Issue #83 • Dec. 1, 2011
“The Gardens of Landler Abbey,” by Megan Arkenberg
“Princess Courage,” by Nadia Bulkin
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THE GARDENS OF LANDLER ABBEY
by Megan Arkenberg
I.
Despite Lady Merrion’s best efforts, she and I became separated shortly after the dinner hour, and I found myself taking coffee in the narrow conservatory with our hostess, Lady Xavior, and a flock of ladies from the surrounding estates to whom I had not been properly introduced. The conversation, which is never torrential at these out-of-season dinner parties, had swiftly and emphatically stagnated on the subject of some sentimental novel that had been enjoying an inexplicable popularity that year. I could find no inoffensive way to extricate myself from a situation that promised to bore me into an early grave; my only hope of rescue was dashed when Lady Merrion stuck her head through the glass conservatory doors, observed the company within, and took flight after mouthing something that looked suspiciously like “sauve qui peut.”
Lady Xavior, a little woman with abnormally large hands, was making a show of examining her reflection in the night-blackened windows and sweeping invisible tendrils of hair from her forehead. She saw me turn, with poorly concealed disappointment, from the door through which my friend had just disappeared. “Dear me,” she said dryly, “I fear we’re boring the professor. Perhaps we should call in Lady M. and have the two of them share their learned opinion on our literature. Isn’t that where you met Lady M., Mr. Grey? At the University?”
This produced a chorus of tittering from the ladies—all but a small, sharp-featured woman at the very end of the table, who had said very little over dinner. I suspected her of either deafness or well-concealed good taste.
“Well, Mr. Grey?” Lady Xavior reached across me, grasped the heart-shaped sugar bowl, and scooped a copious amount of sugar into her coffee. She drank without stirring. “Will you grace us with a learned opinion?”
My collar felt unbearably tight. I swallowed hard, vowing never to forgive Lady Merrion for abandoning me in such desperate circumstances. “Your... your gardens are extraordinarily lovely, Lady Xavior.”
“Indeed,” said the lady. At once, the tittering stopped.
A glimmer of gold and crimson at the far end of the table caught my eye. The quiet woman had leaned forward, stirring the military medal and ribbon pinned to her breast. She had a pallid face and very fine hair, either dark blonde or very pale brown in color. I expected her to take advantage of the sudden silence, but she said nothing.
“Indeed,” Lady Xavior repeated after a moment, “I suppose you would think so, being rather new to the neighborhood. Lady M. hasn’t snuck you into Landler Abbey yet. She seems to think its gardens surpass all my efforts. A true devotee of the antiquated, is our Lady M.—I say nothing of taste.”
A number of the ladies became intensely interested in the floral pattern on the saucers. I tasted my own coffee and was horrified to discover that Lady Xavior had somehow managed to over-sweeten the entire pot. It was assuredly my imagination, but the sticky brown liquid even seemed to stink of her violet-musk perfume.
“No, Lady Xavior,” I said. “I fear I haven’t had the pleasure of visiting Lander Abbey. It’s quite close by, isn’t it?”
Indeed, it was, she said; just over the stony ridge that marked the northern edge of Sir Charles Xavior’s estate, and separated from Lady Merrion’s by the narrow pine grove called Armitage Wood. The gardens of Landler Abbey had been a great source of pride for the von Reis family, whose last scion, Gethsemane von Reis, Viscountess Landler, had vacated the house some nineteen years before. “The war?” I guessed, noting the date. Lady Xavior deigned to nod.
When the war ended ten years later, the Viscountess did not return to Landler Abbey—the ladies mutually declined to speculate why—and the empty house with its spectacularly landscaped grounds became a local spectacle. The gardens were now quite overgrown, but it seemed that visitors of more curiosity than taste could still be found on occasion, wandering its leaf-littered paths.
At this point in Lady Xavior’s monologue, the quiet woman with the military medal cleared her throat. It was a deep, carrying sound; unlike Lady Xavior’s tinny voice, it echoed against the glass walls. “But of course you’ve heard, Lady X., that the place is being renovated? It was sold at auction this past April.”
Lady Xavior made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. “My dear,” she said crossly, like a tutor whose pupil has spoken out of turn, “please explain yourself. No one has mentioned any ‘renovations’ to me—or any auctions, for that matter.”
“Forgive me, but it’s quite true,” said the quiet woman. “Landscapers from as far as Crosshire put in bids, but they were all refused. The new owner is bringing back the hedge maze, and importing red and yellow jewelfish for the fountains.”
“Indeed.” Lady Xavior turned again to her reflection in the windows, as though the mere sight of the quiet woman had offended her. “Well, I must say it’s a shame, if the dear old place has fallen into the hands of new money. Probably made their fortune on war machines, or patents for coal furnaces. I just wish the old mansions could stay in the families.”
“Indeed.” The quiet woman spoke very softly, her eyes fixed on Lady Xavior’s reflection. “What makes you believe Landler Abbey hasn’t?”
“That family is extinct. Surely you aren’t suggesting that some long-lost von Reis nephew has crawled out of the metaphorical woodwork?”
The ladies did not have a chance to greet this comment with the amusement Lady Xavior seemed to believe it deserved. “Not at all,” the quiet woman said. “As a matter of fact, I am the new owner of Landler Abbey. My name is Gethsemane von Reis, Viscountess Landler. And I would be happy to lead you, Pamela Xavior, or any other of your honored guests, on a tour of the renovated gardens at whatever time you wish.”
Finishing this announcement, the Viscountess Landler produced an ivory-handled walking stick from beneath the table and swept grandly out of the conservatory. She narrowly avoided a collision with Lady Merrion, who had finally taken pity on me and announced to the entire room that it was time for us to go home.
* * *
Scarred as I was by the harrowing ordeal, I could not quite maintain my resolution not to forgive Lady Merrion for leaving me to the vultures. As our carriage rolled through the sweetly-scented darkness of Armitage Wood, I related the night’s conversation to my university friend and her husband, the Earl Merrion. They laughed and rolled their eyes at the proper intervals, and the Earl at least showed the appropriate sympathy for my suffering. But when I reached the Viscountess Landler’s revelation of her identity, both Lady Merrion and her husband looked thoroughly perplexed.
“I’m sure it must be true,” said Lady Merrion, sounding uncertain. “She’d have no motive to lie, not even to embarrass Lady Xavior, who is notorious for not knowing who her husband’s invited to her dinner parties. But if she is Gethsemane von Reis, why did she wait so long to come home? The war’s been over for nearly a decade.”
The Earl gazed thoughtfully at the pattern on his wife’s skirt. “I wonder... that is, do you suppose she was serious about touring the gardens?”
He looked as hopeful as a boy on the eve of his birthday. Lady Merrion laughed, wrapping one arm around as much of her husband’s broad shoulders as she could reach, and kissed him on the cheek. “We’ll write to her, mes cheres, and see if she’ll open the gates to the three of us. The worst she can say is no.”
I, for one, suspected that a mili
tary veteran who had already made enemies of most the ladies in the county could say several things worse than no. As it happened, I was correct.
Gethsemane von Reis said yes—but only to me.
* * *
The Earl’s disappointment was palpable, and he spent all of an otherwise enjoyable breakfast casting darkly longing looks at the sky over Armitage Wood, visible as a wall of cool green out the dining room’s western window. Lady Merrion, on the other hand, was determined to make the most of what she insisted on referring to as this rare opportunity. While I hastily finished a marmalade-smothered muffin, Lady Merrion laid every waistcoat I owned out on my bed and fretted over the propriety of each.
“Not purple,” she said, abruptly crumpling the offending garment into a ball. “Why you even own that color is beyond me—it’s unpatriotic, you know it puts everyone in mind of Branfolk and the war. And for that matter, red would hardly be appropriate, if you’re meeting a true Feldish veteran.”
Almost wishing I could rejoin the sulking Earl in the dining room, I grabbed a pale blue vest at random from the foot of the bed and turned to one of the massive gilded mirrors along the interior wall. This whole suite of rooms, which Lady Merrion and her husband had been generous enough to offer me after my dismissal from the University, had once belonged to the Earl’s mother—a woman who took considerably greater pleasure in her own appearance than I did.
The cool color made my skin look even sallower than usual, and I noted with some irritation that my hair was simultaneously thinning and in need of a trim. Lady Merrion nobly resisted the urge to shake her head and tsk as she replaced the garment in my hand with a deep green one.
“Why so much worry over my clothes?” I sighed. “You didn’t take this much care with your wardrobe when you and James were courting.” A horrible thought occurred to me. “You don’t think the Viscountess Landler is courting me, do you?”
“Don’t be silly,” Lady Merrion said far too quickly. She threaded my watch chain and fob through the appropriate buttonhole and stepped back to admire her work. “There. I’m sure James could do better for you—he has an eye for these things—but he seems determined to waste away with brooding this morning. Do remember to ask for a plan of the gardens, or sketch a map yourself, it’s the only thing that’ll cheer him—here, let me fetch you some pencils—”
Outside, the air held the dry, breezy clarity of a morning in early September, and I declined Lady Merrion’s offer of the carriage, preferring to walk. Cutting due west across the Earl’s extensive and lusciously-scented herb garden brought me to the southern tip of Armitage Wood, through which I could see the ghostly white façade of the Xaviors’ mansion. From there, I turned north and followed the straight line of the forest. The stony ridge that ran perpendicular to Armitage Wood, and served on the west side to separate the Xaviors’ property from the grounds of Landler Abbey, on the east side marked the point where Earl Merrion’s carefully landscaped gardens dissolved into damp, wildflower-dotted wilderness. The Earl’s family cemetery was somewhere in that tangle of long, seedy grass and crooked trees, along with the abbey ruins for which, I assume, the neighboring estate was named. Normally, these relics imbued the eastern grounds with an air of romance and mystery; but today, it was the house I had never bothered to examine through the pine branches that seemed romantic and mysterious.
The entire property of Landler Abbey was hedged in by a wall of white limestone, except for the portion of the western border that jutted against a modest lake. A very faint and root-broken road led through the wood to the Abbey’s iron gate, which had that day been propped open—for me, I assumed, and I was correct. Between the wall and the façade of the mansion house itself, there was fewer than two yards of space, all grown up with weeds and thorn-bushes; I was amazed at this, for it meant that even in the best of times, the house’s front windows commanded a strikingly ugly view.
Evidently, Gethsemane von Reis had been tracking my approach, for no sooner had I reached the oak door with its gilt and intricate carvings than the right half swung open, admitting me to a dark and low-ceilinged hall. The Viscountess’s renovations had not, oddly, been extended to that all-important portion of the house.
“Lady Landler,” I said, stopping within the doorway to bow. “Permit me to thank you for your gracious invitation—”
“Sycophantism doesn’t suit you, Dr. Grey,” she interrupted. With a faint smile, she steered me back onto the doorstep, letting the door swing shut behind her. “Call me Gethsemane. Come, give me your arm, and let’s take a walk through the gardens.”
* * *
Gethsemane, it seemed, really did necessitate the support of my arm, though it cannot have been comfortable for such a short woman to hook elbows with such a tall man. We battled our way through the vicious weeds that had invaded the front lawn and finally arrived at the head of a raised brick path, cleanly swept and evidently new. There she gestured for me to stop, and she took a moment to catch her breath. “Bad leg,” she said, sweeping her red military cloak back from the offending appendage. Of course, I could see nothing in the folds of her heavy skirt to show the nature of her affliction.
“Is it—er, that is—a war injury?”
“In a manner of speaking,” she said. She took my arm again, and we rounded the north edge of the house, entering the first of the Abbey’s formal gardens.
The flower beds followed the familiar hexagonal plan that I had seen in Lady Xavoir’s garden, but I had never seen petals so delicately arranged by color. Nearest to the house, the roses and tulips and feathery amaranths were deep, blood-wet red; going westward, these paled to orange, then yellow, before darkening to emerald and blue. At the far end, surrounding a broad pool and running against the shoulder-high wall of the hedge maze, the tulips were so deep purple as to appear black.
“Gorgeous,” I said.
Gethsemane’s smile widened, crinkling the corners of her gray eyes. I couldn’t say why its genuineness was so surprising to me. “Is that your learned opinion, professor?”
I laughed, but all at once her smile vanished.
“It’s remarkable, isn’t it, how busybody gossips like Lady Xavior seem to know everything except the personal histories you’d truly like to learn?” She slowed her pace, and her grip on my elbow forced me to slow as well. “Why did you leave the University, Dr. Grey?”
The sensation of having knotted my tie too tightly overtook me, and it was all I could do not to withdraw my arm. Was this why Gethsemane had invited me? To contribute my philosophical differences with the University of Feldland to the local gossip?
“Surely you’ve talked to Lady Merrion,” I said.
“I have. She left because her engineering classes were being used to build war machines.” Even Lady Merrion had never put her reasons for leaving so bluntly. “But that was over a decade ago, when the war was still being fought. It’s been over for nine years now. Why did it take you so long to become uncomfortable with the University’s complicity?”
The truth—that I had just recently discovered how deep that complicity ran—was not something I was eager to share with a stranger, not even a veteran with a respectable title. I deflected her question with one of my own. “Why did it take you so long to come home from the war?”
“Touché.” This time, her smile was clearly forced. “If you must know, I was in a Branfolk prison.”
“All these years?” In my amazement, I actually forgot to take a step, and I fear my sudden stop caused Gethsemane no small discomfort. “But surely they were forced to release all their prisoners as terms of their surrender?”
“Not the ones who were actually criminals, Dr. Grey.”
This conversation had carried us as far as the broad, murky pool sunk surrounded by the raised red brick of the path. A few brown-edged lily pads floated on the surface. While Gethsemane spoke, a large bubble had floated up from the bottom; I leaned forward to catch sight of its source and leapt back with something like a scream.<
br />
There was a hand in the water.
“Dr. Grey!” Gethsemane barked, rubbing her shoulder, which had been insulted twice in the course of three yards. Then, seeing the source of my terror, her face relaxed into what was once again a genuine smile. “Yes,” she said affectionately. “Ghostly, isn’t he?”
I looked again. The thing in the pool was nothing more sinister than a massive, pure white jewelfish. I flushed in embarrassment, recalling that she had mentioned these very creatures at Lady Xavior’s dinner, albeit in the more patriotic shades of crimson and gold. Still, it was silly of me to mistake it for the fearsome shape that its bloodless, silvery length so vaguely recalled: a severed hand, reaching up to me from the depths.
* * *
II.
“What I can’t comprehend,” Lady Xavior announced, as though her lack of comprehension were a rare and noteworthy occurrence, “is why anyone would accept such an invitation in the first place. Imagine! Including the Earl and dear Lady M! You know, of course, that I never exclude anyone in my invitations—if I invite one man, I invite his whole household—even those members whose presence is a continual trial to me....”
It is difficult to say who squirmed more at this announcement; the Earl, who was the reason we were enduring another one of Lady Xavior’s dinner parties, or Lady Merrion, who knew precisely at whom that last part of Pamela Xavior’s speech had been directed. It was still early in the evening, else Lady Merrion would have had something to say about invitations whose acceptance was incomprehensible. She sat on the very edge of the drawing room’s violently green sofa, biting her lip and letting her proud gaze fall on nothing in particular.
I attempted to copy this piece of nonchalance, but I found my gaze trapped by a ghastly row of horned and antlered animal heads mounted over the fireplace.
“Say!” piped the balding rabbit of a man who had the rare fortune to be our hostess’s husband. It had somehow become Sir Charles Xavior’s responsibility to pilot the conversation out of treacherous waters. He turned with readily apparent desperation to the Earl, who sat in the shadow of the pianoforte. “Did you read that piece in the Times about the Branfolk war criminals? Horrible stuff, isn’t it, James?”
Beneath Ceaseless Skies #83 Page 1