The Secret of Hollyfield House, Jude Bayton [books for 20 year olds txt] 📗

and I instantly relaxed. “Yes Dominic, what is it?”

“’Tis much to ask,” he said, his eyes shining with merriment.

I groaned. “I do not wish to have my portrait painted, Dominic.”

He laughed. “No Jilly. That is not the favour. It is much more adventurous than that. I have decided to travel to Italy, and I want you to come with me.”

I gasped. “Italy? Why, this is news to me. When did you decide to go away? How can you leave the farm?”

“Whoa,” he placed his finger against my mouth. “Slow down. You ask too many questions at once.”

I apologised but asked another anyway. “Will you go to Florence and see Marik and Perry?”

“Yes. I have long desired to see that fair city, for it boasts art collections unrivaled anywhere in the world. As for the farm, once the crops are harvested, there is no reason I could not be gone for a short time.”

I considered the offer. Why should I decline? I had never travelled, other than from Devon to Cumbria. The prospect of being abroad was both terrifying and wildly exciting.

“Well?” he asked. “What do you say? Will you go with me?”

“Of course!” I beamed. “’Tis an excellent notion. It will be good for Billy. After all he has endured he…”

“No, Jilly.” Dominic said sternly. “Billy will remain here with Victor. I do not want to go on this particular trip with our brother.”

I did not comprehend. “Dominic, that is unfair. How can you not take Billy?”

“Please be quiet for just for a moment,” Dominic said with a smile. Then he looked into my eyes with such love. “Jillian Farraday LaVelle, I ask you to travel to Italy with me, for our honeymoon.”

And as he waited for my answer, the sound of happiness surrounded us as the dancing at the wedding party began with merry music on the air.

I placed one hand over Dominic’s, the other around the moonstone where it rested against my neck, and I looked into his beautiful eyes.

“I love you, Dominic Wolfe,” I whispered. “And I will go anywhere in this big wide world, as long as it is with you.”

About the Author

Jude Bayton is a Londoner, who currently resides in the American midwest. An avid photographer and traveller, Jude enjoys writing about places close to her heart. To keep up with her latest releases and her monthly blog, subscribe to at judebayton.com

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Other Books

By Jude Bayton

The Secret of Mowbray Manor

The Secret of

Mowbray Manor

By Jude Bayton

Sunday, November 9, 1890

Dorset, Southern England

COMPLETELY ALONE, I glanced about the deserted platform, grateful for a dim light from one solitary gas lamp. My grip tightened on my small valise and suitcase. Swanage Railway station appeared as devoid of life as a ghost ship on the English Channel. I hastened to find an exit while my eyes chased shadows from the flickering, weak lamp. My mind battled the impulse to bolt, but I steadied my nerves, though it took every ounce of my composure not to run.

Outside the station and engulfed in darkness, I saw no other buildings, which fed my growing sense of unease. My eyes scoured the area, hungry for the welcome sight of Mowbray Manor’s carriage. I had been assured someone would meet me. Discouraged, I set my bags down upon the sodden ground, pulled up the hood of my cloak to block the bite of November wind, and considered my predicament.

Wispy ribbons of fog floated like waifs through the dark canvas of night, while the moon sulked behind drab clouds like a child hiding in its mother’s skirts. I shivered and pulled my worn cloak tighter. What if no one came?

An owl hooted, its companionable call a welcome reprieve from my silent isolation. And on I waited, it seemed for an age. My back stiffened as I stood so erect and scared, and the blood in my veins turned frigid. I grew weary. Then a low rumble upon the ground broke the quiet, and a faint light materialized. As it swayed through the gloom, I felt immense relief. I was rescued.

The carriage creaked to a halt a few yards away, and the driver climbed down from his stoop and approached. An older man, stocky of build, his face coarse and bearded, inclined his head, yet avoided looking at me directly.

“Good evening, sir,” I stammered. “Are you come from Mowbray Manor?”

The man grunted a low, unintelligible response and reached down to take my belongings. They did not weigh much, for my possessions were few, and he tossed them into the cab with ease.

“Get you in then,” he mumbled gruffly and gestured for me to follow the course of my bags. I needed no further encouragement.

I quickly relaxed into the worn leather of the cab as the hackney traversed the road to Mowbray Manor. My body warmed slowly as my eyes grew heavy from a long day of travel, my healthy constitution no match for the torrent of uncertainty which plagued my mind.

After a time, our gait slowed, and we turned into a driveway. Although the dark windows of the carriage were closed tightly, a scent of saltwater permeated the atmosphere, and I inhaled deeply. Now wide-awake, I pressed my nose against the cold damp glass, and my eyes strained through the blanket of night to see my destination. Fortuitously, the clouds parted to allow a sliver of moonlight to shine down, and my breath caught in my throat. Mowbray Manor stood regal and imposing. Though wrapped in folds of gossamer fog, its austere mass pushed through the obscurity, as though even the elements could not veil its majesty.

With the same unfriendly manner he had displayed earlier, the coachman delivered me and my belongings unceremoniously before the front steps. I stood rooted to the spot. My gaze traveled upward, followed the grey rock of the building that rose before me like a monolithic stone giant. With trepidation, I picked up my bags, ascended the steps, and stopped at Mowbray’s gargantuan oak doors. My