The Rooks of Misselthwaite- in the Forgotten Garden

by Alydia Rackham

  Her hands met wood. The box.

  She felt for an edge, and lifted the lid. Her fingers slipped inside.

  Metal.

  She closed her grip around it, and drew it out, then laid it in her left palm.

  A key.

  A plain iron key, perhaps four-and-a-half inches long, the ring at one end wide enough for two fingers to slip through; and at the other end, it had two blunt, square-shaped teeth.

  “That is the spare key,” Craven told her.

  She turned and stared at him.

  “Ben Weatherstaff carries the other,” he went on. “He told me the truth of where he found you, out of earshot of Mrs. Medlock. He knew I would not be angry.”

  Lily blinked, mentally staggering.

  “You…” she whispered. “You are not?”

  His hinted smile returned as his eyes warmed again.

  “I’ll not have you crawling through a broken section of wall,” he said. “Visit the garden whenever you like. God knows I have no particular use for it.”

  For just an instant, Lily couldn’t move.

  Then she beamed brilliantly, and pressed the key to her chest.

  “You do mean that?” she whispered. “I may come when I please?”

  “Whenever you please,” he said. “And if you ever desire to have anything planted, you need only ask.”

  “Roses,” Lily said. His eyebrows went up.

  “If you could spare a bush,” she added hurriedly. “Or if there is one already planted that you don’t like in a certain spot and you’re going to transplant it…”

  “I know very little about that,” he confessed, shaking his head. “I’ll instruct Weatherstaff to give you what you wish.”

  “Thank you,” Lily breathed, a thrill dancing through her whole being. “Thank you so much.”

  He looked up at her as she stood near the edge of the fireplace—and his expression changed. As if he was seeing her for the first time. He gazed at her face—intent, and open.

  “I wonder…” he murmured, rubbing his finger and thumb absently together. “That we have never met before.”

  Lily considered him, her fingers closing around the key.

  “You are right,” she finally realized. “We should have. We are such close neighbors, after all.”

  “And it appears we are much the same age,” he added.

  “I think so,” Lily agreed. “I…” she paused, then shrugged one shoulder uncomfortably. “I suppose I don’t get out into society enough.”

  “Yes,” he said, eyebrows drawing together. “Perhaps.”

  Then, he flinched—and shut his eyes.

  Lily’s heart skipped a beat.

  For a moment, Mr. Craven held his breath, then let it out slowly.

  “Miss Lennox,” he said tightly, eyes still closed. “Would you do me a great favor?”

  “Yes?” she said quickly.

  “Go to the rope beside the fireplace. Pull it.”

  Lily turned around and found the long, maroon cord. She reached out and tugged on it.

  In the distance, a bell jangled.

  “Thank you, Miss Lennox. That rings Mr. Pitcher,” Craven explained, his frame stiffening. “I will have him send someone to re-light the fire in your room. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Yes,” Lily gasped, straightening. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

  He opened his eyes and looked at her.

  And his time, he truly smiled. And it appeared all the more brilliant, for it shone through the tension of pain.

  “Not at all,” he said quietly. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, Mr. Craven,” Lily inclined her head. “I hope you sleep well.”

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “Goodnight, Sally,” Lily bent and briefly stroked the dog’s gentle head, then shuffled as quickly as she could past the chair and out of the drawing room.

  As soon as she entered the dark of her corridor, Mr. Pitcher, wearing a velvet dressing gown, strode toward the light of the fire, frowning. Lily ducked out of sight. After Mr. Pitcher disappeared, she hugged the wall and slipped back toward her room, holding the garden key to her heart.

  “There you are, Miss,” Mrs. Medlock adjusted Lily’s skirt so it didn’t catch as she settled onto the seat within the closed carriage. Morning frost hung thick in the air, and as the impatient horses shifted their feet on the drive, their hooves scraped loudly on rough ice. Lily wore her own clothes again—clean, dry and pressed—and the pain in her ankle had eased a great deal. When she sighed, her breath clouded around her head, and she shivered against the chilly wind that whipped around the house.

  ​“Thank you, Mrs. Medlock,” Lily said, reaching down to grasp the housekeeper’s hand. Surprised, the housekeeper looked up at her, but didn’t pull away. Lily smiled.

  ​“Dinner and breakfast were delicious, your staff were excellent—I’ve never felt so at home.”

  ​“Why—Well, thank you, Miss,” Mrs. Medlock almost blushed. “Thank you. We’re glad to be of service.”

  ​Lily glanced up and past her, at the great, dismal house, and its darkened windows. Something panged within her.

  ​“I’m only sorry that I cannot convey my thanks to your master myself,” Lily said, returning her attention to Medlock. “Please tell him how grateful I am.”

  ​“I will, Miss,” Medlock assured her. “Safe travel.”

  ​“Thank you,” Lily said, then leaned back into the carriage as the footman lifted the steps and slammed the door.

  ​Moments later, the reins slapped and the carriage took off at a jog. Lily turned and gazed back through the window at Misselthwaite, studying its jagged roofline and forbidding walls until it vanished behind her in the mist.

  To be continued in…

  THE ROOKS

  OF

  MISSELTHWAITE

  IN THE FORBIDDEN MANOR

  Book II

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Clearly, your reputation means nothing to you,” Miss Monroe said, her cold gaze pinning Lily where she sat on the settee in the drawing room. Lily risked a glance to her left at Evie, who stood near the frosted window, amongst the curtains. Evie stared at the rug. Lily squeezed her hands together and said nothing.

  ​“Wandering out across the moors alone, unaccounted for, telling no one where you’d gone in such foul weather,” Monroe went on. “Then trespassing onto Misselthwaite’s grounds, being careless enough to injure yourself, and then staying the night at the home of a single man—and not just any single man, but the queerest, most unsociable and unacceptable man in the country.” Monroe stepped closer to Lily. “I suppose you had dinner with him.”

  ​“No,” Lily growled.

  ​“Tea?”

  ​“No.”

  ​“Did you see him at all?”

  ​Lily lifted her eyes and looked straight back up at Miss Monroe. And lied.

  ​“No.”

  ​“Who did you see?” Monroe demanded, her expression sharpening.

  ​“Ben Weatherstaff, the gardener who helped me,” Lily answered. “Mrs. Medlock the housekeeper, Mr. Pitcher—Mr. Craven’s butler. And Isabelle, a chamber maid.”

  ​Monroe’s eyes narrowed. Lily never broke contact.

  ​“Needless to say, you will never cross onto Misselthwaite land again. And we shall not correspond with Mr. Craven, nor offer him any kind of invitation. It is best if this incident is forgotten. However, your actions have made it impossible for you to participate in the dance this evening,” Monroe said. “An event for which you hardly helped prepare, leaving your poor sister and I to do every ounce of work.”

  ​“I shan’t attend, then,” Lily lifted her chin. Monroe’s eyes flashed.

  ​“Oh, yes you shall,” she snapped. “You will attend dinner, and you will sit during the dance, and entertain conversation with anyone who should choose to engage you. But under no circumstances are you to tell anyone how you obtained that injury.�
� She pointed at Lily’s foot. “You will tell them that you hurt yourself on the stairs here, at home, in a moment of clumsiness that will never be repeated. Am I understood?”

  ​Lily wanted to grind her teeth.

  ​“Yes, madam,” she muttered.

  ​“Furthermore,” Monroe said, turning to address Evie as well. “I did not mention this before because I assumed both of you were sensible enough without it—but now, as I am beginning to doubt everything, I will give you this warning: You are never to speak to anyone of the dire straits in which you now find yourselves. No man will entertain the flirtations of a woman whom he believes to be pursuing him solely for financial security. Your duty is to woo a suitable gentleman and to make him fall in love with you. So deeply in love, in fact, that when at last you gently reveal the truth to him, he will acknowledge that his life would be a ruin without you, and he will decide to marry you in spite of it all.”

  ​Lily looked up at Monroe, baffled. Monroe didn’t see her—she faced Evie.

  ​“Evelia, help your sister up the stairs and get her ready. You have two hours. Guests will be arriving at five o’clock.”

  To be continued…

  Enjoy a sample of Alydia Rackham’s

  Victorian Mystery Series

  THE MUTE OF PENDYWICK PLACE

  AND THE TORN PAGE

  Chapter One

  London

  November 3rd

  1881

  ​Fog.

  ​Lurking in low, thick clouds around the faces of the buildings that lined Brompton Road. Loitering in doorways, veiling windows. Chilling the feet of the men who walked the paving with crisp steps and bowed heads. Swirling around the black skirts of the ladies who reluctantly shut ringing shop doors behind them as they ventured out into the gloom. Parting like a ghostly river before the clatter of the hansom horse; hanging in a wake behind the driver’s battered top hat and cloaked shoulders. Stifling the throbbing orange street lamps beneath shrouds of cobweb.

  ​She perched on the curb of the walkway, glancing up and down the broad street. As she paused, a disembodied bell in some nearby tower voiced five haunting, identical notes. She drew herself up, gripped her small, light bag tighter in her gloved hand. She held her breath, waiting for any clamor of a cab heading toward her through the wall of mist.

  ​Nothing but a distant trundle of an omnibus. So she braced herself again, stepped off the curb, and onto the cobbles.

  ​Her shoes clapped against the damp, slick stones as she lifted her skirt and picked up her pace. She fixed her gaze on the place where the far walkway should be, listening intently…

  ​She hopped up onto the opposing curb, spun and faced the street.

  ​She could not see the spot from whence she had just come. Biting the inside of her cheek, she turned to the left, and headed up the walk.

  ​Each time she crossed a narrow street that turned left to abandon the main road, she counted it. She did not meet the eyes of any of the finely-dressed ladies or bowler-hatted gentlemen she passed, but set her mouth and walked quicker. Her skirts rustled with her swift movement, and she ignored the cold in her feet as she splashed through puddles.

  ​Finally, She trotted out into the center of a little lane that wove off into the forest of buildings. She stared down the narrow passage, reflexively searched for a street sign…

  ​Stopped herself, and attended to the lane again.

  ​Darkness was falling, and shadows thickening. Ahead of her, a few street lamps burned like candles in a cavern, dripping measly pools of light down around their bases.

  ​She started forward. Her footsteps rang louder here. She cast up and around her at what she could see of the clean facades of the houses—the neatly-painted doors, the trimmed windows...

  ​Again, She counted. Knockers, this time. Squeezing the handle of her luggage.

  ​…seven, eight, nine, ten…

  ​Lamps glowed in several of the windows, like smudges against the frosty glass. Far ahead, she glimpsed a few other murky pedestrians, but none ventured down this way.

  ​…twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…

  ​Her chest tensed, her pulse picking up as she quickened her pace…

  ​She slowed, and stopped, letting out her tight breath in a cloud.

  ​The twenty-sixth house, on her left.

  ​The bricks distinguished it right away—deep red, almost brown—in sharp contrast to the pale houses on either side. This darker house seemed to resent even having to touch shoulders with the others—it was so severely narrow, and stretched up a full story taller than its neighbors. Ivy masked half its face. The fog prowled around the front steps of this house like an old, protective dog.

  ​It bore one front window—tall, stately, and shuttered. To the left of it, the black door sullenly waited beneath a slight overhang. Three steps led up to this door, and before that, a walkway, flanked on either side by a tiny overgrown rectangular garden, reined in only by a black iron-wrought fence.

  ​The windows of the second story, and likewise the third, had also been shuttered, and no light seeped out. Beyond, stretching up to the clouds, a square tower loomed. Upon first glance, the home seemed abandoned…

  ​But with her next breath, She tasted the scent of cooking stew wafting from its chimney. And so she set her jaw, opened the front gate, and strode up the walkway. She felt the heat drain out of her face—climbed the stairs, reached up, grasped the brass knocker with her left hand and worked it sharply.

  ​One. Two. Three.

  ​Her fingers hung there for a moment, and then she dropped her arm. She listened, gaze anxiously flitting across the door, toward the front window…

  ​Noises inside.

  ​She swallowed, straightened up, and gripped her bag even harder.

  ​The latch clacked. Hinges creaked. The door swung inward.

  ​A tall, middle-aged man in a black butler’s suit stood just past the threshold. He had a thin mustache, oiled dark hair parted in the middle, and cold blue eyes. He lifted his chin, arched an eyebrow, and cast a glance up and down her whole form.

  ​She swallowed again.

  ​“Good day, madam,” he said—smooth, tenor and hard. “How may I help you?”

  ​She took a breath. Her lips parted.

  ​She closed her mouth. Her eyebrows drew together.

  ​He frowned at her.

  ​“Madam? How may I help you?”

  ​She opened her mouth again. Shut it. Pain darted around in the back of her throat.

  ​The butler’s mouth tightened.

  ​“I’m sorry, we are not interested in any solicitations,” he told her, and began to shut the door.

  ​Her heart banged against her breastbone. She lunged forward and shoved her toe against the bottom of the door. The door thudded against it.

  ​“Madam!” the butler cried.

  ​“Mr. Cutworth, what is going on?” came a woman’s voice from beyond him.

  ​“Nothing at all, Mrs. Butterfield,” the butler replied curtly, twisting to see the woman inside, then turning back to give Her a glare. “I was just sending a button seller on her way.”

  ​Her mouth opened again as her face heated. She clamped her jaw tight.

  ​The next moment, a portly, gray-haired housekeeper with a frilled cap and flour-covered apron pulled the door aside and stepped up next to Mr. Cutworth. She had a stern mouth and flushed face, but bright brown eyes that captured Hers straightaway. Mrs. Butterfield gave Her a quick glance up and down—one that felt entirely different from Mr. Cutworth’s—and pulled the door open to its entirety.

  ​“She is clearly not a button seller, Mr. Cutworth,” Mrs. Butterfield admonished sharply. “Has she told you her name?”

  ​“Not a word,” Mr. Cutworth replied. “She seems entirely befuddled—must be a vagabond.”

  ​“Has it occurred to you that she might have some defect, some impediment that prevents her from answering you?” Mrs
. Butterfield inquired, putting a fist on her hip. “Perhaps she is deaf! Or perhaps she does not even speak English!”

  ​Mr. Cutworth’s face colored.

  ​“We have all manner and sort stopping by this door, Mr. Cutworth,” Mrs. Butterfield continued. “But in all my years, I have never happened upon a deaf, vagabond button-seller.”

  ​The whole of Mr. Cutworth’s face turned completely red now. He straightened his waistcoat, and turned from the door.

  ​“I will leave her in your capable hands, then,” he decided, and swiftly departed into the house. Mrs. Butterfield heaved a sigh, and turned back to Her.

  ​“You’ll have to forgive us, Miss. We’ve newly hired a butler, and he isn’t accustomed to the sort of folk that usually arrive uninvited to Pendywick Place.”

  ​In answer, She nodded quickly.

  ​“Ah, so you can understand English!” Mrs. Butterfield smiled. “But you do have business with Mr. Collingwood, then?”

  ​Again, She nodded quickly—even harder.

  ​“Then come in, come in, before you catch your death.” Mrs. Butterfield stepped aside and beckoned to her. Quickly, She stepped across the threshold, and into the entryway. Mrs. Butterfield closed the door behind her with a resounding clap, then bustled past Her.

  ​“Please wait right here while I announce you.”

  ​She watched Mrs. Butterfield trundle across the pale beaten rug toward the other door at the far end. The housekeeper opened it, hurried through and shut it—

  ​But it did not latch.

  ​Biting her lip, She moved her bag to grasp it in both hands, and glanced around at the dark-wood entryway, lit by a single lamp to her left. On the right hand wall hung several long coats, three hats; and her attention caught on two very unusual walking sticks that waited next to the umbrella in the stand in the corner. They seemed to be made of rough-hewn blackthorn wood, polished till they shone.

  ​Voices. Low, furtive.

  ​Mrs. Butterfield’s first.

  ​Then…

  ​Another.

  ​Holding her breath, She crept forward, hoping she would not make the floor creak beneath her shoes. She paused just a few feet from the door, leaning forward and listening…