Whitecott Manor by Emma Jane
Published by NineStar Press on September 11th 2017
Goodreads

Alistair Ellis is the proud gardener for beautiful fifteenth-century Whitecott Manor, in England's West Country. His life changes forever following a gas explosion at the manor, in which his boss—and love of his life—dies. However, his boss hasn't exactly gone for good and Alistair still finds himself involved in conversations with the deceased.
Circumstances improve when he meets Noah, the handsome dog groomer for the manor's new owners. Although there are some issues: Noah is already engaged and Alistair suffers from cynophobia—an acute fear of dogs!
Word Count: 65300.

Title: Whitecott Manor

Author: Emma Jane

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: September 11, 2017

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 65300

Genre: Contemporary, Paranormal, NineStar Press, LGBT, contemporary, British, paranormal, intrigue, family-drama, ghosts, friends to lovers, humor

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Synopsis:

Alistair Ellis is the proud gardener for beautiful fifteenth-century Whitecott Manor, in England’s West Country. His life changes forever following a gas explosion at the manor, in which his boss—and love of his life—dies. However, his boss hasn’t exactly gone for good and Alistair still finds himself involved in conversations with the deceased.

Circumstances improve when he meets Noah, the handsome dog groomer for the manor’s new owners. Although there are some issues: Noah is already engaged and Alistair suffers from cynophobia—an acute fear of dogs!

Excerpt:

Whitecott Manor
Emma Jane © 2017
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

Once I was aware of the cuts, they stung like a bitch. I should’ve worn gloves, really, but it’s so much easier not to. I was almost finished anyway, and the Harpers’ rose borders were nearly ready. They’d look beautiful when they flowered in the summer—they always did. White and red rose blooms flanked the path to the tennis court. I just had one last bush to prune and then I could stop for a cuppa. The cuts were itching now too, right where the thorns had snagged and ripped my skin. I sucked the flesh between my thumb and index finger, tasting blood and mud, and stood there, secateurs in hand, watching the house.

It was a fifteenth-century manor—a beautiful listed building made from warm-yellow stone. It’d been revamped inside, a strange mixture of modern and ancient, and was currently—unfortunately, in my opinion—on the market. I didn’t want it to sell; I didn’t want to lose my job. The Harpers assured me that whoever bought the place would keep me on but, well, it wasn’t down to them.

I took my hand from my mouth and watched as the estate agent led a middle-aged couple from their car—some sort of old classic; light blue with a soft-top—to the front of the manor. Even at this distance, I could see the look on their faces as they gazed up at the building before entering. They loved it already. Everybody did; it was such an impressive place. Bloody hell, I’d buy it if I had a spare eight million lying around.

I glowered to myself and turned back to the last bush, reaching into the branches to snip it into some sort of order. I cut myself on another thorn and swore impatiently.

“Language.”

I turned to see Mr Harper—Emmett—watching me. He stood there, smiling, his hands tucked in the pockets of his ridiculous purple corduroys. He always reminded me of Colin Firth, though he didn’t look particularly like him. He was a similar age, I suppose, and had that same clipped accent and no-nonsense manner.

I tossed rose clippings into my wheelbarrow. “Sorry. It’s these roses. They’re full of thorns.”

“Ah, the roses. Yes. I thought perhaps you’d spotted Mr Daniels showing the Scrantons around.”

“Scrantons?”

“Mr and Mrs Scranton. I don’t know their first names, and I don’t care. Lottery winners, apparently.”

I scratched at my cheek with the edge of my thumbnail and then wiped the back of my hand across my brow. “You really want Whitecott Manor bought by lottery winners?” I asked. It wasn’t really any of my business, but I didn’t want to see the place sold on yet again because the Scrantons squandered all their money and ended up bankrupt within a year.

Emmett shrugged. “My dear, I don’t care who buys it as long as they cough up the money. You know I can’t afford to keep the place.”

I knew. Emmett was swimming in debt. His daughters—all five of them—had now moved out and he had to pay for everything on his own since his wife had left. Old Mrs Harper, Emmett’s mother, lived in the house with him, but she was in her eighties and, I think, had about as much money as he did. They wanted to move to a little cottage somewhere, with a nice granny annex and a garden that didn’t require much attention. Certainly not enough attention to take me with them.

I hadn’t said anything. Emmett came and put his hand to the small of my back. “Whoever ends up here would be mad to let you go. They can see how beautiful the gardens are.”

I nodded and stared into the rose bush.

“And you’re beautiful,” he added. “Who would not want you around?”

“You don’t need to flatter me.” I snipped at the bush and tossed branches into my wheelbarrow.

Emmett chuckled and moved away. “Cheer up, Alistair! You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. I’m off to take Mother her tea.”

I watched him stroll back to the house as if he didn’t have a care in the world. I’d miss him most of all. Well, maybe he wouldn’t move far. I’d probably still see him around—at the local fair or plant show perhaps. Besides, house sales took ages; I knew that from experience. If the Scrantons bought the place, it’d be a while yet before they moved in. And if they decided they didn’t want a gardener—if—then I had plenty of time to look for a new job. I could always audition for the X Factor and see where that got me—Emmett said I had a great singing voice, and I’d often dreamed of performing on stage.

I picked up the wheelbarrow and went to empty the clippings on the compost heap. I was just trundling back to the roses when I spotted the estate agent leading the Scrantons out into the gardens. I’d make myself scarce; I didn’t want to have to smile politely while they stood and gawked, so I downed tools and headed to the potting shed.

The cabbage seedlings were coming on nicely, I noticed, but my beetroots were depressingly small. I’d never had much luck with beetroot. They never grew much larger than rat testicles. I shrugged out of my overalls and tied the arms around my waist, singing an Elvis track softly beneath my breath.

I’d just reached for a watering can when an almighty bang made me jump out of my skin. The windows blew out the front of the manor, followed by tongues of fire licking the frames. I stared, heart frozen and mouth open. Then my heart started again, blood thumping in my ears. I threw open the shed door and ran.

“Emmett!”

I dashed towards the building, pulled open the door, and hurried down the hall to where the explosion had come from—the kitchen. Flames crackled in the room, red and angry and louder than I would’ve expected. Smoke and heat billowed outwards, and I coughed and covered my nose. My eyes watered.

“Emmett!” I yelled again.

Something crashed—maybe part of the ceiling falling—and I took a step to go after Emmett when somebody grabbed my arm and hauled me back.

“Mr Harper’s in there,” I shouted at the estate agent, fighting the man’s vice-like grip. “Emmett! Emmett!”

The estate agent pulled me away, forcing me bodily back down the hall and outside. He was speaking—shouting, I think—but I yelled too, my voice hoarse, and I couldn’t hear him, couldn’t see, couldn’t… Emmett.

Sirens screamed in the distance, and then I saw the lights flashing through the trees that flanked the lane beside the manor. Fire engines arrived in a cacophony of noise and colour. The estate agent held me in a bear hug, and all I could do as firefighters jumped from their vehicles was stare at the flames roaring from the broken windows.

Review:

Whitecott Manor by Emma Jane
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Whitecott Manor (ARC) was graciously provided to me by IndiGo Marketing & Design for an honest review.

“The Love of a Rose Bush…”

A beautiful country garden tended by a loving gardener, with the added gentle and caring guidance by those equally close to it, is always such a treat for the senses, and, whether it be as a result of dense protective bushes, trailing fragrant vines, scrumptious colorful vegetables, or, richly-scented roses, I always gravitate towards these types of visions. Opportunities to either physically be within a beauty such as this, or, within the depths of a book, is something I rarely pass up on. Whatever the case may be, gardens always draw my attention. So, when I came across a new book with this type of first impression, as well as an intriguing blurb, I was quick to jump in.

It did not take long for me to get thoroughly excited as I prepared for reading a new book entitled, Whitecott Manor, by Emma Jane. It had a beautiful cover of not only a gorgeous garden, but, also of a majestic and proud manor. Once I read the blurb, I was set for a beautiful read.

Instead, it was a very emotional read. It’s primarily a story about the struggles of survival, due to the most profound type of loss, whether it be experienced by a person or a majestic manor, it was a powerful one. One that if compared to the painful removal of a band-aid, would have the removal of said band-aid to actually feel good. Throughout most of the story, as stunned confusion turned into twisting dark and exhausting struggles, actions turned into ones of deception, dishonesty, selfishness, and, greed. Due to the turn of the storyline, there were times when I actually thought I had started reading a completely different story in the middle of the original one, because it all began to not make any sense, because all of that was not about the beautiful gardens of a stately manor.

There were many secondary characters, most of whom I liked. However, due to the different kind of development of the friendship between one of the mc’s and his new interest, while the chemistry was pretty much always present, I wasn’t able to make the connection between them until the very end. I also found the writing, at times, to be inconsistent, unclear, and choppy. As there wasn’t a whole lot of character development, it had appeared that some of the characters came across as being younger than they probably should have been. I also found that the pace to be a bit slow, as it appeared that some of the additional struggles took a long time to be resolved, or, were quickly swept under the table.

Throughout this heart-breaking display of attempted survival, there were also sweet, loving moments which I had desperately wished there were more of. I did find myself giggling, and, enjoyed the interesting and different kind of speech used by the characters, which was heavily laden with British vernaculars. I absolutely loved everything having to do with the gardens, and the small towns which were described also very well. Once these loving moments had begun to transform the struggles into ones of dissipating clouds, it happened….and I bawled..

And..then….and then. *wet sigh* It broke, no, it shattered, my heart. It was brutal and painful to read something that was drawn out through countless pages of something that was finally…finally brought out into the open and shared which needed to be done because of its weight. But…once the reason came to light, the pain was…understood and accepted because of the ultimate reason. And, then there’s that…sob producing beautiful and shiny moment….that contributed to me adoring a certain someone even more….*sigh* *runs to work in garden*

*star rating:3.50 stars*

Purchase:

NineStar Press | Amazon | Smashwords | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

Meet the Author:

Emma Jane has been writing stories since primary school, some of which still survive in notebooks in her dad’s attic, and wanted to be an author as soon as she realised it was a possible career choice and ‘Pony’ or ‘Ninja’ weren’t viable options.

Her first short story, Club Freak, about an anonymous woman’s determination to find her husband’s killer, was published by Park Publication’s Debut magazine in May 2009. Since then, she has gone on to write many short stories and poems for various small presses and has achieved an Honourable Mention in the 2011 Writers of the Future competition.

In 2014, writing as Emma Jane, she signed her first publishing contract for not one, but two novels. Otherworld formerly published by Torquere Press, and Shuttered by Dreamspinner Press.