The Garden of Bewitchment

by Catherine Cavendish

  Nancy nodded. She seemed to have been expecting this conversation. Certainly she showed no sign of shock. No quiet resignation to her inevitable fate either.

  Evelyn took a deep breath. “Is there something you would like to say to me, Nancy?”

  “Not particularly, miss. I do, as you say, have a little put by, and I have a sister in Bradford who has always said she will take me in if I was left in this situation.”

  Evelyn realized she had never even known Nancy had a sister. She knew nothing about this woman who had lived with them all her life. How old was this sister? Nancy must be getting on for eighty if she was a day. She dismissed the thought. None of her business, after all.

  “Then it is time for you to take a well-earned rest, Nancy. Miss Claire and I will be moving to a cottage in Thornton Wensley in a few weeks’ time. Hopefully this will give you enough time to sort out things with your sister.”

  “Oh, I don’t need weeks, miss. I can leave tomorrow. Today, if you prefer.”

  “What? No. No, there’s no need.”

  “I would prefer it, miss. If you don’t mind.”

  “But why, Nancy? Have you not been happy here?”

  “Not really, miss. Not for a long time, if I’m being truthful.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “After the mistress died, it became more…difficult. The master didn’t want to have anything to do with the domestic side of things. Then one by one the staff left and weren’t replaced, until it was just me doing everything. Oh, I didn’t mind that so much. I’ve always been a hard worker, but I found it difficult to…to…”

  For the first time in this awkward interview, Nancy was clearly nonplussed. The feeling was infectious. Evelyn fought to retain her composure. She had not expected this reaction at all.

  “Please help me understand, Nancy. Has there been some friction between you and my sister, perhaps?”

  Nancy flashed her a look Evelyn struggled to comprehend. The older woman stared down at her hands and clasped them, as if taking comfort in the physical contact.

  “I would really rather not say,” she said at last.

  “I don’t understand. Why not? Nancy, if something has been troubling you, I need to know. Have I done something to upset you?”

  Nancy continued to inspect her folded hands. Evelyn waited, her impatience mounting. What on earth was the matter with the woman? The cook didn’t usually find herself lost for words.

  She would wait no longer. “Nancy?”

  The woman met her gaze. “I would rather not go into it, if you don’t mind. I’m sure everything will work itself out now. I shall be happy with my sister and you… Thornton Wensley, you said?”

  “Yes.” Why wouldn’t the cook tell her what was on her mind? She couldn’t force it out of her, although, right now, Evelyn wished she could. “I am most concerned. Something has clearly troubled you, and I can’t help feeling it is connected in some way with either myself or my sister. Why won’t you tell me?”

  Nancy shrugged and shook her head. “I’m sorry, miss. I would rather not say any more. I’ll pack my bags and be gone in the morning. I’ll make sure everything is tidy, clean and all the laundry’s up to date. The baking is all done, and there’s plenty of food in the pantry to keep you going.”

  Without waiting to be dismissed, Nancy turned on her heel and limped out of the room, leaving Evelyn too stunned to protest.

  At dinner, Evelyn waited until the cook had left them alone with the main course before she challenged her sister. “Has something happened between you and Nancy? The woman can hardly leave here fast enough.”

  Claire shrugged and concentrated on her steak and kidney pudding.

  “Really, Claire, you can do better than that. Have you had a falling-out? An argument?”

  Claire shook her head, indicating her mouth was too full to speak.

  Evelyn waited until she swallowed. Claire loaded up her fork, ready to take another mouthful. “No, Claire, please answer me.”

  Claire put her fork down and studied it for a moment. She looked up. “I have never said a cross word to Nancy. She just hates me for some reason. I don’t understand it, and I don’t like it, but what can I do? I am always civil to her, and she repays me with hostility and rudeness. Sometimes she simply ignores me. Other times she looks at me as if I’m…oh, I don’t know…something she would like to scrape off her shoe.”

  “Claire!” Evelyn had never heard her sister speak so disrespectfully of anyone before.

  “I’m sorry, Ev, but it’s how she makes me feel. I’m glad she’s going. When will we be rid of her?”

  “By her own request, she leaves tomorrow after breakfast. She’ll be staying with her sister in Bradford.”

  “What sister?”

  “Ah, so I’m not the only one who has been so neglectful as to not know a simple fact like that about a servant of such long standing.”

  “I didn’t know she had any family.”

  “Nor did I, but apparently she has, so that’s a good thing.”

  “You don’t need to feel guilty, Ev, and I certainly shan’t.” Claire resumed her meal by devouring the contents of her fork.

  Evelyn didn’t reply but watched as her sister stabbed one small new potato after another, for all the world as if she were stabbing Nancy herself. Goosebumps rose on her neck. At this moment, she was relieved she wasn’t the one being targeted by her sister’s wrath.

  Chapter Two

  “Come and see my room, Ev. I’ve done it up now and it looks so pretty.”

  Evelyn followed Claire at the gallop, from the newly rechristened drawing room, up a flight of stairs to her sister’s bedroom. Situated at the back of the cottage, the bedrooms looked directly out over the heather-clad moors, rising up ahead of them and stretching, on a clear day such as this, as far as the horizon. In late summer, these would blossom into a purple carpet, covering the land as far as the eye could see. Sweet, fresh air drifted in through the partially open window, ruffling the floral-patterned curtains. The single bed was covered in a chintzy-looking bedspread embroidered by Claire herself over many winter nights, and the plain oak wardrobe and dressing table, with its long mirror and padded stool, completed the simple but charming effect.

  “Such a comfortable room, and what a view,” Evelyn said, smiling in admiration.

  “Your room looks lovely too. A bit more formal than mine, but lovely just the same.”

  Evelyn knew Claire’s tastes didn’t extend to deep-blue velvet in the bedroom, but Evelyn preferred to sleep in a dark room, whereas her sister liked to be woken by the first rays of a new dawn stroking her forehead. Dear Claire, so passionate and romantic. Evelyn glanced up at the wall. A framed print hung over the small mantel. A familiar figure. Branwell Brontë.

  “I couldn’t leave him behind, could I? Besides, the new owners wouldn’t have wanted him. They probably didn’t even know who he was.”

  “Probably. They didn’t strike me as great readers.” Evelyn strolled over to take a closer look. The familiar profile, etched in black. A deprecating self-portrait where the artist had deliberately exaggerated his long nose and unkempt hair. Not the most flattering of pictures, but, if Claire wanted it in her room, why not? What was the harm?

  “He will inspire me to write more adventures of Calladocia,” Claire said.

  “Good. I’ve been thinking it’s about time we resumed our tales. Poor Lady Mandolyne has been waiting to find out what threatens her in the mist for quite long enough.”

  Claire laughed. “I’m quite sure I know just what it is, and before you say anything, no, it’s not Branwell, but I have him to thank for it.”

  “How?”

  “He told me, but I’m sworn to secrecy until I get it all down on paper. You’ll have to wait.”

  Evelyn tried to read what was in her sister’
s eyes and failed. “Claire, you do realize Branwell Brontë is long dead and buried. He can’t tell you anything. Besides, you never met him.”

  Claire gave a light laugh and put her finger to her lips. “I told you, I’m sworn to secrecy. You’ll simply have to contain your curiosity until we reveal all.”

  “We?”

  But Claire hadn’t heard her, or chose not to. She had skipped out of the room like a young girl, excited to be playing with her next new toy.

  Evelyn followed at a distance and watched her sister hitch up her skirt and trot down the stairs, humming to herself. What did go on in the girl’s head sometimes? Evelyn shrugged and slowly descended, one measured step at a time.

  * * *

  Evelyn laid down her pen and read through her work. Seated at the opposite side of the table, Claire worked on, head lowered, pen scratching furiously for a minute or so, followed by a brief pause while she filled up its reservoir with ink.

  “You look very thoughtful, Ev,” she said. “Is something troubling you?”

  Evelyn shook her head. “No. I wondered what you were writing. Are you ready to share it with me yet?” She almost added, “Or won’t Branwell let you?” but bit her tongue instead.

  Claire smiled. “Nearly. About another half hour or so and then all will be revealed.”

  Evelyn returned the smile and resumed her reading. She gave up after a couple of minutes. The sound of Claire’s scratching pen seemed to grow louder until it overwhelmed every other sound in the room. The steadily ticking wall clock, its rhythmic pendulum that usually calmed and soothed her, but not today. Her work was no good. The story made no sense. Evelyn hoped Lady Mandolyne was faring better in Claire’s hands than Sir Dreyfus Monroe in her own. Poor Sir Dreyfus, back from fighting in darkest Africa only to find his sweetheart married to the bounder, Lord Estival Drew-Cunningfort. Evelyn had seen him challenge the cad to a duel only for the little worm to wriggle out of it by pleading a prior engagement. The man had no honor and deserved all the insults Sir Dreyfus poured over him, but the fact remained – her hero had been cuckolded and must now try to rebuild his reputation and his life. The only problem was, Evelyn hadn’t a clue how to set about it.

  Unable to stand the sound of Claire’s furious scribbling any longer, Evelyn pushed her chair back and stood. Claire had become so engrossed in her work she apparently didn’t notice her sister staring at her. A stray lock of hair escaped its clip yet again, only to be tucked hurriedly and none too successfully behind her ear.

  Evelyn sauntered over to the window. The lane – quiet, as usual. In the couple of weeks they had lived there, she had only ever seen a handful of people go past each day. Usually the same ones. There was no reason to go up this lane unless you inhabited one of the half dozen cottages. Granted the lane led up to the moors, but there were more obvious pathways to attract those wishing to take a stroll among the heather. So peaceful. So tranquil. Heather Cottage had to be the most perfect place she could have chosen. But then her stomach gave a strange flutter again. She hadn’t felt it since the day she first set eyes on the house, but now it came back. Stronger than before and, with it, the strong sensation that maybe she hadn’t chosen Heather Cottage at all.

  Maybe it had chosen her.

  Someone moved into her field of vision. That man. The one she had seen before. Dressed the same in his well-tailored Norfolk jacket. Once again, he caught her eye and tipped his hat to her, and she was struck by the recognition in his look. Yet, try as she might, she could think of no occasion when their paths might have crossed, apart from the last time he had walked past her cottage.

  “There. It’s done.” Claire’s sudden exclamation made Evelyn jump.

  “You’ve finished the scene?”

  “I have indeed. Listen. You’ll like this. Maybe you will even love it.”

  Evelyn seated herself back at the table as Claire shuffled her papers. “Ready?” she asked, her eyes shining.

  “Ready,” Evelyn said, folding her hands on the table in front of her.

  “Now you remember Lady Mandolyne had seen and heard something on the night she went mad? Well, here it is.” Claire coughed.

  She rose from her slumbers, her black hair flowing behind her in a wave. She stretched long, tapering fingers up to the moon, and her voice cried out to the creatures that stirred in the night. One by one they returned her call, until the one she had sensed emerged. The forest fell silent, save for one long, low howl that rose to a crescendo. Lady Mandolyne waited. Her heart beat wildly. He must come now, she begged.

  Slowly the trees parted, revealing their secret. The howling died away. A figure emerged. Large, looming, its gray-black fur gleaming in the moonlight. Its eyes burned into her with orange fire.

  Lady Mandolyne sighed, her voice no more than a breath. ‘You have come at last.’

  The creature bared its fangs, but Lady Mandolyne knew she had nothing to fear. The beast of the night was of her own creation. How could it possibly do her harm?

  As if on cue, the animal padded towards her on soft paws. It stopped mere inches away from her flowing skirt. Slowly she bent and caressed the thick fur of its neck.

  ‘Tonight, I shall run with you, Sir Aedwulf. We will take to the hills, cross the Titanium River, and we shall not stop until we reach Arcadia, or else die in the attempt.’

  Claire stopped reading and laid her papers down.

  “But there is more, surely?” Evelyn said. “You’ve been writing for hours.”

  “Oh, yes, there’s more, but I thought I would share the part that really matters. The reason for Lady Mandolyne’s madness. What do you think of it?”

  Evelyn considered her words carefully. “I certainly like it. It will need a little…polishing…I think, but, on the whole, it’s quite good. It doesn’t tell us the reason for her madness, though. It gives us an example of it. An extreme example certainly. But we still don’t know what turned her from a mild-mannered yet free spirit, into the madwoman she became. I think we need to discuss it and decide together.”

  Claire’s face crumpled. “But Lady Mandolyne has always been my creation, Ev. You have Sir Dreyfus and his family, fellow soldiers and the like. I never tell you how to write them, do I?”

  “No, that’s true, you don’t, but it doesn’t stop me seeking your advice when I am getting stuck. In fact I need your help now. Poor Sir Dreyfus—”

  “Oh, damn Sir Dreyfus.” Claire clapped her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide in shock.

  “Claire!” Evelyn slapped the table. “I never heard you use such language before.”

  Claire lowered her hand. “I am sorry, Ev. It slipped out. I felt so proud of that scene, and you obviously don’t like it. You’ve dismissed it entirely.”

  “I have done no such thing. It’s a fine scene. In its way. But we need a proper reason for Lady Mandolyne’s insanity.” Evelyn stood, her hands on her hips. “I think I need a break from Calladocia. I’m going for a walk.”

  “I think I shall remain here. Perhaps I too need a break. I shall read for a little.”

  “Very well.”

  * * *

  As she closed the front door behind her, a little thrill shot up Evelyn’s spine. What if she should encounter the stranger who had passed the cottage earlier? So, what if she did? She shook her head, annoyed with herself, then pulled her gloves a little farther up her arms and started up the lane.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Wainwright.” The elderly neighbors Evelyn knew as Mr. and Mrs. Skelton greeted her.

  “Good afternoon. Pleasant weather.” At least Mr. Skelton seemed calm today. When she had first met him, on the day she and Claire moved in, he had looked as if she had shot him. Extraordinary reaction.

  “Indeed. A beautiful afternoon, especially up there.” Mrs. Skelton pointed back at the moors. “We have had a lovely walk. The gorse is truly beautiful now.”
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  “I shall look forward to seeing it.”

  “You can’t miss it,” Mr. Skelton said as he and his wife moved on, bound for home and a nice cup of tea, no doubt.

  Her neighbor proved as good as his word. The golden gorse shrouded the moorland. Evelyn made steady progress in her stout walking shoes. Claire said they made her feet look huge, but Evelyn found them far more practical than the wooden pattens her sister wore over her shoes to keep her feet dry.

  The breeze rustled the grasses and formed the only sound, save for a solitary curlew circling overhead, calling, maybe warning its young, nesting on the ground, not that they had anything to fear from her.

  The sun warmed her face. Late spring. Evelyn’s favorite time of the year. Claire preferred summer. But to Evelyn, the sight of fresh leaves, newly unfurled, the vibrant blossom after months of winter, filled her heart with happiness. Now, wandering alone on Wensley Moor, she felt alive, newly awakened, refreshed.

  She climbed steadily, following the narrow footpath worn down by generations of people who had trodden this way before her. Within a few minutes, she had made it almost to the top of the hill, gazing down at the valley beneath. In the distance, Sugden Heath’s mill chimneys belched thick gray smoke, fortunately far enough away that she could not smell it and, in turn, it couldn’t leave its coat of grime over the heath. Directly below her lay farm cottages, rolling fields, some cultivating crops, others home to hardy sheep, their lambs already growing up.

  It’s so peaceful here.

  She looked around her. Ahead, crags, like jagged teeth, rose up from the ground. Behind her, the path she had just climbed. She decided to ascend a little farther. The crags might provide somewhere she could sit and contemplate for a while.

  Evelyn hauled herself up by holding on to a massive rock, its stone cold to her touch. All around it lay others, randomly scattered as if some giant had tossed them in the air like pebbles and then left them to lie where they fell.

  She selected a flat-topped stone and sat down. Her resting place provided an excellent view of the surrounding countryside, this time unfettered by the mill town. She relaxed, in pleasant silence, watching the fluffy white clouds in the brilliant blue sky, hearing the curlew and smelling the fresh grass.