CONTENTS
Title Page
Prologue
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
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COMING NEXT TO PATREON
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The Rooks of Misselthwaite
IN THE FORGOTTEN GARDEN
Book I
A Prequel Series to “The Secret Garden”
ALYDIA RACKHAM
Copyright © 2017 Alydia Rackham
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 154718003X
ISBN-13: 978-1547180035
For Jaicee
Ever
And for Maegan, Julie and Lexi
“God Almighty first planted a garden. And indeed, it is the purest of human pleasures.”
-Francis Bacon
Prologue
“Colin?”
Mary Lennox went very still, and stared at the ground in front of her. She had barely spoken above a whisper, out of habit, though they had no reason for it now. Colin called back to her in the same hushed voice.
“What is it?”
Mary stayed exactly as she was, but lifted her left hand and beckoned.
“What?” Colin hissed. Mary raised her head and looked at him.
Her cousin rested his hands on a stone planter halfway across the garden, his head and shoulders bathed in golden light as he stood knee-deep in purple wildflowers. He wore his casual trousers and a loose white shirt, and his large gray eyes fixed on her. Mary frowned at him.
“Come here,” she ordered. “You must see it yourself.”
Her frown now reflected in his face, much more keenly, and the freckled boy hurried over to her. His bare feet padded on the soft grass. He lighted right beside her shoulder, and Mary felt him consider the earth in front of Mary’s black shoes. The wild twittering of the birds in the rose bushes all around them faded into the background.
“What is it?” Colin asked, and she sensed his frown deepen.
“It’s where a tree used to be,” Mary remarked. “They must have cut it down an age ago, and the middle of the stump has rotted away. But do you see that, there?” She pointed. He leaned closer. His arm brushed hers.
“What, in the hole in the middle?” Colin wondered.
“Yes.”
“It looks like…A bit of something shining,” he remarked. “But it can’t be metal.”
“Why not?” Mary countered. “I found the key to the garden buried in the ground.”
Colin glanced at her, and she met his eyes. Then, without a word, the two of them knelt on the grass in front of the rotted stump, and Mary carefully reached out her hand.
A blast of wind gusted in from off the moor, leaped over the ivied walls and swirled through the garden, shaking all the leaves and flooding Mary’s lungs with the fresh scent of earth, rain and roses. Mary’s hand entered the damp roughness of the hole, and her eyes narrowed.
A cloud crossed over the sun, and the garden fell into shadow. The golden gleam disappeared.
Mary thrust her hand down, biting her lip…
Her fingers closed around a metal edge.
“What is it?” Colin asked eagerly.
“Don’t know,” Mary muttered, grasping hold and tugging on it. With a few scraping sounds, it came loose of the dirt in which it was stuck…
Slowly, Mary drew it out. She turned, and sat down cross-legged by a bunch of daffodils—Colin sat down right in front of her. His knees bumped hers. Together, they dashed the earth off of the bit of metal with their fingers, and then solemnly studied the four-cornered object.
“It looks like a buckle,” Colin said softly.
“A lady’s buckle,” Mary added. “From a shoe.”
Mary looked up. Colin was already gazing right back at her. Neither of them had to speak, and yet the question rose up between them. Colin opened his mouth.
Tap, tap, tap.
Mary glanced toward the far corner of the garden. Colin did too.
“I’ll go get him,” Colin said, hopping to his feet. “He’ll know. He’ll tell us.”
Mary just nodded, watching him stride off between the overgrown flowerbeds toward the garden door. The cold weight in her hands recalled her attention, and she turned back, gazing down at the half-rusted bit of finery, as the wind rustled through the ivy.
Mary tilted her head, listening. The moorland wind often took on a voice—howling or wailing, or grumbling like an old man. But now, in this moment, it almost sounded like a young lady laughing. Laughing, and secretly speaking, as if whispering in her ear: “I know all about it! Let me tell you...!”
Chapter One
Fifteen Years Earlier
The chilly, mist-laden wind caught her riding coat and long, cloud-dark hair and blustered them wildly. But she held her slender body firm, braced, her muddy shoes planted on the uneven grass. She closed her fingers, took a deep breath, and stared. She had caught a glimpse of this on horseback, from a great distance, but hadn’t believed it until she stood right in front of it now.
There was a hole in the wall.
Lily lifted her head, twisted, and peered back across the shadowed, grayish-emerald of the rolling moors, beyond her grazing black pony, and found the familiar wandering road. She glimpsed her home, Wythe Park, tucked against a hill amidst ranks of gnarled trees. She turned back around, and glanced past the corner of the towering, weathered wall before her, to spy the looming walls and jutting spires of Misselthwaite Manor—silent, still and lifeless, skirted by gloomy fog and silhouetted against a grim sky. She turned back to face the gray wall, half covered in ivy—and the place before her where the bricks had crumbled loose and created a gap the width of her body, and half the height.
The wind blasted again, laughing, and battered against the hole. Strict warnings knocked against the back of Lily’s memory, but she stepped closer and crouched down, peering through.
Slowly, she smiled—and a thrill raced through her blood.
“Cah! Cah!”
She looked up. A large rook flapped its black wings and danced across the top of the wall, canting its head and eyeing her brightly. She chuckled.
“I see you, you naughty thing,” Lily chided. “Don’t pretend you didn’t want me to find this.”
“Cack,” he answered indifferently, spread his wings, turned and swept down into the space beyond the wall.
The wind changed direction, and tumbled across the hills. Rain splattered the side of Lily’s face. She winced, and stood up, heaving a sigh.
“Tomorrow, then,” she said, and a nervous chill coursed through her. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” She spun around, and whistled. “Gwynt!”
The tall, shaggy pony snorted, and lifted its head to look at her. Lily whistled again, through her teeth. Gwynt tossed his head, then trotted toward her, hopping over rocks and bits of heath. As soon as he came near, Lily caught hold of his mane, kicked off a large stone, and swung her left leg over his back. In the same movement, she curled her fingers through his thick hair and tapped his sides with her heels.
Just as Gwynt broke into a canter, rain broke loose over the moor. Lily let out a laugh as the cold drops pelted her face and shoulders, and the wind whirled around her. The sturdy horse rocked smoothly beneath her and she sat up straight, throwing her arms out to the sides as the rain drenched her coat.
Gwynt raced down into a shallow valley and Lily balanced effortlessly, leaning back, tilting her face toward the rolling clouds. Gwynt huffed in warning. Lily blinked
the water out of her eyes, sat forward, gripped his mane with both hands—
And sailed with him over a low, ancient stone wall.
She held her breath as they suspended in the air for an instant—
THUD-thud-thud…
They landed easily on the other side, then swept up a short hill. Gwynt’s hooves contacted the muddy road, and he picked up speed, racing toward Wythe at full tilt.
They swung into a gradual corner, passing beneath the skeletal branches of the oaken giants flanking the lane. Wind rushed in her ears, her hair and coat blazed out behind her, and the rain poured.
She leaned back. Gwynt slowed. His hooves clattered on wet gravel. Before he had halted all the way, Lily swung her leg over, slipped off and hit the ground running.
“Thomas!” she called to the stable boy as he darted out from under the overhang. “I’m so sorry—get him in as quickly as you can!”
“Yes, miss,” he answered, ducking against the rain, and patting Gwynt’s soggy neck. Gwynt eagerly followed Thomas across the yard toward the stables, and Lily dodged past a pillar and under shelter, her shoes slapping the stone steps.
She pushed through the huge, creaking wooden door and stopped on the rug, blinking in the darkness.
“Where are you, Mary—I can’t see you,” Lily laughed, reaching out.
“Right here, Miss,” Mary answered, just as Lily’s hand blundered into the puffy shoulder of the maid’s blouse.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Lily said quickly as her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. Mary gave her a quick smile.
“Tha’s alright, Miss,” Mary assured her. “Let me take tha’ coat.”
Lily turned and shrugged out of the sopping, heavy garment even as Mary reached up and pulled it loose of her shoulders and arms.
“It started raining so suddenly out on the moor,” Lily explained breathlessly. “I was out near Misselthwaite and I came straight home, but look at me!”
“Aye, Miss,” Mary answered. Lily turned around and swiped the water out of her face as Mary hurried off away from her, down the long, straight wooden corridor, her heels clacking.
“Lily!”
The shout came from the top landing of the front staircase, past which Mary had walked. Lily pushed a strand of wet hair out of her eyes and looked up.
Her sister had just come to a sudden stop, and stared down at her with wide, brown eyes. Her doe-colored hair was tidily and elegantly done up, and her lacy white dress looked flawless. Her pale cheeks had flushed a rosy pink.
“Evie!” Lily cried. “You look beautiful!”
“And you look horrid!” Evie replied, hurrying down the rest of the steps. “What on earth happened to you?”
“I just got caught out in the rain, that’s all,” Lily explained lightly. “I’ll just go upstairs and change into something else—”
“You cannot,” Evie hissed, pressing closer and gripping Lily’s arm. “Miss Monroe is here.”
Lily stopped moving. She stared at her sister, her voice lowering.
“She’s come back? Already?”
“She arrived when you were out,” Evie whispered. “She wants us in the drawing room instantly.”
Lily swallowed, her heart sinking. Evie pulled on her, and together the two of them hurried part of the way down the corridor and turned right, into the broad, carpeted sitting room. A fire blazed beneath the broad stone mantle, its light flickering against the iron lions that flanked it. The thick maroon curtains had been drawn away from the towering windows, letting the cloudy afternoon light in—the rain streamed against the panes. Lily usually loved this room—the rich scent of burning wood mixed so pleasantly with the smell of the old books that lined the built-in shelves. Now, however, it all felt rather spoilt by the presence of the sturdily-built middle-aged woman standing by one of the settees near the fireplace. She wore a plain, high-collared brown dress, and her hair of the exact same color piled carefully on top of her head. Her pale eyes flashed when she found Lily.
“Lilias, please,” she held up a hand. “Stay where you are. You’ll ruin the carpets.”
“I’m so sorry, Miss Monroe,” Lily apologized for the third time, jerking to a stop. Miss Monroe sighed, and shook her head minutely. Evie stepped in a little further past Lily, and paused behind the back of an armchair, facing Miss Monroe.
“I won’t keep you long,” Miss Monroe began. “I shan’t have Lilias catching a cold on my account.”
Lily bit her lip, watching Miss Monroe carefully.
“I have three pieces of news,” Miss Monroe said. “Both of which will affect you greatly. Firstly: your brother is going to marry.”
Lily blinked.
“Fredrick…” she started. “What…Whom is he marrying?”
“The daughter of a Colonel Heath—her name is Henrietta,” Miss Monroe told her. Evie shot a bright look back at Lily.
“You remember, Lily! He mentioned her in his last letter. And this means we shall have him home!” she cried. “Lily, he’ll come home to get married, and then all three of us—”
“On the contrary, Evelia,” Miss Monroe cut in. “Captain Lennox has decided to remain in India.”
Lily’s heart stopped. Evie whirled back around to face Miss Monroe.
“What?” she gasped. “For how long?”
“He has been promoted,” Miss Monroe clasped her hands in front of her. “Which is the reason he has decided to take a wife—he can now afford one. But his duties require him to remain in that part of the world, and should he leave it, he would suffer a considerable cut in pay, if not discharge.”
Lily leaned against the doorframe, a terrible pain working around inside her chest.
“This also means that the portion of his income that he has been sending home to you will be much lessened,” Miss Monroe went on. “After all, he must maintain his own household, now. Which brings me to my second bit of news.” She took a deep, burdened breath. “Your aunt Cecelia Lennox has died.”
Lily stood up straight and gripped the doorframe. Evie’s knuckles went white as she grasped the back of the chair.
“When?” Lily demanded. “Why were we not informed?”
“It happened two and a half weeks ago,” Miss Monroe answered. “I received the news she was ill, kept it to myself so as not to cause alarm, and went to her side straightaway. But by the time I arrived she had already gone.” Miss Monroe drew herself up. “As I hope you remember, after your parents’ deaths, your fortune went primarily toward your father’s debts, leaving you next to nothing—and your aunt has graciously maintained you for these five years.” Miss Monroe raised her eyebrows. “However, your cousin Gregory has now inherited, and he is not interested in providing a living for two frivolous young women.”
A burning sensation twisted through Lily’s gut, but she clamped her jaw.
“What does he expect us to do?” Evie burst out. “Hire ourselves out as seamstresses?”
“Nothing of the sort, Evelia,” Miss Monroe regarded her plainly. “He expects you to marry.”
“Marry?” both Lily and Evie repeated.
“Indeed,” Miss Monroe nodded. “I spoke to him myself, and when he shared his feelings with me, I pleaded on your behalf. He has mercifully agreed to support you for one year more—at the end of which, he desires you both to be married and settled.”
“Married to whom?” Lily asked.
“Come, now, Lilias,” Miss Monroe scoffed lightly. “Both of you are great beauties—you are also graceful and charming when you wish to be—and since Evelia is nineteen and you are only twenty, you should easily be able to find an older man who desires a pretty wife; or a younger, very rich man who isn’t governed by anyone’s wishes but his own. I will still fulfill my duties here, but I am governed by Gregory Lennox’s wishes, now. As such, I will arrange dances and dinners to circulate you
amongst the young men of the county. And Mr. Lennox will come himself to see that his allowance is being spent wisely.”
“What will happen to the house?” Lily asked, her pulse starting to beat erratically. “The grounds, the gardens?” She swallowed. “The horses?”
“If you succeed in marrying well,” Miss Monroe answered. “You will not have to worry about it! Your husbands will take care of you. Now off with you, Lilias—get out of those clothes. And shame on you for getting wet in the first place. The moors will be the death of you!”
Lily gazed, unfocused, at the soft glow of the lamp against the cream-colored wall. The storm gusted outside their window, wuthering around the stone walls of Wythe. Lily sat on the edge of her four-poster bed, cross-legged, wrapped in a soft white dressing gown. She blinked slowly, swaying slightly as Evie combed out her waist-length hair for her.
“I can’t believe Aunt Cecelia is dead,” Lily murmured, her eyes absently wandering over the little writing desk in front of her, upon which stood the flickering lamp.
“Me either,” her sister sighed. “And what I find far more awful is that wretched Miss Monroe didn’t even tell us she was ill!”
Lily’s eyebrows drew together.
“I wonder why she didn’t.”
“Because,” Evie snapped. “She didn’t want us interfering. She wanted to come back and fling all of this at us at once, then proceed to lord it over our entire lives. Which she can do, by the way.”
Lily shifted around and faced Evie, who sat on the same mattress right behind her. Evie’s bed stood on the other side, in the shadows, a little nightstand between their beds. Another lamp glimmered upon that nightstand, and by its light Lily could see her sister’s frillier dressing gown, her long, doe hair undone; a good portion of her comely face; and her blazing, long-lashed brown eyes. Lily tried to smile at her.
“I doubt she’ll succeed.”
Evie snorted, lowering the brush.
The Rooks of Misselthwaite- in the Forgotten Garden Page 1
