Sighing deeply, she opened her eyes, her gaze drawn immediately back to the rose garden. As soon as she was able to focus, she reached for the edge of the bench to steady herself. Either she was imagining things, or the previously spindly, lifeless bush had suddenly sprung to life, its leaves lush and green, its thorny branches supporting perhaps a half-dozen tightly furled buds.
She blinked hard, willing away the improbable sight, but there it remained, as plainly visible as it was impossible. Her heart hammered against her breast, her breath coming in short little puffs. Her vision swam, and her nails dug painfully into the rough stone seat.
A strangled cry escaped her lips as she rose on trembling legs and made her way toward the gate, wanting to get as far away from the garden as possible.
They were right—the garden was haunted. Either that or she’d gone stark raving mad.
2
“DON’T YOU LOOK LOVELY,” MRS. TALBOT SAID, patting Emmaline on the shoulder.
“Thank you,” Emmaline responded, smoothing her damp palms down the front of her best dress, a mauve linen drop-waist dress with a wide sailor collar. Paired with a cream-colored cardigan and knitted cloche hat, it was the most fashionable ensemble she owned, and she was glad that it met with Mrs. Talbot’s approval.
Still, she had to force herself to smile, wondering how she’d ever managed to let Mrs. Talbot talk her into this—attending Haverham’s annual Beltane festival. Just thinking about the crowds she’d no doubt encounter there on the village green made her stomach churn uncomfortably. She didn’t want to leave Orchard House, didn’t want to be paraded around and forced into small talk with strangers.
Oh, she appreciated Mrs. Talbot’s efforts, truly she did. The woman only wanted to help, to show the village her approval of its newest resident, despite the fact that Emmaline was an outsider in every way—an American, a Catholic. She liked both Mr. and Mrs. Talbot, found their company pleasant and engaging, even if they had been the ones to put the notion in her head that her garden was haunted.
When the roses had seemingly sprung from nowhere, she’d thought perhaps they’d been correct. She’d fled the garden and sworn to never return, to have someone knock down the walls and clear the fields, to remove every last trace of its existence.
And yet the very next day, curiosity had drawn her back again. She hadn’t imagined it; the buds remained on the single bush, beginning to unfurl. Only this time she wasn’t frightened by them. It was almost as if…as if they were a sign from Christopher.
And so she’d set aside her fears and begun to tend the garden in earnest. She put most of her efforts into the roses, attempting to coax them back to life. And when she wasn’t weeding or watering or pruning, she was painting. She’d set up an easel there by the bench, and painted the garden not in its current state, but in full bloom. The place had become her haven, her secret refuge. She felt safe there between those four walls—protected and secure, and somehow closer to Christopher.
But today she was forced to go out where she felt vulnerable and alone amid a sea of strangers. They would surely want to ask her questions that she wasn’t yet comfortable answering—about her wartime experience, about her marriage and Christopher’s death.
She took a deep, steadying breath, hoping to calm her racing heart, to tamp down her rising panic. Perhaps she should tell Mrs. Talbot that she’d changed her mind, that she felt unwell. Anything to avoid going.
“Come, now, Emmaline.” Mrs. Talbot reached for her arm. “Don’t look so terrified. I vow, it cannot be as bad as all that. Just a few hours and we’ll have you safely home again. The villagers are so eager to meet you, and you can’t hide away here forever.”
“I know,” she murmured, wiping her damp palms on her skirt. “I…I don’t know what’s come over me.”
“There’s Mr. Talbot now,” the woman said, raising her voice to be heard over the sputtering motorcar that had pulled up beneath the porte cochere. “He hates the festival, you know,” she added with a shake of her head. “Calls it pagan foolishness, especially the pantomime. Which I suppose it is, but it’s certainly entertaining foolishness.”
“Isn’t it just some sort of May Day celebration?” Emmaline asked, still unsure about the festival’s origin—and why they would be celebrating a Celtic one in their little English village, besides.
“Exactly that,” Mrs. Talbot answered with a nod. “You see, a few generations back, a viscount of great wealth and influence, Lord Brearleigh, lived here at Orchard House. His wife was Scottish, and she insisted that the village’s May Day celebration should be a Beltane festival, instead. The young, besotted viscount was happy to humor his wife, and it’s been a tradition ever since. Anyway—” she waved one hand in dismissal “—Mr. Talbot only pretends to be scandalized. I’ve seen him watching the pantomime raptly when he thinks no one is paying him any mind.”
Emmaline couldn’t help but laugh at that, her fears eased a considerable measure.
Her neighbor rewarded her with a smile, her pale blue eyes full of warmth. “I believe that’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh,” she said, then pursed her lips, watching her expectantly. “Dearest Emmaline, the pain will fade eventually. I know it’s hard to imagine, but I promise that it will.”
“Are you certain?” she asked, her voice a hoarse whisper.
Mrs. Talbot nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m certain. Mr. Talbot and I had a son, you see. He was a sickly boy, born with a weak heart. When he passed, well…I thought the pain would eat me up inside. But as time went on, the ache in my heart began to fade, little by little. He’s still here—” she tapped the spot above her left breast “—but the hurt is eased.”
Emmaline reached for Mrs. Talbot’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’m so very sorry.”
The woman nodded. “Just promise me that you won’t shut yourself away from the world. You’re far too young for that. Now come, we don’t want to keep Mr. Talbot waiting. All that pagan fun, remember?”
Almost an hour later, Emmaline relaxed beside Mrs. Talbot on the village green, watching the young maids twirl brightly colored ribbons around the maypole as the setting sun cast wide orange swaths against the sky. Mrs. Talbot had spread out a blanket on the lawn and unpacked a supper hamper, and Emmaline sat with her legs tucked beneath herself, sipping a glass of cool white wine.
“A pagan ritual, I tell you,” Mr. Talbot whispered, leaning across the blanket toward her. “I don’t know why I allow it.”
“Oh, pish-posh,” Mrs. Talbot replied airily. “Why don’t you leave us be, and go throw horseshoes with Mr. Hackley until the fire-lighting ceremony. Though I know you’ll hate to miss the pantomime,” she added drily, smiling mischievously at Emmaline.
“Always the same foolish story,” he said with a frown before standing and brushing off his trousers. “Perhaps I shall go join Mr. Hackley. If you ladies will excuse me.” Ever formal, he tipped his hat in their direction before stalking off.
Emmaline reached for a slice of ham and pressed it between two halves of a flaky, golden biscuit. “Thank you so much for bringing supper,” she said, deciding between two different types of cheese. She chose a soft golden one, and sliced off a chunk.
“Oh, it was my pleasure,” Mrs. Talbot replied, reaching for a plate of tarts. “Here, you must try one of these. Sinfully delicious—it’s the sweet cream butter, goes right to the hips. But you could use some fattening up, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Not the slightest bit offended, Emmaline took two tarts and placed them on her plate, her mouth watering in anticipation. It was true; she’d grown far too thin. Since arriving at Orchard House she’d had to take in the waists of several of her skirts, and her dresses hung too loosely on her frame.
She desperately needed to purchase some new clothing, she realized, glancing around at the fashionable ladies and gentlemen surrounding her on the lawn. She’d bought most of her wardrobe before the war, and styles had changed so dramatically sin
ce—hemlines had risen considerably, and lighter colors and fabrics had come into fashion. Perhaps she could buy some pattern books and try her hand at sewing again. She used to be quite handy with a needle and thread, back in her youth.
At the very least, she could raise some of her hems, she decided, fingering the edging of mauve silk that reached near enough to her ankles.
“Ooh, it’s time for the pantomime,” Mrs. Talbot said with obvious delight, drawing Emmaline from her thoughts as several people in costume took to the makeshift stage before them.
For nearly a half hour, Emmaline watched raptly as villagers recreated the tale of the May Queen, the Winter King and the Green Man. Love, lust, jealousy and greed—it all played out on the stage before them, resulting in the May Queen’s humiliation and subsequent death, and the Green Man’s imprisonment in the garden cursed by the cruel Winter King. The drama ended with a poem:
I am the wind, softly caressing her hair
the breath near her ear
whispering words of passion she yearns to hear
I am the hand cradling gently her breast
awakening inside what others cannot,
I not so humbly confess
I am the sigh as she offers me all
and with no reservation,
I answer her call
Reborn in her passion, but faced with remorse,
she turns from my arms,
and faces her betrothed
A duel, says he, as I dust off my hands
and comply with his challenge
for her reputation to stand
I am the fire burning bright in my quest
ridding the cold, dark of winter,
winning my May Queen’s breast
Yet before Darkness is finished, he utters one final warning,
and to his bride now banished
claims her death come the morning
You shall remain imprisoned in this dead withered place
as atonement for your sins,
and then to me he did face
No one will admire your seductions, kept hidden beneath the
vines
until thrice over you awaken
stone hearts and cause passion to entwine
When the last word faded away, Emmaline let out her breath in a rush. Was it just a coincidence—the withered garden, the voice whispering on the wind? Of course it was, her mind insisted. The story was just that—a legend, told and retold throughout the years. Still, a shiver raced down her spine. Before, she’d thought of the Green Man’s image as nothing more than a common garden icon—a symbol of sorts—but now, as she realized how he fit in with the legend, the fact that his image was scattered about her own garden took on new meaning.
She glanced up at the sky, surprised to see that the sun had dipped below the horizon, and the sky was now a dusky lavender hue. The temperature had dropped considerably, and she pulled her cardigan more tightly about her shoulders.
Returning her attention to the stage, she watched as Mr. Talbot, acting as the village’s spiritual leader, carried up a brightly lit torch. He said a brief prayer, asking the Lord for bountiful crops and robust livestock, before carrying the torch off the stage and lighting a bonfire in the middle of the village green. Everyone stood, and Emmaline followed suit, joining Mrs. Talbot as they gathered around the blaze.
Several speeches were made, though Emmaline did not hear the words. Instead she found herself gazing at the fire, watching intently as the logs burned orange and red, sending up spurts of bright, fiery ash into the darkening sky.
When she finally dragged her gaze away from the flames, she noticed a man standing directly across the bonfire from her, watching her intently. She blinked hard, focusing her eyes, trying to decide if she’d already made his acquaintance. She couldn’t be sure; after all, she’d met so many people before they’d sat down for supper.
Whoever he was, he was a gentleman. That much was evident by his dress and his manner. He stood proudly yet carelessly, a bowler hat resting on one hip. Tall and slender without being gangly, he towered over the men who stood on either side of him. There was no denying that he was handsome, exceedingly so.
Still, his direct stare made her uncomfortable. She dropped her gaze, pretending to examine her black kidskin pumps as if they were the most fascinating things she’d ever seen. Her stomach did a little flip-flop, and she realized that her hands were trembling. And not because the man was staring at her, she decided, but because she’d thought him handsome. It didn’t seem right for her to have such a thought—it was too soon.
Feeling as inconstant as the faithless May Queen, she silently chastised herself. And yet she could not help but abandon the sight of her scuffed shoes in favor of the man who still watched her intently from across the fire.
Her cheeks warmed, and a feeling of awareness skittered across her skin. This time, she allowed herself to stare back as the voices around her receded to a faint hum in the background. He was the exact opposite of Christopher, she realized—like the negative of a photograph. Fair where Christopher had been dark. Thin rather than stocky, blond instead of brunet.
But it was his eyes that she found so unsettling. Even across the distance that separated them, she could see something familiar in them, an expression she recognized far too well. He’d seen horrific things—pain and fear and death—just as she had. She could not say how she knew this, but she did.
Inhaling sharply, she dropped her gaze once more. Who was this man, and why was he watching her? Why was he making her think of things best forgotten?
When she looked up again, he was gone. The two men who had stood on either side of him had closed ranks, filling the space the tall, blond man had occupied only moments before. She turned, searching the crowd for him. But it was no use; he had simply disappeared into the night.
Dear God, I am losing my mind. Panic rose in her breast, and her windpipe felt far too tight, too constricted. She needed to get home, back to Orchard House, before she fell apart entirely. It was the press of the crowd, she assured herself, coupled with the heat of the fire.
“…went to get the car,” a voice beside her was saying, and she realized with a start that Mrs. Talbot was speaking to her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, turning toward the woman. “You were saying?”
Her neighbor reached for her shoulder, as if to steady her. “I asked if you were ready to go, that’s all. You look pale—are you feeling unwell?”
Emmaline swallowed hard before speaking. “I think the heat of the fire has made me a bit lightheaded, that’s all.”
“Come, then. We’ll meet Mr. Talbot by the road.”
Emmaline nodded, falling into step beside her. “Did…did you see that tall, blond gentleman? The one standing directly across from us during the bonfire?”
“The one in the gray sack suit, carrying a bowler?”
Emmaline’s gaze snapped up to meet Mrs. Talbot’s. “Yes. That’s the one. Who was he?”
Mrs. Talbot shook her head. “I haven’t any idea. I’ve never seen him before. He must be a visitor. A tourist, perhaps. Why do you ask?”
“He just…looked familiar, that’s all,” she said, the lie slipping easily from her tongue.
“Yes, he was looking at you rather queerly, wasn’t he? Perhaps you’ve met before.”
“Perhaps,” Emmaline agreed. It was entirely possible, after all. Throughout the war, she’d nursed countless men, their faces nothing but a blur to her. They’d been dirty, most of them. Dirty and bloody and bandaged, and generally unrecognizable after months spent in trenches. But perhaps he remembered her.
It was an unsettling thought.
“There’s Mr. Talbot,” his wife said, hurrying toward the enormous black motorcar, its brass fittings glinting in the moonlight. “Come, let’s get you home.”
Emmaline just nodded as she climbed inside and settled against the tufted leather seat behind Mrs. Talbot. It was early still and the moon was bri
ght; perhaps she’d take a stroll once she was home, check on the roses, and see that she’d latched the gate securely before she turned in.
What she would not do, she assured herself, was continue to think about the handsome stranger.
3
THERE WAS AN AUTOMOBILE COMING UP THE drive. Emmaline set the teakettle back on the stove and wiped her hands on her apron before hurrying to the front door. She wasn’t expecting Mrs. Talbot—she’d said she was going into Chipping Norton to visit a friend today—and Mr. Talbot would have no reason to come without her.
Perhaps it was someone she’d met the at the Beltane festival? Unlikely, she decided, as teatime was not a proper hour for paying calls. She opened the door in time to see a red roadster pull up beneath the porte cochere. The driver cut the engine and stepped out, removing his hat and wiping his brow with the back of one hand.
“May I help you?” Emmaline called out, just before the shock of recognition washed over.
The man from the bonfire. Standing right there, in her drive.
He spun toward her. “It’s you,” he said, his eyes widening with unmasked surprise.
Emmaline shook her head, her mouth suddenly dry. “I’m sorry. Have we met?”
For a moment, he stood there entirely immobile, simply staring at her. “I don’t believe so,” he said at last, hurrying up the stairs and extending a hand in her direction. “I’m Jack Wainscott.”
“Emmaline Gage,” she answered, taking his outstretched hand in her own. His felt warm—too warm.
The Pleasure Garden: Sacred VowsPerfumed PleasuresRites of Passions Page 20
