The Rooks of Misselthwaite- in the Forgotten Garden

by Alydia Rackham

“Good to meet you.”

  “The honor is mine,” Mr. Pitcher said. Then, he frowned. “Forgive me, Miss Lennox, but you were out walking the moor? Alone?”

  “I…Well, yes,” Lily answered, biting back the truth as she quivered. “I usually…I try to walk often. It frees my muscles, keeps up my appetite and helps me sleep at night.”

  “Yes, yes, I would agree with you,” Mrs. Medlock confirmed. “My dear friend Susan is always saying the same!”

  “I suppose the storm came upon you suddenly,” Pitcher assumed.

  “Very!” Lily started to feel faint again. “And then I fell and twisted my ankle.”

  “Good heavens,” Medlock said again. “You poor thing! Here we’ve been asking you questions and making introductions whilst you lie here injured! Pitcher, please go have a cold compress made whilst I help her out of her dripping coat! And send Isabelle to me at once, if you would! Have her bring me some brandy.”

  “Certainly,” Pitcher said, and offered Lily a smile. “We’ll take care of you, Miss Lennox, don’t worry.” And he turned and left the room.

  “Here,” Mrs. Medlock stepped closer and peeled the blanket off of Lily. “Let’s get that coat off of you.”

  Together, the two of them unbuttoned and worked Lily’s long coat off her arms and out from underneath her—though it wanted to stick to her—and Mrs. Medlock hung it up by the fire. She also took Lily’s gloves, fetched another blanket, and wrapped Lily up.

  “Ehh, much better,” Mrs. Medlock said.

  “Yes, thank you,” Lily answered. Medlock then pulled a footstool near, and gently picked Lily’s foot up and rested it on the cushion. She frowned.

  “What have you done with your other shoe, Miss Lennox?”

  “I must have stepped in a hole,” Lily told her. “It came off—I’m not sure where.”

  Just then, a blonde maid in a black skirt, striped blouse, white apron and ruffled hat bustled in. She looked young, her eyes earnest, and she hurried up to Mrs. Medlock, carrying the compress and a small glass of brandy.

  “Here’s the compress you asked for, Mrs. Medlock.”

  “Yes, thank you Isabelle,” Medlock took it from her and pressed it to Lily’s ankle. Lily winced, and leaned back in the chair.

  “How is the weather outside?” Medlock asked her.

  “Terrible, ma’am,” Isabelle answered, stealing glances at Lily. “Raining ice, and thundering. And it looks as if it’ll stay that way all night. I imagine it will get worse.”

  “And what time is it?”

  “Six o’clock, ma’am,” Isabelle answered. “We are beginning to set the tables for dinner.”

  Mrs. Medlock stood still a moment, thinking. Then, she glanced out the broad window above the couch. Lily did the same.

  It looked almost dark outside—and the icy rain gnawed at the panes.

  “Well, before it does get worse,” Medlock decided. “Send Peter to Wythe Park. Have him tell Miss Monroe—that is her name, isn’t it?”

  Lily stared up at Medlock, suddenly stricken.

  “I…Yes—”

  “Tell Miss Monroe,” Medlock went on briskly, addressing Isabelle. “That Miss Lennox injured herself upon the moor. We have rescued her, and she will stay with us the night. The roads will soon be far too perilous for any sort of horse and carriage—and the fog could send anyone to his death. We shall return her, safe and sound, tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh, please, Mrs. Medlock,” Lily sat forward, her heart hammering. “Please, I cannot impose upon you—”

  “Nonsense,” Medlock insisted brightly, turning to her. “We have more than a hundred rooms in this manor, several of which are guest rooms on the ground floor, so you need not bother with any stairs. And we always prepare too much food for dinner.” She softened her tone. “Mr. Craven would not hear of us turning a lady loose on the moor in this kind of weather. We shall be delighted to serve you, Miss Lennox. Please accept our protection. We’ll return you to your home as early as you would like tomorrow!”

  Lily looked past Isabelle, out the window again, feeling all the heat drain out of her face. A horrid, sinking sensation slithered through her veins.

  For just a frantic instant, she thought of throwing herself out of the chair and charging out into the rain—willing herself to make it back to Wythe before dinnertime—

  Her ankle panged. She grimaced.

  Thunder rumbled, and the sleet dragged its claws across the window.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Medlock,” Lily said weakly. “I’m much obliged to you.”

  “Don’t think of it, Miss Lennox,” Mrs. Medlock answered, taking the brandy from Isabelle and handing it to Lily. “Drink that. It will warm you right down to your bones.”

  Chapter Five

  ​Lily sat on the edge of the huge four-poster bed wearing a clean, dry nightgown, the cold compress bandaged to her ankle. She shivered, pushing back the dull pain, watching as Isabelle moved swiftly and quietly around the tall, ancient room. Lily sat facing the white fireplace, where a new fire danced. Above the mantel hung a gold-framed painting—a figure of a classical woman with very long red hair, standing in a meadow. She pointed dramatically to her right, her tresses and white gown blowing in the wind. Lily absently followed her gesture, to trace the beautiful carvings around the doorframe, and the thick, beaten door itself. On the other wall, to her left, hung faded tapestries of a forest and a medieval hunt. The room smelled of old fabric, and the sweet scent of peat burning in the fireplace. To Lily’s far left, a window up high looked out across the moor—or it would, if thick fog and absolute darkness didn’t obscure everything.

  ​“Did your servant make it back?” Lily asked, her eyebrows coming together as the wind howled. “The one Mrs. Medlock sent to Wythe?”

  ​“Yes, Miss,” Isabelle answered, grabbing a clanking fire-iron bending down and poking the fodder. The embers spat and sparked. “He came in right after you finished your dinner.”

  ​A thread of the tension in Lily’s chest loosened.

  ​“Good. I hope he doesn’t catch cold.”

  ​“Peter Sowerby? Ehh, he lives on the moor,” Isabelle answered. “He helps Ben Weatherstaff, and half the time lives away from the manor. He was bred in the wild—he could walk it blindfold. That’s why Mrs. Medlock sent him.” Isabelle put away the fire iron, and turned and faced Lily. “Now Miss, shall I brush your hair?”

  ​“Oh…Yes,” Lily nodded, wishing she could just collapse without doing that chore, but knowing she would regret it bitterly the next day.

  ​“Just turn about, Miss, if you can, and I’ll stand behind you.”

  ​Lily did as she was asked, wincing as she gingerly adjusted her foot. Isabelle took hold of Lily’s long hair in one hand, and began working the tangles out, starting at the bottom. Lily let her eyes drift shut, the throbbing of her ankle filling her consciousness.

  ​For a long time, Isabelle worked. Steadily, gently, in a rhythmic, soothing motion. Lily’s shoulders relaxed, and her head leaned forward. At long last, Isabelle began pulling through the tangles all around her crown. The comb massaged Lily’s head, easing her headache.

  ​“It’s a shame,” Isabelle mused. “You and your sister and guardian couldn’t have come visiting, at a better time.”

  ​Lily half opened her eyes, listening.

  ​“It would do this house good, to have regular visitors. Especially young ones,” Isabelle went on. “Might brighten things up a bit.” Isabelle took up Lily’s hair, and started braiding it securely.

  “But…” Lily said, frowning at the wardrobe in front of her. “I thought he doesn’t want any visitors.”

  “Ah, Miss,” Isabelle sighed, tying the end of the braid with a strip of cloth she had waiting. “But he does.”

  Lily’s mouth opened—but she sensed Isabelle move away. She twisted to see her.

  “There’s a bell pull by your bed, Miss,” Isabelle told her, nearing the only other lamp, on the table where Lily had eaten. �
��If you need anything, do not hesitate to call us.”

  “Thank you,” Lily nodded. Isabelle blew out the lamp, turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  ​Lily lay on her back and stared at the dark ceiling. Torrents of rain assaulted the window. Lightning glared and blinked as thunder rolled like a huge stone across the moors. Lily bit the inside of her cheek and gripped the thick covers with both hands.

  ​Monroe knew where she was. Her whole household did. They had thought she was in some remote corner of Wythe, reading, when in fact she had escaped to trundle across the moors, against everyone’s expressed wishes. Evie was now probably terribly worried—after all, the messenger had been instructed to tell them that Lily had been injured. Which left a great deal up to Evie’s imagination.

  ​Lily’s breath tightened and she shifted uneasily. She’d pulled off the cold compress about an hour ago, and the pain in her ankle had lessened a great deal, but once in a while it panged hard. She turned her head to the right. The fire had guttered and gone out. She shivered.

  ​The night couldn’t be older than twelve o’clock. She’d climbed under the blankets at half past nine, but hadn’t been able to drift off to sleep. Each time she tried, the wind would howl, the thunder would slam, or her whole leg would start to ache.

  ​Coldness settled down over her. She eased up into a sitting position, glancing over at the bell pull. Her eyebrows drew together.

  ​“I can’t wake up Isabelle,” she whispered. “Poor girl has to get up before dawn, anyway…”

  ​She hesitated for just a moment, then pushed off her covers and slipped down onto the floor, putting all her weight on her good foot. She hopped around the bed, opened the wardrobe and pulled out a soft dressing gown. Quivering, she shrugged into it and tied the sash, then turned back around.

  ​Lightning flashed.

  ​The brilliant white light filled the room—and Lily’s eyes fixed on the painting above the mantel.

  ​The woman, her elfish hair flying, pointed ever-commandingly…

  ​At the door.

  ​Again, Lily glanced to it…

  ​The room went dark.

  ​And now Lily could see a low light beneath the door.

  ​She frowned.

  ​Carefully, she hobbled across the chilly floor toward it, and grasped the icy knob with her left hand. She turned it. It creaked. She pulled gently, and it swung silently open. She leaned forward and peered out to the left.

  ​Her corridor ran perpendicular to the great entry hall, and opened up into it. Directly across the great hallway from her corridor waited the door to the drawing room—the room into which Ben Weatherstaff had first carried her.

  ​And a healthy fire glowed within it.

  ​Lily shivered again.

  ​Perhaps a servant had just lit it—perhaps if she found that servant, she could ask her to come re-light the fire in her own room.

  ​Gingerly, she eased out and shut the door behind her, then limped as quietly as she could down the wooden floor.

  ​She hesitated at the threshold to the great hall, then started across. Her steps creaked and shuffled, but the storm just outside the front door to her right drowned it out. She hopped up to the doorframe and grasped the wood, resting for a moment, her ankle throbbing.

  ​But the warmth from the fire inside washed over her, and she limped forward again. She sighed briefly when her cold feet met the soft rug, and she turned to face the great mantel.

  ​She stopped.

  ​A beautiful dog lay in front of the fire. A slender, autumn-colored Irish Setter. The firelight dusted the outline of its coat with a sheen of gold, and darkened the rest of its form with shadow. And it had lifted its head, ears perked, and now stared at her.

  Lily didn’t move.

  ​The dog’s ears pressed down, and its tail thumped the floor.

  ​Lily grinned.

  ​“Hello!” she said quietly, resting her hand on one of the tables for support as she stepped closer. “How are you?”

  ​The dog’s tail slapped harder, and it scooted its front paws closer to her, ducking its head and licking its lips.

  ​“What a darling you are,” Lily cooed, very carefully kneeling down in front of it and taking its head in her hands. She quickly rubbed its ears as its tongue lolled, running her fingers through its glossy coat. “Hello, hello,” Lily said again. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

  ​“You’re not.”

  ​Lily twisted toward the right, her pulse skyrocketing—

  ​To see a young man seated in the armchair next to her.

  ​Heat rushed into her face, and she pressed her hand to her heart.

  ​“Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  ​Gasping, she blinked against the firelight, trying to see him properly.

  ​He sat with his left elbow braced on the armrest, a good deal of him clothed in shadow. She could see that he wore a fine black suit and shoes, a white shirt and black silk tie. He had a pale, drawn face with a prominent nose—nevertheless, his features were pensively handsome. He had soft brown hair bearing undertones of black, the waves of which touched his collar and swept across a portion of his white forehead. He had a mustache, a quiet mouth, and dark eyebrows—and eyes that captured her full attention.

  ​Upon her instant glance, they appeared black as obsidian. But as she gazed, the firelight caught depths of chestnut and a hint of russet within them—colors that warmed and softened his dark bearing.

  ​It was only in afterthought that Lily realized that his right shoulder tilted considerably higher than his left, and that he bent slightly in his chair. Also, a cane leaned against the other armrest.

  ​“I’m so sorry,” Lily gasped, coming back to herself but still blushing painfully. “I didn’t mean to come in and disturb you, as if this were my own house—”

  ​“No, no, please.” The color in his eyes intensified as his brow furrowed. “You’re disturbing nothing.”

  ​“I…” Lily tried again. “The fire went out in my room, and I was cold and my foot hurt, so I thought if I could find a servant—”

  ​His eyebrows raised slightly, and he almost smiled.

  ​“You are a guest here,” he said, his voice still low. “You may wander where you like.”

  ​“And I’m…I’m in my nightgown…” It was impossible for her to blush harder. He regarded her plainly.

  ​“What else would you be wearing? Your sopping dress and coat?”

  ​“I…Well. Of course you’re right.” Lily let out a shaking breath, sitting upright again and fighting to compose herself. “Thank you. I’m Lilias Lennox—from Wythe Park.”

  ​“Yes. I’ve heard a great deal about you,” he said. “Though I don’t believe anyone has ever introduced us.” He shifted in his chair, his almost-smile beginning to brighten his eyes. “Under the circumstances, I suppose we’ll have to do without a third party, and makeshift. I’m Archibald Craven.”

  ​Lily swallowed hard as that name resounded through her, then made herself hold out her hand.

  ​“It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  ​He studied her hand for a heartbeat, then reached out and grasped her fingers.

  ​Warmth flooded through her, down her arm to the crown of her head all the way to her toes. Gently, he curled his fingers around hers, and held her gaze.

  ​At last he released his careful grip, and her hand drifted down to rest on her skirt. Quietly, he watched her—and she watched him.

  ​The Irish Setter nudged her elbow. Lily immediately reached out to pet its head and neck, the tension inside her chest easing.

  ​“Her name is Sally,” Mr. Craven told her, his voice soft and purposeful.

  ​“Hello, Sally,” Lily greeted her.

  ​“She enjoys storms about as much as I do,” Mr. Craven muttered. Lily glanced up at him. Just then, lightning flashed outside and he turned to the window. His jaw tig
htened, and the dog whined.

  ​“You aren’t fond of thunder?” Lily observed.

  ​“Ever since I was a boy…” he said, still watching the light play across the panes. “I’ve been able to hear everything in and around this house—almost feel it.” He paused, his attention distancing. “An inconvenient talent when one is trying to sleep—especially with an infirmity such as mine.”

  ​Lily studied his grave, faraway expression. Then, her brow furrowed.

  ​“I sometimes get a headache the day before a storm comes,” she mused. “But when it finally begins to rain, it relieves. And to watch a storm roll in across the moors…” She turned toward the fire, searching for words. “It’s like God stirring a boiling pot. One of those thick old cauldrons, with a heavy spoon.” She reflexively smiled. “I love them.” Then, ruefully, she glanced at Mr. Craven. “When I am not out in them, of course.”

  ​He chuckled. Very quietly—she almost didn’t hear him. But when she looked up at him, his eyes had brightened even more.

  “I hear you had your mishap on my grounds earlier this afternoon,” he remarked.

  “I did,” Lily ducked her head, lacing her fingers together. “I was out walking and tripped on something—twisted my ankle and lost my shoe.”

  “It’s no wonder, in that garden,” he murmured. “I’m surprised you could traverse it at all.”

  Lily went completely still.

  Then, her eyes flew to his.

  His black gaze fixed on her, utterly serious.

  Lily felt the heat drain out of her face.

  She opened her mouth. No sound came out. And no words came to mind.

  “Can you stand?” Mr. Craven asked. Her blood running cold, she nodded.

  “Then do so,” he ordered. “Go to the box above the mantel. Pull out what you find.”

  Lily frowned sharply, but he said no more—just held her with his gaze. Carefully, Lily moved her skirt so she wouldn’t step on it, then eased herself to her feet. That former tension clenched down on her chest again, and her whole body chilled. She limped forward, around Sally, and reached up with both hands to the dark shelf of the mantel.