The Garden of Promises and Lies

by Paula Brackston

  After dining, the party withdrew to the music room, where Henry, Mr. Wilcox, Fairfax, and Petronella made up a four for bridge. The piano turned out to be a beautiful grand pianoforte, made of walnut and decorated with intricate inlay. Xanthe found herself admiring the craftsmanship and knew how much Flora would admire such an exquisite piece. Evangeline was eager to show them how she could play, though her enthusiasm rather outweighed her skill. She stumbled her way through the piece she was to play at the wedding, with Liam giving her tips for the trickier parts. At last, Petronella suggested she stop and let someone else have a turn.

  “Mr. Westlake,” she smiled at Liam, “won’t you play something for us? I can tell from your patient instructions to Evie you are quite the expert, do not try to be modest and pretend otherwise.”

  “I play best when my sister sings,” he told her. “We have a favorite song, if you would like to hear it,” he added.

  “Very much!” Petronella replied.

  Evangeline leapt up from the piano stool to make room for Xanthe, who took her place beside Liam. They had not sheet music to help them, and had not had much time to practice, but at least they had one piece he could play passably well by ear as they had rehearsed it so recently. They elected for Xanthe to sing it once through solo, and then they would sing it again as a duet. The melody was gentle and soothing without being melancholy, and the tunefulness of the score was well suited to her clear, agile voice.

  Liam played the introduction and nodded to count her in. She remembered to sit up straight and smile as she sang.

  Peaceful slumb’ring on the ocean

  Seamen fear no danger nigh;

  The winds and waves in gentle motion

  Soothe them with their lullaby.

  In the wind’s tempestuous blowing,

  Still no danger they descry.

  The guileless heart its boon bestowing

  Soothes them with its lullaby.

  As soon as she started to sing the atmosphere in the room changed. Evie stopped her fidgeting and sat on the window seat, leaning against the closed shutters, utterly entranced. Petronella laid down her cards to give the singers her full attention. Fairfax remained politely silent. Henry rose from the card table and moved to stand at the end of the piano, beaming at the duo. Even Mr. Wilcox left off puffing on his cigar to listen. Singing with Liam, despite their unusual audience, was a familiar comfort for Xanthe. Following the swooping and soaring of the music, feeling the lyrics shape in her mouth and take flight as she sang, listening to his harmonies and light playing of the piano, gave her joy, made her feel she was, after all, still herself. It was a meditative moment, a break from the tension of what they were trying to do, and it was hugely welcome. As they came to the end of the song she turned and looked directly at Fairfax. She held his gaze. She was not frightened of him, and she wanted him to know it. She was not alone. She was not some feeble girl he could terrifying and subdue. She was a Spinner, and she would crush him.

  14

  Tired as she was, Xanthe found sleep impossible that night. The heat of the day had left even her high-ceilinged bedroom uncomfortably warm. She had thrown the tall windows wide open but there was no breeze to cool the air. She sat up in the enormous bed, imagining how snug it would be in the winter months with the heavy drapes drawn around it creating a snug room within a room. There was a plump moon high above the house, throwing a silvery light through the windows, giving the interior a soft, pearly glow. Xanthe decided it was pointless to chase sleep further. She leaned over to the white painted table beside her bed and used the flint and stone to light the candle. It was a simple task, but required practice to master properly, and she felt clumsy and impatient. At last she created sufficient spark to ignite the waxy wick. She positioned the candle so that when she sat up against the heavy feather pillows its light fell on the Spinners book she held in her lap. She and Liam had decided it would stay with her when possible but otherwise be in its hiding place in his room. She had collected it on her way up at the end of the evening and felt a thrill of anticipation when she held it in her hands again. She needed its wisdom now. Needed to be shown how she could best achieve her goals. On the matter of helping Petronella she was conflicted. On the one hand, she wished to warn her of Fairfax’s true nature and save her from a cold and loveless marriage. On the other, she knew Petronella had agreed to the match for the sake of her family and no other solution to their financial difficulties presented itself. On the issues of stopping Fairfax from getting the Spinners book, threatening her and her family, or abusing his power as a Spinner, however, she felt clear in her mind. The what was plain enough: The how was more difficult.

  “Show me, then,” she muttered. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do.” Despite the stillness of the night, Xanthe’s hair moved slightly as if disturbed by a zephyr as she slowly turned the pages. She heard soft whispers, some laughter, the sound of carriage wheels, of the ocean, of rain. Unconnected sounds and snatches of speech fluttered out of the book, just as flashes of images appeared and then disappeared. Maps, astrological charts, portraits, pictures of houses or drawings of arcane objects and devices all floated across the stiff, pale pages before fading into nothing again. Xanthe had in mind a vague idea that she could somehow use her talent as a Spinner to gain access to the astrolabe. Perhaps she could outwit the servants in the house by observing their movements and then traveling back in time to an instant before they were somewhere between her and where it was kept. Could she do that? Could she move through tiny bursts of time within a time? It was, after all, similar to what she had done with Fairfax when she had taken him to the very moment of his walk to the scaffold. She recalled how nervous she had been then, how unsure of her ability to do such a thing. “I need to make time work for me,” she thought aloud. “I need to bend it so that I can…” She stopped suddenly, the words swallowed up by a terrible screech that came out of the pages. She gasped, recoiling against the pillows as a fearsome face, or at least a pair of eyes, leapt forward at her, the screeching continuing for a full, terrifying ten seconds before it ceased and vanished. She sat very still, her heart pounding, waiting to see if the shocking apparition would reappear. When it did not, she resumed turning the pages, carefully, warily. “OK,” she muttered, “not that then. I get the message.”

  The air around her seemed to calm and settle a little, though the whispers continued. Then, without anything seeming to change otherwise, she turned a page to find one covered in words. She could not be certain, but she thought she recognized the handwriting as being the same as the one that had revealed to her the story of the boy escaping his abuser. As she began to read, she heard a voice telling her the story. The voice was that of a young man, his accent shaped with the rounded vowels of the West Country, a soft lilt to his sentences, the tone rich and mellifluous.

  I had reached a decision that was to put me in danger, and that danger would likely come from many I had, to that point, counted friend. I set down here what happened so that others who come after me may understand. We form our allegiances through serendipity, through the path life bids us tread, and through the giving and receiving of trust. It is a hard truth to learn that those allegiances, however hard-won, however close, must alter at the behest of our conscience. To see those whom we admired and trusted be corrupted by their gift is to know true sadness. All that is left for us to do is choose the right way, the moral direction. I knew I must leave. Must put distance between myself and those I had come to regard as my kin, lest I had to act against them. It was only as I made my way out of the house that I was discovered. At the door I turned. She descended the stairs.

  She: Once over that threshold you will have put yourself beyond the point of ever returning to us. You must know that in your heart.

  I: It is for the best.

  She: How is it you have developed such a pious conscience?

  I: Do not, I beg you, ask me to stay.

  She: Is it so easy to leave me?

  I
: It is the lesser thing. If I were to stay, that conscience you criticize me for would have me take more drastic action.

  She had reached me by then and put a gentle hand upon my arm. She had the most elegant, delicate fingers of any woman I have ever met, before or since, all these long years. Her touch at that moment was exquisite torture. When she saw I would not be turned she let her hand drop and I felt the absence of it keenly. She smoothed her skirts but did not step away. How easy it would have been to take her in my arms once again. I could smell her scent and it called to my memory our shared passion.

  She: You have made your choice, then.

  I: You made it for me! When you chose to spin time you put yourself forever beyond my reach.

  She: But, Erasmus, you too, are a Spinner!

  I: No longer.

  She moved to touch me again.

  I: Do not, I pray you, for if I am ever to lay hand upon you again it will be to end your life.

  And so, I left. I stepped away from the life I had known. Stepped from the people who had been all and everything to me. Stepped out of my Spinner’s skin, for I could stand to inhabit it no longer.

  The words disappeared. The voice fell silent. Xanthe waited, hoping there would be more, but nothing came. Outside an owl broke the quiet of the night with its shriek.

  “Dammit, just for once could you be a bit more straightforward? What has this guy got to do with Fairfax? With the wedding dress? With me?” She was about to give up and put the book away but decided to turn one more page. For a moment she thought her eyes were just tired, as the surface of the thick paper seemed to wobble. She squinted, trying hard to focus, longing for something helpful to show itself. What emerged from the nothingness made her gasp. Slowly an image formed. It was a painting of a young woman. The clothes were not of the 1900s, though she was unable to accurately date them. All she knew was that they were earlier by a good few years. The woman was seated on an iron garden seat, straight backed and poised, her hands clasped in her lap. All around her were small fruit trees, and behind her a high stone wall. The garden could be the one at Corsham. It looked a little different, but then, if the picture had been painted decades earlier than the point in time Xanthe had come to know it, differences were to be expected. What had caused her to utter such an expression of surprise was that, despite being shown in her youth, the woman in the picture was easily and unmistakably recognizable as Mistress Lydia Flyte.

  * * *

  It had been agreed that, the next day, the men were to go out riding, while the women would take a walk. As a means to locating and sizing up the dower house, Xanthe had expressed a wish to see the estate, and after explaining that she was a poor horsewoman, Petronella had happily agreed that they should go on foot. Xanthe had expected they would make an early start to avoid the heat of the day, but she had not taken into account the morning routine, or, in fact, the altered version that her request for a long walk had brought about.

  A maid brought tea to her room at about eight o’clock and said she would return to help her dress at half past. Much as Xanthe would have liked to have been independent and avoided putting the maid to extra work, she did not want to refuse a kind offer, nor upset the accepted way of doing things. On top of which, the cotton day dress she had purchased from Pinkerton’s had small buttons at the back which she could never have done up herself. The maid returned punctually and explained that Mr. Wilcox and the Misses Wilcox would be pleased to see her in the dining room for breakfast directly. She went on to say that the family did not normally take breakfast, or at least, not until much later in the day. Ordinarily the ladies of the house would go on their morning visits, or receive callers, who would only stay for half an hour at most. By the time Xanthe descended the grand staircase she was concerned that she had overstepped the mark as a guest and put her hosts out unnecessarily. She was relieved, then, to be greeted warmly by Mr. Wilcox as she entered the dining room.

  “Ah, Miss Westlake, a glorious morning for your walk! I trust you slept well. You will need to be in fine fettle to keep up with my daughters. They walk apace and never tire. I recommend the deviled kidneys, for they set you up a treat.”

  Evangeline was already cleaning her plate with a piece of bread. “Father would like to chide us for being unladylike in our walking habits but he is too engaged galloping about the estate to notice most of the time!”

  “Hush, Evie.” Petronella leaned over to adjust her sister’s collar, which was not as straight as it might be. “You know full well Father allows us more freedom than any of your young friends.”

  “That is because he knows I should kick against endless dances and visits. I can think of nothing more tedious than to sit quiet on a chair and exchange talk of dresses and gossip regarding people I scarcely know.”

  Mr. Wilcox gave a harrumph. “You will change your tune as you grow, young missy, mark my words. You will have to, if we are ever to find a husband for you.”

  “Father, I don’t want a husband! I shall never marry, but stay a wild girl, running through the woods, and never care that any call me mad.”

  “You may not care,” said Petronella, “but we might. Fortunately, we have a few years before you must curb your wildness. Ah, here is Mr. Westlake.” She smiled at Liam as he joined them at the table.

  Pleasantries were exchanged and everyone ate large quantities of kedgeree, sausages, kidneys, and ham. Xanthe wondered briefly how a vegetarian would have survived the diet. She couldn’t imagine living on a meat-free regime in Britain with no imported vegetables or salad, and tropical fruits and nuts a rare and madly expensive thing. More pressingly, she wished she could speak to Liam on his own, but the opportunity did not present itself. At least the plans had been made with everyone present on the previous evening, and she knew he was astute enough to work out the real reason for her wish to tour the estate. After breakfast they were joined by Henry—who always rose late and preferred not to eat until after exercise—and Fairfax, who rode over from the dower house on a fine grey horse. Xanthe waved at Liam as he set off with the others and felt a mixture of relief and pride to see how comfortably and confidently he sat on the lively brown mare that had been provided for him.

  Petronella lent Xanthe a straw bonnet, declaring that she could not set off without one as the sun would soon be hot, causing her little sister to gleefully imagine their brains boiling in the heat. The three left the house not along the driveway but striding down across the great sweep of grass that led away from the western side of the gardens. It was only as they were almost on top of it that Xanthe saw the ha-ha that separated the lawn from the field beyond it. This walled drop was invisible from the house, so that it created an uninterrupted vista, whilst preventing livestock from wandering into the gardens. It added to the feeling of grandeur and space that the parkland provided so well, with its enormous oaks, beech, and chestnut trees planted at considered random, with small woodland areas on the rising slopes of low hills to either side, leading the eye to the lake in the distance. It looked as if the builder of Corsham Hall had happened upon the perfect spot for the house, but the truth was that the landscape had, late in the previous century, been carefully constructed to give the appearance of a natural, rural idyll. The little hills, the woodlands, even the water course, had all been constructed to provide arcadia for the residents of the great house. When they reached the side of the lake the scale of the thing became apparent. To one side there was a stream, cascading down a narrow, fern-filled gulley that fed the large expanse of water, which must have been almost an acre in size. The far shore had a small jetty with a rowing boat moored to it. Willows stooped low, their delicate leaves offering shade beneath which irises and bulrushes thrived, fringing the edges of the water. In the sunnier stretches, broad lily pads floated upon the silky surface, their oriental blooms opening to bask in the sunshine. It was what stood at the other end of the lake that really caught Xanthe’s attention. Rising out of the water as if it were in fact a moat was a tall
tower that closely resembled a partly ruined castle. Instead of the smooth gold of the big house, this was constructed of rough, grey stone, and had crenellations on the top.

  “Goodness!” she said. “That is a curious building.”

  “Ah,” Petronella explained. “That is Grandfather’s folly. I do not remember meeting my father’s father, for he died when I was younger than Evie is now, but he loved to make improvements to the grounds at Corsham. Father says it is from him I get my love of flowers and plants, but I confess the majestic landscape he was set upon creating does not please me half so much as the intimacy of my own little rose garden.”

  “So, it is a folly? Just for show?”

  “The notion was that it gave something romantic to the lake. The house itself is, you will have noticed, designed along classical lines, all symmetry and order and restraint. This scrap of castle is here to represent something altogether more stirring.”