Chapter Two #3
By the time I’m done for the day, it’s nearly dark, twilight pushing up from the garden’s fragrant shadows.
Tools put away, I take a pail to the well for my evening’s water.
I’m surprised the Lascys have never had it plumbed in, but Tom says that it’s not odd for countryside estates to lack modern luxuries: the gentry are resistant to change, even when that change would be an improvement.
My path back to the cottage takes me past the chickens, to which I whisper a goodnight, and around the side of the manor house, past the vacant panes of ground-floor windows. One of them is lit.
Now, I’m not a nosy woman. As long as people leave me to mind my own business, I’ll return the favour.
But the mystery of Lady Lascy has been eating me up.
I simply have to know what she’s like, this secretive aristocrat who has everyone jumping to carry out her orders.
So, I reason to myself, there’s no harm in taking just a little look to see if she’s in there.
A glance, really. You can hardly help it if you’re walking past.
Placing my bucket down gently on the path, I step up to the glowing glass.
A set of heavy, purple-red curtains have been drawn on the other side, obscuring most of the interior, but they don’t quite meet at the centre, leaving a narrow band running vertically from top to bottom.
If I press my face close and shut one eye, I can snatch a glimpse of—
A throat being cleared.
I jump back, heart smacking in my chest. Turn to see Mrs Allen. She stands beyond the radius of illumination, her face unreadable. Looming like a horrid angel of judgement.
‘I – I was just …’ Unable to think of a good excuse, I let the lie peter out. ‘I didn’t see anything,’ I say instead, which is the truth – more’s the pity. The impression of firelight and soft textures. Just shapes and shadows, no time to identify them as anything in particular.
‘And what was it you were expecting to see?’ asks Mrs Allen.
‘Nothing,’ I say. Pause. ‘Lady Lascy, I suppose.’
Mrs Allen takes a step closer, causing me to move back a pace without really thinking about it.
‘Your job is to do the gardens, Miss Morgan,’ she says.
‘You’ve got no business inside the main house, nor with her Ladyship neither.
’ Her tone’s severe, but also commanding, as if she’s used to people doing as she says.
‘I only meant …’ I swallow, try again, firmer. ‘I have a right to know who I’m working for.’
‘If you want to get along at Harfold, I’d advise you not to go poking about in other people’s affairs,’ Mrs Allen says, as if I haven’t spoken.
‘Right,’ I agree. Take another pace further away, aware of the sanctuary of my cottage out there in the night behind me. ‘Look, no harm done, and it won’t happen again.’
‘You should leave.’
I don’t know what it is about the way Mrs Allen says this, but I’m sure for a moment that she isn’t simply referring to this window, right now: she means that I should leave Harfold itself.
The words reach right into my inner organs and squeeze.
My feet stop beneath me until I make a conscious effort to move them again. ‘I’m going,’ I tell her.
She points to the ground. ‘You forgot your pail.’
The bucket of water. Of course. I dart back to pick it up under her steel gaze, sloshing half the contents down my legs as I do so. Retreat fast as I can down the drive.
When I finally reach the cottage, my pulse slows at last. God, that woman’s a fright.
I’ve been nothing but lovely to her and here she is, treating me like the dirt on her boot.
It’s not a crime to peep into a window. At least, I don’t think it is …
But I should watch out for her, all the same. I don’t want any trouble.
As I open the front door, a pale flash on the side table catches my eye, reflecting the very last of the day’s light.
An envelope. Not posted under the door: someone has been inside, propped it up where I’ll see it.
The intrusion pricks at the back of my neck.
I set the bucket of water down by the door, then pick up the letter and carry it through to the sitting area.
When I light the main lamp, I see that it’s addressed to ‘The new gardener’ in a calligraphic hand, bold and spidered.
Taking out the paper knife, I slice open the seal.
A rough scrap of fabric inside. A needlepoint picture.
It’s done in coloured threads, blocky but distinctive, the same style as the cushions upstairs.
This one is of a woman in overalls and a straw hat.
I drop the cloth as if stung.
It’s an image of me.
I pick it up again, note the slouch of the shoulders, the wide-legged stance with hands in pockets. It’s not just a superficial likeness – this is exactly how I stand. An uncanny skin-crawl. Somebody has been watching me. Closely.
Not Tom; he’ll hardly be one for needlework.
Someone in the fields, then. Unless … I remember the twitching curtain at the upstairs window of the manor.
Could this be a gift from her? Lady Lascy, watching as I walked up and down the lawn all day.
Skewering me under a needle. Then, as I lurked about to try to catch a glimpse of her, she was darting out to let herself into the gardener’s cottage, to leave the picture for me to find.
I look in the envelope again to see if there’s any note.
Blank, but for the brown foxing stains in one corner, as if this is a scrap of old paper that’s been lying around for years before being put to use.
What’s the artist’s intention here? Am I meant to feel welcomed?
Flattered? Intimidated? Or merely confused, as I am now? A menace, Reacher had said.
I run a thumb over the bumped stitches. Imagine the movement of the needle.
A lady’s refined fingers touching where I now touch.
I lift the cloth to my nose and inhale. Dust and mildew.
What is she doing at this moment, I wonder.
Has she seen me return to the cottage? Does she assume I’ve opened the envelope – and, if so, how has she envisioned my reaction?
How close did her imaginings get to the reality of it?
Maybe we are thinking of each other at this exact moment.
That gives me a strange thrill. Almost erotic, but no, more like the moment a prey animal realizes that it’s being hunted.
I wonder if Mrs Allen will tell her what I was doing just now. I’m not sure if I hope that she does, or doesn’t.
Out of the window, this side of the manor has all gone dark. Lady Lascy is in there somewhere, but no matter how long I stare, all I see is my own self reflected in little panes of glass. Oval face, thin nose, eyes a little too far apart. And Lady Lascy remains a mystery.
With a sharp tug, I draw the curtains shut.