One #2
From the outside, the house showed signs of dilapidation.
Though its structure was not falling down, not really, the roof did sag in places.
The side door had become warped from incessant fog and rain, and the color of the brick was fading.
None of this was from age. The house was no more than a few decades old.
It was simply from a lack of care. Harriet’s father had decorated the rooms with his treasures, but never once did he repair the peeling paint of the parlor or the chipped wood of the banister.
Though, over the last seven months, she couldn’t say she’d paid Sunnyside much attention either.
It was far too damp and closed-in, like shackles around her.
To get some relief—a sensation only truly available now that her father had gone—she let her garden grow up around it, let it snake in through windows on summer days, allowed it to grow wild and thick.
If Harriet’s home would not be supported by love—and by now she knew better than that—it would have to be supported by plants.
And yet.
The garden could not be allowed complete freedom.
Not after what happened. Because she was the sole keeper of this garden, she must remain as diligent as ever.
She felt a small shudder at her feet in response to her thoughts.
Yes, the garden seemed to say. There would be no limit to my wildness without you.
“And that is why I must always be here.”
It’s no wonder they all thought she was mad, speaking aloud to her plants.
The garden was, of course, more unruly than the neighbors appreciated.
She heard as much from passersby almost daily.
Unkempt. Too much. A waste. They did not even try to keep their voices low.
But Harriet didn’t mind. They had always said the same about her too.
She never interacted with neighbors except for the odd furtive look when she dared to venture out or the unabashed stares from children who had surely heard of the mad young woman of Sunnyside.
It struck her as ironic that, despite her father’s best efforts, many people seemed to know about her, and they kept their distance.
It was just as well. Harriet was fidgety and nervous around strangers.
It had always been so. Years of being hidden, of being told she was unnatural, of being made so small it was almost as if she did not exist. She supposed that ought to take a toll on a person.
Her only visitor was Eunice. Dear Eunice, who never judged her and always overlooked her quirks.
What a breath of fresh air it was to finally throw open the gate when she did come, and laugh freely, loudly, together in the garden without Harriet’s father barreling through the door or casting his dark shadow.
She strode over to the brambles, which resembled a thick, thorned tangle of hair.
She knelt where the fox had curled up only minutes ago, looking for traces of the animal, but she could see nothing—no orange or white tufts, no beady black eyes.
He was gone. Once again, she had been abandoned, and once again, she was surprised that she cared.
Aloneness was freedom, she supposed, but it was also empty.
***
The man in the round hat arrived an hour or so later, while Harriet sat beneath the plum tree, rereading the same passage from last month’s issue of Gardener’s Chronicle, wondering about garden ferns and, for the hundredth time, whether she would ever invest in a greenhouse.
If she did not have to tend to this garden, if she could live where she wanted and create a home of her own, what would her garden look like?
She often imagined trees. Dozens of them.
Of course, she would need more space for that.
A place out in the country with sparrows and forget-me-nots and evening primrose.
She thought she would like a greenhouse.
The purpose of such a structure would be to have summer blooms in winter, and vegetables if the conditions were right, and it would be wonderful to have fresh summer roses all year long.
But, of course, all these thoughts were pointless. She must remain here. This garden was hers, and without her—
“Mr. Hunt?”
An unfamiliar voice roused her from her thoughts.
It was the nasally twang of a busy man, and she heard a faint rap at the door around the front of the house.
Harriet remained unmoving, hoping that her silence would encourage him to leave promptly.
She was acutely aware that the silver-lavender roses at the corner of the front garden, just next to the hawthorn, perked up at the sound, swiveling to face the front gate.
The man rounded the corner and spotted her all the way at the back, sitting beneath the plum tree.
His small legs carried him over to her so quickly, she barely had the chance to cover her exposed toes, which rested naked over the moss, as they often did when she sat outside.
She could feel the garden’s attention buzz to life all around her, the roses standing pert and cautious.
This small signal was enough to put Harriet on edge.
“I am looking for Mr. Hunt.”
The man wore a thin mustache, which curled up at the ends quite intentionally. He had a short but sturdy stance to him, like he wouldn’t necessarily instigate a scuffle but was ready for one at any moment.
“It is quite urgent that I speak with him,” he said when she did not respond.
Harriet fidgeted, aware of ivy snaking subtly along the edges of the house, which she could see behind him. She willed the garden to be at ease as she laced up her boots beneath the cover of her skirts.
Her fingers grazed a pointed corner of something in her pocket. The letter.
She wondered if the man in front of her could be a debtor who was fed up with her silence and had finally come to collect what he was owed.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a nest of thorns separating itself from the garden wall and billowing forward, ever so slightly, growing inch by inch, sharpening in the glinting sunlight that muscled through the clouds.
She let a small nervous laugh escape her. The plants had become more and more unruly the more time she spent here by herself. She feared it would take some strain to keep them in check.
The man frowned deeply. “Is he within?”
Finally, boots secured, Harriet stood, wobbling slightly.
She had a small height advantage that made the man take an involuntary step back, and the wrinkles on his forehead creased dramatically as he cleared his throat and stood up straighter.
She dipped her shoulders so she would appear smaller and smiled weakly, still without speaking.
More than half a year had passed since her father had disappeared, and the debt seemed to be mounting higher every day.
Harriet had been naive enough think that if she ignored all their inquests, they would eventually stop harassing her and simply accept that he was gone—that they would give up. Naive indeed.
“He is not within, Mr.—” she said with a shake in her voice. A thick, momentary silence followed.
“Inspector Stokes,” he said firmly.
Harriet was thrown for a moment. Inspector. So, he was not here to collect on debts after all. Her vision caught on his blue uniform and white striped cuffs. Of course. She should have put it together before. He was reading her carefully, she noticed now.
“He has not been within for more than seven months,” she managed. “My father has left the country.”
“I see.” He raised his eyebrows. “Have you any idea where he is, exactly?”
She did have some idea. He had run off to Denmark to live with his wealthy cousin, no doubt, as he had threatened to do many times before.
It seems he was keen to avoid debtors’ prison, though he did not think of what would happen to her in his absence.
Or perhaps, more accurately, he did not care.
It hadn’t been a surprise to Harriet that he had left, in the end.
Not really. The only surprise was that he did not send her away to the asylum before he left, as he had also threatened to do many times before.
She tried not to fidget. “Denmark, I think, Mr. Stokes—Inspector Stokes—” Was it just her imagination or was he narrowing his eyes at her?
“Denmark.” He rubbed at his dimpled chin with stubby fingers. “Curious.”
From what she could glean, the man did not, in fact, think it curious at all. He appeared to have made up his mind on the matter. And those eyes. They told Harriet that he wanted to pry something from her.
“Tell me—Miss Hunt, I presume?”
Harriet nodded.
“How did you and your father leave things the last time you saw him? Did he seem agitated?”
Heat rushed to her face. The last time she saw her father, the night had been frigid.
He’d stood in the threshold, barring her from escaping to the garden, which Harriet watched rise behind him like a thundercloud before he kicked the door closed and dragged her by the arm up the stairs, his fingernails slicing into her flesh.
His shouts were manic. Unhinged. She had flinched when he raised a hand, but he’d only tugged at his hair so that it stuck straight up like horns.
His eyes bulged red and unseeing. This time, when he threatened her, she’d gone cold, sensing some finality in his words.
Locked inside her room, she’d tried to pry open the window, but, of course, he had jammed that shut too.
She’d heard him thunder down the stairs and throw open the door.
The silence that followed echoed throughout the empty house.
Harriet had still been shaking, back pressed against the wall, fingers digging into her scalp, an hour later, maybe two.
She’d clutched a candlestick in her hand, waiting for him to come back, to try to take her away. But he hadn’t come back at all.
“I—we had an argument.”
Stokes raised an eyebrow.
“It was brief, and then he was gone.”