The Garden of Promises and Lies

by Paula Brackston

  On their return to the Hall she found the men still out. She did her best to be a good friend to Petronella and cheer her up but she was horribly preoccupied with her own concerns. She was in the walled garden when she saw the riders return to the stables. As soon as she could she made an excuse to Petronella about needing to spend a little time out of the sun in her room, and hurried indoors.

  Once upstairs, she checked that she wasn’t observed and then quickly let herself into Liam’s room, turning to close the door. From behind her, Liam’s voice showed more than a little surprise.

  “Well, come right on in. No need to knock, not like I might be taking a bath or anything,” he said.

  She spun around to see him lying in a huge copper bath that had been positioned in front of the fire. Steam rose from the hot water as he rested against linen cloths that had been draped over the back and sides of the tub. He pushed his damp hair off his face. His strong shoulders gleamed, the colors of his tattoos were darkened, the muscles of his arms showing their curves and fullness. Xanthe found herself staring at a water droplet that was running down his throat, past his collarbone, over his chest, and into the water. Fortunately, sunlight from the tall windows caused the surface of the water to be reflective, rather than transparent, at least from where she stood. Flustered, she kept her gaze on Liam’s face. He grinned at her, raising a washcloth.

  “Feel like scrubbing my back?”

  “Sorry, can’t,” she said, showing him her bandaged hand.

  “Oh, what did you do?”

  “It’s nothing. Burnt my fingers on a candle,” she said dismissively. “Don’t want to get the bandage wet.”

  “Come here, let me take a look.”

  “Er … no?”

  He shrugged. “OK, I’ll come to you,” he said, placing his hands on the sides of the bathtub as if about to push himself up.

  “No!” Xanthe strode forward. “Just stay in there,” she said, kneeling beside the bath, giving him her hand, and doing her best not to keep looking at his nakedness.

  Gently, he unwrapped the dressing and examined the burn. “Ouch. That must have hurt.”

  “Never mind that, it’s nothing. I have so much to tell you!”

  “Might have to put something on it. Can’t risk it getting infected.”

  “Forget about my hand,” she said, rather more curtly than she had intended.

  He let go, raising his hands in submission and his eyebrows in a way that questioned her.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to snap,” she said. “It’s just I’ve been dying to tell you … last night I traveled back in time.”

  “What? Why? And why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I needed to figure something out for myself. To work with more control. The thing is, I managed to go back, not sure how many years…”

  “Oh, so, really in control then.”

  “I controlled the location, which was one thing I was determined to do. I landed in the garden.”

  “But you don’t know when?”

  “I can’t be certain. The main thing is, when I wanted to come back, I did it, straight away, to this time. Don’t you see how big that is?”

  “Sort of, but didn’t you do something like that when you were getting Fairfax his astrolabe?”

  “Not the same.” She shook her head. “Once we had it, the astrolabe acted as a found thing.”

  “But you sent him and it some … when else?”

  “I still used it to send me back to Fairfax’s time, and to where the chocolate pot was.”

  “That means, it could have been the wedding dress that brought you back to this present time, not anything you did.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for one thing this was much more accurate. I had very little say in where I ended up when I traveled before. This time it was precise, bringing me back to the room I left, to the exact spot where I had traveled from. And for another thing, it was because I wasn’t passive. I was directing things. I was in control. Only I didn’t use the locket and go back to Mum and home. I came to here. To now.”

  “So, what did you use?”

  “I took a thread from the bedcover. That bed was made for this house, and quite recently, according to the maid. And I used an incantation from Spinners. And then I just focused on Petronella, and the wedding dress, and…” She hesitated.

  “And?” He waited for her to finish the sentence, picking up on it having a different significance.

  “And you,” she said, looking him in the eyes, holding his gaze, watching him watching her. “I thought about you, here, in your nineteenth-century clothes, waiting for me.”

  He was silent then, for once not responding with a flippant remark, not making a joke or keeping the mood light. Slowly he sat up straighter and then leaned forward, lifting a wet hand to touch her cheek. Xanthe felt herself stirring, her mood altering. She had sought him out to tell him about her important progress as a Spinner, but what she had explained to him highlighted something else. In that moment she was as certain as she could be that it was Liam, and her connection to him, that had drawn her back so accurately to that time. To him. As she looked deep into his pale blue eyes she felt that connection spark a fire inside her. Liam let his finger trace her jawline, then trail down her throat. His expression was serious, his voice low when he spoke again.

  “Xanthe,” he murmured. Just that. No smooth words. No suggestive remarks. No clever comments about her joining him in the bath, which, she realized, she might happily have done, there, then, in that charged moment. Instead, he just said her name, and filled it with such desire and such longing it made her blush. The force of her feelings, of her reaction to him, was unexpected and disconcerting. Now was most definitely not the time. Sensitive to her confusion and seeing that she was conflicted, Liam pulled back.

  “Hey, you’re the time traveler,” he said, deliberately steering the conversation, and the focus, toward her task, and away from themselves. “I won’t pretend I understood half of what you just told me, but, it’s not the job of the sidekick to get it all. You’re the brains of this outfit.”

  She stood up, plucking a towel from the chair by the fireplace and tossing it to him. “And don’t you forget it,” she said mildly. She walked over to stand at the window to allow him to get out of the bath and get dressed. And to allow herself to look firmly and pointedly somewhere else. Anywhere else, so long as it wasn’t at his fine, freshly washed body.

  “There’s more,” she told him. “When I went back, I saw a couple in the garden. They were lovers, making promises to each other, and he had to leave, and she … she was Mistress Flyte.”

  “Oh, really? Why would the book want you to see that? I mean, she must have been a beauty in her day, I guess she had more than one bloke keen on her. I don’t see how it helps with what we’re trying to do.”

  As he spoke she could hear water dripping as he climbed out of the bath. She tried hard not to picture it.

  “It could have been something to do with what happened when he left,” she explained. “While he was there she was promising love, loyalty, everything. As soon as he left she destroyed the love token he’d given her and threw it away.”

  “Sounds like she definitely had strong feelings for him, one way or another.”

  “I think maybe the book was warning me. That she’s not to be trusted. Or at least, her actions are not to be taken at face value.”

  “But, she’s been helping us … you said she was a Spinner once, and someone you could trust. A friend.”

  “I did trust her. I had to, the last time I traveled … it’s hard to believe she’s not what she seems, and not, well, good.”

  “And the man you saw, who was he?”

  “Someone I’ve learned of in the pages of the book. His name is Erasmus Balmoral. He was a Spinner, who’d had a brutal upbringing, then joined the other Spinners, fallen in love with Lydia, then made a decision that sounded like lea
ving the group, and she agreed to do it with him. But looks like she was lying.”

  Liam, wearing clean breeches and a loose linen collarless shirt, stood next to her, leaning against the jamb of the window. He looked at her in the friendly, casual way he usually did. Xanthe couldn’t decide whether she was relieved or disappointed.

  “Nope,” he said, “still don’t see how any of this helps.”

  “Nor do I. Yet.”

  “Except we maybe don’t tell Mistress Flyte any more about what we’re planning to do.”

  “That. And somehow I should be able to use the hopping through short bits of time so accurately to help us.”

  “Well, you could hop back to an hour ago when Fairfax met us in the woods. He was on that beast of a horse of his. You’d know for certain he wouldn’t be at home.”

  “He wouldn’t be, but his servants would. And the astrolabe would still be under lock and key, you can rely on that. No, I can’t see how yet, but I will. I just need a little more time.”

  “Which is, unfortunately, exactly what we don’t have much of.”

  * * *

  Although it was not to be a particularly grand affair, the remaining time before the wedding day saw a fair amount of activity at Corsham Hall. Guest rooms were aired and prepared. Deliveries of food came fast and frequent. Arrangements for guests, for their carriages and horses, and for the ceremony itself, all occupied the entire household. The ceaseless work made Xanthe wonder what a ball would entail, given what Petronella had said about her marriage celebrations being on a modest scale. At last the appointed day arrived. Xanthe dressed with the help of a maid and then went to the bride’s room.

  Petronella stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom looking breathtakingly beautiful in her wedding gown. She appeared as gorgeous and as bridal as it was possible for a person to be, but her manner was anything but that of a joyous bride. Xanthe wondered, not for the first time, what she would have done had she been in her situation. She knew that nothing would have persuaded her to marry Fairfax, but Petronella did not know the man’s history or his true nature. What mattered to her was her duty to the family she loved. Which was not to say her life choice had not cost her dearly. Xanthe tried to imagine how she must be feeling, dressed for her wedding, about to marry a man she had no affection for and barely knew, when it should have been her beloved Edward waiting for her at the chapel. To have known such love and have lost it, to have had happiness snatched away from her by the savagery of war, was a lot for a tender young heart to withstand.

  “Oh, Petronella, you look so very lovely.”

  “Will Mr. Fairfax approve, do you think? I do want to be a good wife to him, and for him to have no cause to complain to Father.”

  “He is a fortunate man to have such a charming and accomplished bride. Mr. Wilcox will be the proudest father ever, I’m certain of it.”

  “I cannot help but wonder what my dear mother would have felt, to see her daughter dressed so, about to be wed … My parents were so blessed, for theirs was not only a mutually advantageous match, but one of love. What would she have to say about my choice of husband, do you suppose?”

  “She would have known you were acting upon the best of intentions, with your sister’s future uppermost in your mind, as well as security for your father, and yourself. She could not have asked more of you.”

  Petronella seemed content to hear this. She allowed Xanthe and her maid to put the finishing touches to her hair, adding tiny rose buds to the complicated chignon and ringlets. The creamy petals sat prettily against the rich dark brown of her hair. The maid fastened a double string of pearls at her mistress’s neck. Xanthe had removed the bandage from her hand, but the burn was still sore and apt to make her clumsy, so she let the maid help with the trickier things. Petronella wore no other jewelry. The detail, the lace, and the beading of the dress were so decorative, nothing else was required. The final addition was the veil, which was made of whisper-light voile. Xanthe had to stand on a stool to pin the comb in exactly the right spot in Petronella’s hairdo. The maid arranged the veil so that some of it fell forward over the bride’s face while the rest cascaded down her back and onto the floor in a romantic train.

  “Thank you,” said Petronella to both her helpers. “I believe I am ready. Let us walk down together. Father will meet me at the chapel door.” She reached out and touched Xanthe’s hand. “Come now, happy faces for a happy occasion. I will not have anyone say I was an unwilling bride.” To underline her point she smiled, her beautiful face even more lovely when she did so. The maid handed her the bouquet made of flowers picked from the garden earlier that morning. Petronella breathed in the sweet perfume of the roses, lily of the valley, and gypsophila.

  Xanthe took her arm. “It will be a beautiful wedding for a beautiful bride,” she agreed.

  Together they made their way down the stairs and through the house, the maid holding the gossamer-light train of the veil. They walked to the east wing, beyond the ballroom and the music room, along a wide corridor where distant ancestors observed their progress from gilt-framed portraits. At last they went out through a side door which gave onto a narrow stretch of lawn, traversed by a gravel path. At the end of this, and a little forward from the door to the family chapel, stood the father of the bride. When they reached him his mouth opened in astonishment at the sight of his daughter but no words came. Instead, he offered her his arm. Xanthe stepped back to take up the train from the maid, and the trio made their way through the high arched entrance.

  Inside, the organist struck up Mozart’s wedding procession. The chapel was small, with everything on a modest scale, but all was lavishly decorated and of the very best quality, with a gilded altar, carved altarpiece and choir stalls, burnished oak pews and lectern, brass and marble nameplates set into the floor and walls, and even its own lofty stained glass window in the nave. There was seating for fifty or so, but only four pews were taken up. These were filled with family and close friends only. The vicar stood at the end of the aisle, a tiny choir of four boys, two men, and two nuns behind him.

  There were flowers from the garden at the end of each pew and on the altar. Xanthe thought of how much care Petronella had put into choosing each and every bloom. She felt her stomach tighten at the sight of Fairfax standing tall and proud, turning to watch his bride approach. Liam was in the second pew, looking smartly turned out. He gave her a small smile of encouragement, knowing how much she hated being a part of such a charade, pretending that Fairfax would make a good husband, hoping that she would somehow be able to save Petronella from her fate and yet unable to find a way.

  When the little procession reached the appointed place, Mr. Wilcox let go his daughter’s arm and stepped back, and the vicar raised his eyes and his voice to begin the service.

  It was a short and simple ceremony, with only one hymn and a short sermon from the vicar on the importance of obedience and trust in a marriage. In what seemed an almost disrespectfully short time, he had declared them man and wife, permitted the groom to lift the veil and kiss his bride, and the pair were walking back down the aisle, Mr. and Mrs. Benedict Fairfax of Corsham Hall.

  Xanthe fell into step behind them, taking up the train again. The church bells were rung with gusto, welcoming the bridal party to their new lives as they left the chapel. She was surprised, as they emerged into the golden sunshine of the day, to hear a cheer go up and find a crowd had gathered. Looking closely, she recognized the family she and Petronella had visited a few days earlier, the gardeners, the grooms and stable boys and other servants, and people from the village. These were not grand society friends and acquaintances, they were local folk, people who lived and worked on the estate or in the house itself, villagers and farmers and schoolchildren, all invited to come and witness the union of the new master and mistress of the great house. They cheered and threw rose petals and rice, and Fairfax reveled in every second of their adulation and approval. The wedding party, with guests filing out
of the chapel, then processed across the gardens, along the side of the house, and up the grand front steps. Here the newlyweds turned to wave more to the crowd. Fairfax handed small bags of coins to three footmen who walked into the gathered crowd, throwing money, causing children and adults alike to squeal and scramble. At last, the couple entered the house, followed by their carefully chosen guests, whom they led into the dining room where the wedding breakfast was to be served.

  Liam caught up with Xanthe as they looked for their names among the place cards.

  “I get the feeling this could take some time,” he said, looking at the elaborate settings on the table. There were at least three glasses per person, and several sets of knives, forks, and spoons, suggesting large amounts of food to come.

  “It’s strange,” she whispered to him. “Not like modern weddings. I mean, the food will be extravagant, yes, but everything else is quite small scale. I’ve never been to such a speedy service, and there can only be, what, thirty guests?”

  “Just be thankful there’s no dancing,” he pointed out, moving aside to let a footman pull out her chair for her as they took their places.

  “There will be singing later, though,” she said.

  “Evie has been practicing hard. I’ve volunteered to play so she can concentrate on singing. She’s quite nervous about it.”

  “Hardly surprising,” Xanthe murmured. It wasn’t just that this was her big sister’s big day, or the having to stand up and sing in front of lots of important-looking people, although both things were enough to make a girl nervous. She thought there was more to it than that. There was a tension about the whole occasion. It was not a warm, family celebration, romantic and fun. It had more the feel of a business transaction being made, with society people there to witness it. The formality was at odds with the prettiness of the bride in her dress and the personal nature of what was taking place, but it was unmistakable. However hard Petronella was trying to look, if not happy, at least content and willing, everyone present knew this was not a love match. Xanthe wondered how many of them also harbored doubts about Fairfax. He was a stranger to most of them, his background vague, and yet here he was, winning the hand of one of the most desirable girls in the county, and bagging an important house and estate into the bargain.