The Garden of Bewitchment

by Catherine Cavendish

  catherine cavendish

  The Garden of Bewitchment

  FLAME TREE PRESS

  London & New York

  For Colin, without whom…

  Chapter One

  1893

  Lady Mandolyne saw it first.

  She heard it on the breeze that fluttered the leaves. Saw it in the clouds, ghosted silver by the full moon. The change bringing whispering and a taste of danger. It came to her in the gathering storm as the clouds faded to gray black and rain fell in an icy shower that chilled and stung her face and arms.

  On a cold November night.

  When she went mad.

  Evelyn Wainwright tapped her teeth with the wire-framed reading spectacles she habitually wore on a thin gold chain around her neck. Sitting opposite her, Claire, her twin sister, fidgeted nervously.

  “Well?” she asked. “What do you think of it?”

  Evelyn liked keeping her sister waiting. Not that she used it to exert her authority over her shy sibling. Naturally, no such thought ever crossed her mind. Not even for a moment. She counted the seconds as the clock ticked them away on the mantelpiece. Eleven…twelve…thirteen…

  “I think it has possibilities, Claire. Of course we can’t put our Chronicles of Calladocia in the same category as the Brontës’ sagas of Northangerland and Glass Town, but then, who could rival them? Their spark, their creativity—”

  “But, Ev—”

  A flash from Evelyn’s dark brown eyes chastened Claire. She lowered her head and mumbled into her lap. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  Evelyn folded the neatly written pages of their combined work and pushed her chair back from the table. She stood, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in her dress. She simply could not abide untidiness, whether of person or home. Evelyn’s clothes were always neatly pressed; creases would not dare make an appearance. Claire on the other hand…

  Evelyn leaned on the table. “Now your task for today is to decide what – or who – it is that scares Lady Mandolyne so much.”

  Claire’s face broke into a broad smile. “Oh, but I already know. I wonder if you can guess.”

  Evelyn bit back the annoyance that always rose within her when her sister tried to be enigmatic. It never worked. She hadn’t the cunning for it.

  “If I knew, Claire, I wouldn’t be asking you, would I? So tell me, what is this creeping menace?”

  “The ghost of Branwell Brontë.”

  Evelyn slammed her fist down on the table so hard the top of the inkwell flew open and the pen fell out, splattering her writing tablet with a spreading violet-blue puddle.

  Claire jumped up. “Oh, Ev. It’s going to leave a terrible stain.”

  “Never mind that now. How many times have we had this same conversation, Claire? You cannot put real people into the story. Branwell Brontë – may his poor tortured soul rest in peace – is lying peacefully in his grave in Haworth. You cannot resurrect his ghost and have it wandering all over Calladocia. Fact and fiction do not mix. Now let this be an end of it. Come up with another menace but leave poor Mr. Brontë out of it. Now let’s get this mess cleaned up. Go and fetch a cloth.”

  Evelyn couldn’t look at Claire’s face. She knew it would be screwed up, all ready to erupt in floods of tears.

  “Oh, Ev.” Claire ran out of the room, sobbing.

  Evelyn raised her eyes to heaven. “Lord, give me strength to deal with my sister. What am I to do with her? Sometimes I think she was born simple, but she can write so well when the fancy takes her. If only she would stop this futile obsession with Branwell Brontë. Thank goodness she was too young ever to have met him, else goodness alone knows what trouble she would have found herself in at his hands.” She didn’t add ‘if she had met him’. Evelyn knew only too well that their close proximity to Haworth and Branwell’s well-documented habit of frequenting every hostelry in every town and village between Halifax and his home there meant her besotted twin would have ensured a meeting took place. She would even have overcome her chronic shyness.

  But Branwell was in his grave before the sisters were even conceived. In 1848 he had succumbed to the excesses of opiates and alcohol at the tender age of thirty one – four years younger than Evelyn and Claire were today. That was forty-five years ago, and now none of the prodigiously talented Brontë family remained.

  Evelyn sighed and strolled over to the window. Outside, the usual bustle of the busy street rushed by her gaze. Horses and carts, the occasional fancy carriage and pair. Neighbors walking by, some catching her gaze and quickly averting their eyes.

  Neighbors. That was why they had to leave this place. So many prying eyes. So many people who thought the sisters’ own private business was theirs to gawp and gossip over. Jealousy. That was all it was. All it ever had been. Their father had been a canny businessman. He had made a lot of money selling off fields for property development to feed the ever-expanding needs of the prosperous town of Sugden Heath in the West Riding of Yorkshire. He had no sons, so it stood to reason he would leave all his land and wealth to his twin daughters. Evelyn permitted herself a little smile, just as old Mrs. Entwhistle waddled past. The woman scowled at her and shook her head so vigorously her hat was in danger of blowing off. She crammed it on her head, and a surge of giggles left Evelyn helpless. So what if the woman saw her? Evelyn reckoned the old biddy and she held mutual levels of dislike for each other.

  In Sugden Heath, a woman’s role was to be a traditional wife and mother, subservient to her husband in all things, and certainly, if the woman found herself to be unmarried at the age of thirty-five, there should be nothing to laugh about. She should be pitied for the poor old spinster she had become. She should dress in black, with lace shawls, and sit and crochet. On Sundays she should make her way meekly to church, clutching her prayer book and, for the rest of the week, should busy herself with good works.

  Evelyn didn’t fit the mold – and neither did her sister.

  She turned away from the window as Claire entered the room, cloth in hand. She began to dab at the ink stain to no great effect.

  “I’m sorry, Ev,” she said.

  Evelyn waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. She sat back down at the table, positioned her spectacles carefully on her nose, tucking the wire behind her ears. Giving up on the stain, Claire resumed her seat opposite her. She placed her writing tablet over it. Out of sight, out of mind.

  “Mrs. Entwhistle was out and about again,” Evelyn said, picking up the current day’s edition of the Yorkshire Post.

  “Did she see you?”

  Evelyn smiled. “Oh, yes. I got the disapproving look.”

  “The one where her face screws up and her chins wobble?”

  Evelyn laughed. “That’s the one. I shan’t be sad to see the last of her.”

  “In a way, I’ll be sad to leave here, though. It’s been our home all our lives.”

  Evelyn laid her hand over Claire’s. “But you do see it’s the right thing to do, don’t you? You know we can’t stay here. Not after…after Father’s death. They’ll never leave us alone. You do understand, don’t you, Claire? I wouldn’t uproot us if there wasn’t a good reason.”

  Claire shook her head, a tear at the corner of her eye. Oh, please, God, not the waterworks again, Evelyn thought. “No, I do understand, honestly, I do. I just wish it wasn’t necessary and that if we have to go we could move to Haworth.”

  Evelyn retrieved her hand and sighed. Yet another subject as worn out as their old servant’s knees. “Claire. You know how you shrink away from the window every time anyone walks by. You k
eep your bedroom curtains closed all day, as well as all night, and you won’t go out unless I virtually throw you out of the door. You saw how busy Haworth was when we last visited there. The Brontë Society will be establishing their museum in the center of the village as soon as they find suitable premises, and the place is already brimful of visitors gawping through windows and pestering any resident they think might be old enough to have actually met one of the family. You wouldn’t last a week there. All those people trampling over the flower beds and peering through at you. No, Claire. We’ll find a nice cottage. Somewhere secluded. Not too far from Haworth and right on the moors. Then we’ll have our privacy and the countryside we both love so much.”

  Claire managed the faintest of smiles, barely raising the corners of her lips.

  Evelyn resumed her reading of the property advertisements. She tapped the page. “Here’s one. It sounds perfect. Thornton Wensley, on a private lane leading to moorland. Two bedrooms, pleasant aspects to front and rear. Better still, it’s in our price range. What do you think?”

  Claire hesitated. “It sounds fine. I’m sure it will be…fine.”

  “That’s settled then. I will call the property agents in the morning and arrange for us to visit it. If it’s suitable, you’ll be close to Haworth but without its disadvantages.”

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  “There’s a station at Thornton Wensley, and it’s on the track to Haworth. We can visit whenever you want.”

  At last, Evelyn was rewarded by a smile that actually looked as if some effort had been expended. She might as well mention the one drawback now. It seemed as good a time as any. “Of course, Nancy won’t be able to come with us. There’ll be no room, and it’s too far for her to travel every day. I’m quite sure we’ll be able to find a daily woman from the village to cook and clean for us.”

  To Evelyn’s surprise, Claire shrugged. “I don’t like Nancy very much. She can be very cruel when you’re not around.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of it. What has she done to you?”

  A frown passed over Claire’s face. “Oh, it doesn’t matter now. If she won’t be staying with us, I would rather forget about it.”

  “You can tell me, you know. If she has laid a finger on you to harm you in any way—”

  “Oh, no. It’s nothing like that. I meant sometimes she says some hurtful things.”

  “Nancy is getting on in years. I have noticed she has become a little forgetful of late. Perhaps it’s time she retired anyway.”

  “Yes,” Claire said, and Evelyn wondered why she sounded so emphatic.

  * * *

  “I am quite sure you would be very happy here. Heather Cottage, as you can see, is built of local millstone grit, and the walls are a good eighteen inches thick, so no need to worry about those fierce moorland gales getting in through the cracks. There aren’t any.” The estate agent smiled and unlocked the door to the cottage. Gesturing for Evelyn to enter, he stood back, enabling her to pass him. As she crossed the threshold, she had the strangest feeling of having been there before. She hesitated.

  “Are you all right, Miss Wainwright? You have turned a little pale.”

  She shrugged the odd sensation off. “I am perfectly well, thank you. Just a little…indigestion…I think.”

  The smell of fresh paint wafted under her nostrils. “Someone has been busy, I see.” She indicated the newly decorated walls and skirting boards.

  “Yes, the owner was most concerned that everything should be pristine.”

  “Precisely how I like it.” She smiled, masking another odd fluttering feeling in her stomach. She wished Claire had come with her. It felt wrong not to have her sister along when such an important decision needed to be made. Maybe she could make another appointment to view? But Claire would probably back out of that one at the last moment, as she had on this occasion.

  A movement outside the window attracted her attention.

  A tall man, dressed in a Norfolk jacket, trousers and sturdy walking boots, was making his way up the lane toward the moor. He took his time and progressed with a slight but noticeable limp. Judging by his tight-lipped expression, the effort pained him more than a little. He moved slowly, enough for Evelyn to take in his features. A flat cap shielded his eyes but revealed dark brown hair. The man was clean-shaven and, from the cut of his clothes, not short of money. As he went by, he caught her watching him and tipped his hat to her. His smile showed even, white teeth. Evelyn acknowledged his gesture with a slight nod, and the moment had passed. The man continued on his labored way, although she was certain he limped less. He probably did not want her to think him crippled. Although why should it matter to him? Something niggled her about the man. Did she know him? If so, she couldn’t think from where. But still, there was something…

  “Miss Wainwright?” The estate agent had been speaking to her, and she hadn’t registered a word of what he’d said.

  “We’ll take it. The cottage. This cottage. We’ll buy it.”

  The agent looked as if he couldn’t believe his luck. He recovered himself, determined, no doubt, to get her out of here and ready to sign all the necessary papers before she had a chance to change her mind. On the way back to Sugden Heath, she remembered she hadn’t even seen the upstairs rooms. And Claire had seen none of it.

  * * *

  Evelyn shielded her eyes from the sun as she stared up at the cottage. Next to her, Claire seemed jumpy. She kept glancing this way and that as if scared someone might see her.

  “Oh, come on, Ev, open the door.”

  “All right, Claire. Give me a chance.” Evelyn fumbled in her purse and found her key. She unlocked the door. “See how pretty it is inside. You’re going to love it.”

  Claire took a few uncertain steps before joining her sister in the house. Evelyn led her down the short hall and opened the door of the living room. Sunlight streamed through the mullioned windows with their small, square panes. The polished wooden floor gleamed, and a smell of beeswax and lavender hung in the air, replacing the paint smell of a few weeks earlier and filling the area with a welcoming, homely aroma.

  Claire circumnavigated the room, touching the substantial fabric of the green velvet curtains. Her eyes met Evelyn’s. Full of uncertainty. “Are you sure this is right for us?”

  “Quite sure. Oh, I know it looks a bit bare now,” Evelyn said, “but just imagine how it will be when we have our own pretty things in here. The table can go here.” Evelyn stood in the center of the room. “And over there,” she said, pointing to the wall behind Claire, “our bookcases. It will be perfect. Now, let me show you the dining room.”

  With a swish of her skirt, Evelyn left the room and crossed the hall. More sunlight cast rays of brilliant light over a room emptier than the one they had just left. This one had no curtains. “I thought Mama’s red taffeta with the ivory valances would fit nicely in here, and the dining room table will look lovely. The cherrywood will blend perfectly. What do you think?”

  Claire stared all around her, eyes wide. She sighed. “I suppose we can make it our own.”

  Evelyn put her hands on her sister’s shoulders. “There, you see, Claire? I told you everything would be fine. Just the two of us. Away from prying eyes and nosy servants.”

  “I thought we were getting a daily woman from the village.”

  “Do you really think we need one? I feel we could manage perfectly well by ourselves.”

  Claire looked as if her sister had threatened her with a bullet. “But we’ve never managed on our own. I wouldn’t have the first idea how to lay up a fire or use a cooking range, would you?”

  “No, not yet. But we are young enough to learn these things. And won’t it be so much better than having to watch what we say in front of servants?”

  “It never bothered you with Nancy.”

  “We inherited her from Mam
a and Father. She was always…well…there.”

  “No escaping her.” Claire’s mouth curled in an ugly grimace.

  Why did she hate Nancy so?

  “Let’s get back. We have packing to do, and, of course, I have yet to tell Nancy her services will no longer be required. Where will she go, do you think?”

  “Why would I care?” Claire turned her back and left Evelyn wondering.

  * * *

  Back at the house in Sugden Heath, Evelyn summoned Nancy to the drawing room. As the elderly woman shuffled in, Evelyn wondered when she had grown so old. Nancy had always been Nancy. Ageless and as much a part of the fixtures and fittings of the place as the chaise longue Evelyn sat on now.

  Nancy raised pale blue eyes to her mistress.

  “You sent for me, miss?”

  “Yes, Nancy. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

  The woman blinked, and for the first time, Evelyn caught a glimpse of something unpleasant behind those eyes. Something Claire must have sensed or witnessed.

  The woman folded her arms. “Bad news, miss? What sort of bad news?”

  Evelyn swallowed. “Since our father died, my sister and I have become increasingly uncomfortable in this house. It’s too large for the two of us, and the upkeep is expensive.”

  “Is it, miss? I understood the master had left you comfortably provided for.”

  Impertinent. Servants weren’t supposed to challenge their employers, and her tone and demeanor screamed just that, while her expression had transformed into a look of defiance.

  “Nancy, I know you have been with this family for many years.”

  “More than forty. Since the master and mistress were first married.”

  Did she honestly think this gave her more right to be here than she and Claire? Evelyn moved on swiftly. “You have given valiant service through all those years, but now, I’m afraid, it is time to go our separate ways. I would imagine you have a little put by for your retirement?” Her father had never been a stingy employer, and all Nancy’s needs had been provided for as part of her room and board, which left the wages she earned mostly for herself.