But why there in the middle of the moor? Claire hesitated. She must be trespassing, although for the life of her she couldn’t remember seeing any sign indicating she had crossed into private property. No gates, no fencing, and if there was a garden, it followed there must be a house.
The path took a sudden swing to the left, and Claire followed it, then stopped. There in front of her stood a magnificent house. Verandas stretched around it on the first floor. In front of it, roses bloomed in abundance with brilliant scarlet, orange and yellow blooms. A three-tiered stone fountain, decorated with demonic-looking carved gargoyles, cascaded water into its pool through an intricately carved pineapple on the top.
The scene looked vaguely familiar.
No sign of anyone. Claire moved slowly toward the house, crunching gravel.
The faint tinkle of piano keys drifted out from a front room. Claire followed the sound. She glanced through the window and instantly stepped back. The scene. The woman playing, the people sitting around in rapt attention.
The toy.
Claire gasped. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a movement.
Someone running.
Or something.
Still running, keeping close to the trees and concealed from view.
“Oh, won’t someone help me? Help me, please.” The woman’s voice came from the downstairs room where, only seconds before, someone was playing the piano.
“No! This isn’t real. This cannot be happening.” Claire stared at the face of the distraught woman who pointed at her through the window. The sun disappeared behind a cloud, and a mist descended like a blanket. It only took mere seconds before Claire felt the chill, the sense of being shrouded in dampness. Still the woman pointed at her.
No, not at her. Behind her.
Claire spun round. Visibility was almost nil. But scurrying noises were coming closer.
The woman cried out again. “Help me. Please. Somebody help me!”
Her voice rang clear in Claire’s ear. Clear and familiar. Claire turned back. The mist was spreading. In a moment she wouldn’t be able to see the house. Right before it happened, she called out to the woman. “Lady Mandolyne? What do you see?”
Something rushed up behind her. Too fast to escape from. It took her down with it, and Claire blacked out.
* * *
“Miss Wainwright, are you all right?” Claire opened her eyes and looked into the kindly face of their neighbor Mr. Skelton. She struggled to sit, and he assisted her.
“I must have fainted,” she said, aware of a nagging headache behind her eyes.
“You gave me quite a stir,” Mr. Skelton said, helping her to her feet.
A sudden wave of dizziness sent her staggering.
Mr. Skelton steadied her. “I think I had better escort you home.”
“Thank you.” Then she remembered. The house. The garden. Even the small copse of trees. “Where have they gone?”
Mr. Skelton blinked in the brilliant sunshine. “Where have what gone, my dear?”
Claire looked wildly around at the gorse-covered moorland. “What happened to me?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that. I was taking a walk and saw you lying on the ground.”
“How long? I mean, how long ago did you find me?”
“Only a few seconds before you came to. I don’t think you can have been here for long. You certainly weren’t here when I first came up here this morning.”
“When was that, Mr. Skelton? Do you remember?”
“Certainly I do. The church clock had just struck the half hour. Half past ten.”
“And what is the time now?”
Mr. Skelton looked at her curiously for a moment before taking out his pocket watch. “Eleven thirty.”
“I must have been here,” Claire said. “I know I left home at around ten twenty. I walked up here, found the copse and the beautiful garden—”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I don’t know of any copse around here, and this is all wild moorland. There is no garden. Only our little cottage ones at the back of our houses.”
“No, this one was magnificent. Trees, flower borders and beds, a fountain with these horrible gargoyles, just as you see carved on old churches, and a pineapple carved on the top…and a mansion with verandas all around it. And there was a woman…” Lady Mandolyne. “But she doesn’t exist.”
“My dear Miss Wainwright. We simply must get you home. I think you must have bumped your head when you fell. You did fall, didn’t you? You didn’t just decide to sit down and then fell asleep in the sun? It is a very warm day.”
“No, no. I fell. Someone…something pushed me…” The memory of being thrown down to the ground by a powerful force returned. “Yes. Something pushed me to the ground. Something Lady Mandolyne feared.” The words of the Chronicles came back to her. Words she herself had written. “Lady Mandolyne saw it first.”
Mr. Skelton looked confused. “Didn’t you just say this woman? Lady Mandolyne? That she didn’t exist?”
Claire nodded, then shook her head. The throbbing upped its intensity. Nausea started to bubble up in her stomach. “It’s complicated.”
“Come along, then.”
“Yes, my sister will wonder where I am. I didn’t tell her I was going out.”
“Never mind. I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you.”
The walk back seemed to take twice as long as when she had set out, but eventually she waved Mr. Skelton off at her door.
Inside, she leaned against the door, her head banging.
Struggling to walk without being sick, she made it into the kitchen and poured herself a long glass of water. She took a few drops of laudanum from a bottle on a shelf, added it to the glass and drank down half the water in one go.
Her stomach protested the sudden rush of liquid. Realizing her mistake almost immediately, she dashed to the outside toilet, and the remains of her breakfast followed by bile emptied into the pan. She staggered back out into the fresh air and leaned against the cold stone wall, praying for her head to stop thumping.
Finally she felt strong enough to stagger up the stairs and into her bedroom, where she collapsed on her bed and fell asleep almost instantly.
* * *
She awoke to the fragrant smells of dinner cooking. Claire glanced at her clock. She had been asleep for nearly six hours.
The remains of her headache still played around her temples, making the skin feel tender when she touched it.
Now all she had to do was tell Ev. But would her sister believe her?
* * *
“And when you came round, you saw no sign of the house or the garden with that amazing fountain? Or…” Evelyn hesitated. “Lady Mandolyne?”
“Ev, it was as if none of it had ever been there.”
Evelyn set her knife and fork together on her empty plate and dabbed her lips with her napkin. If anyone else but Claire had told her that fantastic story, she would never have believed them, but she knew her sister. At worst Claire had convinced herself she had seen what she recounted. At best, she really had been there and it all happened exactly as she said.
“I think we need to go back together.”
Claire’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, no, Ev. I don’t think so.”
“I can go on my own, but I need you to show me exactly where this copse was. I could be wandering around the moor for hours and never see it.”
“Even if I did come with you, who is to say it will be there? It wasn’t when Mr. Skelton found me.”
“Did you mention anything at all to him about it?”
Claire nodded. “He said there was no such thing. That it didn’t exist. He must have thought I had gone crazy, and maybe I have.” She sighed. “I felt too ill to protest. I just wanted to come home.”
“You are all right now,
though?”
“My head’s a bit sore, but apart from that…”
“Let me see your head. You say something charged at you, knocking you unconscious.”
“I don’t remember anything else.”
“Maybe it bruised you. Let me check.”
Evelyn gently felt Claire’s head. As she touched the nape of her neck, Claire flinched.
Evelyn gently moved the hair away. “You’ve definitely got a bruise there, and it’s a bit swollen. I’ll get the witch hazel. That should speed up the healing.”
Claire sat patiently while Evelyn dabbed witch hazel over the affected area. “Ev, I think you’re right. I think we should go back there together. I need to see it for myself. Maybe the bump on my head caused me to have some sort of delusion. For all I know, I might not be remembering it at all. My brain could be playing tricks on me.”
Evelyn stopped dabbing. She picked up the bottle and cloth. “We’ll go tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it. I do wonder, though… If the blow to your neck caused you to have a delusion, we are still left with the question – who, or what, hit you?”
* * *
“It was around here. I’m sure of it. The moor changed. There was grass instead of gorse, and then I saw the copse in the distance.”
Evelyn looked at the gorse bushes spreading ahead and to either side of them. “Let’s walk on a little further.”
Claire stopped still. “No, it was definitely around here, but it’s different. There should be cowslips, lush grass…”
“Maybe we veered off the path.” Evelyn couldn’t see how. There was one path, and they were on it.
They continued on in silence, alone on the moor. A breeze whipped up, and Ev fixed her hatpin more securely. Claire’s hair managed its usual bid for escape, wild wisps of it fluttering around her face. She brushed it out of her eyes.
“It’s no good, Ev. We’re not going to find it. Maybe I tripped and hit my head against a stone. Perhaps this whole thing is a product of my imagination.”
Evelyn pointed ahead of them. Her finger shook. “Claire?”
“Yes?”
A few yards ahead, a figure had emerged, apparently from nowhere. She moved slowly toward them. A woman dressed in a silk robe, the fabric of which floated around her. Her long, raven hair flowed around her shoulders. Behind her, a fountain Evelyn recognized from Claire’s description, its distinctive gargoyles and pineapple carving unmistakable.
“Tell me you see her,” Evelyn whispered.
“I see her.”
“Do you know her?”
“She is exactly as I imagined her. Exactly as I saw her yesterday.”
“Who is she?”
“Lady Mandolyne.”
Chapter Nine
“Claire! Claire! I’m losing you. I can’t see you anymore!” Evelyn’s panic turned her blood ice cold. One moment she was staring at a beautiful woman – Claire’s lovely and tragic Lady Mandolyne – and the next, she was shrouded in a dense fog that materialized from nowhere.
In the distance, Claire screamed.
“Claire!”
Swirling out of the fog, the beautiful face of Lady Mandolyne filled her field of vision. Her lips curled; a smile became a macabre grin. The woman became a creature. Serpentine features replaced the perfect, flawless complexion. A forked tongue flicked in and out of the scaly mouth. The creature slid to the ground, no longer supported by legs. Fear welled up inside Evelyn. This isn’t real. It isn’t happening.
The creature wrapped itself around her, its grip tightening as it flexed its muscled body, and Evelyn began to spin, slowly at first, then faster, ever faster as the creature turned her as easily as a child’s spinning top.
Stop this. Stop this now!
Nothing answered. Far away, Claire’s screams echoed as if from a long tunnel.
“Claire! I can’t find you. I can’t get to you. I’m trapped here!”
Round and round, she spun, her head reeling and her vision filled with curious shapes, mesmerizing her. Concentrate, I must concentrate. It’s all in my head. None of it is real.
The spinning stopped as quickly as it had begun. Evelyn gave herself up to the nebulous white cloud that now enfolded her. It offered protection, softness, warmth. But in among the comfort, an unpleasant, sulfurous stench wafted into her nostrils.
No. Not safe. Not real. She must stop it. She mustn’t give in to it. It meant her harm. She must rescue Claire.
She closed her eyes, trying to focus on moorland, heather, gorse, their cottage, the simple realities of their daily lives. Around her, the strange air billowed, ruffling her hair, at times chilling, at others warm. She had a sensation of moving, but in what direction she didn’t know. She wasn’t walking but seemed propelled by some kind of magnetic force. Upward, downward, left, right, straight on. Her disorientation became complete. All control had been taken from her. Palpable fear. She could taste it, touch it, hear it. Her mind filled with it. What if she could never escape its clutches? She didn’t even know what to call it. Lady Mandolyne was a figment of Claire’s imagination. Whatever had caused these illusions had used that as a conduit.
Something changed.
No billowing air, all sense of movement suspended.
Evelyn opened her eyes.
And screamed.
She was in a small house. No, the house wasn’t small. She was. Cardboard figures, exquisitely painted, sat on cardboard gilt chairs. A cardboard woman played a cardboard piano. No one moved, but she heard the music. A Strauss waltz.
Evelyn raised her hand, and, as she did so, the whole scene came alive as if she had orchestrated it. The people were real. They were listening to the music. The woman’s fingers flew across the piano, showing herself to be an accomplished player.
Evelyn looked down at herself and saw she was dressed as she had been when she went out for her walk with Claire. She was sitting on a chair, like the rest of the audience.
Claire! Where had she gone? Frantically, Evelyn looked around at the strangers, none of whom took any notice of the inappropriately dressed guest. The women’s jewels glittered. The men’s brilliantined hair gleamed in the light from the chandelier. Such a strange scene. So real and yet unreal.
So much like…The Garden of Bewitchment.
She daren’t even think that. Maybe the people couldn’t see her. Evelyn stood and pushed her chair back. She almost trod on one of the other guests. He showed no reaction, not even the briefest acknowledgment of her presence. She must be invisible to him. Across the room, tall windows gave a view out onto an immaculate garden, filled with a myriad of colors brighter than she could ever have imagined.
There was no point denying it further. This was the house and garden Claire had described from the toy. The one she had stumbled across the previous day. Now Claire had disappeared and Evelyn was in the house.
But why?
She left the room, crossed a wide hall and opened a wood-paneled door into a library. She gazed around the deserted room. In the fireplace, a fire burned brightly.
Evelyn made her way to a central table on which a few books were scattered. She picked one up and gasped at the title. The Chronicles of Calladocia. No authors were credited. She opened the leather-bound volume. The illustrations were exquisite. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble. Neither she nor Claire was capable of such fine work.
Lady Mandolyne, resplendent in her flowing gown, gazing wistfully at the reader, yet with a madness in her eyes that surely Claire had been about to detail. Evelyn turned the page. Sir Dreyfus Monroe had been brought to life exactly as she had imagined him. Tall, strong and handsome in his uniform, but sad. This must be him after his return from battle when Lady Organdia had been unfaithful.
On the next page, the evil and sly Lord Estival Drew-Cunningfort leered at his new love. There was much work for Evely
n to do with this part of the story, but, as she turned page after page, she saw it all laid out before her. The Chronicles was written. She decided to keep the book. Whatever happened, at least she would have that.
She must find Claire. Was she somewhere in this house?
Evelyn left the library, still clutching the book. Back in the hall, a long, wide staircase would take her up to the bedrooms. Maybe Claire had secreted herself in one of them.
She ran up the stairs as fast as her long skirt would allow. At the top, landings stretched left and right. She took the one to the left and opened door after door. Each room was identical. Soft green curtains, Regency upholstery and furniture. Even the Indian rugs on the polished floors were the same. Back at the top of the stairs, she tried the doors on the right-hand landing. Here again, all were the same and all empty. All but one. In that room, an old lady lay in bed, her face a mass of wrinkles. Her eyes were closed, and she was…sleeping?
No rise and fall of the coverlet to indicate breathing. Evelyn tiptoed to her bedside. The woman’s translucent skin held a bluish tinge. Dead.
The woman’s eyes flashed open. Pupils like black slits set in red irises. A faint reptilian hiss emanated from the semi-corpse, and then she fell quiet again.
Evelyn quit the room, her heart pounding out of control. She caught a brief glimpse of a man in evening dress disappearing into another bedroom. Should she follow him? Maybe he could tell her how she came to be there. But what if he was like the old woman?
The brief glimpse she had gained of him disturbed her. He had reddish-brown hair and, seen in profile, his nose…so much like…
Branwell.
More stairs, which probably led up to servants’ quarters. Evelyn must go up there.
Here all the rooms were plain, each one sparsely furnished with an iron bed, cheap wooden dresser, ewer and bowl for washing. Nothing to see here. Nothing to help to explain the mystery. Yet always the feeling someone was watching her. That someone or something close by could see her every move. Anticipate it even. Evelyn returned to the first floor.
The Garden of Bewitchment Page 10
