but he could appreciate beauty. The Aldershill gardens were famous, justifiably so, even in the midst of a startling late-July English thunderstorm. The estate, dating in parts to the Elizabethan era, remained the home of the current viscountess; she’d opened it for weddings, events, tours, even lavish historical movie productions. The house stood up majestically over its grounds, a solid guardian comfortable in its old bones. The gardens—kitchen, herb, medieval, rare and exotic imports, radiant roses, waterscapes and lily-ponds, towering oak forests—wreathed around it, and drenched the landscape in beauty, everywhere Charlie looked. Billows of color, pinks and purples and golds, fluttered like butterflies in the rain-mist. Centuries-old ornamental fountains glimmered. The river leapt and splashed. It was splashing even more in the deluge. Lances made of drops sliced tiny needles through his thin jacket. Charlie eyed the mudslide of the path up the hill. Considered his shoes. Considered, with longing, thick manor walls and a cozy old-fashioned scholarly guest room with the heat turned up, and a cup of tea. He could go around the lower incline over there, past the kitchen gardens, where there’d be stone steps, and less mud—except that’d be a longer walk, and he had short legs, and the rain wasn’t relenting, and his fingers were getting cold— He could find someplace to hide, in the picturesque rock garden or under a tree, though with his luck the tree would get hit by lightning or the rocks would fall over— He really was starting to worry about his fingers now. And he liked his fingers. Good for research. Writing. Emphatic gestures while teaching. Not that he was doing that, these days. He essayed a step, in the mud, in the direction of the stepping-stones and the kitchen gardens. His foot slipped. He flailed, caught himself, shoved a flop of damp hair out of his eyes. And discovered a person, equally startled, having materialized on the path. The person stared right back at him. They regarded each other. The person was a tall shaggy tree of a man, skin sun-browned, hair black and grey and tied back inadequately; he was made of long angles and broad shoulders and astonishment, with eyes like antique amber, the heart of a forest, a pulse. He also had on a large puffy coat and extremely solid boots, complete with mud, and he had a trowel in one hand. Charlie, entranced by the vision and also needing to talk, in case the cold was causing extremely attractive hallucinations, offered, “Hi, do you work here?” The man stared at him some more. Maybe that’d been a prying sort of question. Or the man didn’t approve of waterlogged American academics wandering into historic gardens unsupervised. Charlie tried, in case this was the problem, “Okay, sorry, I’ll just go back the way I came, sorry again, I’m staying up at the house, I swear I’m not a random person trying to trample your herbs, I’ll get out of your way.” The man blinked at him. Shifted the trowel to the other hand. “You’re staying up at the house?” His voice emerged low and deep and rumbly, like rich brown earth. It was a warm sort of accent, someplace full of history and hills and the sun on open meadows. “Am I not supposed to be out here? I’m really sorry, no one told me. I’ll just go—” His foot slipped. Again. He flung both arms out. Failed to find any balance. Skidded in mud. And found himself caught: a serious callused hand, firmly steadying him. The man had dropped the trowel. Had rescued him. They stood there gazing at each other for several seconds. The grip was warm, even through soaked layers of fabric: as if a touch, a saving, had somehow imprinted itself directly onto Charlie’s skin. The man was so tall and so strong and so elemental, right there and holding on to him. And those eyes were spectacular, up close: luscious golden-brown, framed by long lashes, concerned for him. Focused entirely on him. Charlie found himself shivering again, not entirely because of the weather. The man let go of his arm, which instantly missed the touch. “You’re cold.” “Um. Yes?” “It’s a good walk back to the house.” “I’m not sure good is the word.” “You should come home with me.” “I should do what,” Charlie said, because he hadn’t heard that correctly, had he? Those rain-induced hallucinations again. A gorgeous man, a rescue, and apparently a pick-up line. “Sorry, I thought you said—” “It’s closer. You should come home. With me.”