The Night Gardener (6 page)

“I suppose you’re going to tell me I’m a wicked person,” she said.

Molly shook her head. “No, mum … I’m gonna tell you a
story.”
She swallowed, pushing away her fear and exhaustion so that she could focus on this woman in front of her—a woman who, like all people, longed to hear something that they had once known but since
forgotten. “Imagine wakin’ up tomorrow, like you always do,” she began, “only there’s somethin’ a bit
different
. At first it’s just a faint sound, a whistle at the back of your ear. The sound gets louder, and you realize: it’s a kettle, callin’ for tea.” Molly spoke with a hypnotic lilt, and, behind her voice, you could almost make out the song of the kettle. “You open your eyes to a room flooded with warm sunlight. The curtains is already drawn apart, and your window’s wide. You stretch and yawn—fresh air fillin’ your lungs. Your clothes is already pressed and waitin’ for you. And there, on the mantel, a jar of fresh-cut flowers from your very own garden.” Molly saw Constance close her eyes and take a deep breath, as if smelling the phantom bouquet in the warm morning air. “You sit up, and your nose catches the delicious waft of hot sausages cracklin’ in a pan and fresh rolls brownin’ in the oven. And then, all of a sudden, there’s a polite knock at the door, and …” Her voice trailed off.

“And?” Constance said after a moment.

Molly shrugged. “Afraid you’ll have to hear the rest tomorrow.”

The woman blinked, looking at her surroundings as if for the first time. Her eyes drifted from the dirty floor to the stained counter to the neglected pots and finally to her own children, huddled by the stove.

“You never make us sausages,” Alistair muttered.

Penny slid down from the counter and rushed to Molly’s side, hands clasped together. “Mummy, can’t we
pleeeeeeee
”—she took a breath—“
eeeeeeaaaaase
keep them?”

Molly smiled down at Penny—this sweet little girl who wanted her when no one else did. She put an arm around her and faced Constance.

The woman shook her head and loosed a long breath. She shut the back door. “You will start this evening.” She wrinkled her nose. “But first: baths.”

hatever warming effect Molly’s story might have had on her new mistress, it did not last very long. The woman was as cold and impersonal as ever during her tour of the house and grounds. “Breakfast at eight. Tea at eleven. Supper at six,” she said, moving briskly through the downstairs rooms. “I want new linens on the table before every meal. You shall cook from recipes I choose—you can read, can’t you?”

Molly struggled to keep up. “Well enough, mum,” she said, pinning back a strand of her still-damp hair. The bath had been her first in ages, and even though the water was cold, it felt wonderful to be clean. She was wearing a worn maid’s uniform that was clearly meant for someone several years older (and several pounds heavier). She adjusted her apron and followed the woman into the hall.

“As you can see, I haven’t had time to properly unpack our things,” Constance said, passing some furniture and crates along one wall. “See that you take care of it.”

“Yes, mum,” Molly said. This phrase had quickly become the
girl’s answer to nearly every command. Even if Molly had wanted to ask a question about one of her tasks, Mistress Windsor moved so quickly that there was scarcely time. Chamber pots cleaned by ten!
Yes, mum
. Floors scrubbed twice weekly!
Yes, mum
. Silver polished every month!

Yes, mum.

Yes, mum.

Yes, mum.

Molly repeated these words until they were burned into her mind. She felt certain she would hear
Yes, mum
in her dreams, pounding against her skull like a drum.

“And what about that room there, mum?” Molly asked, pointing to a rather smallish green door at the top of the stairs, which Constance had passed without comment. Unlike most other doors in the house, this one did not have a simple latch but instead boasted a large iron bolt—the sort used to secure safes and storehouses.

“You needn’t concern yourself with that door. I don’t even think we have the key.” She gestured toward some muddy boot tracks in front of the bedrooms. “Do clean those up when you get a chance.”

Despite her terse manner, Mistress Windsor possessed a refined quality that appealed to Molly. Molly had not had much opportunity to mix with the higher classes of society, and watching this woman was a rare glimpse into another world. Her clothes were not only
well made but beautiful. The dark folds of her skirt hung from her slender frame at a perfect angle, ending just above—but never touching—the floor. From her delicate neck and wrists hung diamond jewelry the likes of which Molly had never seen before. Even her movements were elegant.
Like a picture come alive
, she thought to herself.

Mistress Windsor’s fine appearance was made all the more stark by her surroundings. The woman looked completely out of place in this distressed and crumbling house, and Molly suspected that her occasional comments about their previous dwellings in town were spoken with a touch of longing. Every so often, Constance tried to engage Molly in what seemed to be her version of friendly conversation. These exchanges usually didn’t go very well. “Your brother,” she said, mounting the stairs, “how long has he been a cripple?”

Molly gritted her teeth. “He was born that way,” she said, trying not to let her irritation creep into her reply. “Leg turned in on itself.”

The woman waved a dismissive hand. “Well, whatever it is, I don’t want the children catching it. He’s to sleep in the stables.”

Molly slowed. “The stables, mum?” Her brother’s health was worsening; he needed to sleep in a warm bed—not in some drafty shack with animals.

“Or the woodshed, if he prefers.”

“He’s only ten, mum.” Molly knew she should not speak out, but she could not help it. “There’s plenty of beds in the servants’ quarters—surely he can sleep in one of the rooms down there.”

Constance faced her. “Out of the question. There’s a reasonable fear of illness in this home. It wouldn’t be the first time sickness had spread inside these walls.” Molly thought instantly of what the old storyteller had mentioned out in the hollow about Master Windsor being sent off to town as a boy. “The other thing,” she had called it. “And Molly,” Constance said, stepping closer, “I am unaccustomed to having my orders questioned. If you so much as
think
of contradicting me again, you and your brother will find yourselves out in the cold before the words even leave your mouth. Are we clear?”

Molly stared at the woman, cheeks burning. “Yes. Mum.”

Constance brightened, smiling. “Excellent. Follow me, then.”

It was nearly evening by the time Mistress Windsor concluded her tour in the library on the second floor. It was a large room with furniture covered in gray tarpaulin sheets that were stiff with age. “My husband spends much of his time in town,” Constance explained, “and so we have little use for a study.” She pulled apart the heavy curtains to light the room. “You can see a dusting is in order.”

The space looked to Molly like it had not been occupied in some time. The high walls were filled to the ceiling with old books. Molly, who had dreamed many times of being in possession of so rare a thing as a book, was overwhelmed. “Is Master Windsor a scholar, mum?” she asked.

“A scholar? Heavens, no!” She said this with the passion of someone who had just been asked if her husband were in the circus. “These books belonged to Bertrand’s father. I understand he was something of an eccentric.”

There was an audible gust of wind outside, and a branch from the giant tree tapped against the window behind Molly. She moved away from the glass, slightly unnerved. It seemed that wherever she turned in this house, there was the tree. “You know, mum, I could have my brother prune back some of them branches. Maybe patch the walls where it’s broke through?”

“Would that we could,” Constance said lightly. “Unfortunately, the tree has grown too close to the house. Disturbing it might threaten the foundations.”

“Surely clipping back a few branches wouldn’t—”

Constance cut her off. “Under no circumstances are you or your brother to touch the tree,” she said, her voice like an icicle. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, mum.” Molly could feel her cheeks flushing again. She had only meant to be helpful. Just when it seemed like her mistress was becoming kinder, the woman would lash out at her for no good reason. She scanned the room with her eyes, trying not to let Constance see her frustration.

And that was when she noticed the portrait.

It was a large painting, almost up to Molly’s shoulders. It leaned against the fireplace mantel, waiting to be hung. The impressive gold frame was wrapped in protective cloth that had come undone on one side, leaving it half-dressed like a Roman emperor. Behind the cloth, Molly could make out the four members of the Windsor family: Constance, Alistair, Penny, and a man she took to be Master
Windsor. Only it wasn’t the family as she knew them. Their faces were plump and healthy, with bright eyes and ruddy cheeks. Instead of dark hair, they all had chestnut curls. Molly studied the painting, unsure of what to make of the image. It was one thing for an artist to flatter his patrons, but this seemed altogether different.

“Is something the matter?” Constance said, startling her.

Molly looked at the face of the woman standing beside her. It was the same mouth, eyes, and nose—only now her skin had lost its color. Her once-blue eyes were pools of black ink. Compared to the figure in the painting, Constance looked drained and frail. “Is … is that you, mum?” she said, pointing to the portrait.

“Who else would it be, child? We had it painted last summer. Just before moving here, in fact.”
Last summer?
Molly marveled at how the woman could have looked so different only a few months before. Constance stiffened, feeling Molly’s eyes on her. She touched the back of her dark, straight hair. “Perhaps it’s time you started supper,” she said and walked away.

Molly remained behind a moment. A breeze wuthered through the house, and the tree outside scraped against the glass, almost as if it wanted in. She inched back a step, looking again at the painting. The four faces in the portrait smiled out at her, happy and healthy. Something sinister was changing these people, and they didn’t even seem to know it. Molly covered the portrait and retreated into the hall.

he servants’ quarters were in the basement floor of the Windsor house. Molly had been allowed to pick any room she wanted, and she chose the one with the fewest spiderwebs and an actual bed—such as it was. Beyond those amenities, the space was dank and spare. She had a wardrobe and a small dresser with a mirror mounted above it. The ceiling was stained with mildew. In several places, roots from the tree had broken through the walls, creating a veiny relief pattern beneath the faded wallpaper.