The Garden of Bewitchment

by Catherine Cavendish

  “Oh, rubbish, Claire. Granted I don’t know what’s in that box of his, but I’m going to find out. The man had an accident, and he is recovering. I think we’re reading far too much into this, so I have determined I shall tell him I saw him burying the box and ask him straight out what was in it.”

  Claire’s look of horror was instant. “You can’t do that. You’ll put us both in mortal danger.”

  “Oh, don’t be so melodramatic. You sound like one of your penny dreadfuls again.”

  “I’m being serious. Branwell said Matthew has been hired by someone. He doesn’t know all the details yet, but we must be careful and stay away from him. He said he came into your room to warn you, but all he managed to say was ‘Good evening’ and then you closed your mind. You mustn’t be scared of him, Ev. He’s our friend. He loves me, and he wants to help.”

  Evelyn stared at Claire. Memories of that voice so close to her ear. The voice she thought she must have dreamed…

  “I need some air. I’m going out.”

  “But you haven’t had any breakfast.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  With Claire’s warnings and protests still ringing in her ears, Evelyn tugged on her walking shoes, grabbed her hat and coat and left. Outside, the air hung still and heavy. She smelled the mist and tasted its earthy woodiness, tinged with decay. Straight off the moors. Even so, it felt better than the claustrophobic restriction of the cottage, where truth and fantasy were becoming hopelessly interlocked and impossible to separate.

  She knocked on Matthew’s door before she could talk herself out of it. He answered almost immediately, a look of genuine surprise on his face as he saw who his visitor was.

  “Evelyn. Please come in.”

  She looked all around her, making sure neighbors weren’t twitching their lace curtains.

  “Thank you, Matthew. I’m so sorry to call unannounced, but something is troubling me and I had to ask you about it.”

  “Something’s happened, hasn’t it? I can tell by your face. You look so tired, Evelyn. Have you been sleeping?”

  “Not too well.”

  Matthew closed the door and beckoned Evelyn into his front room.

  “I’ll make us some tea.”

  Evelyn nodded and sat on a comfortable easy chair, grateful for the cushions she sank into. Weariness almost overwhelmed her, and she felt her eyes grow heavy as Matthew reappeared, carrying a tray.

  “I’m afraid the only biscuits I could find were Rich Tea. I hope they will be all right for you?”

  “They will. Thank you, Matthew.”

  He handed her a strong cup of tea, which she relished. As she sipped the scalding liquid, she felt some strength returning. Matthew waited, watching her every move. She set the cup and saucer down on a small table.

  “I have to ask you something, but first I must make a confession.” It was now or never. She couldn’t fathom his expression. Did he have any clue what she was going to say next?

  “A few days ago, I saw you up on the moors, near the crags, burying a box. You didn’t see me as I was sheltering from the rain and it was very misty.” His expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker.

  “I remember the day.”

  She waited for more, but he said nothing. Evidently he had no intention of making this easy for her. “You are going to think me extremely impertinent, but I need to ask. So much has happened in the past few days. So much neither Claire nor I can explain. We think it may have something to do with the contents of that box. Would you be prepared to tell me what is in there?”

  Matthew sat back and crossed his legs. He steepled his fingers in front of him and studied Evelyn.

  “You’re quite a dark horse, aren’t you?” His voice wasn’t unpleasant, and he certainly didn’t have the attitude of someone who had been caught misbehaving.

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Evelyn said.

  “I wonder why you thought it necessary to conceal your presence from me. I thought we were friends.”

  “I… I didn’t want to intrude. Really it was none of my business. It was only afterwards…”

  “It’s all right, Evelyn. All I can tell you is there is no need to worry about the box. It has nothing to do with you. Merely a keepsake for a friend. I made a promise, and I kept it. That’s all.”

  He offered her the biscuits, but she declined. So that was it. He wasn’t going to elaborate. Should she tell him Claire and she had been back and tried to dig it up only to find it had been taken?

  Evelyn mulled it over as they sipped their tea in silence. She squirmed, feeling uncomfortable. Maybe he hadn’t dug it up. Maybe he would be shocked to find it had been taken. But how would she explain their actions in the first place? These were not those of a friend. He would never forgive her.

  She drained her cup. “I’m so sorry to have intruded in this way. It was unforgiveable of me.” Perhaps her contriteness might encourage him to take her into his confidence.

  “There is no apology necessary, I can assure you. Thank you for being so honest with me. Eventually.” He smiled. “I’m sorry I cannot divulge the nature of the contents as I would breach the trust of my friend. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  His words were said kindly, but she couldn’t mistake the wedge she had driven between them by her actions. He didn’t believe her excuse for not revealing herself to him that day, and she couldn’t bring herself to tell him of the inexplicable experience she and Claire had shared up on the moors. Trust had been broken between them. It could not be undone.

  As she left, Evelyn turned back, feeling suddenly more alone than she could ever remember. “Goodbye, Matthew.”

  He seemed shocked for an instant. Maybe her goodbye had sounded as final as she felt it would be.

  “Goodbye, Evelyn.”

  The visit had been for nothing. She knew no more than before she had knocked on his door. Now, in addition, she had probably lost someone she had begun to think of as a friend, even with the doubts she still harbored about him.

  * * *

  Once home, she called out, “Claire?”

  No reply. A small white envelope lay on the table, addressed to her, in Claire’s distinctive writing.

  I’m sorry, Ev, but I can’t live this way any longer. I need to be with Branwell, and you will never accept him. Please don’t try and find me. Simply know, wherever I am, I will be happy and Branwell will be with me. Goodbye, Claire.

  The tears streamed down her cheeks as she crumpled the letter, holding it to her breast.

  “You can’t leave me, Claire. You can’t. You were never meant to be alone and neither was I.”

  She sank down onto a chair and wept, for her sister, for herself and for an uncertain future alone.

  Finally, the tears dried and Evelyn mopped her face. Her practical side took hold. She went upstairs and opened Claire’s closets and drawers. Sure enough, her clothes were missing, as were her books. Evelyn sat down on her bed. Where would Claire go? Who would she go to?

  She had money and access to more when she needed it. Perhaps she would put up at a hotel nearby for a few nights until she decided on her future. Evelyn thought hard. In her obsessed state of mind, she would go somewhere Branwell would be certain to find her. In her mind, at least. Any number of hostelries and ale houses would fit the bill, and a number of them offered accommodation. Indeed, Branwell had probably stayed in most of them, too inebriated to make his way home to the parsonage.

  Haworth seemed likely. The Lamb perhaps, or the Crown and Anchor. In her delusional state it would be easy for Claire to imagine Branwell with her.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Evelyn packed an overnight bag.

  Within an hour she crossed the threshold of the Crown and Anchor, where the sound of laughter and men clanging pewter mugs
of ale rang in her ears.

  A few stared at her as she passed them. An unusual sight. A respectable woman, on her own, entering a hostelry in the afternoon.

  The landlord looked at her askance. “Yes, miss?”

  “Do you have any rooms for the night?”

  “For yourself, is it, miss?”

  “Just myself, yes. I wondered… Has another lady, who looks much like me, also been in here today?”

  “Oh, no, miss. I am quite sure I would have remembered if she had.”

  One or two sniggers earned a sharp look from the publican.

  Evelyn ignored them. “I understand there are a number of inns where she might stay in Haworth?”

  The publican looked at her with a perplexed expression on her face. “Forgive me, miss, but wouldn’t she be more likely to stay at the Temperance Hotel? I would have thought that a more appropriate lodging for a lady such as yourself.”

  Evelyn had indeed considered it but dismissed it out of hand. No way would Branwell ever cross the premises of such an establishment, even if he had been secretary of the local Temperance Society in his younger days. No, Claire, in her befuddled and besotted state, would stay somewhere her ‘lover’ would frequent, which meant somewhere where alcohol was readily available.

  “Thank you,” she said. “But it’s inns I am interested in. I believe my sister may be staying in one of them in Haworth. There are a few, I understand?”

  “Indeed there are, miss. Apart from here, there’s The Lamb, the Black Lion, the Cross Keys. They’re all within a few minutes’ walk of here. Did you want to check them and see if your sister is staying at one of them?”

  “I shall do so, but, in the meantime, if I could take one of your rooms for tonight, I would be most grateful.”

  “Well, Sam, there’s an offer you don’t get every day.” The well-built man with the ruddy face and bulging belly – which had no doubt cost him more than a few pounds in beer over the years – made a lascivious gesture that was lost on Evelyn. It wasn’t on the landlord.

  “If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head in the presence of a lady, Thomas Wagstaff, I’ll have you out of here. Now apologize.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Not to me, you great lummock. To the lady.”

  Evelyn gave him what she hoped was a cold stare. One she was famous for. Claire said it turned her blood to ice whenever her sister looked like that at her.

  “I’m sorry, miss. I suppose the ale got to me.”

  Evelyn nodded her acceptance of his apology.

  Sam glared at the man again, almost daring him to say one more word out of line.

  “Now, miss, if you’ll come with me. I’ll get Mary to show you your room. I’m afraid I have to ask you for payment in advance. It’s nothing personal, only we’ve had a few problems in the past.”

  “Not at all. Thank you,” Evelyn said, ignoring the whoops and parodies behind her as she followed Sam.

  The room was small, pleasantly furnished and, much to Evelyn’s relief, spotlessly clean. Mary kept bobbing unnecessary curtsies, and Evelyn wished she wouldn’t. Although her parents had always employed servants, none had been encouraged to bow and scrape before the Wainwrights. Mary’s extreme deference sat uncomfortably with her, and Evelyn gave a small sigh of relief when the girl left, closing the door quietly behind her.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed, unpinned her hat and laid it beside her. Why had she come here? No wonder the men had enjoyed themselves at her expense downstairs. It simply wasn’t done for a woman in her position to enter a public house alone, and, as for taking a room… Why hadn’t she checked in at the Temperance Hotel? Because, with everything that was happening to her, she might want a little nip of strong liquor herself. Besides, it was only one night. It would give her enough time to call at each of the hostelries in turn and enquire after Claire and give her sister a chance to show up, assuming she might have stopped off somewhere else first. Haworth was a small village. Pretty much everyone would know everyone else, and anything out of the ordinary, such as a new face, was bound to be noticed. No doubt her own presence would currently be in circulation, along with any number of theories as to her purpose in being here.

  Evelyn unpacked her few belongings, re-pinned her hat and made her way downstairs. The men who had been there had left, presumably to return to their families for the evening. The bar was quiet, with just a couple of old men who eyed her disapprovingly. She ignored them and marched straight up to where Sam was polishing glasses.

  “Can I get a meal here this evening, Sam?”

  “Aye, you can. Martha is cooking up a nice mutton stew. Would that be to your liking?”

  Not having eaten mutton stew in a considerable while, Evelyn couldn’t remember whether it was to her liking or not, but she nodded and smiled. “Thank you. What time would be convenient?”

  He looked at the clock. “Seven o’clock should do it. You’ll have a couple of hours to wander round and see if you can trace your sister. If you find her, bring her back and she can join you for dinner. There’ll be plenty. Martha always cooks for a battalion.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Sam. Thank you. I will be sure to do that. If I find her.”

  Judging by Sam’s expression, he would be the grateful one. It looked as if he already regretted his decision to allow an unescorted woman to stay the night. Maybe Martha, his wife, she assumed, had given him some harsh words on the subject. No, it would be far more respectable if Evelyn were to dine with a female companion.

  Evelyn left the public house and stepped out into a gloomy and breezy late afternoon. Her first port of call was the Cross Keys. It too was virtually empty, and her enquiry brought no results. No one there had seen Claire. Then followed The Lamb, with the same result. Farther down the steep Main Street, the pleasantly cozy Black Lion boasted a hearty middle-aged woman behind the bar who looked as if she wanted to adopt Evelyn.

  “I haven’t seen her, dear, but are you sure she would want to stay here on her own?”

  “The truth is, I don’t know,” Evelyn replied, deciding not to tell the woman where she intended to spend the night. “She didn’t say where she was going and was probably a bit upset.”

  “Why would she come to Haworth? Do you have relatives here?”

  “No. She is…well we both are…great Brontë lovers. We have read all their books so many times, and I know she is particularly fascinated by Branwell Brontë.”

  The woman smiled. “Branwell, eh? Yes, he was a rum one. I remember him. Only vaguely, of course; I was no more than a kid at the time. My father kept this place then. Many’s the time he’s asked him to leave. ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ Branwell would ask. ‘Don’t you know who my father is?’ ‘Yes, Branwell. I know. I know,’ my father would say, ‘but you’ve had enough, and I’m not serving you any more tonight. Go home, lad. Go home.’ Off he’d stagger, falling about all over the place. I used to watch him from my bedroom window and laugh. I was too young to understand then. Such a sad business, and his poor old father never got over it.”

  “I’m sure my sister would love to hear your memories of him,” Evelyn said. “I think she has a fairly starry-eyed impression that doesn’t match the facts as we know them.”

  “Yes, I can see how that would happen. He did have a charming manner when he was sober, and he was a great character. Such a sense of humor he had. He’d have the whole place in fits of laughter. They’d all buy him drinks. Worst thing they could have done, of course, but people think they’re being friendly, don’t they?”

  “They do indeed. Thank you, Mrs.…?”

  “Lingard. Jessie Lingard.” She stuck out her hand, and Evelyn shook it. The woman had a firm grip.

  “Evelyn Wainwright. You have been most helpful.”

  “Oh, I doubt it. I’ve never seen your sister, and I’m so sorry I couldn
’t help. I will keep an eye open for her. Where can I get in contact with you if she comes in?”

  Evelyn hesitated, but why lie? “I am staying at the Crown and Anchor tonight and intending to return to Thornton Wensley tomorrow. That’s where we live.”

  Jessie’s eyebrows were already raised. “You’re staying at the Crown and Anchor? Sam Whitbread’s place? On your own?”

  “Yes.”

  Jessie leaned forward. “You do know the place is haunted, don’t you?”

  “No. I hadn’t heard.”

  “Well, it is. There are plenty of folk who’ve upped and left in the middle of the night complaining of strange noises and seeing things that couldn’t be there. I’ll bet old Sam took your money as soon as you arrived, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not surprised. He’s been caught out more than once. That wife of his, Martha, she gave him such a telling off I reckon his ears must have been ringing for days afterwards.” She laughed a hearty roar. “Seriously, though, Evelyn. Be careful. A woman on her own…and there’s more to that place than meets the eye. It was one of Branwell Brontë’s old haunts, and some say it still is. Mind you, I suppose that applies to most of the drinking places in the West Riding.” Jessie laughed again.

  Evelyn wished she had asked to stay at the Black Lion. “I’ll be careful, Jessie. If I decide to stay another night, would you be able to accommodate me here?”

  Jessie patted her hand. “Of course, dear. Just let me know. We’d be happy to have you.”

  Evelyn smiled, nodded and left.

  That was it. No more public houses. No one had seen Claire.

  With nowhere left to try, she trudged back up to the Crown and Anchor and went straight up to her room.

  * * *

  Dinner was well cooked, hearty and full of flavor. Whatever else Martha was, she certainly had a way with food. ‘A good plain cook’, her mother would have called her.

  After she had finished, Evelyn felt tiredness overwhelming her. It had been a difficult and disappointing day, leaving her bereft and confused. Where could Claire have gone to, if not here, in Haworth?