Anne, looking peeved, trots up behind him. She is trailed by the governess, who looks nearly as distraught as the children. Anne holds out a garland made of daisies.
“Look, Mama, I made this for his veil.” She tries to place the garland on her brother’s head, but Miss Rookwood steps up and takes it from her.
“I’ve no objections to the game, my lady,” Miss Rookwood says, holding the garland behind her back.
“What game?” I wish they hadn’t seen me.
“They were playing wedding,” the governess says. “But Thomas insisted”—here she drops her voice to a whisper—“he insisted on playing the part of the bride.”
“It’s my turn to be the bride,” Thomas says, trying unsuccessfully to grab the garland. “I want to marry Annie.”
He is so sweet and silly; it’s hard not to laugh. He’s always pretending at something; last week it was a vicar, and before that a snake charmer. But I can’t be bothered with this right now.
“Anne and Thomas, whatever the game was, it’s over now. If you don’t listen to Miss Rookwood, there will be no play at all.”
I turn and walk away, thinking how benign my children’s upsets are. If only mine could be vanished by an outburst of tears or a prolonged, sullen pout.
At the bottom of the hill, I follow the winding path that leads to Edmund’s grandmother’s private garden. She was considered a “great eccentric,” Edmund had told me the first time he’d shown me Headsworth. He’d been so proud of his family and its traditions and so eager to share them with me. His grandmother, he’d said, had not only designed a garden to spark the five senses of sight, sound, touch, taste, and smell, but had kept the garden gate locked. There were only two keys—one that she kept on a chain around her neck and one that was entrusted to her head gardener. And she never welcomed visitors. Edmund had stepped into his grandmother’s garden for the first time when he was nineteen, shortly after she died.
“I’d expected something more unusual,” he’d told me. “It was just flowers.”
We’d laughed about that then. I was eighteen and he twenty-four when we married, and after George Wickham’s rakish ways, Edmund seemed the perfect gentleman. He was everything I thought a husband should be—handsome, respectful, kind, and mature. He was so sure of himself, both in the world and in the sphere of his own home. And he was honest. His opinions could be strong, but he always expressed them with a mild-manneredelegance that blunted their edge. Edmund’s fortune overshadowed mine, which comforted me. My brother said we were a perfect match. From my engagement and wedding and through my early years of raising children, I was content.
As I push open the gate to the garden, which is no longer locked, I imagine Edmund’s grandmother relishing her private oasis, where rich soil brought forth flowers for her pleasure alone. Maybe she wasn’t eccentric at all but knew herself and what she needed. And yet, now that I think of it, there was the issue of the gate and the lock. Were they meant to keep everyone out, or were they holding something in?
As I move through the garden, a whiff of citrus tickles my nose. Lemon verbena, maybe? I brush my hand through a rosemary bush, which releases an herby odor. Its sticky scent clings to my fingers. The garden is lush and pretty, but since I was last here it’s become so overgrown that I can barely breathe. The bushes and flowers fight for space and sunlight. And there is sound, as promised—a low buzz from the bumblebees that circle over a honeysuckle plant and the quick murmur of tiny hummingbirds hovering over a delphinium bush, their wings flapping so rapidly their movement is nearly imperceptible. It’s too much. Deep orange daylilies emit a sweet, sickly smell that makes me dizzy. What is this place? Whatever it is, it’s not “just flowers.” I need to get out. I don’t want to be in this unfettered explosion of color and beauty.
As I leave, the gate swings behind me. I head toward the hedge maze, drawn to its dark, narrow paths, so clipped and orderly. I have always been superstitious about the garden maze; I believe, or I want to believe, that if I find my way to the center without making any wrong turns, all will be well. Today, it matters more than ever. If I take the right route, my obsession of the past few weeks will dissipate and I will be calm, as I once was.
I enter the maze slowly, running a hand along the prickly hedge, which reaches far above my head. The first turns are easy, and I take them instinctively, confident that I know the way. But at the next branch, I hesitate. Do I go left or right? I take a few steps to the left before feeling that it’s wrong. I turn back the other way. So far, I’m doing well. I know I am close to the center—I can feel it. At the heart of the maze, there is a stone pedestal upon which I can stand in triumph and enjoy the view over the hedges and beyond. One more turn—yes, this is right—and another. I am almost there. But a sound stops me. I’m not sure what it is. I step forward and peer around the hedge. I’ve found the center. But there’s someone there, a man, standing close to the far hedge with his back to me. His shoulders are hunched. I can tell from the way his jacket flaps behind him that it is unbuttoned in the front. He reaches one arm down and brings up the folds of a skirt. There is a woman with him, mostly hidden, but now I can see her hair and her shoes. Who are they? Are they visitors? From the village? I should turn back, but I can’t look away. The man shifts his stance, and I can see the woman’s dark hair tumbling over her shoulder. And now her face. Her eyes are closed, and she is smiling as the man nuzzles her neck. Her hands, pale and delicate, grip his shoulders. He has one arm around her waist, I think. The other is moving down below. She opens her mouth, says “Oh,” and sighs. And opens her eyes and looks at me.
I turn away, my heart racing. I start walking, but I’m not sure of the way out. I reach a dead end. I turn back, only to take another path that leads to nowhere. I go faster but lose my balance, and when I reach out to steady myself, my arm shoots through a gap in the hedge and a branch scratches my cheek. I want to get out of the maze and far away from what I saw. I press on until Isee an opening and stumble out of the maze. The sunlight is harsh and the crunch of my boots on the gravel too loud.
I don’t go back the way I came, by the gated garden, but head for the great lawn that will take me directly up to the house. I run, keeping my eyes cast downward to maintain my footing. I’m desperate to get inside without being seen, to be in my bed chamber, where I can calm myself. But when I look up, there is Edmund, handing off his horse to the stable hand.
“Has something happened?” he asks. “You don’t look yourself.”
“I’m fine.” I force a smile and touch my cheek. “I slipped; that is all.”
“You must be more careful, Georgiana.” He notices something in my hair and gently pulls out a twig. “I don’t want my dear wife running wild. Anything could happen.”
Once I’ve changed my clothes, Edmund reminds me that his Aunt Alice is coming to tea. That I’ve forgotten attests to my strange state. Lady Atherton’s visits, which are thankfully infrequent, are a trial. She is particular about her comfort—whether the assortment of tea cakes and sandwiches is balanced between savory and sweet, if the room is too drafty or warm. Worse, she notices everything about me. She tells me if I look tired, or if I’m smiling too little, which she thinks is selfish, or too much, which she deems infantile. Though I come from a family of considerable fortune and was raised in a grand home, she faults me for entering my marriage without a title. Edmund has more patience with his aunt, who rarely criticizes him and demands little of his time. He usually sits with her for no more than a quarter hour, during which he inquires after her health and that of her dogs. When she isn’tlooking, he shoots sheepishly apologetic looks my way, seeking permission to leave. After Edmund excuses himself today, Aunt Alice sneers at her tea and then turns her attention to me.
“You’ve been in the sun. It’s not becoming.”
“I had a walk this morning,” I say. “I stayed out longer than expected.”
“You mean you let yourself forget the time,” she says. “You must maintain a regular routine, as I do, and walk the same path every day at the same time. In this way, you will find you always will be home when expected.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.
She sets down her cup and saucer.
“I saw your sister last week when I was in Bath.”
“You saw Elizabeth?” I ask.
“Not Elizabeth. Mrs. Wickham.”
