The journey between the school and home was second nature to me. I did everything on autopilot; changing trains in London and then again in Bodmin onto the smaller line which led to my town, dozing with my head against the window the entire way, and dragged my luggage back through the streets and to the garage where my father would be waiting.

It wasn't until I was alone in my bedroom that the weight of the past few weeks sunk in. Not only had I endured Lisa's scorn, Gideon's smug presence, and the endless toil of studying for exams which would decide my future, but I'd also been reminded of how my lacking fortune would forever keep me separated from my friends. While they would spend the rest of their lives free to jet off to whatever exotic location they wanted, I was doomed to live within a tight budget and scroll enviously through their social media feeds while I fought to earn enough to survive.

It was almost enough to make me wish that I'd never met any of them in the first place. If I'd stayed in Cornwall and attended the local secondary school, then I'd never have started to get ideas above my station. I wouldn't have hoped that I could have a better life. I wouldn't have silently resented the vast social chasm which would keep my friends and I forever apart.

And now, here I was, condemned to spend two long weeks listening to grimy mechanics complain about the lack of luxury vehicles they worked on while everyone else got to stare at beautiful statues and throw coins into decadent fountains.

Perfect.

It wasn't until the light dwindled outside that Dad knocked on my bedroom door. He didn't wait for an invitation, having never learnt the meaning of respecting a girl's privacy, what with my being away most of the time. Still dressed in his greasy overalls, he wiped his hands on an equally filthy rag while he regarded me.

'Something up?' he asked bluntly.

'No.'

'Want dinner?'

'Not really.'

'I can order in,' he offered. 'Fish and chips?'

I groaned. 'No, Dad. I just said I didn't want dinner.'

'Look, I know it sucks that I can't afford to send you to Italy. I'm sorry, but –'

'Dad, that's not –'

'I'm just saying, Ms Ayers did offer to pay for –'

'I don't want her charity, Dad!' I snapped. 'I want to make my own way, like you! Anyway, it's none of her business. She's just Jenny's mum, not mine.'

'Madeleine respects you. She doesn't think of it as –'

'I'm tired,' I interrupted. 'Can you please let me go to sleep?'

He hesitated, but I didn't want to talk to him about it any longer. Even if he asked more questions, or lectured me, it would all go ignored. Deciding it was best to withdraw, Dad walked out, slamming the door behind himself. It wasn't the reunion I wanted, but he didn't understand how I felt. To him, it was just a polite gesture from a family friend. But to me, it was a reminder that I couldn't pay for anything without help.

By morning, I realised I'd been kind of harsh.

Dad was already down in the garage when I woke up. I didn't think he'd be in any mood to speak to me after what I'd said. I took my time showering, getting dressed in a comfortable old t-shirt and jeans, and made myself breakfast. From the dishes resting in the sink, I deduced that Dad had already eaten without me. He must have been irritated not to wake me. We usually had a huge breakfast together on my first morning home to celebrate my return. Instead, I was nibbling on dry toast and feeling like the worst daughter in the world.

I wasn't going to spend my two weeks off having a family drama. I didn't have the patience or the energy to argue back and forth with my father about our financial situation. That, and Jenny wasn't around to make me feel better afterwards. It was impossible to handle all the bad stuff without her. I pulled on my shoes, grabbed my hooded jacket, and hurried downstairs.

'Going to the beach,' I announced to Dad on my way past the office.

He finished his call and hurried out after me. Dad put his hand on my shoulder to stop me, then removed it quickly. I figured he didn't want to seem intimidating. As if he ever could. He wasn't that kind of man. He cleared his throat, then scratched at the back of his neck. 'What happened last night –'

'I don't want to talk about it,' I interrupted. 'Sorry, and everything. I should go. You have work to do, right?'

'Right. Do you want to come along? I just got a call from a guy who works at that big estate just outside of town. He said the family is coming in a few days and that the gardener can't sort out the grounds without a working ride-on mower. Apparently, I'm their best hope of getting the thing repaired.'

'You want me to spend all day watching you work on a tractor?'

'Mower. And, no. You can walk around the gardens if you want. It might be your only chance to get in there and explore. It'll be a story that you can tell your friends.'

I wanted to go to the beach. All my friends lived in massive houses, so telling them about one I'd taken a tour of wasn't going to impress them. But if it would make up for the way I'd spoken to Dad, then I didn't have much choice. I forced a smile to show that I agreed, but I couldn't make myself say it. I feared that if I opened my mouth, I might tell him just how dull the whole day would likely be.

He didn't complain about my obvious reluctance and went to let the others know that he'd be working away from the garage for the day. That meant Eric was in charge. I just hoped he didn't burn the place down before we got back or anything. Eric was an excellent mechanic, but a pretty face easily distracted him. If some bombshell showed up and asked to see his tools, he might do something stupid. Dad threw his tools into the back of his pickup and I got up into the flatbed so I wouldn't have to share the cab with him and endure a stilted conversation during the drive.

Besides, Dad liked to sing along to the radio.

Off key.

Loudly.

The town I lived in was a coastal town, and one of the most south-westerly points in England. It had a train station with a single platform because we were literally at the end of the line. Only one way in or out. We were surrounded by beaches and the vast expanse of the ocean. On the outskirts there were rolling fields, with patches of dense woodland dotted across the land where revellers liked to camp out, play loud music, and smoke questionable substances.

Pemberley Manor was one of the many houses owned by the obscenely wealthy people who liked to holiday in Cornwall. It had more bedrooms than any single family could ever use, a lot of land that wasn't farmed even though the local community needed the money it would generate, and it was only ever fully occupied in the summer. Whenever the family wasn't home, the house was enjoyed by the staff who lived in cottages around the grounds. Their role was to keep the place clean and tidy so that, should the owners drop in without notice, they wouldn't have their upper-class sensibilities offended by the presence of dust on their precious antiques.

Being a private residence, the gates were locked to all members of the public. Despite having some of the nicest gardens to be found in the local area, they refused to allow tourists or ramblers to cut through them whether they were in residence or not. When we were children, my friends and I had tried to scale one of the perimeter fences only to be chased off by an angry groundskeeper brandishing a rake. Since then, we'd given it a wide berth. It didn't stop us from telling stories about the house, nor speculating on the mysterious fire which claimed the old castle-like structure which had stood on the property before its sleek, modern replacement had appeared.

Dad said insurance job.

We said insane, inbred, shrieking nobility.

I let the old truck rock me left and right while I sat cross-legged on the grimy flatbed, watching the town pass us by, and smiling briefly at the few people who waved as we passed. We'd lived there forever, and my Dad was something of a celebrity. All the local people knew us. That was nice, in a way. Community and all that. Although it was hard having everyone know your business, too. Nothing stayed secret in a town like ours.

We were buzzed through the gate and Dad drove straight around to the back of the house. When we came to a stop, I hopped down from the back and unlatched the tailgate. I stepped back so that Dad could easily unload his tools and brushed my hands over my backside to sweep away any excess dirt clinging to my jeans. The family might have been away from home, but it wasn't like I wanted to look liked I'd spent my morning rolling around in the gutter.

An impeccably dressed man approached us and I could only assume that he was some sort of a butler or head of the household while the family were away. He reached out to shake my father's hand without hesitation. 'Mr Bennett,' he greeted, 'thank you for coming on such short notice. I'm James. James Gately.'

'Greg, please,' Dad corrected. 'No trouble at all. Hopefully, we can get things up and running today and get out of your hair quickly.'

James wasn't alone. A younger man with dark hair and a lopsided smile followed him. He bore a striking resemblance to the older man from the way he carried himself to how he was dressed. The younger elbowed the elder and cleared his throat softly.

'Excuse me,' James said. 'This is my son, Henry. He's shadowing me and learning the ins and outs of running the house.'

'Nice to meet you,' he said to us both, his gaze lingering on my face.

'And this is Beth. She's going to get bored watching me work. Is she allowed to walk around the gardens?' Dad asked.

'I can go one better,' Henry said. 'Do you want to see the house? No one's around, and I can give you a tour.'

'Can I?' I asked Dad.

'Fine by me. James?'

The older man nodded. 'Absolutely. Don't go into the family's personal rooms, Henry. Understood?'

'Yes, Father.'

Well, I supposed it wouldn't be a total waste of the day.

Even if I wouldn't have a story to tell my friends at school, my friends down at the beach were going to want to know if I'd seen any lingering ghosts or dead bodies in Pemberley Manor.