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“Country sounds eventually become background noise,” she assured me, not completely dismissive. “I’ve come to tell you that the professor has just departed and will be gone for a few days.”
“Oh?” Though I’d been glad enough to play sick, the idea of Professor Hughes being away from the house was an unhappy one. It was empty enough as it was. “Where has he gone?”
“Despite the professor’s passions as an academic he still runs the family business. There’s been an issue at one of the packaging warehouses in Boston, so off he’s gone.”
The mention of Boston made me homesick for the shop. I resolved to ask the professor to let me travel with him the next time he went so that I might visit Mr. Helm.
“At any rate, he’s left instructions for you to do as you please until he returns and to not worry yourself with work.”
The meaning of this time off was clear as day—the professor didn’t want me in the library alone in case I came across any more sensitive reading material. Well, he had a right.
“We’ll continue to serve meals at the same time in the dining room, but you may otherwise do as you’d like. Within reason.” Having added this last bit, Ms. Dillard looked at me pointedly and I understood.
“How did you know?” I asked.
“Those hallways and that staircase haven’t been cleaned in ages, Miss Foxboro. Your footprints in the dust were as clear as black ink on a white shirt. I suppose we’re all very lucky that you’d make a terrible criminal.”
It sounded curiously like a jest, and I smiled.
Though she didn’t smile back, the woman tilted her head thoughtfully and offered, “The weather isn’t brutal today. You might have a look outside. Nothing’s blooming but the gardens are still a worthwhile sight.”
“Thank you, Ms. Dillard. That sounds lovely,” I said sincerely.
“Well, it will keep you out from underfoot. Breakfast will be ready in an hour.”
She went off without another word.
I readied myself, forgoing my own clothes this time to dress in the much warmer garments the professor had delivered. He’d been right about my wardrobe not being sufficient, but like the stubborn mule I enjoyed being I’d continued to wear only what I’d brought. Admittedly, it was partially to vex him for his criticisms.
But the professor wouldn’t see me today, and Ms. Dillard couldn’t judge if the purpose was for practicality, so I let myself enjoy the navy wool skirt and low hemmed cardigan, choosing my own sedate beige blouse to complete it. I pressed the brown cloche hat low over my hair, to protect my ears from the cold, and shrugged on my aged coat. I was glad the professor hadn’t offered a new one; I’d be too afraid to explore outside and get the thing smudged.
After a hurried breakfast, I took myself back to the front of the house. Yesterday when I’d stormed off, I hadn’t gotten far before the cold drove me back inside. Today wasn’t warm, but the chill in the air was reduced by the bright sun that shone down unimpeded from a cloudless sky. I planned to walk the perimeter of the house to get a look at it from every angle, determined to figure it out, especially after getting so hopelessly lost. Positive that I wouldn’t stumble anywhere I wasn’t supposed to be, I began a confident stroll. The gardens stretched the full west and north of the house. I was anxious to visit them, but kept on the periphery for now, surveying the windows and turrets on this side of the estate, trying to map it.
There, the library windows near the drive, and along this same outer wall the dining room, the smaller kitchen windows, and the door beneath them on the below-stairs level that must be the cellar, likely connected to the kitchen pantry. This would allow easy come and go from the back where a small herb garden lay dormant for the winter. Beyond the kitchen were windows for rooms I hadn’t been in, doors locked tight against curious eyes. Then at last the rose hedgemaze came into view, flanked by a vine-buried garden wall, gray with dead moss. I’d seen this from that feminine office and located the window easily. As I approached the back left corner of the house, the groundskeeper’s cottage became visible, built of rough field stone and a simple wood roof. It looked quaint and picturesque. As with everything about Willowfield, the look had been curated to the height of fancy.
If I could see the cottage here, the hallway I’d navigated must be on the back of the house. When I took myself around the corner, I was met with a peculiar sight. A tower. It was an addition to the house, unlike the rest of the French gothic architecture. It had been added on a whim or as an afterthought, and it demanded attention. Built up from the third floor, invisible from all vantage points but the north gardens, it was crafted in the same field stone as the cottage, but had been laid more smoothly and evenly, perhaps to denote a higher class of person residing there. Its conical pale roof boasted a chimney that leaned quirkily to one side as though it were ancient. It might have once been romantic, but with the creepers hanging dead like lank hair, and the dirt of neglect fogging the windows, it inspired an ominous sense of unease. Despite how it looked on the outside, the view from that room would have been extraordinary.
I continued my trail and traveled around the remainder of the estate, finding a sizeable carriage house, converted to keep modern vehicles, and the apple orchards, which stretched out as far as I could see to the east. I was familiar with none of the rooms on this side and shook my head, finding a grudging sense of respect for Ms. Dillard and the work required to manage such a place.
My task completed, I headed back to the gardens with undisguisable excitement and began at the spot that had fascinated me most: the rose labyrinth. I meandered through the twists and turns, the gravel ways littered with dried petals and leaves from last season. I misturned only twice before finding the center, set with two stone benches facing each other from opposite points. Marking the middle of the circle was a fairy ring of morel mushrooms that must have been encouraged to grow in a precise circle. The child in me longed to step inside, just to enjoy a little thrill, but I listened to the hum of caution in my breast that advised me to move on.
Unlike a typical labyrinth, the rose maze had an alternative exit, leading into the once-fine topiary quarter, full of beasts and approximate human shapes. The centermost shrub was larger than the rest, and from its vaguely manlike head, two great oak branches had been secured like splendid horns. Every shrub was cut to mimic a flurry of activity. Great dogs, rearing horses, snapping wolves, all facing one direction toward a stag, the only bush that had been lovingly maintained. There were no overgrowths of limbs, no holes from decay, only thick evergreen and perfectly manicured edges. I reached up to caress its muzzle as I passed, the leaves rustling against my touch.
I ventured onto the overgrown pathways that may have once led many visitors through their tour of the decadent colors and scents of spring. There were pergolas, cherry blossom tunnels, and innumerable bramble arches and clusters of broom waiting patiently to flower. A majestic weeping willow sighed low over a murky pond where a stone kelpie reared half out of the water, searching for a rider.
I left the kelpie pond, walking a path between two gardenia bushes and found myself at the Willowfield greenhouse I’d seen in the car on the way up the winding drive. The distance and the reflection of the sky had hidden its flaws then, but the grisly state of it was visible now. Where glass panels were not cracked or completely missing from their frames, there was dirt, bird excrement, and oily soot—the remnants of a fire. Flames had ruined the hothouse at some unknown time, and the damage had never been remedied. I walked closer, trying to peer inside, but silhouettes of long-dead plants prevented me. After a short search, I found the door, rusted and hanging ajar. Telling myself it wouldn’t hurt to look, I entered cautiously, wary of loose glass.
The inside was a sadness of charred foliage, once a variety of warm weather greenery that would have made this little square of land feel like a tropical arcadia. I spotted remnants of banana leaf trees, cat ferns, and birds of paradise. A wasted lemon tree made its pride of place in the least damaged area, showing off the carcasses of its fruit that still hung stubbornly to their branches. Near this was a large cedar workbench, scarred with soot and splayed with shears, wire, and an assortment of cracked vases, shards of ones that didn’t survive littering the dirt floor. This workbench interested me most, and I picked my way through to it, passing a pyre of wicker that had once been chairs and a glass-top tea table, cracked through the center. I traipsed over the ruins of a scorched rug, laid out for the comfort of visitors, and it squelched beneath my feet.
The workbench was in much better shape than it seemed, and didn’t give or rock when I tested its sturdiness. This must have been a floristry table, where the bouquets and arrangements were made for the house. Ms. Dillard had mentioned something about Willowfield being full of flowers even in the winter months. That meant that this greenhouse had likely belonged to Mrs. Hughes.
A small sadness settled around me as I respectfully examined all the forgotten paraphernalia of a hobby once enjoyed by a person no longer here: gardening gloves, scissors, stalks of dried hydrangea and lavender, the smell of them, though dull, still drifting around the space like a memory.
Ms. Reeves had told me about phantom smells, the calling cards of the dead who come back for a moment to revisit the places where they were most comfortable. The thought of lavender and ghosts elicited a sickening reaction in me, and despite the warmth of the sun through the glass, my flesh rose with goose bumps, and I became light-headed, the world pitching forward and taking me with it. Throwing out my hand to stop my descent, I caught the top of the workbench, leaning heavily, unsteady. The jostling of the table knocked a pair of shears and a shower of old petals to the ground. I took several deep breaths, forcing the miasma to retreat. Lavender had never been a favorite scent of mine, but I had never reacted so strongly to it. It was all the strangeness of the house, the intensity of my interactions with the professor, and my unknown future. I assured myself that I was just more sensitive to the panics now because of stress and lack of sleep.
To divert my mind, I bent down on my hands and knees to reach under the cabinet and retrieve the scissors. Being close to the cool earth focused me, and I reached under, my fingertips finding the edge of something hard and smooth. I dipped my head farther to see it. Another journal, the cover as green as the other. It seemed Mrs. Hughes had once made a habit of hiding her private journals, and I imagined it made sense to do so in places where she spent the most time. My conscience battled with my interest in knowing more about the mysterious Willowfield wife, but ultimately it lost, and I reached for the book, pulling it from its hiding place. I was mildly repulsed with myself for my grotesque curiosity, but still, I flipped open the cover to investigate the handwriting on the inside. It was the same harsh, nervous script.
I skimmed the first several pages, trying not to look too closely, but after a moment it was plain that this hadn’t been a secret, passionate diary, but a botany notebook. Mrs. Hughes had drawn various types of plants—their stalks, petals, and seeds—labeling each with different notes for uses, scents, distillations, and arrangements. I continued to flip through, keen on studying what made this estate and, admittedly, its former mistress so fascinating. As I came near the middle of the book, the attitude of the botanical sketches shifted. Gone were the delicate renderings of baby’s breath and lilacs and in their place, harsh black scratches eking out vines and twisted flowers with sparse notes beneath, some so rushed as to be unreadable.
