Hidden Arrangements: Rachel's Story

By Haven Raines

To ease the heartbreak of a disappointing love affair, Rachel Coulter agrees to help locate a suitable English castle for her mother's spa chain. When her tour bus breaks down, she finds the formidable fortress she is stranded in front of houses more than ghosts.
Trace Cardiff inherited the falling down Farnsworth Hall. Despite the childhood memories he holds close, he must sell the monstrosity before it bankrupts him. When his son’s former nanny, Rachel, shows up, claiming she's in the market to buy, he doesn’t believe her. But Rachel's persistence not only stirs all the feelings buried in his heart, it awakens family ghosts who would rather see her disappear...forever.

Caught in a passionate web of lies and deceit, Trace and Rachel must battle their way to the truth. Will the skeletons sleep at last, or will family secrets succeed in driving them apart?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Haven Raines
• Release date: Feb 8, 2017

Book preview

Chapter One

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Three weeks on tour, long hours on a van, and crabby castle owners wore on Rachel Coulter’s nerves. She slid a frustrated look at Harriet Alverd, her real estate broker. This is a grueling itinerary, Harri. I don’t think we’re ever going to find a suitable English castle to revamp into a resort spa.

Rachel peered out the window of the small van she hired for the trip. Her jaw clenched as they hit another pothole, the thousandth since they’d left Bath. She glanced over at Harriet, who resettled her glasses on her straight nose, her hands unsteady.

Surely we’ll find something fitting, Rachel. I won’t let you down. Harriet’s voice trembled.

The surrounding English scenery turned from quaint cottages with thatched roofs to overgrown countryside. Hard rivulets slapped against the window. Rachel wiped away the condensation, the poor visibility casting heavy shadows on her determination. An eerie quiet pervaded the van, and Rachel shivered, unable to control her sense of foreboding.

Her stomach growled for the third time. Good grief, eight hours had passed since breakfast. Possessed by her driving need to find the property that fulfilled her dreams, she’d pushed on straight through lunch without so much as a cracker. If she didn’t eat soon, the lightheaded feeling dogging her would turn into a full-bore faint.

As if she’d read Rachel’s mind, Harri passed over the bag of nuts she was munching on. Their fingers froze as a sudden loud thumping echoed through the van. Exchanging startled looks, Rachel and Harri braced themselves against the back of their seat. A thud pierced the air, followed by an earsplitting explosion that rocked the van. Harri’s head smacked against a window.

Rachel cringed at the sound.

The van swerved and rumbled to an abrupt stop, tilting precariously on the edge of a ditch. Luggage toppled. Coats and papers flew from the overhead racks. Grabbing the armrest, she prevented herself from sliding off her seat. Her right arm slammed into the seat in front of her. Searing pain shot through her. Spots appeared before her eyes. She grabbed her shoulder and blurted, Holy crud!

Bile rose in Rachel’s throat. Stunned, she dislodged herself from the tangled coats and papers.

Harriet Marsden lay still as death, her dark spiked hair crushed against the seat, her breathing even but shallow. Rachel’s heart pounded. She held her breath as she gently touched Harri’s shoulder. No response. The artery in Harri’s neck fluttered, her pulse weak but there. Thank goodness, she’s alive. Rachel patted Harri from head to toe. No fractures, no blood. She breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God.

Driver, help! Driver! Rachel’s voice grated through the air. She shouted again and again.

He didn’t respond.

Oh my God, the driver must be hurt too.

Afraid of what she might discover, Rachel moaned and struggled to her feet. Pain shot down her right arm as she pulled herself up. A dull throb pounded behind her forehead, each beat of her pulse like a hammer against her skull. Testing for breaks, she wiggled her fingers and flexed her elbow. Agony jolted from her shoulder to wrist, but she seemed to have escaped any broken bones.

After a few seconds, her blurry vision cleared. She gasped. Broken window glass lay across the seats and the floor. Fighting shock and pain, she stumbled over the luggage strewn in the aisle to get to the front.

Her throat constricted against unshed tears. Oh, my God, empty, the driver’s seat was empty.

Rachel staggered down the steps and grabbed the railing by the open door with her right hand. Fire seared through her shoulder. She lost her grasp and slumped against the doorjamb as she dropped out of the van. A chill swept down her spine. She shivered and rubbed her arms to keep warm.

The dense fog impeded her view. She squinted to make out details through the mist. Precious minutes passed. Harri needed medical attention. Furiously, Rachel batted at the fog. Help! Anyone?

By the back of the van, the driver waved his hands and slapped his head. Words Rachel would not repeat spewed from his mouth.

Driver!

He didn’t answer.

She inhaled and caught a faint odor of gasoline. Danger signals flickered through her thoughts. They needed to get away from there, now.

Mud sloshed in her shoes and covered the hem of her skirt as she waded to the back of the van. She slid into the driver who jerked, throwing her off balance, causing her to slip into the mud. It sucked at her clothes as she righted herself. She reached her hand up for help from the driver, but he didn’t acknowledge her. Driver, are you all right? Rachel pulled herself upright then patted his sleeve.

He shrugged off her hand and turned back to the van, continuing to shake his head while cursing rapidly.

She tried again, her voice insistent. Driver, my friend is unconscious. Can you call for help?

He ignored her as if she didn’t exist. What should she do? Then she remembered the list of emergency numbers Harri kept. As she felt her way along the tilted van, her left shoe pulled off in the sucking muck. When she reached the steps, she kicked off the other shoe, pulled herself up the slippery steps, and rushed to the backseat. Throwing clothing aside and avoiding glass, she felt on the seat for her phone. Please, God, where is it?

The muscles in her back tensed. Desperate, she fumbled through Harri’s briefcase and tossed out the contents until she found the phone. Clutching the phone to her chest, she racked her brain for the emergency number in England.

Ah! She punched in 999 and got a recording. Great, they were in a no service area! Disgusted, she dropped the phone back on the seat.

After taking several deep cleansing breaths, she massaged her neck and turned her head from side-to-side to ease the tension. She gazed at Harri, still slumped in the seat. If possible, Harri looked even paler than before and she wasn’t moving. Hand over her mouth, Rachel swallowed against threatening tears. Please, Lord, let her be okay. She felt Harri’s neck for a pulse. Finding a weak flutter, she crossed her heart and struggled to gain control. I have to be strong. Get her help. Had the driver settled down enough to be of any help?

Braving the chill and the mud again, Rachel staggered outside to find the driver sitting on a tree stump, rocking back and forth, cradling his head in his hands.

Rachel grasped his shoulders to get his attention. Listen to me. Is there a garage nearby? We need to get help now. She sniffed the air. Don’t you smell the fumes?

He raked his fingers through his sparse hair and shook his head. Probably about thirty miles to the nearest town. It’s late. Not likely anyone’s open. He pointed toward the ditch. Look at this van. The company will kill me.

A flat tire, cracked windows, a few dents—looks fixable. Rachel gazed down the potholed road and searched for signs of life. The dark night and shrouds of fog prevented her from seeing more than a few feet. Come on, we have to find help.

The shape of a man emerged from the haze, and Rachel gasped. As he drew close, he towered over her. Even in the poor light, there was something familiar in the way his chest strained against his rain-soaked shirt. He reminded her of Trace, her old boss from New York. She must be hallucinating. What would Trace be doing out here in the middle of nowhere?

Anyone hurt? the man called.

She couldn’t mistake the deep gravelly voice she knew so well. Trace! Her throat tightened. Head down, hair straggling down the side of her face, she backed up, bumping into the van and slipping down into a muddy puddle. Burning pain arced from elbow to shoulder.

Haven’t checked yet, the driver said. His voice crackled then faded.

Well, it’s time you did. Come on.

Only two women at the back, the driver said, his voice crumpled. Trace swung up the steps and switched off the motor. Abrupt silence followed.

Rachel heard what sounded like luggage being kicked about. Trace shouted out a window, his voice all business. Only one person back here, unconscious. Where’s the other one?

Don’t know.

Rachel blinked. How could the driver not know? They’d just had a conversation, for cripe’s sake.

Check the other side and see if the other passenger is trapped.

The driver struggled to a standing position and held onto a taillight. As if fixed in place by a magnetic field, he didn’t attempt to move. Rachel waved from the front bumper so he could see she was alive.

The driver frowned and walked toward her. She’s out here.

To Rachel’s surprise, he reached into his back pocket, grabbed a rag, and pressed it to her forehead, covering most of her face.

As she pulled the cloth away, she glimpsed fresh blood. Her blood. Her stomach clenched at the sweet coppery odor. Warmth spread down her body. Spots danced before her eyes. She sat down and pressed the fabric to her head.

Trace paused at the door and looked down at her. You okay?

Her heart threatened to stop beating. She felt Trace’s eyes on her. Had he recognized her? Rachel didn’t look up but quickly turned her back to him. Nausea threatened to overwhelm. She heard her voice squeak, Yes. I think so.

Her throat constricted as another figure appeared out of the fog. A ghost? Older, head erect, formal. Just a man.

Trace reached down and hauled the elderly man into the van. Jarvis, glad to see you, old man. The passenger in here is unconscious. The driver struggled up the steps and followed.

They carried Harri out on a makeshift sling fashioned out of clothing and laid her on the ground. A scarf secured a pillow around her head and neck. She was still unconscious, still so very pale.

Trace looked at Rachel. Must have had a hard knock, but he responds to voice. I’ll have my doctor take a look.

Rachel’s head throbbed in tune to her heartbeat. He still hadn’t recognized her. Keeping the pressure on her forehead, she gave a thumbs up signal. She should correct him. Harri was a her not a him, but not now. Nausea threatened. She didn’t want to talk. If he heard her voice, he might remember.

Madam, can you walk? the older man asked in a brusque English accent.

Rachel nodded her aching head. A big mistake. She wavered, lightheadedness overwhelmed her. She grabbed a nearby tree branch. After a few moments, the wooziness faded. I’m coming.

She looked around, found her sensible walking shoes stuck in the mud, and pulled them out. Stepping into them, she cringed at the cold squish between her toes, but mud was better than stepping into who knew what along the road. Why hadn’t she listened to Harri? Those ugly galoshes would be welcome right now.

On the count of three: one, two, three. In unison, Trace and Jarvis hoisted the makeshift sling and walked with slow steps, careful not to jostle Harri any more than necessary.

After several starts and stops to keep Rachel with them, Trace tucked her hand into his waistband. Hold onto my belt. Let me know when you need to stop.

She stumbled after him, thankful for contact with warm skin. Every few minutes he patted her hand. If he knew who he was helping, he might not be so kind.

The driver stumbled every now and then, spurred on by Trace’s encouragement. Come on, man, keep up. Trace’s commanding voice coaxed and persuaded them to continue the journey.

Peeking around Trace, Rachel saw the outline of a sizeable house halfway down the hill. One vague light flickered through the fog.

A flurry of wings and squawking sounds set her heart racing. Bats? The stories of vampires at the last stop had been enough to scare anyone. The fog intensified her thoughts. Although tales of vampires and ghosts might be an attractive theme for her planned spa, right now, she didn’t want to hear a single strange sound.

To her relief, they turned down a narrow path toward the house. She stubbed her toe on a broken limb, which snapped under her foot. Her hand slipped from Trace’s waistband as she fell to the damp ground. Stunned, she waited for the dizziness to recede.

Freeing one hand from the sling, Trace scooped her up and held her close until her trembling legs steadied. You okay?

She started to nod but thought better of it. I’ll follow, go on in.

Trace turned his attention to the job at hand, releasing Rachel to take Harri inside. The door banged closed, and in the dark the sudden overwhelming aloneness closed in on Rachel. She cringed. This had happened once before when she was a child. She would not succumb to the fear.

Rachel took a deep breath, straightened, and marched to the door. The structure reminded her of a cross between the Munster’s and the Addams’ Family mansions on television. Overgrown hedges and vines nearly covered the entrance. She turned the knob and leaned all her weight against the door, but it didn’t budge. She mashed the doorbell until her thumb numbed, but there was no sound, no response from the brooding silent house.

A light swirling mist appeared next to her and formed into a suspended ethereal woman.

The hair on Rachel’s neck prickled. She blinked. An ice-cold band of fear clutched at her neck, stealing her breath. She closed her eyes and willed the mist to disappear. Surely she was hallucinating. Too many ghost stories.

Calming, Rachel opened her eyes a slit and peeked to her right. The wraithlike image remained floating beside her. She gulped, her voice frozen, unable to scream for help. After a few moments, a vague outline of an arm brushed toward a tarnished doorknocker. With trembling hands, Rachel took hold and banged several times, keeping the mist in her peripheral vision. When lights appeared in the window of the large wooden, arched door, the apparition disappeared. Rachel closed her eyes, stress draining from her thoroughly soaked torso.

With a shudder she looked up as the door opened. Candlelight flickered. Come in, my dear, the dampness will cause a chill, the old man who’d helped at the van said in a deep, almost hypnotic voice.

She stepped up into the foyer and looked around. Candles lit the dim entry hall. The house smelled of peppermint overpowered by candle wax. Summoning courage she didn’t know she possessed, Rachel said, I need to use a phone if possible.

He nodded and handed her a towel that had seen better days. Dry yourself. I’m sorry to say our telephone service is down, as is the electricity. We don’t expect any power until morning.

She dried the moisture from her arms and neck as she glanced around. Neither Trace, Harri, nor the driver were anywhere in sight. Where’s Harri?

He glanced at her expectantly, a snide smile on his lips, which he kept licking as if he tasted something delectable. We do have rooms to rent.

During their search for suitable places for a spa, they had slept in castles with ghosts. This house surely couldn’t be much worse. She rubbed her arms to ward off the chill and hoped her mother would appreciate her determination to find the new building for her spa expansion. Do you have heat?

There are fireplaces in each apartment. Amused by his salesmanship, Rachel listened as he asked, Do you want two rooms or three?

The house looked deserted for a bed and breakfast. So what? She had no choice. They had to stay here for at least the night. Are there other guests here? The thought of being alone in this creepy house with only Harri was unnerving.

A few others, but they shall not be a problem.

Making the only decision she could, Rachel said, We will need three rooms. I’ll pay for myself and Harriet. The driver can pay for his own room. You’ll have to make arrangements with him. She glanced around, hunting for Harri. Where is Harriet now?

Ignoring her question, he nodded. No welcoming smile, no discernable expression touched his face. His vacant demeanor disturbed her. We offer breakfast between seven and nine each morning. He pointed at the staircase which turned to the left and then to the right, rising at least four stories. The rooms are ready. Please follow the staircase. Hazel will be waiting.

She felt an urgent need to turn and run. Okay, get a grip. You’re an adult, Rachel, buck up. She looked down at the puddle of mud beneath her feet.

Jarvis, go for the doctor, Trace’s voice demanded from somewhere above.

Yes, Your Grace, Jarvis called back, a smirk on his face. He bowed and turned away.

Rachel’s eyes widened. Your Grace? Trace was royalty? Really? Was this where he disappeared to for months at a time?

As she mounted the stairs to the second floor, she noticed the frayed carpet. After she took care of her aching head and washed the sticky blood from her hair, she would start a report on this building for mother. In her experience every building was for sale at the right price. She’d send her mother her report and let her do the negotiations if it came to that. Right now she needed to look in on Harri then get herself cleaned up.

A petite, elderly woman stood at the top of the stairs and pointed to the first room on the right. Rachel looked in and saw Harri already tucked in an overstuffed bed. The fireplace blazed. Rachel heard Harri’s slow even breathing. First thing in the morning, she’d call the real estate office in London and inform them of Harri’s condition.

Can you bring an ice pack for my friend? Rachel patted the knot on her own head. Make that two?

The woman nodded and curtsied stiffly. She pointed to rooms down the hall and limped away without speaking.

The driver passed Rachel in the hall and disappeared inside the next room without a word. So much for the van company motto, We will take good care of you.

Rachel entered her room and discovered another door off to the right. To her delight, the smaller room had a tiny bed. A nursery at one time, she guessed. She propped herself against the doorframe and let her mind wander. Never pregnant, she had always wanted a baby, a child of her own to love and care for. Her sisters both had children, and her nieces and nephews were darlings—even Carmen’s teenagers. If only she had met the right man, one who would be a good father and one who would love her no matter her family’s money. Trace might have been the right man, but he was off limits to her.

A soft rustling noise from the hall jolted her out of her reverie. Rachel peeked out, not sure what she’d find.

The elderly woman opened Harri’s door and stood at the doorway, an ice pack in her hand. She gasped, placed her hand to her breast and backed away.

Harri? Rachel tensed, then rushed to the room and stared at Harri’s still body. Oh my God, had she stopped breathing?

A swirling mist arose above Harri’s bed. Hair prickled on the back of Rachel’s neck. Goose bumps crawled up her arms. The ethereal woman from before.

Harri’s eyes opened, then widened in alarm. She let out a blood-curdling scream and the mist dissolved.

The elderly woman flinched.

Rachel rushed to the bed and patted Harri’s hand. There now, you’re safe. You’ll be all right. She turned to find the old woman at her side, ice pack in hand. Rachel snatched it from her fingers and placed it on Harri’s head.

Rachel felt relief for the first time since the accident. Harri’s weak smile brought tears of happiness to Rachel’s eyes. As Harri settled, Rachel turned to the elderly woman. Hazel? The woman nodded. The rooms are acceptable. Thanks for the fires. Bathroom is…?

Hazel pointed down the hall, wisps of white hair framing her impish face. She bowed her head and left.

Assured Harri rested quietly, Rachel wandered down the hall and found the bathroom, antiquated but charming. The claw foot tub and pedestal sink begged to be used. She soaked a washcloth in warm water and sat on the commode to mop the coagulated blood from her hair.

She peered in the mirror at the cut on her forehead—jagged but not too deep. It would probably heal without stitches. Grimy and waterlogged, she needed a good hot bath, but it would have to wait until the morning. I’m too tired. She grabbed the washcloth to staunch any further bleeding, half-heartedly wiped the mess from her feet, and staggered back to her room using the wall for support. How much blood had she lost?

In the cozy chamber, lavender wafted through the air, growing stronger with each breath. The overstuffed antique bed beckoned. She took several deep breaths to clear her head. Harri, I should stay with Harri. Then she spied a tray