Monroe let go of Evie.
Evie broke down sobbing, turned and raced out of the room and pounded up the stairs.
Monroe stayed where she was, staring back at Lily.
“You understand me, Lilias,” she said. “Go upstairs and make your sister do the same.”
Savage thoughts raced through Lily’s head, but she clenched her teeth, strode past Monroe and ascended the stairs, her left hand squeezed shut so hard she thought her bones would break.
Lily sat on her bed and watched her sister. Evie lay wrapped up in her blankets and propped up on her pillows, staring straight ahead, seeing nothing. The light from the single lamp on the nightstand illuminated the soft edges of her profile, and the glisten of her absent tears.
Neither of them said anything for nearly an hour.
Lily shivered. The small clock on the vanity ticked steadily. She glanced at it. Two in the morning.
“She’s right, Lily,” Evie whispered. Lily turned back to her. Evie’s expression remained distant.
“That is what will happen to us if we don’t find husbands.”
“But she’s not right to berate us about our cousin,” Lily shook her head. “She’ll not force us to marry that beast, no matter what happens. Or Twine or Drake, for that matter. We have a whole year to each find men to love us. Evie…” Lily tried to gentle her voice as she leaned forward. “Don’t let her frighten you.”
Evie swallowed but did not reply. Finally, her eyes drifted shut.
“Put out the light, Lily,” she said. “I have a headache.”
Lily sat for a moment, her gut twisting. Finally, she scooted toward the stand and blew out the flame. She pushed back her covers and climbed beneath them, then turned to gaze at the dark ceiling. But for hours, she heard nothing but the clock, and the lonely wind across the moor.
Chapter Four
A week and a half.
A week and a half, Lily hadn’t been allowed outside.
Directly after the dinner party, it had poured rain for two days, making the time spent inside nearly unbearable. After it had cleared, Monroe had determined not to let either of the girls out of her sight. She had also decided to have new dresses made for both of them. Which meant sorting through patterns, measuring, and standing up on stools whilst being pinned and poked by the grouchy Yorkshire seamstress. Lily’s dress was being made out of light blue frills and lace, with a slender, flattering silhouette. In any other circumstances, she would have loved it.
When she managed to escape the drawing room, Evie spent her own time organizing her closet and arranging her jewelry and hairpins. Whenever Lily tried to engage her in conversation, Evie answered politely but distantly, and Lily finally left her alone. As a result, in every spare minute Lily could find, she hid herself in a far corner of the ancient house, holed up with a stack of books and a handkerchief full of biscuits. At all costs, she avoided Miss Monroe.
However she caught whispers from the servants—whispers that explained the sudden need for new dresses: Monroe was plotting another event.
A dance.
Monroe had somehow caught wind of a regiment of officers staying nearby, and had learned that their superior was acquainted with Sir Drake. The superior, therefore, and several of his finest young men, as well as Sir Drake and some of the neighboring ladies, had been invited to Wythe.
This afternoon, Lily stood beneath a staircase, holding her breath and waiting for the perfect moment to slip past the open space between her and the door. The entire house bustled with the noise of the servants and Miss Monroe hurrying up and down, carrying brooms and mops and rug-beaters and buckets. The corridors rang with their desperate shouting. The dance was to take place tomorrow night—and the formerly-locked ballroom was in a worse state than anyone had imagined. Lily smiled crookedly. She could have told Monroe that. No one had entered that room since her parents died.
The stairwell fell quiet. Lily hesitated just a moment, glanced around, then made a dash for it. She grabbed her coat and gloves and ran through the door. She shut it behind her, then put on her gloves and coat, and stepped out into the wind.
Belatedly, she realized she’d forgotten a hat. Again. Well, too late now.
She bent her head as she broke into a quick walk, trying not to glance back at the stables. She wanted to take Gwynt out running, but she didn’t dare risk turning back for him. If she were caught, Monroe would probably lock her in her room until the dance tomorrow night.
Lily hurried through the gate and climbed over the wall early, skirting down and around a hill to evade any line of sight from the house. Her boots crunched over several rocks, and the wind—far icier than before—tore through her loose hair and coat and roared in her ears. Clouds hung low in the sky. She hugged herself and kept going.
A long, chilly trek later, she breathlessly stood in front of the gap in the wall of her secret garden. Panting and brushing her hair out of her face, she bent and shuffled through.
The wind ceased. She stood up, letting out a long sigh as quiet and stillness surrounded her.
The close, brown, ancient place looked virtually unchanged—though the ivy on the walls grew greener and thicker. Birds chirped in the upper fingers of a few of the trees. It smelled rich and musty in here, more so than before. She caught sight of her little cleared alcove at the far end, and smiled.
She strode to it, her skirt swishing, and noticed that the recent rain had washed the dirt off of the white marble. She sighed again, sat down on one of the benches, then leaned her elbows on the table. Her eyes drifted shut, and she took deep breaths of the scent of wind and earth.
“Cack.”
Lily quickly opened her eyes, and looked around.
There, on a low branch of the beech to her right, sat her rook. Lily beamed.
“Hello!” she called. “How are you this afternoon?”
“Caah,” it replied, and flapped its wings—
And another rook flew down and landed beside it. The pair looked down at Lily, bright-eyed and keen, and the new rook commented in a deeper, raspier tone. Lily’s rook answered. Lily laughed softly.
“You’ve found a friend!” she said. “Well, now I’ll have to give names to both of you.”
This seemed agreeable to the pair—they both ruffled their feathers.
The wind roared overhead, sending a few dusty leaves tumbling from the heights, but the gale hardly touched Lily’s hair. She got up, and made her way to another alcove, far to her left—the two marble benches against the wall, between the split oak and the beech. She picked her way across the meadow, then knelt down in front of the first bench and began to pull the ivy away.
This took a great deal of work. The ivy grew thick here—a very old plant—and she could see that one branch was threatening to work through a crack in one bench and split it in half.
Quiet hours passed without Lily taking note of them. She worked warmth into all her muscles, got her gloves even dirtier, and Evie, Miss Monroe, Wythe, Gregory and the dance faded to the back of her mind.
Finally, she finished. She stood up, rubbed her back, and assessed what she’d done.
“Very good,” she decided. “Well done.” She turned around, searching for another task.
Another little corner caught her eye. The one across the way between the oak and the beech. She started toward it. Her boots snapped through thick, dry branches—she had to walk carefully.
When she reached the alcove, she paused, studying. Some sort of person-sized statue stood there, but ivy completely obscured it. Lily stepped up to it, reached out and gripped a few strands of ivy that clung to what ought to be the head. She pulled them loose.
A serene, charming gray face peeked through—a goddess, with a wreath in her hair. She smiled down at something she held. Lily, instantly enchanted, began working at the ivy with both hands. She tore it free in long strands, making
a pile off to the side. Gradually, the creepers fell away to reveal the statue’s whole head, shoulders, torso, skirt and bare feet—and the large, round planter she held in her graceful arms.
“Oh, how pretty!” Lily laughed to herself again. She stepped closer and peered down into the planter, but nothing but weeds poked up through the soil. She bit her lip. “I wish I had a few seeds…”
Lily heard the rooks overhead make comment about that, and smiled as she gazed into the goddess’ face.
“I’ll have to think of a name for you, too.”
The wind changed.
It dove down into the walled garden and whirled around in it, as if it had blundered into the wrong corridor and couldn’t find its way out.
The grass lashed, and the old trees groaned as their branches swayed and clattered. Lily frowned.
“Cah.”
She jumped—spun around.
Her rook stood on the head of the statue, and stared down at her.
“Cah!” it said urgently, flapping its wings. “Cah!”
“What is it?” Lily asked.
It beat its wings now, and noisily took off. Its companion joined it, and the two of them swooped through the garden and up and over the wall.
Lily shivered, watching them go, and wrapped her arms around herself.
And it began to rain.
Suddenly—with no warning splatters or drips. The heavens let loose and it poured.
Lily gasped as the cold water slapped her head and the garden filled with roaring. She ducked down and hurried onto the meadow, aiming for her escape hole.
The thunder of the rain turned into a hiss. The drops cut into her shoulders and face.
The rain had frozen.
A furious, battering cacophony flooded the garden and Lily hurried as fast as she could across the slick grass, water dripping into her eyes—
She planted her left foot—
The ground cracked—
Broke.
Her foot plunged down and through.
Her ankle wrenched. She yelped.
She pitched forward onto her face.
Lily crashed onto the grass, barely catching herself with both hands.
Pain seared up her leg. She turned over onto her side and yanked her foot out of the hole. Her shoe came off, and sharp wood tore her stocking. She bit down, hard, to keep from screaming, and gathered her leg to her chest. The sleet pummeled her, soaking her dress and coat. Her whole body shuddered.
She twisted, gasping, and searched for the opening in the wall. There it waited, several meters away—and through it, all Lily could see was dense fog, and pounding rain. Even if she could stand and climb through it, she would get lost on the moor.
“Help!” she shouted straight up into the air, over the thunder of the ice. “Help me! Help!”
She pulled herself into a sitting position, tears springing into her eyes as darts of pain danced through her ankle bone. She clawed her way to her feet, accidentally put weight on her left foot—
Staggered. Caught herself, and hopped forward, trying desperately not to trip on her dragging skirt.
“Help!” she shouted again, terror gripping her.
Nobody paid any attention to these grounds. No one would hear her...
Agony gripped her whole leg. Her stomach turned over. She sank down into the grass of the meadow, her vision flickering.
“Help…!”
She swallowed, then swallowed again, feeling sick. Ice pelted her.
“Hullo?”
Her head came up. Had she just heard…?
“Hullo? Madam?”
“Help!” she called, straightening as much as she could. “I’m in the garden!”
A strange clattering issued from the other side of the wall, near the goddess statue. Moments later, a grizzled head with a beaten hat and bright, wide eyes poked up over the shivering ivy.
Lily raised her arm, fighting tears again.
“I’m right here!”
“Oh, madam!” the man cried, seeing her. “Tha’rt hurt?”
“Yes!” Lily answered. “My ankle!”
“Oh!” he said, eyes going even wider. “Tha’ mun wait for me, ma’am—I’ll come a’get thee!”
“Thank you!” Lily managed, pressing a hand to her chest, her forehead twisting.
What seemed like an eternity later, a terrible grinding issued from the portion of the wall that indented in the shape of a rectangle. Lily caught the sound of several rasped curse words, and then the great wooden door wrenched part of the way open. Ivy tumbled like a curtain—the raggedly-dressed man dashed it away and dove through. He bent low against the gale and rain as he hastened as nimbly and quickly as a hare between the trees and across the meadow to her. For just an instant he stood over her, then fell to his knees.
“Here—put thy arm about my neck,” he grunted. Lily did so, and his wiry arms slipped beneath her. He hefted her up with shocking ease, and raced back across the garden toward the vine-bound door.
“Watch tha’ head, Miss,” he warned, and they tucked through the ivy.
All at once, Lily found herself out in the open, other walls blurring by as he jogged with her in his arms. The wind howled, and Lily pressed her face down into his coarse shirt. She bounced with his gait, and he breathed heavily as he turned a corner and ran faster. She felt them dart beneath an archway, and then they lurched up two steps…
“I mun set thee down for a bit, Miss, as I open th’ door,” the man puffed. He let her legs slide out of his right arm, and she winced as she stood and put all her weight on her right foot. She glanced up.
They stood before a huge, iron-bound paneled door—and all around it towered a great stone house. A house that stretched on to her left as far as she could see.
Her heart jolted.
He had taken her to Misselthwaite.
The man worked the latch and the door swung open. Then he bent and hefted her up again, and carried her inside.
For an instant, Lily couldn’t see anything—it was too dim—but she heard her rescuer’s footsteps echoing against wide walls and a towering ceiling.
Finally, her eyes adjusted, and she looked around at a huge hall, all hung with solemn medieval portraits and thick shadows.
He turned right and carried her through a broad doorway into a dark-wood sitting room. A black and red, detailed carpet lay on the floor, the walls were covered with packed bookshelves, lamps stood on elegant tables, and a long red couch waited directly across from the door.
Off to Lily’s rescuer’s right stood two people near an impressive marble mantelpiece. A fire blazed within the mantel, its heat filling the whole room.
One of the people was a stout, stiffly-dressed woman, with tightly-bound hair and black eyes. The other was a very thin, starched man in a suit, with a long face and solemn eyes. Both of them turned and gaped when the two charged in.
“Weatherstaff, what on earth?” the woman cried, her hand flying to her heart.
“The youn’ lady, Mrs. Medlock,” her rescuer, Weatherstaff, panted. “Was out walkin’ the moor. Got caught in th’ rain—tripped an’ fell, ma’am. Hurt hersel’.”
Lily gritted her teeth, hardly hearing him, and started trembling uncontrollably.
“Well for heaven’s sake, set her near the fire!” Mrs. Medlock cried, and the three of them bustled to throw a blanket over an armchair before Weatherstaff put Lily down.
Lily eased back into the cushions as Mrs. Medlock briskly wrapped the thick blanket all around her. Then, Mrs. Medlock caught sight of Weatherstaff’s feet.
“Ben, you are tracking mud!” she yelped. “Go out at once and clean off your boots!”
“So sorry, ma’am,” the dripping man ducked his head, and started toward the door.
“Wait, wait,” Lily reached toward him. Ben hesitated, then came back to her, regarding her earnestly. Lily gripped his gnarled fingers and met
his honest eyes.
“Thank you,” she breathed, smiling at him. “You’ve saved my life, sir.”
He beamed—and it lit up his wrinkled face like sunshine.
“Eh! thankee, ma’am,” he nodded, squeezing her hand. “My pleasure to help thee.”
Mrs. Medlock then gave him a scathing look, and he hurried away—though his gaze twinkled. Then, Medlock turned and considered Lily, as the old, thin man drew up next to her shoulder.
“I do believe I’ve seen you before,” Mrs. Medlock remarked. “May I ask your name?”
“I’m Lilias Lennox,” she answered. She managed another smile in spite of the pain in her ankle. “I live at Wythe Park.”
“Of course—her parents and Mr. and Mrs. Craven were acquaintances,” the old man recalled. “Attended several parties together. I saw this young lady as a girl.”
“Ah, yes!” Mrs. Medlock’s eyes flashed with recognition. Her hard expression softened into a smile of her own. “I remember now—and if I may say so, ma’am, you’ve turned into a beauty.”
“Thank you,” Lily replied, attempting not to sound tight—but her jaw kept clamping.
“And I have met the lady of your house once or twice—Miss Monroe, I believe. I am Mrs. Medlock, the housekeeper here at Misselthwaite,” she said. Lily inclined her head.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“And this,” Medlock gestured to the older man. “Is Mr. Pitcher, Mr. Craven’s butler.”
The Rooks of Misselthwaite- in the Forgotten Garden Page 4
