The Dead Queen's Garden (6 page)

Charlotte raised an eyebrow but young Mrs Chant only laughed carelessly and turned to her sister. The incident passed mercifully without the embarrassment of an altercation in public between husband and wife and probably no-one but Charlotte was aware of a momentary silence in the group of people in her immediate neighbourhood, as they looked at the young lady on hearing her husband’s admonition. Melicent Penbury held her glass of punch to her lips, while one or two other guests looked up before they
once more tucked in to more of the sweetmeats displayed on silver shell dishes.

Lady Granville, who looked a trifle pale, had resumed her expression of glacial indifference, moved to her son’s side and Dr Chant, still poised to leave the group, stayed a moment longer, his eyes narrowed at his wife’s careless peal of laughter as she drained her glass.

As she watched from the outskirts of the group, Charlotte was teased by a sudden thought that failed however, to make itself clear. The elder sister, Miss Armstrong, wore a slightly troubled look, quickly replaced by a resigned smile, and the only person present who looked completely uninterested was the fair-haired boy, Oz Granville, who was surreptitiously nibbling at the candied fruits laid out temptingly before him. Oz, Charlotte surmised, was patently unaware that he was the object of scrutiny, not only of his parents, for he was accustomed to that circumstance, but that the fashionable doctor had glanced at him several times, with pursed lips. Not only that, but the two visiting ladies were both acutely aware of the boy, although they tried to disguise that interest.

Charlotte was surprised when Lady Granville accosted her with a complaint upon her lips.

‘Did you observe that, Mrs Richmond?’ Her lips formed a tight line and her eyebrows frowned over her dark and disapproving eyes, as she stared at young Mrs Chant who was now donning her warm cloak. ‘That young lady or perhaps the other – well, whichever one of them it was, I believe she snatched the glass I had thought to give my dear boy, Osbert.’

Charlotte turned a startled gaze upon her. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Lady Granville,’ she felt she should apologise on behalf of her brother and sister-in-law, their hosts. ‘I’m afraid I did not observe that, I think there was somebody obscuring my view at the time. What an uncomfortable thing to happen.’

‘It is no matter,’ sniffed the lady, evidently mollified by this apology. ‘It is merely an example of London manners, I suppose, something that has made me both impatient and weary so that I was glad to take leave of the capital. I am most relieved that Lord Granville has decided to relinquish some of his London
responsibilities so that we will be spending a great deal more time at home in Hampshire.’

Charlotte was glad to recall something that might interest the lady and deflect her complaints. ‘I believe I heard somewhere that you are the creator of a wonderful mediaeval garden, are you not?’ It was probably politic to avoid mention of her discussion with the Granville boy lest his mother take umbrage. ‘I was so interested to hear of it. As you might not be aware, I was born and brought up in Australia so anything of historical, old-world significance is most intriguing to me.’

‘Really?’ Lady Granville’s gaunt, but still-handsome features took on a lively expression as she turned eagerly to the younger woman, shaken out of her indifference by the reference to her pastime. ‘I did not know that. Indeed, I should be delighted to show you my garden, Mrs Richmond, if you are sure that it would be of interest you? Do, pray, allow me the pleasure of inviting you to tea tomorrow at Brambrook Abbey. My garden is indeed my great treasure, apart…’ her fond smile enlivened and lifted her sallow face from its habitual air of chill and ruined beauty as she beheld her son, ‘apart, I should say, from my very
greatest
treasure, of course: my son Osbert.’

Her expression grew even more gracious as Charlotte turned to look at the object of Lady Granville’s adoration and smiled in her turn as Oz – poor lad, she thought, no wonder he refuses to answer to Osbert – backed silently out of the room with both hands filled with sugar plums that he had grabbed from one of Lily’s best silver side dishes in passing. Alas for his attempt at escape. In his haste to elude his parent, Oz bumped into Charlotte’s bugbear, Melicent Penbury, and had to make hasty apologies while the other ladies, his father and Dr Chant all turned to watch him.

Pricked by conscience and feeling that, as a member of the family she owed a duty to her hosts, Charlotte was immediately at the ready to offer assistance, knowing that, years earlier, Melicent had lost a leg in an unfortunate carriage accident. This made her sometimes unsteady on the artificial one but on this occasion the former governess righted herself with the clumsy but willing help
of the Granville boy, whose friendly smile was wiped from his face when Melicent began to gush.

‘Why thank you, Master Granville.’ The boy gave an awkward bow and was about to escape when Melicent, with the archness she always assumed in male company of any age, continued, ‘What do you have to say about the dreadful event that occurred so recently in your own grounds? But there, young lads thrive upon such excitements, do they not?’ Charlotte bit her lip in exasperation and made to move forward as the boy glared at his persecutor, his cheeks suddenly pale. He turned on his heel and walked away. Charlotte relaxed for a moment until she heard a sudden sound, a sharp intake of breath perhaps, or a slight groan. She whipped round, puzzled, and wondering if someone had been taken ill. Lady Granville was staring at the group still standing by the wassail bowl, her face looking unaccountably drawn and heavy, as she looked from one to the other then cast a glance in the direction of her son’s fast-disappearing back view.

‘Is something wrong, Lady Granville?’ Charlotte’s whisper was discreet as she wondered whether the lady was feeling quite the thing. Indeed, Charlotte considered, since the recent contretemps concerning the glass of punch, the older woman was looking distinctly unwell, a light sheen of sweat masking her face.

‘No – no, thank you,’ came the response, followed by a slight gesture, her fingers tightening on a handkerchief she clutched, as she reinforced the negative. Then she paused, still staring over at the other guests. ‘No,’ she said slowly, looking round at Charlotte, her expression very thoughtful, with narrowed eyes and tightly folded lips. She hesitated and started to speak again. ‘No, indeed.’ She glanced across the room once more and seemed to straighten her shoulders. ‘I cannot say. It is just that….’ She pressed the folded linen handkerchief to her lips for a moment, then shook her head once more, but Charlotte glimpsed an odd glimmer in the large dark brown eyes as Lady Granville, after a final, considering stare at Charlotte, turned away, muttering, ‘Three times. I believe that is three times…. What can it mean?’

Good gracious, Charlotte thought, and stood politely aside to let the illustrious guest precede her. Wondering about that enigmatic
little aside, she accompanied Lady Granville to find her outdoor wrappings, when something that had been teasing her about the lady’s manner suddenly dawned upon her. Sarah Siddons, the great tragic actress; that was who was called to mind by Lady Granville’s air of simmering anxiety. Not that Charlotte had ever been privileged to attend one of the lady’s dramatic performances, but her godmother, Lady Meg, had certainly done so as a young girl.

‘Astonishing woman,’
Meg had told her, shaking her head.
‘I had nightmares for weeks after I saw her as Lady Macbeth.’

There was no need to act as ladies’ maid, for the nondescript companion must have been on constant watch and was on hand to shroud her mistress in a sumptuous sealskin mantle

‘Pray do not forget, Mrs Richmond,’ Lady Granville, who now resembled nothing so much as an enormous Arctic mammal, turned a surprisingly gracious smile to Charlotte, all tragic
undertones
now vanished. ‘I shall be delighted to show you my garden tomorrow and to give you tea. I believe you reside with Lady Frampton? Naturally if she would care to accompany you I should be delighted. Shall we say at a quarter to three? If you like to arrive a little early there will be daylight enough to take a brief turn round the garden, although sadly this is not the most favourable time to be looking at plants.’ She took her husband’s arm. ‘Come, my dear,’ she said firmly, as she beckoned her son to her side.

When most of the remaining guests had been waved on their way, Lady Frampton was happily enthroned in her favourite seat by the hearth and in no hurry to go home to Rowan Lodge, so Charlotte went in search of her hostess to see if she could be of any help.

A chance remark soon had Lily Richmond opening her eyes wide and turning up her already distressingly retroussé nose.

‘What’s that you say, Char? Barnard? Barnard, come here at once and listen to this, I never heard of such a thing.’ Her light voice, with its little girl notes, was rising with indignation. ‘Now look here, Barnard. Here is Charlotte telling me that she has been invited to take tea with Lady Granville tomorrow afternoon. What can have put such a notion into her ladyship’s head?’

Charlotte sighed, recognising the signs of an impending tantrum, as an ominous frown drew Lily’s finely drawn dark brows together and the rosebud lips formed a distinct pout. ‘But, Lily.…’ she began.

‘I cannot understand it,’ Lily continued, ignoring the
interruption
, a tinge of ice entering her voice. ‘Why her ladyship has not even invited
me
to take tea with her, and we are quite the most
intimate
of friends now. So why in heaven’s name do you suppose she should she invite Charlotte, whom she has never seen before in her life?’

‘Well, Lily,’ Barnard Richmond weighed in with well-meaning goodwill, rolling an anguished eye nonetheless at Charlotte as he spoke. ‘I daresay her ladyship means it as a compliment to you, my dear.’ He floundered as he met Lily’s scornful gaze. ‘I mean, er, I expect she is merely being kind to our dear Charlotte.’

Charlotte hastened to his rescue. ‘Of course she is, Lily dear,’ she said in a soothing tone. ‘Why, she is naturally aware that, apart from taking tea at the Deanery the other day, you are not officially visiting at the moment, because of dear little Algy being so very young. I believe Lady Granville only decided to invite me as a very poor second choice.’ Lily’s brow showed signs of looking less
thundery
so Charlotte persevered. ‘It is only that she wishes to show me her garden, after all. I have observed that dedicated garden lovers will seize on the most unlikely persons to enthuse about their plants and walks and shrubberies and so forth, and I believe the invitation to tea was a mere polite afterthought. Besides, you must not forget that I am quite unusual in these parts; someone who has come from the other side of the world. She probably thinks I’m something of a curiosity. Like a talking pig.’

Charlotte was saved from Lily’s astonished demand as to her meaning, by the appearance of Kit Knightley, whose conversation with Barnard had been interrupted by Lily’s call.

‘Pray forgive me, Mrs Richmond.’ The gleam in his blue eyes indicated to Charlotte that he had overheard her surprising simile, but he merely smiled at Lily and bent over her hand. ‘I must tear myself away from this felicitous occasion. I am glad to have seen my godson safely baptised and must thank you once more for
doing me such a great honour in making me a sponsor.’

Mollified, Lily said her farewells and Barnard clapped his old school friend on the shoulder and muttered, with rough but sincere affection, ‘My very best wishes to Mrs Knightley, my dear fellow. I hope to hear that she goes on well.’

The twinkle in Kit’s eyes dimmed as he answered with a
wordless
nod and reached out a hand to clasp that of his friend. He turned to Charlotte and she read the distress in his face with an answering dismay. Kit’s invalid wife, Elaine, was Charlotte’s dearest friend in the entire world, and Elaine’s health, which had always been precarious, had sharply deteriorated in the last couple of months.

‘Come and see Elaine, Char,’ he said, holding up a hand to stop the anxious flow of questions that sprang to her lips. There was a roughness in his voice as he added, ‘I know it’s Christmas and I expect you’ll have little time to spare from the jollifications at the Manor, but…. Make it soon.’

N
EXT AFTERNOON SAW
Charlotte set out in the brougham borrowed from the manor, ready to make a call in state upon her illustrious neighbour.

‘Walk, do you say?’ Lady Frampton was scandalised at the idea. ‘Lord above, gal, what in the world can ’ave got into you? There’s a murderer loose about the countryside, you could come upon him at any turn of the road. And anyway, you h’ought to know by now that there’s a time and a place when it’s not done to go walking about so free and easy as you do.’ She shook her head in stern admonition. ‘And going to visit ’er fine ladyship for the first time, is one of them times. No, Char, I mean it, I’ll make Barnard put his foot down, you see if I don’t. Besides, you’ll give offence, make no mistake about it, and raise eyebrows too, if you swan in to Brambrook Abbey with your hem trailing mud and your boots in a state, not to mention your bonnet soaking wet. I know you like walking, though Gawd knows why you should is beyond me. But it ain’t done, Char, mark my words.’

So here I am, sighed Charlotte, condemned to propriety. The manor groom clucked to the bay horse, so much more elegant and sleek than the fat pony she and Lady Frampton were accustomed to when they used the pony chaise. They set off at a sedate pace, skirting the green of Finchbourne village, and down Pot Kiln Lane opposite. It seemed highly unlikely that the murderer would be lurking around the village when surely he would have made off towards Southampton, say, to disappear into the busy alleyways near the docks, but she could not give Lady Frampton an anxious hour or two by disobeying her. Having reluctantly accepted the old lady’s dictum that Charlotte must uphold the honour of
Finchbourne Manor and the Richmond family, she was arrayed in her second-best winter dress, a becoming golden-brown, silk and merino blend.

Charlotte’s plain gowns were the despair of Lily Richmond. ‘I’m tall and skinny,’ she tried to explain to her sister-in-law. ‘Although, if you insist, I’ll admit to being just passable, I’m far too lanky to look well in feminine fripperies. It’s all right for you, Lily, you’re little; frills and flounces become you. I’d look like the village maypole decked out in that pink dress you wanted me to have.’

Gran approved today’s outfit, the high neck trimmed with a ruched satin-ribbon which, like yesterday’s dress, was pinned with Lady Meg’s gold acanthus leaf brooch. To keep out the cold, Charlotte wore a warm coat and carried a shawl offered by Lady Frampton. ‘My ’usband’s second cousin’s daughter sent it, silly wench, as if I ’aven’t worn naught but black this thirty years. You take it, young Char, it’ll go with that dress of yours.’ The brown and yellow paisley swirls were not really to Charlotte’s taste but she was glad of the warmth, and Gran was right: it did go with the brown merino.

If only Will and Ma could see me, she sighed, picturing their astonishment at her prosperous appearance.
‘As fine as five-pence,’
Will would have exclaimed, and followed it by circling round her, amused and admiring, and pointing out that Char
‘was a proper lady now, and no mistake.’
Ladylike, she corrected that laughing ghost. I am swathed in fur rugs against the cold and dressed as a lady should be, with due decorum and no vulgar outward display, but I’m not sure I’m really a lady, not yet. Her eyes danced at the memory of a younger, coltish Charlotte running barefoot along a deserted southern shore, scantily clad in a faded muslin dress that had seen better days. The amusement waned as she recalled herself to the present.

No more blissful, childish ignorance, she scolded herself; no more looking backwards and sighing for the moon, yearning for those who were dead and gone this many a day. This afternoon I am the young, respectable, widowed Mrs Richmond from Rowan Lodge, kin to the Squire at Finchbourne Manor, with a wardrobe full of becoming dresses, and I am off to visit a real, live lady. A
ladyship, no less and, according to Lily Richmond, a lady who was descended from a long line of impeccably-connected but impoverished nobles, hence her marriage to the wealthy but undistinguished Lord Granville. (Lily had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the ins and outs of the nobility and enjoyed nothing more than poring over the London papers to discover who was engaged to whom and whether or not some long-awaited heir had yet made his appearance. As Barnard, with bewildered pride, had told Charlotte, ‘Lily knows all about everyone in the stud book.’)

When the carriage turned into the drive, Charlotte felt a slight shiver of apprehension but dismissed it at once, irritated at her
silliness
. Her eyes opened wide in astonishment as the brougham drew up before the front door of Brambrook Abbey. Someone in the not too distant past had manifestly fallen prey to an architect who favoured the Gothic style in country houses. Barnard Richmond had mentioned that the Abbey was a relatively new establishment, dating back a mere sixty or so years, so Charlotte had somehow convinced herself that she would see a red brick mansion, brick, and flint also, being prevalent amid the vernacular architecture of Hampshire.

Lord Granville’s enormous and imposing home was more a castle than a house, bristling with turrets, awash with pointed windows and with gargoyles by the dozen, leering down from every gutter spout. The grey stone was forbidding so that the whole resembled something from
The Mysteries of Udolpho
and similar gothic novels enjoyed by Charlotte and her mother. The crowning embellishment was a shallow moat that looked suspiciously like a working portcullis and drawbridge. It was set in a stone portal over which the brougham was now clattering. There were even pikes, she noted with an amused grimace, set above the grim gateway, though mercifully none bore the severed head that would have seemed appropriate. A shudder ran through her as she recalled that however artificial the castle might be, it was no stranger to recent terrible events.

Once through the portal and away from the outer wall, there was a sweep of gravel, where the carriage came to a halt outside the house, though Charlotte thought it should rather be described as a
keep. This was set upon a slight rise, overlooking a heavily ornate fountain, sprouting naiads and dryads and others of that ilk. Charlotte, gazing at it with a critical eye, trained by her
knowledgeable
godmother, decided it was a little late for the mediaeval period and was surely a baroque creation. As the groom opened the carriage door, Charlotte glanced around nervously and was relieved to see the massive, heavily-carved and studded oak door flung open to reveal Oz Granville standing at the top of the short flight of steps, a smile of hospitable delight on his fair, freckled face.

‘You came after all, ma’am!’ he exclaimed, running down to greet her, his hand outstretched. ‘I did start to worry whether you would cry off.’

She felt sorry for the boy, all over again, as she had at the church on the previous day. What must his life be like if a mere courtesy visit from a neighbour could loom so large?

‘Of course I came, you foolish Oz. I’m most intrigued at the prospect of seeing your Mama’s garden and I’m only sorry to have to convey Lady Frampton’s apologies. She likes to rest in the afternoons and after all, she is more than eighty years old, you know.’

And she’s a cockney and not in the least interested in chilly winter gardens either. Charlotte concealed a smile at the dismay on the old lady’s face when presented with the invitation. ‘Wot? Parade myself round a garden in this weather? I’d catch me death of cold. No, you go and enjoy yourself but be certain to wear a flannel petticoat to keep you warm, and just be sure you don’t sound too ’appy when you report on the visit to our Lily. She’s still ready to poke out your eyes for getting an invite from ’er Ladyship before she does, don’t forget.’

The butler now loomed towards her and tenderly divested her of her outer garments, then the boy, who had hopped impatiently from one foot to the other throughout these proceedings, led her through the vaulted and echoing Great Hall. This was a lofty,
stone-clad
place, double or even treble the normal height, and embellished with carvings in every possible nook and cranny.
Well-tutored
by her godmother, Charlotte recognised Norman dogtooth doorways, while a sulky winter sun fought with gas lights in the shape of antique torches as it shed pools of light on the marble floor
from the brightly coloured stained glass in the windows. Enormous pieces of supposedly mediaeval furniture offered no prospect of comfort, had anyone dared to sit upon them.

Glimpsed through a wide-open, heavily-carved and gilded door, was a vast dining-room with a monumental table made from a massive slab of blackened oak perched on bulbous carved legs and surrounded by carved chairs that looked to combine ugliness with extreme discomfort. Through another door she saw a
drawing-room
, papered in black and gold. Oz Granville led his guest out of the hall to a smaller chamber where his mother, upholstered in purple cashmere trimmed with black velvet ribbons and flounces, and wearing a formidable lace cap also trimmed with purple and black, rose to meet them, laying aside a large, leather-bound volume as she did so.

‘A history of England,’ Lady Granville explained as she graciously accepted the apologies Charlotte presented on behalf of Lady Frampton. ‘Or rather, a history of the Queens of England, one of my great interests, although I must confess that my garden absorbs most of my time.’ Her fond glance at the flaxen-haired boy jigging impatiently beside her, showed where the bulk of her interests lay and Charlotte found herself warming to such an open display of affection. Lady Granville kept her son waiting for a few moments while she waved a hand round at the room. ‘This is the morning-room, Mrs Richmond,’ she explained. ‘I find it so much more comfortable than the rest of the Abbey that I tend to spend most of my time here.’ She drew Charlotte’s attention to the Chinese wallpaper and the ebony furniture, adding complacently that it contained the only chimney in the entire house that did not have a tendency to smoke when the wind was in the north.

Charlotte could well believe that, having observed the smoke stains on the stone lintels above the vast twin fireplaces in the Great Hall. She felt at a loss as she wondered whether condolences on the recent tragedy would be welcomed but, on reflection, she
remembered
that Barnard and Lily had said all that was needful, so she kept quiet. An attentive footman, clad in an immaculate livery of dark blue, appeared with Charlotte’s outer garments, which he
helped her to resume. He then silently bowed them out so
obsequiously
that his periwigged head almost reached waist level.

The lady of the house, now clad in her sealskin mantle, sailed haughtily through the door without a glance at the servant, but Charlotte was pleased to see that the boy grinned and made a kind of jaunty salute in thanks.

‘Always be polite to the servants, Char,’
had been her godmother’s advice.
‘They see everything, hear everything and know everything and can be a gold mine of information if they are so disposed.’
Meg had looked mischievous as she added,
‘And believe me, they can cover up your misdemeanours too, if they like you.’

Outside was a wide, gravelled walk, edged by a clipped yew hedge that reached to a height of about six feet, with a heavy wooden door set into an archway cut into the dense foliage.

‘I keep the garden door locked,’ Lady Granville remarked as she took an ornate key from her pocket. ‘It is my private sanctuary and the gardeners only enter at my command.’

Looking through the entrance Charlotte saw something like a ruined castle at the far end of the garden, ivy-covered and sporting gaping windows at the top, arrow slits winding upwards around a circular tower, the whole surmounted by a crenellated battlement. A flagpole crowned the ruins and from it, a long, silken banner floated in the slight breeze.

Lady Granville said nothing but kept a watchful eye on her guest as she waved her through the archway. A smile of gratification lightened the severity of her features at Charlotte’s exclamation.

‘But … but it’s Camelot!’ She turned to her hostess with her hands lifted in a gesture that seemed to encompass the scene before her eyes. ‘It’s an enchanted garden. How wonderful.’

‘It is almost my greatest treasure,’ confided the older woman and exchanged a smile of comprehension with her guest as, once again, Charlotte read clearly the message as to what was, without a doubt, her most beloved treasure.

‘I had no idea.’ Charlotte was released from the spell that had held her poised in the arched gateway and she flitted about the garden, discovering more and more delightful surprises. ‘I can’t
believe how colourful it all is, even at this time of year,’ she said, waving her hand at the glowing scarlet berries on the holly tree in the corner and glancing up at the mistletoe, with its mother-of-pearl fruit, hanging in clusters from an apple tree. ‘Surely some of these trees are very ancient, Lady Granville?’ She looked at the holly again and then, doubtfully, at the apple tree as she spoke. ‘But the garden must be of a more recent date, if you designed it yourself?’

Lady Granville shook her head. ‘Indeed it is. I built the garden around the trees,’ she explained. ‘The apple tree is only about twenty years old, I planted it myself, but the other trees were here first, the holly and the Queen’s Yew over in the corner.’

At Charlotte’s look of enquiry, the other woman nodded. ‘There is an old story that says Queen Eleanor of Provence, wife of Henry III, spent time visiting the abbey that is said to have graced this spot. It seemed a pleasant conceit to me, when I decided to design a garden to suit the mansion put up by my father-in-law, to call the garden after the queen and to stock it only with plants that grew in the olden days.’

Charlotte’s eyes were bright as she continued her exploration, aware that her interest was giving considerable pleasure to Lady Granville, who looked, Charlotte decided, as though she needed to smile more frequently. ‘Goodness,’ she said, stooping to look at a long walk bordered with sword-like green leaves. ‘What on earth are these? The berries are the most brilliant orange I’ve seen since my arrival in England.’