by A. W. Exley
Impossible. Every day the letter slot had rattled with an echo of despair as it spat out another rejection. This one couldn’t possibly offer her a job. Dawn read the letter three more times before the words sank into her mind. She remembered the slip of card and picked it out of her lap. It was indeed a train ticket.
Death had quite the sense of humour. It wanted Dawn to take a train trip before it would consider claiming her.
4
The remainder of the week flew by as Dawn alternated between high excitement and deep despair. She longed to step beyond the comfortable walls of the house and finally grasp adventure. Then the ache in her chest reminded her of all she lost, and she wept for hours clutching the portraits of her parents. What she would give for just one more hour with them. To see their faces, to seek their advice, and receive one final embrace.
Cold dread percolated inside her. She would soon arrive on the earl’s doorstep, and even if he weren’t particularly bright, he would realise that she was, in fact, a woman. Should she even dare risk the old noble’s wrath? At best she could be ordered to leave, and at worst he might have her arrested for fraud.
Even if he were the sort of man who could be influenced by feminine wiles, Dawn had virtually no experience in flirting with the opposite sex to obtain what she wanted. Her odds of being able to wheedle the earl to allowing her to take up the position were probably non-existent.
At one point she convinced herself it was a foolish enterprise and she would do better to remain in Whetstone. She’d travel all that way to Cumberland, just to be forced to make the return journey. Her heart would probably give out and she’d be sent home feet first in a casket.
She may as well be interred already. Workers ought to brick up the front door and let the house be her mausoleum. Or she should dig a hole in the empty plot next to her parents and settle into her grave. Then the fledgling part that wanted to spread its wings exerted itself. Better to die trying than to continue with the shadow of a life, it whispered.
On the second to last day before the house changed hands, she bid a tearful farewell to Aggie and Sarah. She promised to write the housekeeper, so she would know Dawn was still alive. No one expected her to thrive on her own, but at least someone would remember her name for a little longer once she passed.
Dawn spent an eerie last night in the house on her own. She walked the empty rooms holding aloft a candle and said goodbye to each corner and door like an old friend. The walls had formed the centre of her life for twelve years, and now her world would expand. She traced a fiery bird in the dining room; her fingertip smoothed a flocked feather before she left the room forever.
That evening, Dawn’s mind drifted away within a few minutes of pulling the blankets up to her chin. Moments of melancholy washed over her as she stirred from her bed with the sunrise for the last morning. She used the water closet for the final time and carefully dressed. The smooth rail of the wooden banister glided under her hand as she descended the stairs, never to walk back up.
What personal belongings didn’t fit in her suitcase or carpetbag were folded and placed in the steamer trunk. Mr Stevens had promised to make sure it was eventually forwarded to her once she was settled. Assuming she didn’t expire, in which case the sad remains of her life would find their way to a pawn shop.
On the doorstep, she waited for the hansom cab Aggie had arranged to convey her to the train station. The man picked up her suitcase and took it to the back of the cab. When he returned for the carpetbag, Dawn handed him a bright cerise orchid in a pot wrapped with cardboard.
“Could you place that on the seat please? I will hold on to it.” She could not bear to be parted from the delicate sprays of flowers. If that orchid could survive, then so would Dawn. Both of them needed gentle handling, but they would find a way to endure.
Dawn took a deep breath and willed her body to comply with her ambitions. Then she picked up her carpetbag, pulled the door closed behind her, and stepped to the pavement. She cast one backward look as the horse trotted down the road. The raven had moved from his perch in the elm and watched from the front railing. The last sight Dawn had was of him taking flight, and he disappeared into the sky.
At the train station, she nearly turned tail and fled back to the hansom cab. People swarmed over the platforms. Some dragged screaming children while others lugged enormous suitcases. The engines screeched as they pulled into the station, and metal brakes rubbed against metal wheels. She felt as though she had walked onto a battlefield amid cannon fire and the acrid odour of smoke and unwashed bodies.
Mother was right; she should avoid the crush of people. The wave of bodies was too much for her constitution. Fear paralysed her, like a mouse that knows the cat has spotted it. But she couldn’t stand there all day, nor was running back to the house an option any longer.
“I can do this,” she whispered and clutched the orchid closer to her body. The surrounding cardboard was rigid under her fingers and acted as a shield to protect the shaking bloom from being knocked. A smiling porter carried her suitcase to a waiting carriage and stowed it at the back for her. Dawn took a seat by the window and concentrated on drawing deep, even breaths until the panic receded.
The orchid in her lap remained secure within its cardboard walls. Her father had bought the plant the day she turned ten, and they had a subdued celebration that she had reached double digits.
He had placed the phalaenopsis with its deep-cerise blooms on the table in front of her, and then he kissed her forehead. “A delicate, exotic beauty to keep my other delicate, exotic beauty company.”
From that day, she imagined her heart on the arching stem. Each time the flowers died, Dawn fell into a depression until the new stem formed and it flowered anew. Now she clutched the plant close as the scenery chugged past outside and memories flowed through her mind.
The journey from Whetstone to Cumberland took the better part of the day. With many changes of train, her despair morphed into excitement, which then wore down over the miles into boredom. Dawn had one final change before Alysblud. This train pulled just two carriages, one directly behind the engine for passengers and then a larger cargo carriage. Inside the passenger compartment, Dawn found she would be travelling with only two fellow passengers – a woman clutching a smiling toddler.
This child almost looked pleasant, and Dawn contemplated that being a governess might not be so horrible if the children were as well behaved as this one. Then a noxious odour permeated the carriage and the other woman shot Dawn an apologetic glance. Visions of fresh-smelling children evaporated as the mother wrangled the child on the seat and changed a soiled nappy. The befouled napkin was shoved into the bottom of the mother’s bag, which did little to diminish the odour.
Afternoon had lengthened into dusk by the time Dawn stepped down onto the tiny Alysblud platform. Mother and child were greeted by a man who took the proffered bag without even blinking at the hideous mess it contained, a gesture of true love if ever she saw one.
Dawn looked up and down the short platform, but there was no one else waiting. The porter went about his duties and placed Dawn’s suitcase on the ground. Then he continued to remove boxes and packages from the other carriage and stacked them in the small office. Fluttering caught her eye as a raven dropped from the sky, settled on the apex of the roof, and turned its head to stare at her with one black eye. Had her companion followed her from Whetstone? She shook away the silly notion.
Dawn placed the carpetbag next to the suitcase, sat on her luggage, and rested the orchid on her knee. A light mist dampened the air, and she considered wrapping her scarf around the delicate plant to further insulate the cardboard. Used to a humid hothouse, the orchid might chill, or worse, die. So intent was Dawn on fussing over the graceful plant that she didn’t see the stranger approach.
“Are you all right, miss?” a pleasant male voice asked.
She glanced up to find a well-built man of average height. Dark blond hair verging on brown peeked
out from under his bowler. A pale moustache graced his upper lip, clipped to perfection rather like a tiny hedge. He had an open, cheerful face and hazel eyes beneath raised brows.
Should she talk to a strange man? Politeness insisted that she respond, and he didn’t look like an axe-wielding maniac. Not that she had any idea what a maniac did look like.
“I am waiting for someone. I am sure they are not far away.” Her instructions had told her a member of the Ravenswing Manor staff would collect her from the train. She didn’t think this was the person she waited for. The stranger had an air of country gentry about him, not staff. She smiled and tried to appear friendly but not too approachable. It wouldn’t do to be thought of as fast or forward. Or susceptible to axe attack.
“We’re a small village here. Are you sure I cannot help? I am Dr Grayson Day, at your service.” He bowed, removed his bowler hat, and offered a hand in greeting.
If this was to be her new home, perhaps she could try to make a friend, or even just an acquaintance. If she imagined him one of her father’s boring business associates, it didn’t seem quite so scary to converse with him. It might be to her advantage to know a doctor, especially if she ran out of tonic.
“I am Miss Dawn Uxbridge, and I have been offered the position of restoring the gardens at Ravenswing Manor.” Dawn took his hand in a brief and gentle handshake. As a polite child, she had been used to speaking only when addressed by an adult, and it soothed her nerves to fall back on what she knew – answering the question put to her.
“Really?” His eyebrows shot up higher. “Very forward thinking of Lord Seton to employ a young woman.”
Dawn swallowed but her tongue seemed to stick to the roof of her dry mouth. She could only hope Lord Seton was indeed forward thinking, or very nearsighted. Perhaps he would prove to be so old that he was blind. Then the only problem would be her feminine voice. It might be too much to wish he were both blind and deaf.
“I was employed on my merits,” she murmured. That sounded so much better than admitting her deception. The village policeman might haul her away on the earl’s command. She would then face deportation to the colonies as a fraudster, and Australia had a horribly hot and dry climate not at all suited to gardening.
The doctor winked. “Well, Hector has probably been sent to collect you. He won’t be too far away.”
The porter emerged from the office and handed a parcel to the doctor. He thanked the man, glanced at the label, and then tucked it under his arm.
“Ah. Here comes Hector now.” Dr Day pointed to the large specimen who rounded the corner. He waved at the man and called out, “I have found the earl’s new gardener, Hector.”
Hector appeared more undertaker than loyal retainer. He had a tall, sparse frame and overly long arms that made Dawn imagine a daddy longlegs spider transformed to human form and not yet in control of its new limbs. His pale complexion enhanced the grim set of his narrow mouth. A bowler hat was pulled low over his ears and concealed most of his head, with no sign of any hair sticking out underneath.
“You’re a woman.” Hector stopped and glared at her from under grey, bushy brows. These were an unruly hedge neglected for some years. His eyes were a dark brown that reminded her of cocoa.
Dawn clutched the orchid a little tighter and wished it provided a more substantial barrier from the ominous presence before her. She swallowed and tried to piece together an adequate response to his statement. Mentally she scoured the pages of the Ladies’ Etiquette Handbook, but she couldn’t find a reply designed for incensed cadavers. In the pressure of the moment, she blurted out, “Yes, and I have been a woman for some time.”
The brown eyes narrowed, and then a marvellous transformation was wrought over his face. He grinned and revealed he was missing his front teeth. “Has been a woman for some time,” he repeated, slapped Dr Day on the back, and then he burst into laughter.
“I’ll leave you in Hector’s capable hands, Miss Uxbridge.” Dr Day bent his head and then placed his bowler back on his hair. Then he leaned in and whispered, “You’ll do fine. Don’t be afraid to speak your mind, and don’t let Jasper bully you. He is rather used to getting his way.”
Jasper, Dawn whispered the name to herself. At her murmured invocation, the raven cawed and took flight from the station office.
Hector was still chuckling to himself as he picked up the suitcase with one hand and the carpetbag with his other. “This way, miss.”
Not far away, an open gig waited. One grey horse pulled it and another sat in the back. Dawn’s feet paused as she stared at the shaggy creature the size of a pony. Hector placed the luggage in the back.
Dawn kept hold of the orchid. She pointed to the enormous animal. “Who is that?”
Hector patted the beast on the head and ruffled his ears. “This is Mouse. He’s a wolfhound, and he was most insistent that he come meet you. Most odd. He doesn’t usually like strangers, but when I said I was coming to fetch you, he jumped in the cart and refused to budge.”
“Mouse? He doesn’t seem mouse-like.” Dawn glanced sideways at the canine.
His shaggy coat was the colour of a stormy sky. A bright pink tongue lolled in his mouth, and clear, brown eyes regarded her with curious intelligence from behind a mop of fur that flopped over his face.
“He was supposed to be called Moose, but the young master spelled his name wrong. These hounds have minds of their own. You don’t say no to Mouse when he decides something, and it seems he’s decided on you.” Hector chuckled as he took her hand and helped her into the gig.
The dog shuffled closer, keeping its head low as though he didn’t want to intimidate Dawn with his size. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be acquired by a wolfhound. Did that mean he wanted her to chew on at night, like a small child would worry at a teddy bear’s ears? When she held out a hand, the dog sniffed her glove and then pressed his face into her palm.
“Hello, Mouse. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” She stroked his long muzzle and the dog licked her glove. Did that mean she was acceptable, or tasty?
The ride through the descending mist to the manor was a blur of large trees and bumpy roads. Dawn didn’t see any sign of town, but Hector gestured back over his shoulder when she enquired. She took that to mean it was in the opposite direction. She had never ventured so far north, and there was a chill bite to the spring evening. Mist rolled down from the surrounding hills and blanketed the valley.
Despite Hector’s grim appearance, there was quite a chatterbox underneath his hat. Dawn was relieved, as it removed the pressure on her to engage in conversation. She had only to listen as Hector kept up a steady commentary on everything from the weather to Mouse’s latest antics. He also advised her not to be frightened of the master and that he growled more than he bit.
So far everyone she met had warned her about Lord Seton, and it only increased her anxiety. At least now she and the orchid could hide behind Mouse – he would be more than adequate as a shield.
Before long, they turned off the main road and passed through enormous gates that soared to twelve feet on either side of them. Copper vines twisted around the bars as they climbed and flowered over the gates. Among the leaves hid two ravens, their wings spread as though about to take flight. Two stone pillars anchored the gates on each side. Atop each pillar sat a squat, winged creature. Long claws curled around the edge of the pillar, and each spread wing had another claw at the tip. One peered one way, and the other stared in the opposite direction as though they were sentries for the big house.
“What are those creatures?” She pointed to the hideous ornaments as they passed.
“Gargoyles.” Hector touched the brim of his bowler as they passed below the stone guardians.
Watchers report to stone masters. Her mother’s words whispered through her mind.
Dawn shivered and turned her attention to the approach. To some it might appear to be only a tree-lined driveway, but a thinking designer would include even this part in their overall
plan. A quick glimpse of the house through the trees teased the visitor, and then it disappeared with the curve of the drive. The visitor was left wanting more, trying to remember what they saw.
At last they turned another corner and the trees stepped back to reveal the house. The central part of the house was only two storeys. Four-storeyed towers flanked the main building and were set at an angle. Overall, the manor reminded Dawn of the architectural equivalent of the squat winged characters at the entranceway.
Hector drove the cart around the side and pulled the horse to a halt in front of a double-height barn with its doors wide open.
“Here we are then,” he said, somewhat obviously, and then hopped down.
Mouse jumped from the back and sat next to the cart, waiting for Dawn.
Dawn climbed down, and as soon as her feet hit the ground a vibration ran up through her legs. She expected to collapse from exhaustion after the long and taxing day, but the tingle raced through her bones and left her refreshed.
The garden called to her. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling its unique fragrance. A hint of heady jasmine was overlaid with the rich aroma of composting leaves, and a sharp bite of a note she couldn’t identify. She opened her eyes. The little that was visible from between house and stables appeared ramshackle, overgrown and, in some places, dead. Yet there must have once been order before the chaos. Once this would have been a grand estate, but some tragedy must have befallen it for the garden to become so neglected.
5
A gangly youth appeared from the stables and approached. He seemed stuck in that awkward phase where he was not yet a man but he had left adolescence behind. From watching the children next door grow, Dawn placed this specimen somewhere around seventeen or eighteen. He had shot up like a bean sprout to his adult height, but he hadn’t yet acquired the bulk or muscle of later years.