Firethorne

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Maya

“ I know we made the right decision,” my father said, smiling absent-mindedly as we sat in the dimly lit carriage of the night train. “Leaving that town and taking this job, it’s the best thing that could’ve happened to us. It’ll be a fresh start. Just what we need.”

I let the steady beat of the track beneath us and the gentle sway of the train lull me into a false sense of security. But my mind echoed troubling words that refused to be silenced.

Where are we going?

Why is my stomach in knots?

What will we find at the end of this journey?

That inner voice, changing from a whisper to a roar, became more persistent as it tried to drown out the other noises around me.

Like a mantra on repeat that mimicked the rhythm of the train.

A chant that became a warning the longer it went on.

This feels wrong.

This feels wrong.

This feels wrong.

But I’d never say the words out loud. I couldn’t, despite them clinging to the tip of my tongue. I didn’t want to rain on my father’s parade.

There’d been enough rain clouds darkening our lives.

Clouds he didn’t deserve.

Neither of us did.

Instead, I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to block out the taunting voices in my head, smiling as I replied, “It’ll be great. You’re right. It’ll be just what we need,” faking sunshine as I envisioned those clouds drifting away.

Admitting that I was devastated to say goodbye to the town I’d grown up in, and the only life I’d known seemed selfish.

My father had hit rock bottom.

If this move brought him out of his pit of despair, then it was a small price to pay.

And I couldn’t bear to lose him, not after everything we’d been through.

My mother had died when I was eight years old. To say my father took it badly was an understatement. He’d started drinking, his mental health plummeted, and for him, life held no meaning without her. I was devastated about her death too, but watching my remaining parent decline in front of my eyes, knowing I could lose him as well, totally shattered me.

One of my most vivid childhood memories was the time I stayed home from school because my father was so drunk he’d passed out on the bathroom floor.

I missed the school bus to stay at home and watch him. To make sure he didn’t stop breathing as he lay on the tiles curled up in a ball.

When he was sick, I cleaned it up. I knew he couldn’t do it himself.

When he woke and started to cry, I held him and told him it’d be okay.

And when school rang, asking where I was, I pretended to be the grandmother I’d never met and told them I was sick.

He doesn’t remember any of it, and I’d never want him to, but it’s scorched into my mind.

I’ll never forget it.

I lost both parents on the day my mother died, but I fought to get one of them back.

Back then, after hitting rock bottom, my father managed to build himself back up. He sought counselling and started working, and life became steadier, more manageable. He’d found purpose in living, and slowly, so did I.

Until the day it all came crashing down.

So, where did it all go wrong?

My father’s problem was he’d always listened to the wrong people. He was a financial advisor who took the worst advice. And after a few misguided business dealings, placing trust where it shouldn’t have been placed and thinking he was savvier than he was, my father lost it all. Our money, his clients’ money, his job, our home, and our standing in a community that was fickle and fierce in their revulsion of how far we’d fallen. They couldn’t turn their backs on us fast enough. We were discarded like last week’s newspaper. Left on the rubbish heap of life. Learning the hard way that the people we’d had in our lives only wanted us around if it benefited them.

Because after everything fell apart, they didn’t want to know us.

They crossed the street to avoid us. If bad luck was catching, like a virus, we were riddled with it, and they avoided us like the plague. Nobody wanted to help, but that was okay, we were used to the hard knocks of life. In my opinion, it’d always been the two of us against the world.

I was the only one who knew what’d happened to him in the years after Mum died.

But I had to admit, I was scared out of my mind, that after this latest catastrophe, he’d turn to the bottle. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him again to drink.

Creditors had turned up on our doorstep. They took everything we owned, leaving us with a few worthless belongings and the clothes on our backs.

The dire reality of our situation also meant I couldn’t continue with my studies. I needed to go out and earn money too. I couldn’t let my father face this alone.

So, I told my professors at the university that I wouldn’t be returning the following term. It broke my heart to leave, but what else could I do? I couldn’t afford to be there. I needed to be with my father and help him through this. I wanted to make sure he didn’t fall victim to his demons again.

“We have a hardship fund set up to help students just like yourself, Maya,” my English Literature tutor had stated, hope flickering in his eyes. “The Earnshaw Scholarship was created especially for cases like yours,” he went on, but I didn’t listen. I switched off as he explained the ins and outs of the fund, begging me to apply.

But there was no hope, and I didn’t want false promises.

When he’d finished, I thanked him and took the necessary forms. But the minute I left his office, I put them straight in the bin. Hardship funds might cover the cost of tuition fees, maybe housing. But what about food and basic needs?

I wasn’t going to beg anyone.

I would make my own way in this life.

And I might be leaving my studies behind now, but it wouldn’t be forever. I’d find my way back one day.

And then, last week, everything changed.

The dark clouds that were circling, suffocating the life from us, lifted when my father announced that all our prayers had been answered.

He’d been offered a job.

A live-in post on an estate owned by a wealthy family.

My father would become the estate manager in exchange for board and lodgings. I’d never heard of the family, and when I questioned him, trying to find out more about his new, infamous—according to him—employees, his answers were vague and non-committal.

Google was no better. Their names were listed on a few business websites, but no photographs, no social media. Nothing. They were ghosts in an age where nothing and no one could hide from the world.

It made me wary.

I wasn’t stupid. And I struggled not to doubt my father’s judgment after everything that’d happened with his bankruptcy. But I couldn’t deny the news that someone wanted him after all he’d been through had put a smile on his face, and that was worth more than anything to me, because it gave him hope. It had restored his pride.

Maybe, in a few years, when we’d gotten ourselves into a better position, I’d go back to university and have the life I’d always dreamed of. But for now, I had to accept the life we were living. I had to try and make the best of it. I had to be there for him.

I continued questioning him, though, because that was my job as his meddling, well-meaning daughter. And he just kept on reiterating that I should be praying to every God there was because they hadn’t just offered my father a position, they’d agreed to take me on, too. To do what, I had no idea. But it can’t have been much, seeing as I hadn’t even met the family or done any form of interview. But apparently, they were happy to take us as we were.

Yes.

There were red flags flying everywhere.

Who employs someone they’ve never met?

But when all was said and done, what choice did I have? I had to go with him. I couldn’t let him go alone, he meant too much to me, and he was adamant about taking the job.

I stared blankly at the dark fields and stormy night skies that rolled past as we sat on the train. Rain hammered against the window, rivulets racing across the glass that broke into smaller branches, crawling and spiking like roots of a watery plant that eventually withered and died in front of my eyes. I placed my fingertip on the cold glass and began to trace the fractured lines, all the while wondering why, with everything we’d been through lately, I hadn’t shed a single tear.

Not one.

Had I really become hardened to this life?

“I’m sorry you had to leave home and university,” my father said quietly, probably picking up on my seemingly well-hidden reluctance. Or at least, I’d thought it was well-hidden. “But I know, in time, we’ll come to see it was for the best. I’m your father and I need to take care of you. Opportunities like this don’t come along every day. We have to grab them with both hands. Seize the day.”

My father went on about how lucky we were to get a second chance at life. He didn’t see the irony in his words. I hadn’t even had a first chance. But I let him speak as I stared blindly out of the window, watching the spidery, watery veins as the train carriage swayed us back and forth like it was trying to rock some sense into this crazy situation we found ourselves in.

“They’re well respected, you know,” he continued. “They’ll make excellent employers. We’re lucky to get a foot in. Just think about all the doors this could open for you, Maya.”

I hummed in response, but I was reserving judgement until I’d actually met these people, even though my father seemed to think they were the best thing since sliced bread.

“Apparently,” my father went on, drumming his fingers on the table to try and expel some of his nervous energy. “The estate is the largest in the county. It dates back to the Victorian era. It was originally built in eighteen thirty-four. And it’s a grade-two listed building.”

“Really?” I replied, my voice flat, emotionless, but responding all the same. “That sounds exciting.”

“There’s eighteen bedrooms,” he added proudly.

Slowly, I turned to face him. The lights from the carriage gave his ragged, hope-filled face a gentle, ethereal glow, and I smiled wryly. “Great. I’ll enjoy cleaning those every day.”

He blanched at my cutting remark.

“It might start out as cleaning, but who knows where it’ll lead? The Firethorne family have a lot of businesses in their portfolio. A lot of influence. Firethorne could be the stepping stone to something much greater for you, Maya.”

Firethorne.

The name of the house that my father and I were going to live and work at for the foreseeable future.

It was also the name of the family who owned it.

A name that I was starting to realise held significance for people around here, and maybe not in a positive way.

The train we were on was practically empty. Only one other man was sitting in our carriage on the opposite side to us, just a little way down, with his head stuck in a newspaper. A stranger dressed in a black suit and tie, looking weary, like he was on his way home after a gruelling day at the office. But when my father mentioned the name Firethorne, I noticed how he reacted.

Startled.

Then apprehension.

Followed by revulsion.

He turned his nose up like the carriage had suddenly been filled with a bad smell, and he furrowed his brow, shaking the newspaper in his hands as he cleared his throat, doing a terrible job of looking unaffected.

Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze from his paper and pinned me with a stare that sent chills of ice darting through my veins. A warning stare, like he’d gut me right here, right now for being associated with that family. I held his gaze, refusing to show an ounce of fear, and eventually, he relented, dipping his head to refocus on his reading. But he kept the scowl on his face.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and I half expected him to mutter something under his breath, but he didn’t. He just buried his head in his paper, pretending he wasn’t eavesdropping on what my father was saying.

But he was.

And that didn’t sit right with me, because I didn’t trust this man. His presence set me on edge. He pretended to read, but his jaw was clenched, and his demeanour was guarded and hostile as he sat upright in his seat, noting every word my father said. He obviously knew a lot more about the Firethornes than we did, judging by the visceral effect their name had on him.

“Mr Firethorne is one of the most respected and accomplished men in the county,” my father announced, oblivious to the man across the aisle from us, and I found myself blocking him out, focusing on our fellow passenger; beads of sweat glistened on his brow as his jaw ticked with irritation. He began folding his newspaper and fidgeting in his seat impatiently as my father went on with his diatribe of praise.

Then the man stood up, his eyes fixed straight ahead as he focused on the exit, grabbing the handrails to steady himself because the train was still moving, and we were miles away from the next stop.

I could hear my father’s voice ringing in my ears, but I ignored him, watching the passenger make his way down the aisle of the carriage towards us, but refusing to make eye contact. The train veered to the left, and he lost his footing close to where we were, bumping into my seat before he muttered, “I’m so sorry,” and awkwardly stumbled past.

I turned, peering over my shoulder as he walked through the door at the end of the aisle, heading into the neighbouring carriage to ours. Then, I faced forward again, and that’s when I noticed a scrap of paper lying in my lap.

Paper that the stranger had dropped.

Discreetly, I picked it up, cupping it in the palm of my hand so my father wouldn’t see it, and slowly, I opened it to find three words that’d been hastily scribbled down.