Heaven And Hell novel Chapter 58

I was not going to let Michael win. Emerson could win, sure. I mean, her wager on me was fine, but Michael's wager? I. Think. Not.

With sheer force of will, I got down the horse, half limping and half running. Then I stopped for a while, scowling from the agony.

"Noooo!" Emerson yelled, glaring at Michael, who was laughing, looking over his shoulder at her.

They didn't see me because they were too busy competing against one another, ignorant of my presence. I didn't want to lose (against Michael anyway), so I ran like my heels were on fire, ignoring the sting I felt between my legs. I ran as fast as I could, taking advantage of my long limbs.

The twins still didn't see me.

I looked over my shoulder -- Tessie was nowhere to be found.

Great. I lost her. I might even have to pay for her if she'd gone missing completely -- but then I saw a flash of mahogany. Tessie was behind a massive sycamore tree, completely invisible except from me. She was chewing on grass.

This was a stupid, intense game, but when I thought of Michael kissing me in front of his sister, I changed my mind and thought this was actually serious.

Quickly, yet painfully, I banged the door open with a creak and a crash against the wall, running to find any reminder from the place.

It was dark, first of all. The rather spacious cottage was concealed by the humongous trees, making me sharpen my gaze a little to see well. I ran toward a room, closing it shut. I opened the dusty, empty drawers, but I saw nothing great. The cottage was still intact, for an old place. I grumbled, stomping toward the bed, kneeling down. I looked under it, and sneezed as the dust entered my sinuses.

Then something caught my eye.

"Huh-ha!" I heard Emerson say triumphantly from outside the room. "Got an old brush -- oh, disgusting! I change my mind! I'm taking the old matchbox. Cheerio, brother!"

"Hey!" Michael yelled.

I ignored them as I reached an arm under the bed, feeling something bulky. I pulled it toward me.

It was an old diary with an ox-blood red jacket and a lock covered in gold. It wasn't locked, though. With an effort, I sat on the bed, resting the diary in my lap, opening it to a random entry. Written in elegant calligraphy was this:

1 November 1950

Alberca Cottage, Kent

Dearest Diary,

Mama and I went to Lord and Lady Birches' soiree. My mum made me look especially lovely in a beautiful Chanel dress in gold taffeta with matching white-gold kidskin gloves. My hair is piled in an elegant chignon, a white rose placed on the side. When we arrived at the Birches' mansion with Papa, they introduced me to the Duke and Duchess of Rossington's son. He was -- and is very much so -- handsome; he was tall and had dark hair that curled at the nape...but that didn't strike me the most. What did were his beautiful eyes. They were the colour of liquid silver.

And I saw them up close due to the fact that I made an utter goose of myself by tripping and bumping into him in front of everyone!

"Emerson!" Michael yelled, pounding on the door outside the the room I was occupying. "Get back here and open the bloody door! Come on, I hate being alone in a place like this. EMERSON!"

I started, making me drop the diary. I scrambled to get it, groaning from the pain I felt between my legs. I couldn't take it anymore -- I laid down on the dusty bed, carrying my legs individually with effort. Beside me was the diary of Countess Lockley, probably the late Duchess of Rossington.

It was unbelievable. We felt the same thing. I could actually connect with her! I opened the book again. It didn't say what the countess's name was, but there was a picture of her at the back of the book. It was a black and white picture of a gorgeous blond girl, who reminded me of Grace Kelly with her hair tied in an elegant chignon and a floral hat on her pretty head. She had light eyes, arched eyebrows, a pert little nose, and an engaging smile that could melt anyone's heart.

She looked like an angel, fragile and extremely beautiful. She was wearing a white dress -- or at least it was white; hard to tell when it was black and white, you know -- and dark high heels with pearl straps at the ankle. I checked the back of the photo.

She wrote something in calligraphy.

Marge Swinton, Countess Lockley of Newcastle

Aged 16

28 December 1949

At Johnny, Baron Stan's 17th birthday soiree

"Marge Swinton..." I mumbled, staring at the angelic face looking at me with a bright smile. "Margaret...Cutting. Oh my, God, Lady C?" My legs started to ache even more. I winced. "Owww...God, this hurts --"