Garden of Shadows (Dark Gardens Series Book 1)

by Meara Platt

  “Leaving King Cadeyrn and his faerie kingdom far behind.”

  He nodded.

  There was a moment of silence as she worked the lacings of her gown. Douglas heard the light whoosh of fabric and Julia’s small, struggling breaths as she tied them. “My lord, what if he isn’t left behind?” she asked, coming around to face him. Her hair was still gloriously unbound and, as though reading his thoughts, she quickly worked her lovely mane into a braid. “What if his power extends beyond this vicarage?”

  “Douglas. My name is Douglas. I wish you’d call me that.”

  “Is it important? You haven’t answered my question.”

  “I don’t know that I can.”

  “Not very reassuring. I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. Goodness, I’m so weary.” She yawned.

  “Julia, don’t fall asleep.”

  “I won’t. I’m too frightened to sleep.”

  Douglas grunted in agreement. This night had left him tense, exhausted, and thoroughly drained of strength. “So am I. Don’t recall ever being more afraid in my life.”

  “You, my lord?”

  “Douglas,” he insisted. “We’re friends now.”

  “Are we?”

  “Yes, Julia. I think we are.”

  “No, you don’t trust me yet. At best, you consider me a necessary ally. I suppose that’ll have to do for now.” She yawned again. “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m growing to hate this place. Do you have a bluebell garden at Eastbourne?”

  “No, Julia.”

  “Not yet,” she said with a shudder.

  Chapter 12

  The sun peeked gold above the horizon to signal daybreak as the foursome made their way down the mountain toward the Ashness Inn. Julia rode with Homer, while Charlie was safely tucked in Lord Eastbourne’s arms, the weight of his frail body easily handled by Lord Eastbourne’s enormous black stallion.

  Julia’s thoughts were in turmoil.

  Though her heart ached, she was glad to leave the vicarage and Borrowdale. The once quiet district of friendly neighbors, crystal lakes, and rolling hills was no longer a place of joy. Indeed, to remain here would be to place a death sentence on Charlie and she would sooner sacrifice her own life than ever see him hurt.

  She blinked her eyes against the falling snow and felt the winter’s harsh bite against her cheeks, more signs that mischief was about, for the sun was rising and the sky was turning a gentle blue. These were signs of a clear, late fall day and yet they were riding in the midst of a blizzard. It seemed as though the faerie king was indeed powerful enough to control the forces of nature. If so, how would they ever defeat him?

  As the cold and snow persisted, she continued to worry about Charlie. Was he warm enough? Was his breathing steady?

  Lord Eastbourne must have sensed her concern, for he held back his mount so that Homer’s slower horse could catch up. “All will be well, Julia. You needn’t fret.”

  She wanted to believe him, but something deep within her knew the nightmare was not at an end. He didn’t believe it either, for he was frowning and he wouldn’t be doing that if he really expected the trouble had passed. Still, if there was another battle to be fought, she was glad to have him by her side.

  They continued down the mountain. Julia studied every step of their trail and silently bid farewell to the familiar plants and birds, to the gentle brook at the foot of the forest, even to the majestic raven circling Friar’s Crag and shattering the early morning silence with its loud caws.

  “Won’t miss that fellow,” Homer muttered, glancing up at the sky as it unleashed more snow to hinder their journey.

  “Nor I,” Lord Eastbourne said, studying the raven as it disappeared into the heavy mist surrounding the crag.

  Conversation soon turned to the hearty breakfast Lord Eastbourne intended to order for all of them once they reached the inn. As they rode into the courtyard, the innkeeper’s wife bustled out to greet them. “My goodness gracious, Julia! Charlie! You’re an early lot. Why, I’ve just put on the kettle. None of the other guests are awake yet. Aren’t we having the oddest weather? Glad you made it safely here.”

  With much fuss and clamor, Mrs. Stevenson settled them in the common room, a cozy hall with dark wood tables and matching wooden benches. One of the servants promptly lit a fire in the enormous hearth and then took their cloaks to dry. As promised, Lord Eastbourne ordered a hearty breakfast for all before heading to the stable to ensure that their horses were properly settled.

  Julia followed him to the door. “Please be careful.”

  “I’m only headed across the courtyard.” He tossed her a disarmingly tender smile. “But thank you for your concern. No one’s fretted over me in a long time.”

  Had their kisses last night put his animosities to rest? She hoped so. However, she wasn’t so foolish as to believe that a few kisses would change anything. Well, it had been more than a few kisses. Her cheeks began to heat. Indeed, quite a bit more.

  While Homer entertained Charlie, Julia stood by the fogged window, occasionally rubbing her sleeve against the panes to watch for Lord Eastbourne’s return. After what seemed an eternity, but could not have been more than a quarter of an hour, he came back inside, stomping his boots and shaking snow from his broad shoulders. “All quiet so far.”

  She smiled in relief, but remained by the window, her gaze fixed on the icy road.

  “My coach won’t arrive any sooner by watching for it. Come sit by the fire and warm yourself,” he insisted, taking her hand in one of his and wrapping his arm around her shoulders, intending to guide her back into the common room.

  The innkeeper’s wife noticed the gesture. She grinned at Julia and arched an eyebrow.

  Julia blushed.

  Lord Eastbourne appeared not to notice. “Ah, breakfast! I smell biscuits baking and sausages sizzling in the pan.” He gently nudged her away from the window, but she was reluctant to leave. “My coachman’s a loud, boisterous fellow. You’ll hear his bellows from the other end of the village. What’s the expression? A watched pot never boils?”

  “It isn’t his arrival that troubles me so much as the possibility of our delayed departure,” she explained, slipping her hand out of his and returning to her spot by the window.

  “Then I’ll wait with you.” To her surprise, he remained by her side, his presence as warm and comforting as a soft blanket. Though their bodies did not touch, his mere glance was enough to chase the cold dread from her heart.

  “Ah, there’s my carriage now.” He pointed into the distance, to the winding road that cut through the valley and the small, black speck moving along it. “Perhaps your vigil did work magic.”

  Mr. Stevenson rushed out to greet the driver as the gleaming black conveyance, led by a matched pair of sturdy grays snorting mist through their nostrils, clattered into the courtyard.

  “We’ll be away as soon as they’re fed, watered, and allowed a short rest,” Lord Eastbourne assured her.

  Julia cast him a worried glance.

  He cupped a finger under her chin and tweaked it. “Stop fretting. You’ll put wrinkles on your brow. Can’t have you looking like an old, dried prune by the time we finally reach Eastbourne.”

  She rolled her eyes to play along, but her mind remained awhirl. Anything could happen to delay their departure. An ice storm, a sudden torrential rain to pound the mounting snow into an impassible mixture of sleet and mud. A broken coach wheel… and then there was Charlie.

  She glanced at the boy who seemed calm and cheerful while talking to Homer. Why hadn’t he raised a fuss or shed a tear over leaving King Cadeyrn? The faerie king had been his best friend, his only friend, for years.

  “His cheerfulness troubles me, too,” Lord Eastbourne murmured. “Has he forgotten about last night? He hasn’t spoken of King Cadeyrn or the belfry. Nothing, not a word of the incident to me or to Homer this morning.”

  “Nor to me.”

  “It’s as though it never happened. Is it poss
ible he’s forgotten last night?”

  She nibbled her lip in concern. “I don’t know. Perhaps we’re overthinking it. He could be as glad as we are to be away from here.”

  Lord Eastbourne’s brow knitted and his eyes darkened. She saw a thoughtful intelligence, not anger, within his gaze. “Let’s hope so. What about you, Julia?”

  “This village of Borrowdale has been the only home I’ve known my entire life, but I’m not sorry to leave it. After last night.” She paused and gave a little shudder. “I don’t ever wish to return.”

  He rested his hand lightly on her shoulder. “You won’t have to, nor will Charlie.”

  “Charlie,” she murmured, her gaze returning to the boy. “I dare not raise the subject of the Fae king until we’re well down the road.”

  “M’lord, your breakfast is getting cold,” the innkeeper’s portly wife said, coming to their side and interrupting further conversation. “You too, Julia. You’ll fade to nothing if you don’t get a hot meal into you.”

  “Excellent, Mrs. Stevenson. You’re absolutely right. Come along, Julia. We have at least half an hour before the horses will be sufficiently rested to continue the journey.”

  Julia finished the last of her breakfast and lingered over a cup of hot tea while Homer obtained a deck of cards. He and Charlie entertained themselves in front of the crackling fire by stacking cards to form a house. Julia laughed and gently teased Charlie as he played. However, her façade of tranquility was as fragile as the house of cards they were building, so easily undone by one word, one action from the young boy she’d raised from birth.

  His outward calm and pleasant conversation simply did not feel right.

  Indeed, it seemed quite unnatural.

  Lord Eastbourne declined to join in the game, instead settling into a chair by the hearth and stretching his long legs out before him. He stared into the flames, occasionally watching the red glow cast by the fire dancing in the enormous stone hearth.

  Julia wanted to ask him more about Eastbourne, but he seemed lost in his thoughts. No matter, they’d have hours to talk while riding in his coach.

  “I think I’ll wait outside,” he said suddenly, rising from the chair and stalking out of the inn, leaving Julia to wonder about his sudden departure.

  *

  Douglas knew he’d go mad if forced to remain beside Julia any longer.

  All morning long, her innocent gaze and delicate smile had caused his heart to skip beats. To actually skip beats!

  And she had those damned adorable butterfly clasps in her hair again.

  Lord, his throat was parched.

  Even now, as they waited at the Ashness Inn for his coachman to ready the horses, as Julia’s light laughter filled the inn with angelic sweetness, his heart was thumping and bumping, his skin prickling, and his blood coursing through his tense body like a molten flame shooting up a chimney flue.

  And yet, the more drawn he was to her, the more his old suspicions came flooding back. He wasn’t certain he could trust the girl.

  He wasn’t certain he could trust Charlie.

  What had seemed otherworldly last evening was more easily explained in the bright light of day. He didn’t know what to do or what to believe, so he remained outside, hoping the frigid breeze blowing through the courtyard would flow over him and clear his head.

  He had to reason through this situation using cold logic, not hot passion… and there certainly was something about Julia that stirred his passion. For that reason, he needed to be away from her when thinking through the events of these past few days.

  First, was Charlie’s illness real or faked?

  Boys did not sit still for hours at a time. For Charlie to do so, assuming he was faking his illness, would take an iron discipline. Difficult, but not impossible for a child his age.

  But if Charlie could walk, then he’d be able to set up a room, place wine on a table and just as quickly take it away. The boy could have been the one to drug his wine and Homer’s and, by doing so, draw suspicion away from Julia.

  If he were able to walk, then he could have made it up to the belfry and swung back and forth from the ledge despite the break in the floor. Not quite as dangerous for a healthy boy to accomplish.

  Clever, indeed.

  A second thought came to mind. Had Julia and Charlie discovered Homer’s true identity on his earlier visit and devised this elaborate stage play knowing he – Douglas – would arrive in short order to claim the boy?

  That would explain how Charlie had guessed his identity immediately upon his arrival. The boy had been prepared, creating a world of magic and mystery by the simple mention of King Cadeyrn. Even those damned bluebells flourishing in the garden were logically explained. An underground hot spring, that’s all, sheltering the flowers from a winter’s frost.

  He frowned.

  Julia’s fall had been real, but what better way to remove suspicion than to become the victim? As for her shivers, she could have stuck her hands out the window until her fingers numbed, shutting the window when she’d heard him climb the stairs. Yet, her body had remained frozen long after the room had warmed.

  How did she fake that? Or the blue webbing on her arms and legs?

  A dye?

  Her chills could be explained by a bag of ice hidden within the folds of her robe.

  Once again, logical answers.

  Douglas shook his head and sighed.

  Was everyone playing him for a dupe?

  He glanced at the sky and saw the raven circling overhead, cutting in and out of the gray clouds. “You can’t have Charlie,” he said, overlooking that he ought to feel a fool for threatening a bird.

  “Pardon, m’lord. Did ye call fer me?” the innkeeper said, poking his head through the open doorway.

  “Yes, tell my party that our carriage is ready.”

  “Right away, m’lord.” The innkeeper gazed up at the sky and shivered. “There’s an unnatural chill to the air and an unnatural red in the sky this morning. See those two clouds, my lord? Strange shapes, as though someone’s watching from above. We call ’em devil’s eyes. We’ll have more snow fer sure before nightfall.”

  *

  Julia peered out of the coach window and watched, fascinated as the gently falling snow blanketed the surrounding woods in a luxurious coat of ermine white. They had reached Windermere two days ago, just as another fierce storm had hit and forced them to spend two nights lodged in a charming inn overlooking the lake. The skies were clearing today, the third day of their journey, so they pressed on in the hope that the ebbing snowstorm would pose little danger so long as they kept to the main roads.

  Julia continued to peer out of the coach window, her gaze fixed on the ice-coated leaves and tree branches that glistened like crystals in the sunlight. “It’s so beautiful.”

  Lord Eastbourne tossed her a sleepy grin.

  These past two nights, while she and Charlie had shared an enormous bed with the softest goose down mattress, Lord Eastbourne and Homer had been forced to take turns sleeping on a pallet beside them, one resting while the other stood watch. She couldn’t imagine what the Windermere innkeeper thought of that arrangement!

  Sighing, she glanced at Homer and saw that his eyes were closed. He was seated beside Charlie, snoring in the poor boy’s ear. She sat beside Lord Eastbourne. It was all she could do to tamp down her pleasure each time their shoulders grazed, which happened quite often in the bouncing carriage.

  “It’s like a faerie kingdom,” Charlie said with seeming innocence, following her gaze as she peered out the window. The sun burst out just then and vivid blue patches of sky now mixed with softening white clouds. The icicles now gleamed as brightly as stars as they melted from the bare treetops and leafless tree branches.

  Julia swallowed her disgust.

  Lord Eastbourne took Charlie onto his lap and turned him away from the window. “Julia, you asked me about Eastbourne earlier.”

  “I’m eager to hear all about it,” sh
e said with a nod, grateful for his attempt to distract the boy from his menacing fantasies.

  “Eastbourne was built over six hundred years ago by one of my ancestors, a knight on Crusade with King Richard, and apparently one of his elite fighters.”

  Julia wasn’t surprised. That strength and ability were evident in the earl’s own features, those traits probably carried down through the centuries in the family’s bloodline. Lord Eastbourne lacked only a sword, shield, and coat of chain mail to complete the image of a valiant warrior.

  “The town itself dates back to the Norman conquest and was an important outpost during the Battle of Hastings. Eastbourne Hall is new in comparison,” he jested. “The manor house has undergone several renovations, the east wing expansion being the latest, but that was about two hundred years ago. The Eastbourne estate consists of the manor, several thousand acres of farmland, several mills, stables, sheep, cattle, a brewery, a fishery, interests in the towns of Pevensey and Polegate –”

  “Both towns?”

  “And Hastings.”

  Julia gulped. “All three towns. I see.”

  “But those are just the local Eastbourne holdings. We have other business interests, of course.”

  She gulped again. “Of course.”

  “And merchant ships.”

  “Of course.”

  “And don’t forget your gardens,” Charlie added. “You said they were the finest in England.”

  “Indeed, maintained by a staff of ten gardeners,” he said, “but you’ve seen flowers before, lad. Let me tell you about my sailing ships.”

  But Charlie would have none of it. “How big is your garden? Ours at the vicarage is small, but it blossoms all year round and it’s always warm there. Rabbits and squirrels, and even deer play there, and there are lots of flowers, especially bluebells. Julia’s eyes are more the color of violets. Did you notice her eyes, Uncle Douglas?”