The Dead Queen's Garden

by Nicola Slade

  Charlotte was saved from Lily’s astonished demand as to her meaning, by the appearance of Kit Knightley, whose conversation with Barnard had been interrupted by Lily’s call.

  ‘Pray forgive me, Mrs Richmond.’ The gleam in his blue eyes indicated to Charlotte that he had overheard her surprising simile, but he merely smiled at Lily and bent over her hand. ‘I must tear myself away from this felicitous occasion. I am glad to have seen my godson safely baptised and must thank you once more for doing me such a great honour in making me a sponsor.’

  Mollified, Lily said her farewells and Barnard clapped his old school friend on the shoulder and muttered, with rough but sincere affection, ‘My very best wishes to Mrs Knightley, my dear fellow. I hope to hear that she goes on well.’

  The twinkle in Kit’s eyes dimmed as he answered with a wordless nod and reached out a hand to clasp that of his friend. He turned to Charlotte and she read the distress in his face with an answering dismay. Kit’s invalid wife, Elaine, was Charlotte’s dearest friend in the entire world, and Elaine’s health, which had always been precarious, had sharply deteriorated in the last couple of months.

  ‘Come and see Elaine, Char,’ he said, holding up a hand to stop the anxious flow of questions that sprang to her lips. There was a roughness in his voice as he added, ‘I know it’s Christmas and I expect you’ll have little time to spare from the jollifications at the Manor, but…. Make it soon.’

  Chapter 4

  NEXT AFTERNOON SAW Charlotte set out in the brougham borrowed from the manor, ready to make a call in state upon her illustrious neighbour.

  ‘Walk, do you say?’ Lady Frampton was scandalised at the idea. ‘Lord above, gal, what in the world can ’ave got into you? There’s a murderer loose about the countryside, you could come upon him at any turn of the road. And anyway, you h’ought to know by now that there’s a time and a place when it’s not done to go walking about so free and easy as you do.’ She shook her head in stern admonition. ‘And going to visit ’er fine ladyship for the first time, is one of them times. No, Char, I mean it, I’ll make Barnard put his foot down, you see if I don’t. Besides, you’ll give offence, make no mistake about it, and raise eyebrows too, if you swan in to Brambrook Abbey with your hem trailing mud and your boots in a state, not to mention your bonnet soaking wet. I know you like walking, though Gawd knows why you should is beyond me. But it ain’t done, Char, mark my words.’

  So here I am, sighed Charlotte, condemned to propriety. The manor groom clucked to the bay horse, so much more elegant and sleek than the fat pony she and Lady Frampton were accustomed to when they used the pony chaise. They set off at a sedate pace, skirting the green of Finchbourne village, and down Pot Kiln Lane opposite. It seemed highly unlikely that the murderer would be lurking around the village when surely he would have made off towards Southampton, say, to disappear into the busy alleyways near the docks, but she could not give Lady Frampton an anxious hour or two by disobeying her. Having reluctantly accepted the old lady’s dictum that Charlotte must uphold the honour of Finchbourne Manor and the Richmond family, she was arrayed in her second-best winter dress, a becoming golden-brown, silk and merino blend.

  Charlotte’s plain gowns were the despair of Lily Richmond. ‘I’m tall and skinny,’ she tried to explain to her sister-in-law. ‘Although, if you insist, I’ll admit to being just passable, I’m far too lanky to look well in feminine fripperies. It’s all right for you, Lily, you’re little; frills and flounces become you. I’d look like the village maypole decked out in that pink dress you wanted me to have.’

  Gran approved today’s outfit, the high neck trimmed with a ruched satin-ribbon which, like yesterday’s dress, was pinned with Lady Meg’s gold acanthus leaf brooch. To keep out the cold, Charlotte wore a warm coat and carried a shawl offered by Lady Frampton. ‘My ’usband’s second cousin’s daughter sent it, silly wench, as if I ’aven’t worn naught but black this thirty years. You take it, young Char, it’ll go with that dress of yours.’ The brown and yellow paisley swirls were not really to Charlotte’s taste but she was glad of the warmth, and Gran was right: it did go with the brown merino.

  If only Will and Ma could see me, she sighed, picturing their astonishment at her prosperous appearance. ‘As fine as five-pence,’ Will would have exclaimed, and followed it by circling round her, amused and admiring, and pointing out that Char ‘was a proper lady now, and no mistake.’ Ladylike, she corrected that laughing ghost. I am swathed in fur rugs against the cold and dressed as a lady should be, with due decorum and no vulgar outward display, but I’m not sure I’m really a lady, not yet. Her eyes danced at the memory of a younger, coltish Charlotte running barefoot along a deserted southern shore, scantily clad in a faded muslin dress that had seen better days. The amusement waned as she recalled herself to the present.

  No more blissful, childish ignorance, she scolded herself; no more looking backwards and sighing for the moon, yearning for those who were dead and gone this many a day. This afternoon I am the young, respectable, widowed Mrs Richmond from Rowan Lodge, kin to the Squire at Finchbourne Manor, with a wardrobe full of becoming dresses, and I am off to visit a real, live lady. A ladyship, no less and, according to Lily Richmond, a lady who was descended from a long line of impeccably-connected but impoverished nobles, hence her marriage to the wealthy but undistinguished Lord Granville. (Lily had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the ins and outs of the nobility and enjoyed nothing more than poring over the London papers to discover who was engaged to whom and whether or not some long-awaited heir had yet made his appearance. As Barnard, with bewildered pride, had told Charlotte, ‘Lily knows all about everyone in the stud book.’)

  When the carriage turned into the drive, Charlotte felt a slight shiver of apprehension but dismissed it at once, irritated at her silliness. Her eyes opened wide in astonishment as the brougham drew up before the front door of Brambrook Abbey. Someone in the not too distant past had manifestly fallen prey to an architect who favoured the Gothic style in country houses. Barnard Richmond had mentioned that the Abbey was a relatively new establishment, dating back a mere sixty or so years, so Charlotte had somehow convinced herself that she would see a red brick mansion, brick, and flint also, being prevalent amid the vernacular architecture of Hampshire.

  Lord Granville’s enormous and imposing home was more a castle than a house, bristling with turrets, awash with pointed windows and with gargoyles by the dozen, leering down from every gutter spout. The grey stone was forbidding so that the whole resembled something from The Mysteries of Udolpho and similar gothic novels enjoyed by Charlotte and her mother. The crowning embellishment was a shallow moat that looked suspiciously like a working portcullis and drawbridge. It was set in a stone portal over which the brougham was now clattering. There were even pikes, she noted with an amused grimace, set above the grim gateway, though mercifully none bore the severed head that would have seemed appropriate. A shudder ran through her as she recalled that however artificial the castle might be, it was no stranger to recent terrible events.

  Once through the portal and away from the outer wall, there was a sweep of gravel, where the carriage came to a halt outside the house, though Charlotte thought it should rather be described as a keep. This was set upon a slight rise, overlooking a heavily ornate fountain, sprouting naiads and dryads and others of that ilk. Charlotte, gazing at it with a critical eye, trained by her knowledgeable godmother, decided it was a little late for the mediaeval period and was surely a baroque creation. As the groom opened the carriage door, Charlotte glanced around nervously and was relieved to see the massive, heavily-carved and studded oak door flung open to reveal Oz Granville standing at the top of the short flight of steps, a smile of hospitable delight on his fair, freckled face.

  ‘You came after all, ma’am!’ he exclaimed, running down to greet her, his hand outstretched. ‘I did start to worry whether you would cry off.’

  She felt sorry for the boy, all over again, as she had at the church
on the previous day. What must his life be like if a mere courtesy visit from a neighbour could loom so large?

  ‘Of course I came, you foolish Oz. I’m most intrigued at the prospect of seeing your Mama’s garden and I’m only sorry to have to convey Lady Frampton’s apologies. She likes to rest in the afternoons and after all, she is more than eighty years old, you know.’

  And she’s a cockney and not in the least interested in chilly winter gardens either. Charlotte concealed a smile at the dismay on the old lady’s face when presented with the invitation. ‘Wot? Parade myself round a garden in this weather? I’d catch me death of cold. No, you go and enjoy yourself but be certain to wear a flannel petticoat to keep you warm, and just be sure you don’t sound too ’appy when you report on the visit to our Lily. She’s still ready to poke out your eyes for getting an invite from ’er Ladyship before she does, don’t forget.’

  The butler now loomed towards her and tenderly divested her of her outer garments, then the boy, who had hopped impatiently from one foot to the other throughout these proceedings, led her through the vaulted and echoing Great Hall. This was a lofty, stone-clad place, double or even treble the normal height, and embellished with carvings in every possible nook and cranny. Well-tutored by her godmother, Charlotte recognised Norman dogtooth doorways, while a sulky winter sun fought with gas lights in the shape of antique torches as it shed pools of light on the marble floor from the brightly coloured stained glass in the windows. Enormous pieces of supposedly mediaeval furniture offered no prospect of comfort, had anyone dared to sit upon them.

  Glimpsed through a wide-open, heavily-carved and gilded door, was a vast dining-room with a monumental table made from a massive slab of blackened oak perched on bulbous carved legs and surrounded by carved chairs that looked to combine ugliness with extreme discomfort. Through another door she saw a drawing-room, papered in black and gold. Oz Granville led his guest out of the hall to a smaller chamber where his mother, upholstered in purple cashmere trimmed with black velvet ribbons and flounces, and wearing a formidable lace cap also trimmed with purple and black, rose to meet them, laying aside a large, leather-bound volume as she did so.

  ‘A history of England,’ Lady Granville explained as she graciously accepted the apologies Charlotte presented on behalf of Lady Frampton. ‘Or rather, a history of the Queens of England, one of my great interests, although I must confess that my garden absorbs most of my time.’ Her fond glance at the flaxen-haired boy jigging impatiently beside her, showed where the bulk of her interests lay and Charlotte found herself warming to such an open display of affection. Lady Granville kept her son waiting for a few moments while she waved a hand round at the room. ‘This is the morning-room, Mrs Richmond,’ she explained. ‘I find it so much more comfortable than the rest of the Abbey that I tend to spend most of my time here.’ She drew Charlotte’s attention to the Chinese wallpaper and the ebony furniture, adding complacently that it contained the only chimney in the entire house that did not have a tendency to smoke when the wind was in the north.

  Charlotte could well believe that, having observed the smoke stains on the stone lintels above the vast twin fireplaces in the Great Hall. She felt at a loss as she wondered whether condolences on the recent tragedy would be welcomed but, on reflection, she remembered that Barnard and Lily had said all that was needful, so she kept quiet. An attentive footman, clad in an immaculate livery of dark blue, appeared with Charlotte’s outer garments, which he helped her to resume. He then silently bowed them out so obsequiously that his periwigged head almost reached waist level.

  The lady of the house, now clad in her sealskin mantle, sailed haughtily through the door without a glance at the servant, but Charlotte was pleased to see that the boy grinned and made a kind of jaunty salute in thanks.

  ‘Always be polite to the servants, Char,’ had been her godmother’s advice. ‘They see everything, hear everything and know everything and can be a gold mine of information if they are so disposed.’ Meg had looked mischievous as she added, ‘And believe me, they can cover up your misdemeanours too, if they like you.’

  Outside was a wide, gravelled walk, edged by a clipped yew hedge that reached to a height of about six feet, with a heavy wooden door set into an archway cut into the dense foliage.

  ‘I keep the garden door locked,’ Lady Granville remarked as she took an ornate key from her pocket. ‘It is my private sanctuary and the gardeners only enter at my command.’

  Looking through the entrance Charlotte saw something like a ruined castle at the far end of the garden, ivy-covered and sporting gaping windows at the top, arrow slits winding upwards around a circular tower, the whole surmounted by a crenellated battlement. A flagpole crowned the ruins and from it, a long, silken banner floated in the slight breeze.

  Lady Granville said nothing but kept a watchful eye on her guest as she waved her through the archway. A smile of gratification lightened the severity of her features at Charlotte’s exclamation.

  ‘But … but it’s Camelot!’ She turned to her hostess with her hands lifted in a gesture that seemed to encompass the scene before her eyes. ‘It’s an enchanted garden. How wonderful.’

  ‘It is almost my greatest treasure,’ confided the older woman and exchanged a smile of comprehension with her guest as, once again, Charlotte read clearly the message as to what was, without a doubt, her most beloved treasure.

  ‘I had no idea.’ Charlotte was released from the spell that had held her poised in the arched gateway and she flitted about the garden, discovering more and more delightful surprises. ‘I can’t believe how colourful it all is, even at this time of year,’ she said, waving her hand at the glowing scarlet berries on the holly tree in the corner and glancing up at the mistletoe, with its mother-of-pearl fruit, hanging in clusters from an apple tree. ‘Surely some of these trees are very ancient, Lady Granville?’ She looked at the holly again and then, doubtfully, at the apple tree as she spoke. ‘But the garden must be of a more recent date, if you designed it yourself?’

  Lady Granville shook her head. ‘Indeed it is. I built the garden around the trees,’ she explained. ‘The apple tree is only about twenty years old, I planted it myself, but the other trees were here first, the holly and the Queen’s Yew over in the corner.’

  At Charlotte’s look of enquiry, the other woman nodded. ‘There is an old story that says Queen Eleanor of Provence, wife of Henry III, spent time visiting the abbey that is said to have graced this spot. It seemed a pleasant conceit to me, when I decided to design a garden to suit the mansion put up by my father-in-law, to call the garden after the queen and to stock it only with plants that grew in the olden days.’

  Charlotte’s eyes were bright as she continued her exploration, aware that her interest was giving considerable pleasure to Lady Granville, who looked, Charlotte decided, as though she needed to smile more frequently. ‘Goodness,’ she said, stooping to look at a long walk bordered with sword-like green leaves. ‘What on earth are these? The berries are the most brilliant orange I’ve seen since my arrival in England.’

  ‘That’s called Stinking Iris,’ explained Oz Granville, interrupting with a snort of laughter. ‘If you crush the leaves and stems it stinks.’

  Charlotte raised a sardonic eyebrow and allowed him to hand her a leaf which she obediently crushed, though declining, with a laugh, to hold it to her nose, until his pleading gaze made her change her mind. ‘Another name for it is Roast Beef Plant,’ he informed her as she wrinkled her nose at the smell. ‘Mama likes it for the bright colours.’

  ‘Oh dear, with such an unpleasant smell, you would expect it be poisonous.’ Charlotte was surprised to see a frown eclipse her hostess’s earlier amusement at her idle remark.

  ‘I believe the roots should be avoided,’ was the careless answer. ‘I prefer not to dwell on that aspect of my plants, however. The beauty of the berries is sufficient for my pleasure though the flower itself is quite lovely, in varying shades of a brownish-purple and yel
low.’ Her enthusiasm was engaging as she eagerly drew Charlotte along the path to admire first this favourite, and then another.

  ‘Osbert is quite correct,’ she admitted with another of those doting smiles, ‘when he says I am particularly fond of the brightly coloured berries. A garden in winter can be so bleak, after all, but with careful planting, I believe I have overcome that disadvantage.’ She waved her hand in an expansive gesture. ‘You see, Mrs Richmond? Small black berries on the ivy that clothes the ruins; scarlet berries on the honeysuckle along the vine walk; purplish red ones there on the St John’s Wort. There are colours everywhere, as you so observantly remarked when you entered the garden.’

  ‘Indeed there are.’ Charlotte found herself being disarmed by the other woman’s enthusiasm. There was a glow in her dark eyes that spoke of a passion and eagerness about her ‘treasure’, that showed an appealing side to the woman Charlotte had thought dull at first meeting. She turned eagerly to her hostess. ‘My stepfather told me of a knot garden at his … his childhood home, but I gathered it was much more formal than this one.’

  ‘Knot gardens were a later development in the art of gardening,’ Lady Granville informed her and was soon well away on the history of planting, not noticing her guest’s far-away expression as she looked back down the years. During an unusual period of peace and stability Molly Glover had decided to plant a garden, and she had been nettled by Will’s amused criticism of their efforts.

  ‘What do you know about gardens, anyway?’ Molly had snapped in a rare moment of annoyance with her adored husband. Suddenly sobering, Will had stared at the straggling plants and answered wistfully, ‘My mother loved gardening and it was her great pride that she brought back the gardens to life, particularly the knot garden, after my grandfather died and my father….’ Had he been going to say, ‘When my father inherited?’ Charlotte wondered, with a sigh and a shrug of her shoulders. No point in speculating about her irresistible but unreliable stepfather’s family. Hints, carelessly dropped and hastily brushed aside, had given her the distinct impression that Will’s family were well-connected and wealthy, but then … she sighed again. Will had been a consummate actor, so it could all have been one of his games.