Not until the screeching wind overpowered the sounds of the horses’ stomping hooves did Hyacinth Bell pull back the window coverings in the jolting carriage. Though impatient for her arrival, she wondered what a wind so powerful could be doing to the landscape.
As it happened, almost nothing. The moors of central Cornwall were completely barren as far as she could see, and the wind could blow unimpeded across miles of fields without paying any attention to the earth, searching for something—anything—that stood higher than a sheep.
Hyacinth’s carriage, for instance. The wind seemed determined to surround it on all sides at once. Nothing else marred the horizon as far as she could see. Not a building in sight. Hardly a tree.
The thought that she was riding in the highest point across the entire countryside made her laugh, a sound made slightly unhinged by nature’s accompaniment of wailing wind.
Unsettled by the gale, she hummed to herself. As the noise outside the carriage pressed against her, humming was not enough. She sang. Even at the top of her voice, she was drowned by the volume of the storm. Was this what it felt like to go mad?
The wind roared, screeched, and rattled around her, giving her the feeling that even within the walls of the carriage, the very atmosphere sought to attack her peace. She knew the wind was not whipping her hair about her head like a ghost in a penny dreadful illustration, but she felt as though both her rationality and her hairstyle were holding on by a mere thread. Or a miracle.
Not that anyone but the driver would see her hair, or care if they did. Not until the stop in Suttonsbury village. Not until her meeting with Ashthorne Hall’s temporary orchid caretaker, an elderly man who managed a village greenhouse. Hyacinth had agreed to go to his shop to pick up the last packages of soil preparations and instruments that Mr. Whitbeck had ordered.
He would also give Hyacinth any final instructions before she made her way through the gale to Ashthorne Hall and her new position. Her new life.
The horses’ whinnies carried on the wind, another layer of shrieking adding to her unease. Hyacinth wondered how the driver fared in this monstrous wind, if he held his perch up on the driver’s box by the strength of his will. For a moment, she considered pounding on the wall and calling out to him, but even if she could get his attention, he would not be able to hear her ask after his safety or comfort, so she pulled the window coverings tight and hummed again.
The almost inaudible sound of her own voice was less than reassuring.
She lifted the potted orchid from the seat beside her.
“Eleanor,” Hyacinth said to the orchid in a voice of warm confidence, “if you could see outside, you’d not recognize anything growing here. None of our hothouse friends could survive a night like this.”
She did not raise the window cover to give Eleanor a peek at the moor; that would be silly.
The roaring autumn wind, she knew, could not last forever.
At least, she thought it could not. In fact, she was aware she knew very little about the weather patterns of Cornwall, to say nothing of its residents or their feelings about visiting botanists.
Once she arrived at Ashthorne Hall, she vowed, she would never again leave. A hundred years would be too soon for another carriage ride like this one. How grateful she was that most of the hundreds of miles she had traveled from Herefordshire had been by train. Only since Plymouth had she been inside this carriage, and only for the last half hour had she felt her excitement turn to anxiety. And that she could mostly blame on the infernal wind, which had alternated in pitch between a roar and a wail.
Hyacinth looked down at the note from Mr. Whitbeck in her right hand. Replacing Eleanor on the carriage seat beside her, she clutched the letter in both hands, the paper grown soft from dozens, perhaps hundreds of openings, followed by careful reading and refolding. After months of seeking employment and waiting, she was finally on her way to Ashthorne Hall.
She envisioned the stone edifice rising out of a grove of trees, chimney pieces streaming warm smoke and window glass reflecting surrounding sunlight. Having never seen the manor where she would soon live, she had created an image of her own devising by compiling the best parts of elegant houses she knew: rooflines and landscaping, trees and ponds and driveways, stones of warm golden hue.
How much of Ashthorne would match her imaginings? And what of the people living inside? She had little more than Mr. Whitbeck’s note and seal to recommend her to the housekeeper and the caretaker. And it was possible they would be the only other inmates of the manor. The rest of the staff had either removed to India with the family or been let go to find other employment.
Her imagination gave her comfort, but she realized she might have to let go of her preconception. Her father had taught her that the ability to hold on to an idea was a very important skill for gaining knowledge and understanding, but he emphasized that an even more crucial skill was the ability to let a faulty thought go.
She had trained herself to treat her thoughts like precipitates, the solids that separate from a chemical solution: With a bit of agitation, things settle. Once they do, an observer has something to look at, to study, and to hold on to or reject as evidence suggests.
She hoped the housekeeper at Ashthorne did not hold too tightly to any false ideas about her.
Nothing in Hyacinth’s bearing or stature identified her as either an expert botanist or a genius gardener. She looked rather like a tall schoolgirl, if one with a more than usual amount of dirt beneath her fingernails. But Hyacinth Bell was no child, and she had learned from the greatest scientific minds of the day. Her father, a viscount, had early in his peerage grown weary of days filled with receiving complaints and reporting them to the earl. In his leisure time, he gathered to his home men of science, and as he learned of ways to improve farmlands, increase crop productivity, and strengthen plants, he passed on all his understanding to his youngest daughter, who took to the lessons and the experiments with a passion and a consideration he had not expected.
He was delighted.
Hyacinth soon outstripped her father in her understanding, and with his blessing, she continued to study plants and propagation, flowers and seeds, and the maximization of crop yield. Before many years had passed, she had grown from a precocious child with a gardening hobby into a highly respected young lady, eager to share her knowledge and understanding with the farmers in her father’s care.
After the death of her dear mother five years prior, Hyacinth took over care of the lady’s orchids, and there found a gift and talent she had not anticipated. She soon became masterful in her work with tropical blooms. Many people thought orchids were difficult flowers, but Hyacinth soon realized that they had few needs: soil conditions, water, light, and air. Once you understood these, the care came rather easily.
Hyacinth’s father recommended her to all who would listen as one of the greatest orchid experts in the country. She knew he spoke far too highly of her talent but appreciated the acclaim that surrounded her in English botany circles.
Mr. Charles Whitbeck, a magistrate and orchid enthusiast, had written to Hyacinth upon occasion, seeking advice for his impressive orchid collection. Mr. Whitbeck had plans to travel to India, and he invited her to come to his home at Ashthorne Hall and look after his hothouse in his absence. “There is not much I shall miss while I am away, but I will rest easier if my treasured orchids are in your capable care.”
Hyacinth had grown more excited by the day about the possibility, and her father believed the adventure would be a wonderful interlude before she settled down as the brilliant wife of some worthy man or other. And now, after months of preparation, Mr. Whitbeck was off in the tropics, and Hyacinth drew near Suttonsbury village, the town nearest to Ashthorne Hall.
Traveling through the ominous and unsettling storm, Hyacinth felt the minutes drag, as though the wind pressed her ever farther from the town. Just as she became certain she’d crawl out of her skin if she had to sit another minute in the jostling coach, she both heard and felt a knocking at the wall of the carriage.
“We’re approaching Suttonsbury now, miss,” the driver said. At least, that is what Hyacinth thought he said as the wind tore half the words from him and carried them away to crash against the cliffs and rocks of the wild coast.
A few more minutes brought them to the village’s greenhouse, and at the horses’ halt, Hyacinth threw open the carriage door, eager to escape the tight confines of the vehicle, even if it meant a drenching from the rain. She lifted Eleanor’s pot from the seat and stepped down.
The wind had slowed enough that she could stand in front of the garden shop without her hair blowing completely loose from its knot. She looked up at the sign swinging from two metal chains attached to the roof: Gardner’s Paradise.
At her knock, a man opened the shop’s front door, and Hyacinth’s first instinct was to back away. His shirt, covered with an open brown vest, was filthy. He looked at her sideways, squinting an eye, and a muscle jumped near his mouth, pulling his lip into a sneer.
“Closed,” he said, as if she did not deserve a complete sentence. He began to shut the door. Was this the man Mr. Whitbeck wanted her to communicate with?
She wondered if she ought to simply get into the carriage and come back another day, but she had her instructions. “There is an order for Ashthorne Hall, I believe.”
The man leaned out into the wind and rain as if inspecting her. “You the Whitbeck’s new flower girl, then?” he asked with a growl. His breath carried more than a hint of whiskey. His glare, more than a hint of disdain.
His rude behavior made her wish she would never have to return here. But since it was the only garden shop for miles, she knew she’d need to come back. Perhaps she could salvage some of this bad first impression.
“Mr. Gardner?” she asked, holding out her hand and hoping she did not look as much a fool as she felt, standing in the rain.
Ignoring her proffered hand, the man shook his head and huffed in contempt. “I’m James. Gardner is out back in the greenhouse. He has your parcels. Walk on through.”
Though relieved that this unpleasant man was not Mr. Gardner, Hyacinth felt James could do with a reminder of basic manners. He spoke to her as he would to a horse. But she chose to say nothing and simply followed him through the shop and out the back door. A glass garden structure glowed with the light of dozens of hanging lamps, warmer and more welcoming than any word from James had been.
The alleyway between the shop and the greenhouse was a throughway for the night’s wind, which gusted against Hyacinth’s body and practically pushed her sideways. James rapped on the glass door and waited, his hand holding his hat to his head. He muttered something about locked doors that she did not try to hear.
Hyacinth watched through the glass as a figure scuttled toward them, becoming clearer as he approached. By degrees, she could discern his short, round figure, his hurried gait, and his full, white beard. Everything from his posture to his age to his stature spoke of the difference between him and his hired helper. James was large and slouching and sullen. The man hurrying toward her practically bounced as he jogged, and she saw his smile through the glass walls. By the time he opened the door, Hyacinth knew she would be fond of this man.
James muttered, “Whitbeck’s new hire,” and made a sound of displeasure. “Hope she finds the manor to her liking.” He sounded anything but hopeful as he turned back to the shop.
Hyacinth was not sorry to be rid of him.
“Ah, Miss Bell. I’m George Gardner, and very pleased to meet you.” With a warm smile on his weathered face, Mr. Gardner reached for Hyacinth’s hands and pulled her into the safety of the greenhouse. He chuckled as he looked up into her face, as he was only as tall as her shoulders.
“Welcome, welcome. Come in out of all that weather, dear,” he said. “I’m right glad you’ve found us.”
A shock of white hair grew like a cluster of shaggy ink cap mushrooms from beneath his pointed red hat. His brown leather apron did little to hide his bulbous stomach, which seemed to shake as he laughed. With a hand still on her arm, he reached over and locked the hothouse door behind them.
“Can never be too careful,” he said when he turned back. With a clap of his hands, he said, “Now. Can I talk you into a cup of tea and a comfortable seat before we get down to business?”
“I really must not keep the Ashthorne housekeeper waiting long,” Hyacinth said. “But I hope we can share a cup and a visit on another day. I am sure you have much to teach me.”
Mr. Gardner laughed again. Hyacinth believed it might be his natural response to most situations, and she decided she liked it a great deal indeed.
With a wink, Gardner said, “Oh, don’t flatter me, young woman. I’ve nothing like the skill you’re known for. Mr. Whitbeck sent word about you.”
“Did he?” Hyacinth smiled at that. What might he have said? She was pleased her reputation impressed him enough that he’d spread it through the village before he left for India.
“Oh, aye. You’re a right smart touch with the orchids, he tells me. And well you should be, for his collection is a masterwork. Far more than James and I could manage.”
“Sir, I’m sure you kept the collection in good order since Mr. Whitbeck left,” Hyacinth said.
Mr. Gardner nodded. “It’s a beautiful lot he has, indeed. James would have liked to stay up at the manor, for he does fancy life at the big house. As I worked in the hothouses, he took to wandering. I believe he went looking for pirate caves.” Mr. Gardner’s laugh rolled out of him again.
“But you, Miss Bell, are perfectly suited for the work and the station. Between you and me,” Mr. Gardner said, “when I took on the extra work at Ashthorne, I ought to have hired someone who knows more about plants. Or who is more polite to customers. Or who can manage to stay in the place he is supposed to be working.” Mr. Gardner laughed again, as if his mistake in hiring his employee was a great joke.
If she knew him better, she might ask one of the many questions filling her mind. Why would Mr. Gardner hire someone so obviously unfit to help him in his work? But even though he led the conversation in that direction, she felt it would be rude to pry.
“Good help is often difficult to find,” she said.
Mr. Gardner grinned and nodded, holding the sides of his ample stomach. “Mr. Whitbeck certainly got the best England had to offer when he found you.”
Hyacinth began to make a polite denial, but Mr. Gardner gestured to the pot in Hyacinth’s hand. “Have you already been to the manor, then?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Oh, no. This is Eleanor. She once belonged to my mother.”
The emotion in her voice surprised her. Of course she loved her plant, but the feeling of loss and mourning caught Hyacinth off guard, and she put her free hand to her face as she attempted to steel herself against her grief.
Mr. Gardner seemed able to read her feelings in her face. He nodded gently and said, “And a fine-looking orchid she is. She’ll fit right in with the others.”
His affirmation was exactly enough to help Hyacinth move past her momentary sorrow.
“Thank you. Having her safe in the orchid house will be a relief to us both, I’m sure.”
“We mustn’t keep either of you waiting, then,” he said, and they made their way to the rear of the greenhouse where he gestured to a stack of crates.
“I’ll have my man James load these into your carriage. And perhaps your driver can assist us.”
“I’m happy to help as well,” Hyacinth said, lifting a small box from the top of the pile to prove her willingness.
Mr. Gardner immediately protested, but Hyacinth didn’t give him a chance to stop her from helping. Pulling a crate from the pile, Mr. Gardner led Hyacinth back out of the greenhouse and to the rear of the shop. Mr. Gardner knocked and called out, “James, give us a hand with these parcels, if you please.”
As the shop door opened, Hyacinth heard the younger man muttering even over the sound of the wind.
If this was the kind of person working in this village, she felt grateful at the thought of a deserted manor house. She would rather be alone than in the company of men like James.
Returning bearing several of the boxes, he continued to grumble. She pretended not to notice his unsavory language or the comment that may or may not have been about her. As she lifted her crate up to the driver, James came up behind her.
She moved aside half a step to avoid touching him.
He moved closer, standing far too close to Hyacinth’s ear. “You’d do well to watch yourself in that old house,” he said. “Don’t go wandering. Place is haunted by spirits.”
Hyacinth chose not to answer, but she stepped away from James and closer to Mr. Gardner. Ghosts? Did this man think her a child, likely to be frightened by silly tales?
She was glad he could not see the fine hairs on her arms rising in response to his warning, unsure if she was more frightened or thrilled by the possibility of a haunted manor.
She stayed between Mr. Gardner and the driver as they moved the garden supplies to the carriage. With all four of them carrying parcels, it only took one more trip to the greenhouse before the packages were loaded. The driver retook his seat and held the reins as the horses stamped in the rain that had become a downpour.
Mr. Gardner handed Hyacinth in to the carriage. “Keep your eyes open up there at the manor. You must know places like that are full of ghosts,” he said, still with a grin and a wink, but this time, Hyacinth’s shiver was less enjoyable than the first. After that comment from James, Mr. Gardner’s jest felt too real. She glanced over Mr. Gardner’s shoulder, but James was nowhere in sight.
Mr. Gardner continued, “But that doesn’t mean you’ve anything to fear. Everyone knows old houses are full of haunts. No need to assume the ghosts are of a wicked turn of mind. You might learn a thing from the Ashthorne spirits about making yourself at home.”
He grinned, and his whole face folded in wrinkles and the lift of pink cheeks. “Of course, the coast has also been overrun with pirates for hundreds of years, and they are probably a different story. Do stay away from the pirates, Miss Bell. And please come see us when you next make a trip into the village. I owe you a cup of tea.”
His silly pirate warning made her feel better; clearly, his stories were all in fun. She gave his hand a squeeze and thanked him for his help. “I would love to come back and visit.”
Mr. Gardner nodded and closed the door. Seconds later, the horses were in motion, and once again, carriage full of garden supplies and head full of ghosts, Hyacinth was on the road to Ashthorne.