“She shan’t.” She shook her head, and glanced toward the rainy window. “We cannot let this happen.”
Lily felt her sister shiver. Lily instantly leaned toward her and reached toward her hand. Evie caught it, and entwined their fingers.
“Lily,” Evie whispered. “What are we going to do?”
Lily squeezed her hand.
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” she said scooting closer. The sheets rustled. Evie blinked tears away, and looked back at her.
“We will have some of the grandest parties our house has ever seen,” Lily gave her a bright grin. “We will have wine and dancing and feasting and cards—and it will all be at that monster Gregory’s expense.”
Evie laughed.
“Yes, let’s gouge him while we can, shall we?”
Lily shrugged, taking Evie’s other hand.
“I don’t see why not.”
“But what about the marrying bit?” Evie’s fingers tightened. Lily’s stomach flipped over, but she ironed out her expression.
“Miss Monroe is right—you are very pretty. And we’ll be having all the young men in the county to our parties. Half of them will be in love with you before the summer’s over. There has to be at least one you might like!”
“Ha!” Evie barked. “They’ll be in love with me? When I’m standing next to you? You, with your dark hair and beautiful face—and your eyes! Your eyes, Lily!” Evie reached out and fingered a strand of Lily’s hair, intently studying her. “They’re the exact color of a gray agate stone—you’re more striking than any lady I’ve ever seen.”
“And you are the loveliest, sweetest lady I have ever seen,” Lily countered. “And I daresay our tastes in men are different enough—we won’t have to worry about competing!”
Evie giggled nervously. Tension clamped down on Lily’s chest, but she kept her smile in place and her eyes warm. She felt Evie shiver again, but her sister lifted her chin.
“If we get married, Frederick will have to come home for our weddings,” she stated. “And he’ll have to stay at least for a month, maybe two. And let’s promise…” she leveled a look at Lily. “No matter whom we marry, neither of us will consent to living more than a three day journey apart from each other.”
Something inside Lily’s chest released—she nodded hard.
“Yes, yes. Promise,” she said quickly, and wrapped her arms around Evie. Evie pulled her in tight, and for a long moment the two of them held their breath—and Lily held back tears.
Finally, Evie huffed and backed away. Lily sniffed, blinking her eyes clear. Evie held her chin up again.
“Now that’s settled,” she decided. “I’m going to bed.”
“Me, too,” Lily said.
“Goodnight,” Evie told her, turned and slipped off Lily’s bed and climbed into her own. Lily picked the brush up off the covers and set it on the nightstand, got up and blew out the lamp on the desk, then crawled underneath her own sheets.
“Goodnight,” she said belatedly, and also blew out the nightstand lamp. Darkness and silence descended on the room. Then, the wind off the moor rumbled and moaned against the walls.
Lily turned over, away from her sister, and pulled the covers tight around her shoulders. She fought back a shiver, but it coursed through her bones anyway. And, though she did her best to stay quiet, cold tears trailed down her face long after Evie had fallen asleep.
Chapter Two
Lily sighed heavily and leaned back against the leg of the settee. She and Evie sat on the rug in the sun-filled drawing room, opened envelopes strewn all around them. Evie, across from her, carelessly tossed one of the envelopes on the floor and brushed off her light blue skirt.
“That’s everyone. Everyone we invited is coming,” Evie concluded. “Every last bachelor and his sister in the whole county, age notwithstanding.”
“Except for Archibald Craven,” Lily reminded her. Evie made a face.
“Well, we couldn’t very well have invited him, could we? Who could bear to look at him, all stooped over like that? Besides which, he’s a recluse. Nobody knows him and he doesn’t know anybody. He’d be frightful company if he did come. Which he wouldn’t.”
Lily shrugged and glanced across the envelopes.
“Well, we’ve invited Sir Drake Harthford, who is sixty years old and has survived three wives; we’ve invited Henry Dosset who’s a compulsive gambler, and Ames Thomas, whom everyone knows cannot control himself when it comes to drink.” She looked at Evie. “Disfigured recluse doesn’t sound so bad—and as Miss Monroe says, ‘Single is single!’”
Evie snorted, then laughed. Lily joined her, then considered the window.
“Do you know…” she mused. “I don’t believe I’ve been outside for almost a week.”
“It’s been raining,” Evie reminded her. “Besides, after that disaster when you came in dripping wet, I’m surprised Monroe has even let you out of your room.”
Lily folded her arms in discomfort.
“I can’t stand being inside for so long.”
“Monroe would tell you the moor wind is unhealthy,” Evie said, narrowing her eyes at an envelope.
“Staying cramped up in a house is what’s unhealthy,” Lily countered. “Where is Monroe, anyhow?”
“Packing,” Evie answered, bending to pick up the envelopes and stack them. Lily frowned at her sister.
“Packing?”
“Didn’t you hear about it?” Evie wondered. “Now that it’s finally stopped storming, she’s going to visit Gregory again—leaving this afternoon.”
“She’s never visited him this often before,” Lily remarked quietly.
“She’s never been at liberty before,” Evie muttered, giving Lily a clandestine glance. “She lived with Aunt Cecelia before she came to us, remember—being Aunt’s cousin. I don’t think she got on with Aunt very well, but she practically raised Gregory.”
“That’s why he’s such a lovely chap,” Lily concluded, grinning.
“You’re wicked,” Evie warned, her eyes sparkling.
“You’re worse,” Lily reminded her.
“Indeed I am,” Evie nodded, picking up the last envelope and getting to her feet. “Now, I’m going to lay in wait, and when Monroe leaves I’m going to pounce on Cook. I’ll not have game hens served at our party. I hate them. We must think of something else.”
“Enjoy yourself,” Lily said, gazing out the window.
“Lilias.”
Lily turned back to her sister—who gave her a knowing look.
“Don’t get into too much trouble,” Evie said, and winked. Lily chuckled, and watched her sister sweep through the door. For just a few moments longer, Lily waited—then, she got up, left the drawing room, crept down the corridor, then raced up the stairs to her room to change out of her stiff white dress and into something infinitely better.
Lily stood on the second story landing and hid in the curtains, watching out the window as Thomas and Bernard hefted Monroe’s trunk onto the back of the carriage. Monroe, barking at the servants all the while, picked her way across the mud, adjusted her plain hat and climbed in. Thomas shut the door behind her with a bang. Aaron slapped the reins, and the coach and four black horses trotted in a wide circle in the drive, then headed briskly out into the narrow, walled road and onto the moors. Lily waited, holding her breath, until the carriage disappeared out of sight.
She dashed down the stairs, her feet clattering on the wood. Her brown skirt rustled madly as she raced to the entryway, paused for just a moment to throw on her long, navy-blue coat and her gloves, and then she flung the great door open and plunged into the full Yorkshire sunshine.
Her feet instantly splashed through muddy puddles and her boots got all wet, but she hardly noticed. She took three deep breaths of warm, fresh wind as she strode out across the gravel, listening to
the frantically-happy twitter of the birds in the sculpted hedge that encircled their drive. The air flooded with the scent of the blooming apple trees in the back garden, and the smell of rain and black earth everywhere else.
As she passed the wall and through the open gate she reached up and unpinned her back hair, letting half of her tresses tumble down her shoulders. She stuffed the pins in her pocket and shook out her hair, grinning as the wind caught it up. Lily stepped onto the road and lifted her eyes to the sky.
A towering stretch of blue from horizon to horizon, rich and bright, dappled with high, white, fast-moving clouds. The brilliant sun poured down, using the clouds to make dark and light patterns across the rolling green hills. Now, Lily smelled the sweet heather and gorse, and she eagerly picked up her pace.
It didn’t take her long to walk the two miles to the end of the wall, humming to herself as she went. She turned right and left the road, stepping onto the low grass and moss of the moor. Off in the distance, she could now see Misselthwaite Manor quite clearly—though its stoic walls and dark towers still gave her a chill. She paused at the top of this hill, studying the grand house. Her eyes followed the lines of Misselthwaite’s property—the walls of the kitchen gardens and flower gardens—until her gaze rested on the large, walled-in portion furthest from the great house, and the snarl of gray tree branches looming over the ivied confines.
Lily easily strolled up and down the hills, stepping amongst the rocks almost without looking—she had walked this way so many times. Sparrows flittered in the gorse bushes as she walked by, paying her no mind.
She came to the low wall that marked the boundary of the Misselthwaite land, hiked up her skirt and climbed over it, careful not to tear it on the rough stones. She hopped down on the other side and hiked up the rather steep hill.
Once she had reached the top, she paused to catch her breath, and smiled.
In front of her stood the wall of that garden—the garden furthest away from the manor. The one with the crumbled hole.
Lily walked right up to the gap, hesitated a moment, then bent down and gazed through. Tendrils of ivy hung down across the gap, drifting in the wind. Lily’s eyes narrowed.
Inside, in still silence, waited a dense, gray and brown tangle of high grass and knotted vines. She could see several dark tree trunks, all wrapped around with creeping plants.
The wind gusted, and whistled through the gap again. Inside, the grass and branches stirred.
Lily took a breath, and crawled through.
The ivy slipped across her head and shoulders as she shuffled between the stones. At last, she cleared the wall, and rose to her feet.
She stood in a corner, her shoes lost in a wilderness of dead weeds. The space within these four walls was considerable—half an acre, she imagined. But it seemed close, crowded in here—deathly still. She counted seven trees all together—three oaks and four beeches. All of their branches were still bare, and many of them joined together overhead, creating an interwoven canopy. Three of the beeches hugged the right hand wall and marched away from her, another stood off to her left, alongside a twisted oak that had broken in half. Beyond that beech, a little closer to the far end of the enclosure, loomed the greatest oak of all, bearing one especially thick branch that reached out toward her. Near that oak stretched a sort of open space—a kind of meadow that was not overshadowed by any branches—and in the faraway corner directly across from her, one last oak leaned, entirely covered in ivy. Lily blinked. It could be her imagination—but the stones of that far corner appeared to be interrupted by a rectangular shape. A door.
She stepped forward. Her boots crunched on withered leaves and snapping strands of grass. She carefully maneuvered over the uneven ground, until she felt something scrape on the bottom of her shoes. She paused, knelt down, and pulled some of the moist tangle away.
Slate-colored, smooth stones lay beneath the weeds. She pushed more aside, and uncovered a portion of a path that probably stretched on away from her. She rose up again, glancing around, and made her way toward the great oak tree with the reaching branch. Her skirt swished against the tall undergrowth. She passed through a corner of the “meadow,” and approached the thick, gnarled trunk. She put out her hand and touched the rough bark.
“Hello,” she whispered.
“Cack.”
Lily jumped, then glanced up into the oak tree’s bare branches.
A bright-eyed rook dipped his head at her, watching her.
“Hello,” Lily said louder. “Are you the same one as before?”
“Cah,” he answered indignantly.
“Well, forgive me,” Lily laughed. “I’ll have to start calling you something, if we’re to spend time together.”
The rook hopped to one side and snapped his beak, but canted his head as if considering.
“I’ll think about it,” Lily told him. He barked a short answer. Lily smiled, then turned around and leaned back against the oak.
She paused—and her lips parted.
She saw something from here that she hadn’t before.
Past the oak and the beech to her right, up against the wall, stood two marble benches. She could barely see them for the overgrown tumble, but their white corners stood out. And there, by the corner through which she had entered, stood two urns and a single bench. And far off to the left waited two more alcoves—one between the leaning oak and a beech, and another between two of the marching beeches. Lily pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle her delight.
This was a garden.
Not just a garden for growing herbs and vegetables for the kitchen, and not just a garden for growing flower cuttings for the dining table arrangements. This was a special garden, one for going into and not coming out all day. One for picnics and games of hide-and-seek, for lying in the grass in the sunshine, reading books in the shade, and sharing secrets in corners. Some delightful grand madam of Misselthwaite had doubtlessly designed it hundreds of years ago, with its lovely, romantically-disorganized, medieval air and its perfect distance from the bustle of the house.
And no one had been here.
Not for ages. Lily could feel it. None of Mr. Craven’s great-grandfathers or grandfathers had given any notice to this place, let alone the man himself. She doubted the front door of the garden even opened anymore. The earth had probably sealed up the bottom of it, and the ivy had probably bound the latch shut.
There was no one on earth who would ever find her in here.
She squeezed her hands together and pressed them to her heart, her blood rushing. She started out into the meadow, hesitated with indecision, then stepped across to the alcove between the marching beeches.
A long, half-circle bench stood beneath these two giants, and in front of that bench waited a low table, all of it netted in ivy and weeds. Lily rolled up her sleeves, and with a soft, thrilled laugh, got on her knees and began tearing the errant plants loose.
She worked for hours, tugging the vines and creepers loose of the marble, then pulling them up by the roots to free the little space. Her slender gloves got covered in mud, and she narrowly escaped gripping a thorny strand of wild rosebush, but she kept weeding and pruning until the bench and its lovely carven table stood before her, uncovered on their stone slab. She got up, stretched her aching shoulders, and brushed the tops of them off with her hands.
“Beautiful!” she whispered.
The flapping of wings ruffled over her head, and she looked up to see the rook land in the right hand beech and assess her accomplishments.
“What do you think?” she asked, though keeping her voice down.
The rook made a halfway pleasant sound in reply, and Lily decided he must approve. Then, she glanced past him at the sky. She sighed.
“It’s getting late,” she murmured. “Evie will wonder where I am…” She dusted off her skirt, turned and meandered toward her secret corner, tracing the line where the path should be, if she would take the time to dig it ou
t. Which she would do—she promised herself.
She passed between an urn and the bench, and put her hand on the wall above the hole. She turned, and glanced back over the garden, smiling.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” she breathed. She heard the rook cackle in delight. Then, she ducked low, slipped through the hole, and headed back across the moor toward Wythe.
Chapter Three
“Don’t you dare cinch me all the way up,” Lily threatened as the bindings of her corset sang through Evie’s hands.
“But your dress—”
“I don’t care, I want to be able to eat,” Lily cut her off. “I’ve been smelling dinner all day and Cook has barred me from the kitchen.”
“She won’t let me steal any more tastes, either,” Evie sighed, loosening Lily’s corset a little before tying it off. Lily turned around and held out her arms as Evie slipped Lily’s white dress over her head.
“Thank you,” Lily said as the skirt tumbled down to the ground. She adjusted the dress’s shoulders as Evie started buttoning the back for her.
“That yellow dress looks very sweet on you,” Lily said, glancing into the large vanity mirror at the two of them. Evie’s reflection smiled over her shoulder.
“Thank you. Do you want me to put your hair up?”
Lily sighed.
“I suppose.”
“Sit down, then,” Evie instructed. Lily sat down on the stool in front of the white vanity and scooted closer to it as Evie picked up the brush and began tugging it through Lily’s hair.
“This feels like a rat’s nest!” Evie cried. “Where on earth have you been?”
“In the wind,” Lily answered, bracing herself and wincing against her sister’s vigorous strokes.
“Could you at least put your hair in a braid when you go out?” Evie huffed. “It would save me a great deal of time.”
Lily grinned.
“I’ll try to remember.”
“And put on a hat,” Evie added. “You’re getting freckles all over your nose.”
The Rooks of Misselthwaite- in the Forgotten Garden Page 2
