Arabella
1923
February 8, 1923
We put Charlie in the ground today.
It seems heartless to write, but I could not move myself to cry, even as I cast my parting handful of dirt onto his coffin. I think I lost the ability to grieve over the past decade. Perhaps some things are diminished through practice, rather than grown. This was true of the number of mourners: there were barely ten of us present in all. Just compare that to the two hundred or so people who descended on Harfold for my parents’ funeral. If only someone had warned us then that we would need to ration them out for what was to follow.
Then again, who among us would have believed such a warning? Not Charlie. Cheerful, optimistic Charlie. Even when I read the signs so clearly, he refused to listen; shrugged his shoulders or looked at me with concern, as if I were the one who should be worried. I wonder if he changed his mind in those last moments, or if—even as he came off that bloody horse—he still thought it all unconnected.
I will not make the same mistake as you, my sweet brother.
Poor Morry managed a few tears. He has always been such a tender soul. He will probably cry when we shoot the wretched horse, too. Mr. Allen wants to sell it, but I cannot stand the thought of the thing getting away scot-free. Not that it is the horse’s fault. The Reaper was always going to come calling for Charlie, and the creature just happened to be his instrument on this occasion.
I wonder what he will send to collect me.
It did not really dawn on me until the both of us were standing there in the graveyard, Morry honking into his handkerchief while I held the umbrella, that we are the only ones left. Our whole family tree stripped down to two little twigs. How lonely we have become.
“There’s mine,” I told him, nodding to the bare patch of earth next to Charlie. “Then yours, after me.”
The church tower seemed to look down on us—waiting, no doubt, to watch us go under. I can’t stand to look at the thing any longer.
I keep imagining ways that I might die, from the improbable to the mundane. Will it be a falling tree? A sudden cancer? A smoldering cigarette thrown carelessly into the wastepaper bin one night?
Beneath my show of bravado, the truth is that I am terrified. As much as I try to tell myself that it is inevitable, that I must make my peace with it and wait in resignation as the hourglass fritters itself away, I do not want to die. It is as simple as that. So I must cling to my one consolation: I am not like Charlie, or my other brothers, or our parents, because I know what is coming. I see the distant headlights on the road. If there is any chance to avert their path, then I swear on Charlie’s grave that I will take it.
I am so very tired of funerals.
Vee
1925
CHAPTER 1
There’s a dead deer in the way. No question of getting past it, not on this narrow country lane. The taxi rolls leisurely to a halt, headlights illuminating glistening clots of blood on matted fur, a mouth held in a permanent scream. The engine trundles softly.
After a minute, I lean over from the back seat. “Can’t you do something?”
The driver glances at me in the mirror. “I don’t know what to tell you, love,” he says. “I can’t get around that.”
“Isn’t there another road?”
He shakes his head. “Nah.”
“But this road has to come out somewhere, hasn’t it?” I’m trying my best to keep the frustration from my voice, but he’s not making it easy for me.
The man purses his lips and blows out through them. “Not unless I go all the way back up the Warminster road and loop around.”
“Can’t you—I don’t know—move it?” I wave at the deer. Its eyes are stuck open in a sorry gaze, as if still trying to bargain with whatever it saw during those last moments.
He shrugs. “I’ve got a bad back.”
I glance at my pocket watch, angling its face to catch the last of the September evening light. First the delayed train, now this: not a good first impression. “Alright, I’ll move it, then.”
The driver guffaws, though I wasn’t joking. “Look, love,” he says, with a scratch of the nose. “The village is just over there. See the lights? It’s five minutes’ walk, tops.”
I look out at the dim, muddy road. The overgrown verge. The tiny glimmer of yellow showing through the trees. “You want me to get out here?” I’m regretting the skirt, smart hat, and dress shoes I let Gladys talk me into wearing. Just for the first day, so they know you’re a nice girl, like. After all the things that have been said about me, I couldn’t help but find this funny.
“Can’t be far,” says the driver. “Be near on half an hour to go the other way.”
At least I don’t have much to carry—just the one suitcase and Dad’s old holdall. I climb reluctantly out of the cab.
“Straight up the road to the village, then it’s a track on the left,” says the driver. “You’ll be fine, love; can’t miss it.”
I was meant to be greeted at the station by a Mr. Reacher—the estate manager I’ve been exchanging letters back and forth with in preparation for today. But whether because of the late train or another reason, when I arrived, I found that he’d buggered off, leaving this prepaid cabbie in his place. Must cost a fortune, the distance we’ve traveled. I consider making a last-ditch argument in favor of moving the deer—if only to get the fare’s worth out of him—but then I look at the creature’s sharp-twisted neck and think better of it.
There’s the grunt of a revving engine and the taxi begins to reverse, not waiting to see me on my way. Probably wanting to get home. Wife, kids, evening paper to read. Besides, even in my nice-girl skirt, something in the way I carry myself always seems to kill any gentlemanly impulses. Intentional, of course. The headlights swing round into the hedge as the taxi finds a place to turn. Then just the receding glow. Then darkness.
Once my eyes have adjusted, I heft up the suitcase and step onto the verge, trying to avoid anything that might be a bit of deer. It’s not a five-minute walk. It takes a quarter hour to find the “track on the left”—which is, in fact, on the right. But here it is, a hand-painted wooden board: HARFOLD MANOR. I thought it sounded rather grand when I first read the advert in the Morning Post, but what I’m currently seeing is a lot of mud, and I suspect the place has been misrepresented.
jumping at the chance to employ a woman gardener. Especially one without any formal horticultural qualifications. I didn’t expect to hear back when I sent the letter of application—not least because the listing was a good few weeks old by the time I’d convinced myself to write. But then the reply came almost immediately, as if there’d been no deliberation at all. Reacher’s abominable small handwriting offered me the job then and there, laying out the terms of employment. He didn’t even ask for a reference.
My way to the manor is completely dark, sloping down between steep wooded banks that blot out the final wilt of twilight. I slide and stumble as I go, caught off guard by sudden changes in texture, sudden obstacles. The fucking dress shoes. If I ever see that taxi driver again…
Finally, I reach the end of the track, the bleat of a lantern coming into view. A pair of gate posts part the trees. When I get closer, I see that two leaping rabbits or hares or suchlike are carved into them, one on either side. Between them, a set of cast-iron gates bear a swirling design. Shut tight.
While I’m distracted, my toe hits something unyielding and I go tripping forward. Hands and knees in the mud. Hat knocked off and lost in the darkness. My bags have landed a foot in front of me—thankfully still held closed by their straps. Scrambling to my feet, I grab my luggage, and in this frenzy almost jump out my skin when I look up to see a man now standing on the other side of the gates.
This newcomer is middle-aged, wearing a flatcap and tweeds. Not tall, but broad-shouldered and stocky. Wellies on his feet. A weathered tan to his skin. He’s holding an electric torch, the beam of which he now sweeps over me like a night watchman. “Miss Morgan? That you there?” He has a proper Wiltshire accent, the syllables swallowing one another up. “Blimey, what’s happened to you, then?”
I shake my head and move closer. He’s not dressed like an estate manager, so perhaps he’s the groundsman mentioned in Reacher’s instructions. “Mr. Allen?” I guess.
He hesitates a moment as he takes me in, then slides back the bolt, pulling one half of the gate narrowly open. As I squeeze through, he puts a hand out for my suitcase, extends the other to shake. “Call me Tom.” It sounds almost like “Tam,” the way he says it.
“Vee,” I say, then clarify, “Morgan, yes.” It’s clear I’m not what he was expecting. Unusual enough for a gardener to be female, but I’m also an odd age at twenty-five—too old still to be saving up for marriage, too young to have given up on the possibility. I’ve got my dad’s ungainly height, my mam’s thick black hair worn in a messy Eton crop. A strong Cardiff accent. And I’m covered in mud. Although maybe mud comes with the profession.
Tom trudges up the drive, nodding for me to follow. “We thought you’d be here round nine,” he says. It doesn’t sound accusatory—just like a topic of conversation. Making small talk.
“The train was delayed,” I say. “Something on the line, I think it was. Then later, just outside the village, the taxi couldn’t get through. There was a deer. You know, dead.” I have a sudden urge to pull a face to illustrate, eyes crossed and tongue lolling. Thankfully I fight it back.
Tom nods as if this is nothing unusual. “That’ll be that lot from Warminster. Always tearing about the lanes, drunk as you like.” He looks me over again. “You’re best wearing white so they can see you in time to stop.”
I try not to recall the way the deer’s neck had been twisted. Its sorry eyes. The crawling feeling up my spine.
“Mr. Reacher said to apologize that he couldn’t wait for you, only he had to get off away to London. He’s often up there on business.” Tom leads me up the drive till we reach a fork. The main path continues, fat and self-assured, with a gem of light at its end. “The manor,” says Tom, nodding at it. We turn off and take a simpler,
graveled track to the cottage. My cottage.
I’d hardly believed my luck when I’d learned the job came with its own place on the grounds. Are you sure this isn’t a bit impulsive? Gladys had asked when I broke the news—which was rich coming from her—but I’d known there was no point in deliberating. It was just what I’d been after: a chance to start afresh.
In the halo of Tom’s torch, I make out yellow Cotswold stone, a door that needs a paint. Crabbed windows with leaded panes. It’s perfect.
Tom holds out his hand. “Key,” he says. The metal’s warm from his pocket. “Have the torch as well. We’re not on the electrics yet, but the gas comes out for you, and I’ve left some water. Me and the missus are up at the manor if you have any problems. Round the back door.”
I nod. “And her Ladyship?” Lady Lascy’s looping, fierce signature had sealed the employment contract—although it was Reacher who’d arranged everything. I imagine ladies don’t bother with that kind of paperwork. They have charity galas or what-have-you to organize.
“Oh,” says Tom, setting down my case on the front step. “No, you won’t see much of her, I don’t suppose.” Leaving the remark to hang unexplored, he heads back toward the manor.
My key scrapes inside the lock, sticks for a moment, then turns. The door opens inward. I expect a creak, but the hinges are well-oiled. The smell of still air and old, chilly buildings. A narrow front hall with a side table, on which a key dish and a vase of dahlias have been set out for me. I brush a finger over one of the blooms and smile. Did Tom leave these? There’s something touching in the thought of a man like him out among the flowers, delicately selecting the best to cut.
There isn’t much to explore. One up, one down. The ground floor room is squarish, the ceiling low—not so low I have to stoop, but I’ll need to watch my head on the doorframe. Upstairs, I find the luxury of a double bed. The sheets are white, with a pink flower pattern on thin, faded fabric. The headboard is pushed up against
the chimney breast—that’ll be welcome warmth come winter. A number of cushions with needlepoint designs are scattered about. They all show hares performing various antics: jumping, boxing, sleeping. The furniture looks old, scuffed and warped with poor use. When I open the wardrobe to hang up my clothes, there are deep scores in the wood on the inside, all the way around the bottom third of the door—rodents, I assume. Bloody marvelous.
From one of the bedroom windows, I spot squares of illumination that I guess come from the manor building. We’re closer neighbors than I’d imagined, me and Lady Lascy. Maybe I’ll pop round for a cup of tea, I joke to myself.
As I lie down to sleep, I’m struck by the change in soundscape. No women moving about, no rush of late-night traffic or drunken shouts of merrymakers staggering home. Instead, the creaks and groans of the cottage settling, the rattle of the wind. Unfamiliar animal noises from outside. Then a scritch-scritch-scritch. Maybe from the wardrobe. Maybe the attic. A creature scampering with little claws on wood. Moving in the ceiling above me—almost the sound of a rattling tin. Not so different from Cardiff after all. Wherever you go, there’s always vermin.
The next morning, Tom takes me on a tour of the gardens. Even so early in the morning, the day is shaping up beautifully, with an open, cloudless sky the blue of cornflowers. A light breeze carries the cow-smell of manure from over the fields. Insects hum lazily at the edge of hearing.
I’m back in my overalls and work boots today, one of Dad’s straw sun hats on my head. The familiar garments feel like a sigh of relief. Gladys is one of my best friends, and I respect her opinion to no end, but that doesn’t mean I have to listen every time. The fact of the matter is, I’m here to be a gardener, not a secretary. They aren’t going to care what I wear, so long as I can keep the plants alive.
through last night. “Used to be closer on three hundred when I was a lad,” says Tom, “but then Lord Lascy sold a lot of it off. That’s Henry Lascy, her Ladyship’s late father. Lots of tenant farmers lost their homes and their livelihoods overnight, as it were.” He shakes his head in disapproval. “Nasty business.”
“Mmm,” I say, noncommittal. Better settle in before I plunge too deep into local politics. I’m here to keep my head down, after all.
“But yours was never a farm cottage,” Tom continues. “That’s always been for the head gardener.”
From this, I take that there must once have been a team of gardeners. And now it’s just me and Tom to look after all this glorious, sweeping land.
The head gardener’s cottage is on the edge of the estate, a stream marking its border from open farms beyond, hills speckled with white and brown sheep. A little way off to the left, more of Harfold village—a few roofs, the church tower. On the other side, the cottage backs onto an overgrown paddock. “Horses, is it?” I ask, nodding at what looks like a coach house and stables.
A shadow in Tom’s expression. “Not for a couple of years.”
We cross the east lawn, following an uphill slope till we catch the main driveway. Scruffy yews line its sides, their original shapes almost obscured by summer growth.
“They’ll need doing, then,” I say.
“Feel free to be as artistic as you like.” Tom has a cheeky, boyish smile that peels the decades from his face. He’s not too bad a sort, I don’t think. Reminds me a bit of Mam—the nose for gossip. So long as he stays interested in other people’s business and not mine, we’ll be right as rain with each other.
Up the drive, I finally get my first proper sight of the manor. I don’t know enough about architecture to date it, but I think it’s a good age. Georgian, possibly. The main body is a heavy oblong of red brick, decorated with lighter stone detail that oozes the aura of Old England. Ivy clambers up its face to give it a bearded look. The hipped roof is done in dark slate, with moldings underneath it all carved in elaborate designs. Everything would be beautifully symmetrical, down to the pair of slender chimney stacks, if it weren’t for an extra wing that stretches back on the west side. Such an odd, lopsided shape for a building. And, while the window and doorframes are painted a cheery white, as we approach I see the cracks and chips, the dirt and lichen. It’s one of those buildings that looks less and less impressive the closer you stand.
“That’s us.” Tom nods. “Nora’s in town this morning to put the orders in, but you’ll meet her later on. My wife, that is,” he adds, when he sees me looking blank at the name.
“And the other staff?” I ask.
Tom chuckles. “It’s just us.”
“Only the two of you to look after this whole place, you mean?” I can’t keep the incredulity from my voice.
“These days? Yup.”
“And just her Ladyship living here?”
Tom nods. “Mr. Reacher is often about, though, when he’s not in London.”
I look up at the gleaming windows. Lady Lascy must rattle round in all that space like the last match in the box.
The Allens’ wing overlooks a kitchen garden, the well in one corner and a henhouse in the other. A hatch against the main wall that I guess must lead into a cellar. “You’ll help yourself to eggs, mind?” Tom insists. “Nora will do us some lunch later.” He nods in the direction of the back door. “Just come on through at two o’clock.”
There are several garden rooms beyond the kitchen plot: a paved terrace at the front of the house, followed by a rose garden, water garden, and statue garden. A crusty potting shed. A vast greenhouse plump with glossy tomatoes and
massive, knobbled cucumbers. And still, there’s more. Tom leads me up a set of uneven steps to the west lawn, a level rectangle that must be perfect for games. As if to confirm this, a weathered blue summer house is stacked full of ancient-looking croquet hoops, tennis racquets, and folding chairs. But the grass is too long for anything of the sort at the moment, growing over my ankles.
A walled orchard separates the games lawn from the main road. A swarm of stately trees, twisted and knotted, heavy with the apples and pears and quinces of the season. There are already windfalls clogging the grass underfoot. The sweet, heady smell of decaying fruit.
Finally, right at the end of the grounds, Tom leads me to a sizeable lake and boathouse. “How big did you say your last place was?” he asks, dabbing his neck with a hanky. It’s warming up now the late summer sun has climbed a way in the sky.
I try to remember what I’d put in my application letter, if I’d even mentioned it. Another strange oversight from Reacher not to have verified my references, but then I wouldn’t be here if he’d thought to. “A bit smaller than this,” I say in the end.
Tom’s eyes have drifted to a nearby coot, bobbing its head up and down in the water as it looks for food. “It’s a lot, mind,” he says, “but Lady Lascy doesn’t want anything fancy doing with it.” He rummages in his pockets, pulls out a bit of bread crust. “It was all Bruce could do to keep up with the watering, these past months.”
It’s been an endlessly dry, hot summer, with record-breaking low rainfall. The entirety of Britain has been stinking to high heaven.
“He’d been here for donkey’s years,” Tom goes on, “but his rheumatism’s too much for it now. He’s moved in with his sister down the village. Nice woman. Bit of a drinker, though.” He chucks the bread out with an under-arm throw, so it plops down a few feet from the hungry bird. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind having a talk, if you’ve got any questions. It’s the white cottage by the church.”
“I’ll look out for it,” I say, though I doubt I’ll be making social calls around the village any time soon. I’m here to get away from the judgment of others, not to invite any more of it.
Lunch is in the Allens’ quarters. Two o’clock—Lady Lascy keeps late hours, and so must we. My stomach’s growling loud enough to wake the dead by the time my pocket watch has ticked its way around. I don’t know how the Allens put up with it. I scrub the dirt from my face and hands, run a brush through my hair. I’ve only been doing a spot of light weeding this morning, but I already look a sight.
The back entrance has its own little porch and a knocker that looks—again—like a jumping rabbit or hare. I’m starting to think someone round here has a fondness for the creatures. When I come closer, I find the door’s been left open a crack, propped with a stopper. From inside, I catch the faint sound of singing—a woman’s voice, breathy and high. After a line or so, I recognize the hymn as “All Things Bright and Beautiful.”
I peer inside, nudging the door. “Hello?” I call. “Tom?”
I’m met with a flurry of barking, followed by a large gray blur. A dog hurls itself at me, forepaws ramming into my chest so it’s all I can do to keep my footing. Hot, meaty breath in my face. Tongue flopping out. I shove its snout away.
The singing cuts off. “Mutton! Get back here, boy!” The woman has the same countryside accent as Tom.
The dog plops back onto four legs but otherwise ignores the order. He’s a massive thing, above waist height. Scruffy face with a downward muzzle and big blob of a nose. Two alert brown eyes. His legs are strangely spindly, greyhound-ish, holding up a broad, muscular body. Oversized paws. Stubby tail wagging—at least that means he thinks he’s being friendly.
“That the gardener?” calls the woman. She must be Mr. Allen’s wife. Nora, I think he said.
I snatch my fingers out of licking range, seeing as I’ve just washed them. “Yes.”
“Mind you clean your boots.”
lined with coat pegs and a shoe rack on one side. A stark drop in temperature where thick walls have kept the heat at bay. The dog pushes past me, skittering through to where I assume Mrs. Allen can be found. I follow.
A dim kitchen, lamps not lit at this time of day. ...
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