Scarlet Wakefield 03 - Kiss In The Dark Page 3

  It was all I could do not to whistle aloud with appreciation for my grandmother’s genius. It was a simple and brilliant scheme to deter Plum from opening her mouth about my involvement in Dan’s death.

  And from the way Plum’s lips were pressed tightly together, the scheme was obviously working.

  “You may leave us now, Plum,” my grandmother said. “I would like to speak to Scarlett in private. I hope you will be very happy at Wakefield Hall. You have a very good academic record, and I’m sure you will find the intellectual atmosphere here stimulating enough to fully occupy your time.”

  As Plum pushed back her chair and stood up, my grandmother’s bright blue eyes went straight to the hem of Plum’s skirt, which had ridden up while she was sitting, and without a word being said, Plum obediently reached down to tug her hemline back toward her knees.

  That was fantastic entertainment. What wasn’t so much fun was the killer glare Plum shot me as she turned to leave the room, which indicated all too clearly that I’d pay for having seen her kowtow to my grandmother.

  As the door closed behind her, I let out a breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding. I felt a rush of relief, because my grandmother had made sure I was protected. I’d been freaking out ever since I saw Plum arrive at school in a cloud of fur and cigarette smoke, surrounded by piles of Louis Vuitton suitcases. When Dan died, the papers couldn’t report my name because I was a minor, so they gave me a nickname: the Kiss of Death Girl. The last thing I wanted was that awful nickname to follow me to Wakefield Hall. Because she hung out with Plum and her set, Lizzie knew my story, but Lizzie is easily intimidated, and she was much too terrified of my grandmother’s wrath to breathe a word.

  Plum was a much tougher nut. It had taken the threat of no more money to spend on furs and Vuitton to ensure that her lips were sealed.

  “Thank you,” I said to my grandmother, with such fervency that she smiled. Not the usual small, wintry curve of her lips while her eyes stayed cool and clear, but a rare, affectionate smile that deepened her crow’s-feet and the creases on either side of her mouth.

  “Parents send their daughters to Wakefield Hall for the best education possible, and to perfect their manners and social skills,” she said dryly. “Not to waste their time on lurid scandal-mongering.”

  Decoded, that meant “You’re welcome.”

  My grandmother propped her hands on the desk in front of her and steepled her fingers. “Scarlett, I asked you to stay behind because it was perfectly obvious that there isn’t the best of blood between you and young Miss Saybourne. As far as I’m concerned, the unpleasant little episode that caused her to be expelled from St. Tabitha’s is now in the past. She has promised to turn over a new leaf, and her parents assure me that she will.”

  Right, I thought. And after that she’ll sprout wings and fly away.

  “So what I said to her applies to you as well,” she concluded. “Miss Saybourne has brought disgrace on her very old and well-respected county family by her actions, and she should be thoroughly ashamed of herself. But her parents, the headmistress of St. Tabitha’s, and I have already taken care of reprimanding her. I don’t want anyone at Wakefield Hall to rub salt in her wounds. Particularly not you.”

  I nodded dutifully. I was more involved in the video of Plum being posted on the Web than my grandmother or Plum know; I’ve done enough to bring Plum down.

  “I have protected you, Scarlett, because that incident with the boy last year was in no way your fault,” she said. “But let me make this very clear: Wakefield Hall is your home, as well as your school. That puts the onus firmly on you to behave better than any other student. You are not just any sixth-former. You are the eventual chatelaine of the Hall, and I expect you to conduct yourself accordingly. If I hear of any fights or feuding between you and Miss Saybourne, I will hold you directly responsible.”

  She adjusted her pearls, shot me a direct, piercingly blue stare, and lowered her head to the leather blotter on her desk.

  “That is all,” she said, uncapping her fountain pen.

  Taylor’s eyes widen with shock. “Oh, jeez, you are so fricking …”

  “I know,” I say gloomily. “I’m totally and utterly shafted.”

  “That,” Taylor says, smirking, “is exactly the word I was looking for.”

  “I was just planning to stay out of her way as much as possible,” I say.

  Taylor’s smirk widens into one of those awkward grins that mean you know you shouldn’t find something funny, but you just can’t help it.

  “Well, that plan worked out really well tonight,” she comments. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you what she was up to.”

  “No, you did the right thing.” I shiver at the memory of Plum imitating me getting out of a car. “But that’s the trouble. If I stay out of her way, she makes fun of me behind my back, and if I take her on, we have a psycho confrontation.”

  “I think that’s called being between a rock and a hard place,” Taylor says.

  “Welcome to my world,” I sigh.

  four

  AQUAMARINE

  Thank goodness, the next day is Sunday, which means it’s relatively easy to stay out of Plum’s way. For once, I’m actually grateful that I don’t live in one of the dormitory wings. When I started at Wakefield Hall as a pupil, my grandmother decreed that I should stay full-time at my aunt Gwen’s cottage, where I already had a room for the school holidays. Aunt Gwen’s always pretty much loathed me, and it seems only polite to reciprocate, so it’s never been an ideal arrangement.

  But now, at least, it does mean that I have a Plum-free zone. And one thing Aunt Gwen never does is bother me; her policy has always been to pretend, as best as possible, that I’m not there at all.

  In the morning she’s out at church, so I make myself breakfast and finish my English essay. Taylor and I go for a run and workout at lunchtime, and by three p.m. I’m showered, dressed, and leaving the cottage without even a “See you later” to Aunt Gwen, who’s watching a Miss Marple mystery on TV in the living room. I used to feel I ought to say hello and goodbye when I came in or went out, but you feel pretty idiotic greeting someone who never answers you, so eventually I just gave up.

  My heart’s beating faster as I walk up the drive toward school. This is what really matters. This is what my whole day’s been leading toward. These are the times I feel wholly and completely alive.

  Because I’m on my way to meet Jase.

  I crunch onto the drive. To my right is the main part of Wakefield Hall, an imposing, turreted building of ivy-covered gray stone, with a big stained-glass window curving over the huge iron-studded door. Wakefield has been in the family for so many generations I can’t count them out without the help of the family tree. And as my father’s daughter, I’m the heir to all this. Everything I survey will be mine one day.

  It’s a feeling that always makes me shiver with a mixture of pride and fear of the responsibility. And thinking of my father, I have one of the flashes of memory that flood into my mind every so often—an image of my parents, who died when I was four years old. My father picking me up and sliding me down the banister of the great staircase in the Hall, the polished wood shining, the smell of beeswax suddenly in my nostrils. Pretending he’s going to let go his grip on me, making me squeal with a mixture of fear and excitement in which the latter definitely predominated.

  And my mother, standing by the newel post, arms out to catch me as I slide toward her, laughing. The huge front door open behind her, the sun pouring in, haloing her light brown hair around her face, turning the strands to gold.

  Most of all, I remember the trust I had in my father, the absolute confidence that he would keep me safe.

  It can’t have been more than six months later that they died.

  I swallow very hard to get down the big lump in my throat. It’s as difficult as trying to get a whole cherry past my tonsils. No matter how many times I tell myself bravely that having a father like Mr. Barnes i
s worse than having no parents at all, it’s never quite as reassuring as I believe it will be.

  Don’t think about it any more, Scarlett, I tell myself firmly. Think about Jase. Think about the future, not the past.

  I’m dressed for a winter afternoon out on a motorbike—jeans, a wool sweater, a leather jacket, boots with a one-inch heel. But the jeans are nice and tight, to show off my legs; the sweater is turquoise, to show off my blue eyes; and the jacket, bought with my Christmas money, is soft as butter and a shade of really dark blue that I agonized over for ages. I wasn’t sure if it was cool enough. Would black be safer? But wasn’t that a bit boring? When I eventually bought the jacket and wore it at school this term, I caught Plum giving it a distinctly envious glance, which was all the confirmation I needed that I’d made the right decision.

  God, shopping is hard. Even when you’re lucky enough to have a trust fund, plus a grandmother who throws money at you for Christmas and birthdays because she hasn’t the faintest idea what to buy you.

  I don’t get any presents from Aunt Gwen, but then I don’t get anything for Aunt Gwen either. It’s been like that as long as I can remember, a mutual admission that we really don’t know each other’s tastes and, to be honest, don’t have any interest in finding them out. Although Aunt Gwen dislikes me intensely, I must admit that I can’t completely blame her. My grandmother, after all, makes her live in the gatehouse cottage, which is pretty tiny, and always refers to me as the heir to Wakefield, even though my aunt is her daughter. I mean, my father was her son, so Aunt Gwen and I should share it, right?

  I do mean to talk to my grandmother about this someday. But I’m much too intimidated to do it now. Especially what with having to call her Lady Wakefield during term time …

  I’m through the courtyard and rounding the side of the new school wing, running down the narrow passage that’s technically off-limits for students, because it leads to the staff cottages. As I emerge from the narrow lane, Jase, who’s leaning against his bike, a helmet dangling from each hand, flashes me the broadest of grins. There’s no pretense at being cool, that he isn’t happy to see me, that he hasn’t been waiting for me. It’s my favorite thing about Jase: he never plays that kind of game.

  Well, that and the fact that he’s completely gorgeous, of course. I never said I wasn’t shallow.

  “You took your time,” he says, his bright gold eyes glinting with amusement.

  “Taylor and I went for a really long run,” I say apologetically. “She’s worse than a personal trainer, she shouts and shouts if I even think about stopping.”

  Jase cracks a grin.

  “Fair dos,” he says. “I wouldn’t want Taylor shouting at me. She’s got shoulders like a brickie.”

  “She made us do tons of push-ups too,” I boast.

  “Let’s have a feel, then.” Jase reaches out to squeeze my bicep. “Hey, not bad for a girl.”

  He pulls me closer.

  “Give me a kiss to show you’re sorry,” he says teasingly. “Don’t worry, my dad’s off at the pub. He won’t be back till late.”

  Blushing in anticipation, I go up on tiptoe and plant a soft, slow kiss on his lips. My eyes close. They always close of their own accord when I kiss him. Sometimes I try to keep them open, just to see if I can. But the experience of being that near to Jase, feeling his warmth, smelling his skin, touching him so intimately, is so overpowering that I never manage it.

  His arms wrap around me reflexively as he starts to kiss me back, his full lips nipping at mine, the tip of his tongue touching my lower lip, easing my mouth open, a shiver running through me as I meet his tongue with mine.

  And then the two motorcycle helmets clang together behind my back, and we both jump.

  “Whoops! Forgot I was holding ’em,” Jase says, pulling back. He winks at me. “You shouldn’t get me all distracted like that.”

  “Hey, it’s not my fault.” I make a face at him and take my helmet. “You’re the one who told me to kiss you.”

  We put our helmets on and climb onto the bike. Jase revs it up. And it’s the oddest thing, because the helmet really restricts how much vision you have. But out of the corner of my eye, I think I see movement, and nervously, just in case Jase is mistaken and his dad isn’t safely off at the pub after all, I turn my head to check out what it is.

  There’s an old lady standing in the window of the Barneses’ cottage. White hair pulled up on top of her head in a sparse little bun. Round wire-framed glasses, pink wrinkled cheeks, her hands resting in front of her on what looks like a cane. The curtains at the window are faded lace, pulled back with ties, and they frame her so neatly that the whole image looks like a sentimental picture, too cozy to be true.

  I think of my own grandmother, with her sleek white bob of hair, her smart tweeds and twinsets, her bright blue eyes that don’t need any help to see clearly, with 20/20 vision. Nothing cozy about her at all. They might both be little old ladies, but that seems to be all they have in common, Jase’s grandmother and mine.

  And then the bike takes off, gravel spurting from beneath its wheels, my body thudding against Jase’s back as I cling to him tightly. All I can think about is the sheer joy of motion. I’ll never tire of being on the bike with Jase, never. Speed, excitement, having my body pressed so closely against his, feeling his chest rise and fall under my gloved hands.

  I just wish we didn’t have to wear helmets. I hate not being able to cuddle my head into his neck when we’re out on the bike.

  “Your cheeks are all pink.” Jase reaches across the table to stroke my face. “Look at you.”

  I mutter something about lifting the visor to get the wind in my face, but honestly I think that the reason I’m flushed is that even after a couple of months of going out with Jase, I still get a bit overcome by how gorgeous he is. I can’t quite take it for granted yet. When we walked into this little coffee shop together, I was sure that everyone was looking up and asking themselves what on earth a boy this good-looking was doing with me.

  He’s lounging on his side of the coffee-shop booth, his back against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him, one knee up, looking so sexy in his leather bike trousers with their dark red stripes it’s no wonder I’m blushing. The feel of his hand on my cheek, warm and caressing, is so lovely I want to turn my head into his palm and start purring like a cat.

  However, Jase must be having much less happy thoughts than I am, because when he speaks again, his voice is deep and serious.

  “I hate all this sneaking around.” His hand moves through my hair, playing with the curls; then he leans forward to twist one of them around his finger. “I wish we could just hang out normally, you know? Have you meet my mates, go to the normal places we all go, in Wakefield, not have to ride for miles and miles to find some coffee shop in a buried-alive village my dad would never come to.”

  “I know,” I sigh, taking his hand and twining my fingers through his. “Though I do like the long rides on the bike.”

  He smiles at me, his teeth impossibly white against his golden-brown skin.

  “Yeah, but we end up wasting a lot of time together,” he says, tightening his fingers on mine. “I know all that star-crossed-lovers stuff sounds cool when it’s in Romeo and Juliet, but in real life, if you ask me, it’s well overrated.”

  I gape at him.

  “What?” Heightened color tinges his cheeks, despite the even tone of his skin. “You think just because I didn’t go to a private school I don’t know anything about posh writers? We did Romeo and Juliet in English last year.”

  Actually, it was his referring to us as lovers that caused my mouth to dry up temporarily, but I’m not going to tell him that.

  “No, I didn’t mean that, Jase.” I squeeze his hand. “I’m just … I really liked what you said.”

  “Well, it’s true.” Jase rolls his eyes. “I mean, it looks great on TV, or in a film, you know? Feuding families, you can’t be together, all that stuff, it’s really roman
tic. But it always ends up going wrong. Someone dies, or goes to prison, or something. It never ends up with the two of them being able to be boyfriend and girlfriend properly, with their parents or whatever apologizing and saying they were wrong. I’m pretty sick of this, Scarlett.”

  One of the things I like most about Jase is that he’s so direct. He isn’t the kind of boy who enjoys the drama and intrigue of sneaking around. He just wants to have a normal boyfriend/girlfriend relationship—

  Oh my God. He just said boyfriend and girlfriend for the first time ever.

  And lovers.

  Oh my God.

  I’m still registering that he’s used all those magic words when it dawns on me how dark his tone of voice is.

  “You’re sick of it? Does that mean you’re breaking up with me?” I blurt out in total panic.

  “Jesus, Scarlett.” He pulls his hand away and runs it over his tight dark curls, and for a moment I think I’ll burst into tears. His eyes darken to a deep bronze as he stares at me, frowning. “No, I don’t want to break up, you idiot. I just want to be able to go out like normal teenagers do without worrying that my dad’s going to catch us and throw a huge wobbly. Like last night, or that time at the lake.”

  I shudder as I remember Mr. Barnes catching Jase and me together at the Wakefield Hall private lake. All we were doing was climbing trees—I was balancing on a branch, showing off my gymnastics skills for Jase. His dad went after me, and he and Jase came to blows. Then his dad warned me and Jase to stay away from each other, very menacingly.

  What neither of us really understands is why. Why does his dad mind so much that Jase and I are seeing each other? It seems crazy to think it’s some kind of weird feudal objection to the son of the gardener going out with the daughter of the house, especially since you’d think it’d be my grandmother who’d be making a fuss about that kind of thing, rather than Jase’s dad.

  It’s a complete mystery to both of us. But his father was so scarily, violently angry that neither of us wants to face a scene like that ever again if we can possibly avoid it.