Harries - Bittersweet Legacy: Lorette and the Wilde Thyme Hotel

Lorette and the Wilde Thyme Hotel

Copyright 2014 Blushing Books and Georgia Harries

Published by Blushing Books at Smashwords

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Harries, Georgia

Bittersweet Legacy: Lorette and the Wilde ThymeHotel

eBook ISBN: 978-1-62750-4270

Cover Art by ABCD Graphics and Design

This book is intended for adults only.Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book arefantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should beinterpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating anynon-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

CHAPTERONE

Shropshire

Rural England

Summer, 1946

"Goodbye, Miss. And hey - good luck!"

The driver gave a cheery wave as he rolled upthe window of the hired motorcar and drove off at speed to make itback to London in daylight. Lorette raised a hand and smiled as shecaught a final glimpse of him in his front view mirror. Taking adeep breath and surveying her new surrounds, she spoke quietly toherself.

"Good luck? I'm jolly well going to needit."

If she had not been quite so exhausted atthat moment, Lorette would have turned on her heels and fled.Dropping her leather travelling case to the ground, she staredaghast at the dark, dilapidated building before her. Turningquickly, she saw the motorcar depart through the ramshackle woodengate at the end of the drive. The bright sunshine of the highsummer's day could do nothing to disguise how rundown the placewas. For a second, Lorette wondered if she had even come to theright place. The ruin before her could surely not be the gloriousWild Thyme Hotel of her childhood, could it? The hot, bumpy fourhour drive from London left her too tired to explore right away,but there was no turning back, that was for sure. The Wild Thymebelonged to her, after all. For a 19-year-old, it was a colossalundertaking. But she had never been one to shirk from hard work orresponsibility. Clearly, both were badly needed here.

She looked all around her, shading her eyesfrom the piercing sunlight. It had been exceptionally hot inLondon, but she hadn't expected it to follow her so far northwest.From behind the shabby wall of the main building's porch, a smalldog ran yelping towards her. Behind it came the scuffle offootsteps.

"Hello? Who is it?" a gruff male voicecalled.

Lorette suddenly felt like a trespasser. Shewaited for the owner of the dog to make himself apparent beforecalling back, "My name is Miss Gilday. Lorette Gilday. I don't wishto disturb you sir, but my great-aunt used to own this place. Hellothere?"

Marching towards her, with a pace that beliedhis years, was a tall hulk of a man dressed in the garb of acountry squire. Likely in his 60s, Lorette thought, as she took inhis creased, sun-burnt features and thick brown unruly hair spikedwith tufts of grey. He was at least six-feet-two-inches tall andwalked with a polished oak stick, tapping it to the side of hisboot as he drew closer to her. Intimidated now, Lorette met hiseyes tentatively and waited for him to speak.

"Your great-aunt, you say? Remember her sideof the family coming here often enough in the old days. You musthave been just a nipper."

Taken aback, but aware of a hidden warmth inthe older man's voice, Lorette processed her thoughts.

"Yes, sir. Martin Gilday is - was - myfather. And you are?"

"I run the place. Such as is left of it. AndI have done, since the curse of Hitler rent our lives insmithereens. Their nephew was a good lad, anyways about it. Wassorry to hear of his loss. "

More at ease now, Lorette struggled withplacing the man. He was right. She had last seen The Wild Thyme asa child of four years of age, playing in the corners of its cosy,well-kept rooms, being spoiled by the small staff her great-auntand uncle had kept. Perhaps it was mere sentiment that made herremember it as a magical place. Now, it was evidently falling topieces, although that should come as no surprise given the War.Still, Lorette's mixed feelings overwhelmed her as she thought ofthe London life she'd been so quick to abandon after the reading ofthe will.

Impatiently, the man rapped the rough stoneof the worn path with his stick and made to turn.

"There is hot tea should you care for it, butvery little more on offer here. You are welcome to look around,Miss, but I fear there will be nowt hereabouts to impress yourlikes." Lorette did feel self-conscious, in her smart blazer andpleated crpe shirt-waister. Inheriting the hotel, as well as allher great-aunt's money, had seemed something of a miracle. Shewasn't one to believe in fate, but after the horror of the waryears and the private hell she'd endured in its aftermath, news ofthe legacy was like a fairy tale. But the old fellow had a point.She looked out of place in the clothes she'd picked up in Brighton.Certainly her dainty court shoes were not fashioned for exploringthe Shropshire hills. Despite this, Lorette felt there wassomething welcoming in the atmosphere here.

The words Wild Thyme Hotel, once painted indeep ochre above the main door porch, had faded badly over theyears, she could see. But her curiosity was already bettering herand she hastened after the man.

"A cup of tea would be just lovely, sir," shesaid cheerily as she followed him into the hotel.

"I may have been just a little girl when lasthere, you're right, but I do remember it as a thrivingestablishment. You can imagine my surprise to be bequeathed it asmy great-aunt's final wish."

The man stopped abruptly in his tracks beforepausing to wipe his boots on the tattered welcome mat. Lorettenoted his reaction cautiously.

"You knew my great-aunt and uncle well, then?You are Mister ....?"

He ignored her and entered the porch, theyelping terrier now close to his boot heels. Lorette bent to patit, the animal apparently hungry for fresh company. As the manpushed open the battered wooden door, at last he offered her a handto carry her travelling case.

"Walter Mountford. I rode carriages for yourgreat-uncle Stephen. Suppose you might say I was his taxi cab, forthis here place. I mourn that fine man to this day. Never saw muchof his wife after we lost him, I have to say. I don't mean nooffence to your blood relatives, but that's how it was."

Mountford's final comment was laced withresentment. It was little surprise to Lorette. The great-aunt hadherself been elderly when her husband, Stephen, had died five yearsbefore. Of French extraction, she had no time for the Englishclimate and had run The Wild Thyme largely by telegraphedinstruction, preferring to spend her summers on the Riviera. Whenthe war broke out with threat of German invasion, the ageingproprietrix had been desperate to get rid of The Wild Thyme.

"My great-aunt lost interest in life sir,after the death of my uncle and then the war. But she was a veryclever woman. I am grateful to her for this opportunity." Lorettesmiled confidently.

Mountford looked her up and down, from hercrown to her ankles. She ill-fitted the countryside, he thought.Her long, wavy chestnut coloured hair spilled neatly to hershoulders, held in place by two bright red Bakelite clasps. Shewore a hint of rouge, and lipstick, too. Less than impressed, hewondered how on earth a dainty painted city doll could ever amuseherself at the long-neglected Wild Thyme, especially if she courtedthe great-aunt's fancy ways. Mountford had never had any time forhis employer's foreign wife and was loathe now to be reminded ofher.