Hyacinth reveled in the vast expanse of Mr. Whitbeck’s garden structures. In addition to the orchid house, which—like the other hothouses—held a stove and a giant tub of water so the building was warm and humid all year, there were several greenhouses, some near the orchid house and others farther afield, each paneled in glass and protected from the elements, but unheated. The warmth in those buildings was provided by the sun and the plants growing within.
When the family was in residence at the manor house, Hyacinth could imagine the full complement of gardeners for both the grounds and the indoor structures, tending flowers for cut arrangements as well as some of the more tender fruit trees. Now the greenhouses, dripping with near-constant rain, were mostly left fallow, growing trays of ground cover, mosses, and flowering shrubs in pots, perhaps anticipating a return to the inside of the manor.
There was a glorious solarium, its greened-copper frame blending in with the trees and shrubberies, set in a lovely garden walled in on three sides. Along one of the lines of hedges, a plot of wildflowers ran in a riot of blues and purples. Hyacinth found the view so picturesque she sat on a stone bench tucked under a sprawling tree with her feet in the damp grass and made a sketch of the hedge, eager to add in a touch of color so she could keep the memory of it with her always.
A small and unreasonable wish developed in a secret part of her heart to hold a wedding right there in the solarium, with the afternoon light streaming through the leaves.
On her way back to the orchid hothouse, Hyacinth passed the formal rose garden complete with stone fountain. Some of the bushes had late-blooming roses still showing off their petals. Someone, possibly Mr. Gardner, had taken care to lop off the dead rose hips after their first bloom so they could blossom again. She wished she could have seen the whole garden on its best day, when the family was in residence, fountain running with a bubbling stream of clear water. Perhaps guests dancing by candlelight. Not at any specific event, of course. Not necessarily at a marriage celebration. Simply a party. Of course.
Hyacinth laughed at herself. Did every beautiful element of the estate exist merely to become a backdrop to her fantasy wedding? She knew she was being silly, but the silliness amused her, and no one else would ever know.
At midday, Mrs. Carter put her head into the orchid house and called for Hyacinth. “Miss Bell?” Almost immediately she called again, this time with more force. “Miss Bell.”
Each interaction with the housekeeper reinforced Hyacinth’s understanding that she was not a patient woman.
Rather than shout across the tables, she hurried over to the door, rubbing dirt from her hands.
“I am on my way into the village. Is there anything you need?” Mrs. Carter asked. A polite question, but asked without any warmth.
“How very kind,” Hyacinth said. She could at least pretend it was so. “I believe Mr. Gardner has something for me, but I had planned to walk into town after I’ve finished here. Perhaps I will cross your path there?”
Mrs. Carter made a scoffing sound. “I wouldn’t assume that any of the things I need to keep the manor alive would be found in George Gardner’s little shop. No. I have other destinations.”
Something in her words tickled Hyacinth’s mind, a thought she couldn’t quite grasp. She wanted Mrs. Carter to keep talking.
“You’ve been there?” Hyacinth asked.
Mrs. Carter nodded. “Gardner’s been a fixture in Suttonsbury as long as I can remember. A decent grower and a friendly neighbor, but he’s lost his mind bringing on that man as an assistant.”
Ah, Hyacinth thought. The secret opinions of the stoic Mrs. Carter might be uncovered here in the hothouse. She wanted to keep the housekeeper invested in the discussion, even if it bordered on gossip. “Do you mean James? The man who came to help with the orchids?”
With a shake of her head, Mrs. Carter said, “He was no help at all, wandering across the estate as if he had any right to explore it.” She glanced at Hyacinth before adding, “I told him to clear off the place and asked George not to bring him back. Lucky you arrived when you did.” She brushed her hands together as if making a physical break from the conversation.
Hyacinth wondered if she made herself too much at home if Mrs. Carter would tell her to clear off as well.
She’d have to be much more subtle in her investigations than James had been.
Mrs. Carter said, “Nothing from the village, then?” as though Hyacinth had answered her original question, then turned from the doorway and walked away.
Hyacinth agreed with Mrs. Carter’s obvious distaste for Mr. Gardner’s assistant, but she wished she could know more about the housekeeper’s reasons. Was she concerned by his rude demeanor? By his distasteful insolence? There were a variety of explanations why a person would be turned off by the man James.
But then another thought pushed that one aside—Mrs. Carter’s phrase “Keep the manor alive.”
This was how she described her work.
The phrase suggested that, without her superintendence, the manor might die.
Mrs. Carter spoke of the great stone house as though it breathed. Of course, when Hyacinth thought about it, considering how much wind moved down the hallways at night, it was probably the most precise way of describing it. And it had not truly occurred to Hyacinth until now how much was expected of Mrs. Carter. What a heavy responsibility. Not only the daily management of the near-empty house but also keeping it at readiness for such time as any of the family would come back. Simply to put aside the cloths draped over every piece of furniture would take days.
She could not fully imagine the momentous tasks at hand for a housekeeper at an estate like Ashthorne. It was no wonder Mrs. Carter did not seem to have much time to be friendly with her. The woman had far more to do than Hyacinth could even imagine. Naturally she could not be bothered to amuse an unexpected houseguest, even if the guest entertained premature hopes of someday becoming a family member.
Hyacinth shook that thought off and returned to her work, but only minutes passed before she realized she was missing her best opportunity to investigate the house.
Mrs. Carter was away in the village. The manor was empty.
Giddy with the chance before her, Hyacinth hurried back to the house. Through the trees, she caught a glimpse of Mrs. Carter walking along the winding lane leading to the road, a large basket on her arm. Without a cart or carriage, the housekeeper could not stop at many shops. If the road into Suttonsbury was about a mile—and Hyacinth thought it was longer—and Mrs. Carter walked swiftly, she might make the round trip in forty minutes. She had suggested there was more than one stop she needed to make in town. Hyacinth made a quick calculation and decided she had at least an hour.
Perfect.
She began her exploration in the kitchen, where several doors stood along the back wall. Hyacinth opened three of them in turn. Behind the first, she discovered a cupboard holding a neat and orderly supply of brooms, mops, cloths, and buckets. On her most industrious day, she couldn’t imagine the uses for so many cleaning supplies. One more measure of Mrs. Carter’s diligence.
The second door opened onto a short, descending staircase. From the light from the kitchen, Hyacinth could make out several stairs and a landing, and then the steps turned. The cool air suggested a food storage room, and the smell of dirt hinted at potatoes. Another day, she would happily explore this passage, but she’d not waste her hour alone in the manor looking at bins of vegetables.
The next door, the one closest to the outer wall of the room, was the most promising. Another staircase, but this one led both up and down. Unlike the house’s main stairways, there was no plush carpet, and only a metal ring for a lamp sconce. This was not a staircase for the family. This was for the help.
The servants’ stairway. Her father’s house had one. Most large houses did, so the staff would not be seen. It also made an excellent hiding place for a young girl intent on disappearing from her older sister’s critical eye.
Hyacinth lit a small oil lamp from the kitchen counter and slipped into the staircase.
The same chill wind that moved in her bedroom’s hallway blew through this narrow staircase. She climbed and then leveled, climbed and then leveled, counting at least two dozen steps when she realized the strange pattern suggested the staircase hugged the outer wall of the manor while avoiding the windows. Clearly this passage ran between the bedrooms and the building’s outer walls. Soon the steps flattened out into a landing and a hallway, and by holding her lamp high, she could see it ran long and straight enough to be the upstairs hall at the end of which lay her own room. When she came to a door, she turned the knob. She pushed and then pulled the door, but it would not give. She pulled out a hairpin and, with the confidence of previous success, set to unlocking the bedroom door.
This lock was different. Perhaps a newer addition to the manor, its mechanism did not open as easily as the door she’d tried yesterday. A second pin did not help. She fussed with the pins, but the tumblers would not pop the lock open for her.
The lamplight illuminated a small plate on the door with a number on it. A label for the room. From this back hallway, servants could be sure to approach the correct rooms. Hyacinth felt a thrill knowing she could open any of these rooms from the main hall, even if it would be far more convenient to do so from this hidden passageway.
She left the first door and moved to the next. Also numbered. Also locked tight.
She would figure out a way to get through these doors, but her search might require a different device.
Hyacinth would need to find a key—or something to act as a key. She reached into her pocket where she kept some of her smallest garden tools close at hand. Her shears were far too big to be of any use on these locks, and the blade of her cutting knife bent too easily.
The tools were critical to her work in the hothouse, but useless in this endeavor.
Because she was not a person who let her luck go untested, Hyacinth tried all the remaining doors in the hallway; each proved inaccessible. Only when she approached the end of the hall and turned the knob that she was sure must provide entry to her own room did she find one unlocked. Not only unlocked. Unlatched.
A frisson of fear ran down her spine. At the end of this long, deserted hallway, only the entry to her room was open.
Who might be using this staircase, moving through the manor invisibly?
It must be Mrs. Carter, Hyacinth told herself. It had to be.
But why would she need to use the hidden stairs? No one was in residence who cared if Mrs. Carter was visible in her work.
Hyacinth had seen the housekeeper moving with confidence through the main hallways; it was even the way she had shown Hyacinth to her quarters.
Why, then, was this door unlocked?
Hyacinth pushed open the door, only then realizing she had never noticed the other side of this door from inside her bedroom. She would have seen a door in the wall, even if she’d been distracted by so many unexpected things since her arrival.
She stepped through and was met by another door, also locked up tight. Again, the pin was useless. She rapped the door with her knuckles. Solid. A connecting door?
She made a mental map of her bedroom, placing bed and armoire, tables and fireplace.
This door must be the black painted cabinet beside the window.
The one she had been unable to open from inside her room.
Frustrated that she was mere feet from her own bed but unable to enter the room, she kicked at the door.
A sound she did not expect met her. A rustle and a kick in return. Could the arrangement of the servants’ staircase create an echo? Did she imagine it?
But then Hyacinth heard a scuffle and another thud against the door. A deep growl. A man’s voice, muttering. This voice, so different from Lucas’s gentle speech, grated against her ears and her nerves. Deep, angry, unfamiliar snarls.
No. This was not her imagination. Someone was in her bedroom. Someone had heard her from behind the wall and wanted her to know he was there.
Her room was not her own. Another person was inside it. It was not Mrs. Carter nor was it Lucas, and, Hyacinth feared, the stranger was not there to leave a gift of berries or flowers.
Without another thought, she turned and ran, holding the lamp in front of her and passing locked door after locked door and then down, never stopping until she reached the landing that led to the kitchen. Surrounded by the doors leading to the cleaning closet and the storage cellar, she knew she would soon relax enough to catch her breath. Heart pounding from exertion as well as shock, she turned the knob to reenter the warm, bright room, but the door would not open.
No. Locked? How?
A cry of frustration escaped her lips, and she rattled the knob and pushed against it with her shoulder.
No good. It didn’t give even a bit.
Hyacinth spun around in her fright and looked at the other doors at this landing, and she saw a different one had a line of daylight streaming beneath it.
Reaching for that door, she turned the knob and was immediately relieved to be in the kitchen. She had, in her confusion and fear, tried to get out of the servants’ hallway through the wrong door.
A few shaky breaths helped calm her. A silly mistake, but one she thought now she would not repeat. Next time she explored the hidden staircase, she would recognize which door led back to the warmth of the kitchen.
Now that she was safe in the familiar room, she chided herself for her foolishness. Surely no one was in her bedroom. She had imagined the knocking and the gravelly voice muttering from the other side of the door. The house was empty. The halls were silent, as always. They must be.
Her overactive imagination had caused her to become turned around. The locked door behind the kitchen wall—the one she tried by mistake but could not open—must lead to the north wing.
A flurry of anticipation filled Hyacinth as she imagined making her way along this hidden hallway, a new way to explore the rooms closed to her. A secret passage through the forbidden spaces of Ashthorne.
But first, she would need to find the key that unlocked the doors in the servants’ hallway.
Her breathing back to its normal rate, Hyacinth turned to the kitchen’s storage cupboards and pulled open several drawers, but she was unsurprised to find nothing useful in her search. Surely Mrs. Carter kept the house keys with her at all times.
She did find a cache of candles and matches, and she liberated a few of each to take back up to her room.
Once upstairs, she opened her door slowly, almost sure she would find the room empty. Only a tiny corner of her brain wished for proof of what she’d heard from the other side of the wall, the fright she’d experienced still heavy on her mind. Nothing unusual except for a strange but familiar lingering smell. Tobacco? Did she imagine that scent? Surely no one had been smoking a pipe in her bedroom. Maybe it was simply a whiff of fireplace ash.
No. She’d heard the scuffle. She’d heard the voice. Someone had been here.
With a shake of her head, she placed the candles and matches on her bedside table, easily within reach if a late-night exploration opportunity arose. Candles would be perfect for such expeditions. A lamp would better protect a flame from the breezes in the hallways, but a lamp was difficult to hide if she was discovered, while a candle could be pinched out and placed in a pocket.
Hyacinth laughed at herself. What had a few days at Ashthorne Hall done to her? Was she now a person who snuck around in the dark, planning ways to hide her steps from the prying eyes of the housekeeper?
As she settled the matches and candles on the table so they would not fall, she saw something small and round. A perfect, tiny shell, tinged blue and white. Had this shell come from the shoreline? Would Mrs. Carter have left this for her?
It seemed such a strange thing for the housekeeper to do, so out of her usual character, but Hyacinth couldn’t imagine how else it might have arrived on her bedside table.
She turned to study the large black cabinet against the wall. In the afternoon light, it was far less an object of mystery, and she was certain that if she could open the door, it would lead her into the servants’ staircase.
She pulled a few pins from the neat pile on her dressing table and knelt again in an attempt to unfasten the door.
When she looked at the locking mechanism this time, she noticed the same appearance of nicks and scratches she’d seen in that first door in the hallway. Had that only been yesterday?
Perhaps the person who had tried that lock had not been one of the Whitbeck children at all. Could it have been the man who had entered her room? Could he be searching Ashthorne Hall as well?
The thought, though disquieting, made her more eager than ever to find a way through this door.
Several minutes and a few finger pricks later, Hyacinth was still no closer to unlocking the door. Where would Mrs. Carter store extra keys? For surely there were several sets; maids and cleaners would need to move through the hidden staircases to go about their work. If the house were full of family and staff, Hyacinth could borrow a key from any of the maids. There must be a cache of keys somewhere in the manor. Might she attempt a search of Mrs. Carter’s room?
No. That was a step too far. The housekeeper could make free to enter Hyacinth’s room, because she had work that brought her there. Even if the idea of her entry made Hyacinth uncomfortable, there were excuses for Mrs. Carter to be in her bedroom, but not for Hyacinth to take such a liberty with the housekeeper’s private quarters. Besides, she feared the time drew near for Mrs. Carter’s return from the village.
Best she set aside her explorations for now and make her way into Suttonsbury to gather the last of the supplies for the orchids.
Hyacinth knew only one way into the village, and she kept her eyes open for Mrs. Carter. She did not see the lady on the path and assumed Mrs. Carter had at least a few more stops to make as she took care of her errands. The walk into the village was uneventful, and Hyacinth enjoyed the break from the rain as a hint of sun shone through patchy afternoon clouds, which scudded along toward the village as if pushed by the waves at the shore.
As she neared Suttonsbury, small cottages appeared along the road, then slightly larger dwellings. Crooked rooflines suggested not only the houses’ age but also the likelihood that they’d been reconstructed now and then, adding rooms as families grew. If the asymmetrical dwellings were any indication, many families must have rebuilt their homes over the years.
Hyacinth hadn’t previously considered the inconveniences of the lives of the villagers any more than she’d ever thought about the families in the villages surrounding her father’s house in the country, and she wondered now at her thoughtlessness. How simple for her, living in a huge house with more rooms than one could ever need, to ignore the realities of those whose lives were so different from her own.
Before long, the road turned, and Mr. Gardner’s shop sign came into view. A shiver of discomfort ran through her as she imagined meeting Mr. Gardner’s assistant James again. She had no wish to speak with him, or for him to talk to her.
Luck was on her side, though, for she saw Mr. Gardner as soon as she opened the door. She entered the shop and found the kindly little man standing behind the counter, handing a large parcel to a woman wrapped in a snug shawl.
“This should increase your yield. Mix half into the soil at the end of harvest and let it lie over the winter. Then at planting time, add the rest, making sure to mix it well. This is powerful, and it can burn your plants if you overuse it.”
The woman thanked him, and Hyacinth held the door open for her as she left the shop.
“Ah, Miss Bell. How nice to see you again,” Mr. Gardner said, his cheeks as pink as peony petals. “So glad you could come pick up your parcel.” He looked over his shoulder as if to ensure they were alone. “James offered to deliver it, but I was counting on sharing a cup of tea with you.”
Hyacinth recalled the sneering, threatening way James had spoken to her the night of her arrival and was glad she’d insisted on coming here. She did not fancy running into James at Ashthorne, especially after the frights she’d experienced recently.
“I don’t mind the walk in the least,” she said, hoping Mr. Gardner would offer more information about his employee, but not daring to invite gossip outright.
He did not disappoint her.
“James seems a difficult sort, rather sour and gruff, and he doesn’t know much about gardening, but he’s strong enough to lift and move the things I can’t. His help, for what it’s worth, is appreciated for as long as it may last.”
Hyacinth could tell by the way the man couched a negative comment within a compliment that he knew a thing or two about gossiping. Mr. Gardner would be a pleasant ally in the village.
She remembered what Mrs. Carter had told her about the onset of James’s employment. “Has he not been here long?” she asked.
Mr. Gardner shook his head and led her to a small table in the corner where a pot of tea sat ready for them. He poured her a cup. “He arrived very recently. Only a few months ago, just after the family left the big house. I brought him up to the manor to help with the flowers, but I believe he might be better suited to running the shop in my absence.”
Hyacinth nodded, even though she doubted the surly man made a positive impression on Mr. Gardner’s customers.
She smiled at Mr. Gardner as she sipped her tea. “I appreciate the good care you took of the orchids between Mr. Whitbeck’s departure and my arrival. You are kind to take on more work, and I hope it didn’t cause trouble for you.”
Mr. Gardner’s laugh shook his round stomach. He set his cup in its saucer and ran his fingers along the length of his beard. “If anyone caused me trouble, it was not Mr. Whitbeck. And certainly not yourself. My man James doesn’t need any help from you or me or anyone to find trouble. As soon as I can find another young person willing to help me in the shop and the greenhouse, I expect I’ll turn him out. He’s had warnings, but still, he wanders away, leaving the shop for hours at a time, and rarely has his mind fully on any job I’ve given him.”
Hyacinth felt alarmed that Mr. Gardner had to trust his business to such an unsavory employee. The shock must have shown on her face because Mr. Gardner shook his head and smiled at her.
“This is a rather unpleasant discussion, I fear,” Mr. Gardner said. “If you’ve finished your tea, let’s find you those stakes Mr. Whitbeck ordered.”
As Hyacinth followed Mr. Gardner out the back door of the shop and into the greenhouse, she asked about the fertilizer the woman had purchased. “Would it be helpful to the orchids, do you think?”
“Ah, I wondered the same thing. If you’re willing to make a bit of an experiment, I’ll order a package of it for you. I could have it here in a few days.”
“I’d love to give it a try. Thank you.”
They walked through the greenhouse to where Mr. Gardner had gathered the small boxes of plant stakes that were the last of Mr. Whitbeck’s order.
“You just let me know what else you might want. There’s a whole section in our ledgers for Mr. Whitbeck’s purchases, and you may charge anything you need to his account.”
“Thank you very much,” Hyacinth said. “I appreciate your kindness.”
He patted her arm and smiled up at her. “It’s a pleasure to work with you, even from a distance.”
“Well, if it’s any use to you, you’re always welcome to come to the manor for a visit. At least to the orchid house. We could share a cup of tea with the caretaker, perhaps.”
The thought of sitting for a visit with both Mr. Gardner and Lucas almost made her laugh with anticipation. How delightful it would be to have these two kindhearted and gentle men in the same room together.
His smile matched hers, and she hoped the sweet man would take her invitation to heart. She was always grateful for another friendly face.