Miss Cherry, ’twas said, was a unique young lady with tastes of her own. A fact which raised her above the tea-drinking ordinary-ness of thehoi polloi, in the opinion of the staff of Forest Grange.
Not that anyone really noticed, since the house itself was tucked neatly away from too many well-travelled roads. But still, it gave the housekeeper an elite edge over her nearest contemporary, Mrs Smythee, who ran Myrtle Manor for the Chalmers family.
A much smaller establishment than Forest Grange, of course, the manor was mostly used as a hunting box, or sometimes as a refuge for anyone desiring a bit of peace and quiet. It was rumoured to be haunted, but then again, most small, out of the way, buildings that had few occupants and a long history, were credited with some sort of ghost.
It made for more interesting conversations than the likely presence of woodworm in the skirting boards.
Cherry could see it sometimes, especially in the winter when the bare trees extended the vistas surrounding the grange, but mostly it was tucked on the far side of the woods, and only the odd curl of smoke in the sky would alert the Trease family to residents at Myrtle Manor.
It wasn’t visible now, nor was it in her mind as she strolled happily down the paths between thick trunks and masses ofgreenery that welcomed her with hushed whispers of affection.
She’d always felt an affinity with the forest, from the tiny curled newborn ferns to the largest and sturdiest oaks and pines. It offered solace, peace, and beauty; a far cry from the dust and dirt of London.
On this particular morning, she was going to see how her newly planted wildflowers were doing.
There had been some damage to the bank of one of the streams when an ancient willow had sadly succumbed to a heavy snowfall last winter. Now the tree was gone, but the bank was scarred, and would take a few years to resettle into its new configuration. Cherry had concluded that some yellow flag irises might help with the restoration of the site. They liked getting their feet wet, and would help other plants get a foothold.
Even though she knew her destination, she walked slowly, enjoying the sights and sounds of her beloved forest and woodland. Buttercups were everywhere, and she didn’t hesitate to pick a handful, holding their glorious blooms to her nose and inhaling the soft fragrance.
If she was better at distilling, she’d make her own perfume using them, but that wasn’t one of her skills, unfortunately.
She had tried with bluebells one spring. The result? Tully, the head gardener, had banned her from the small shed for life, after complaining that it had taken him a month to rid the place of insects and wasps, not to mention the stench of rotting plants.
A bitter blow at the time, but now just a sad memory. So on this particular morning, Cherry simply enjoyed the gentle scent of the miniature bouquet, especially when she discovered a few honeysuckle blooms on the vine clambering around some old bushes and added a sprig to her handful of flowers.
The sun peeked through the branches, warm on her shoulders, and she could not restrain the smile that curved herlips, even as her dark hair tangled a little under the passing tugs of a mischievous breeze.
How much more preferable a pastime this was than something useless she’d have been forced to do in London. Certainly there were parks, and many were quite lovely. But the formality of them disturbed her, as did the many other humans who chose to admire them in what to her seemed like huge crowds.
Breathing fresh air, stretching her legs, admiring the natural world around her—all these things were impossible in town, and for the umpteenth time she wondered why someone would choose to spend time in such a place, when nature offered perfection only a few miles away.
It was, to her, an unanswerable mystery.
The riverbank came into view, thrilling her with the tiny glimpses of yellow amongst the sharp tall leaves. The flags had taken, and from the looks of things, they were quite happy to be where they were. She paused, her heart happy, her mind content knowing that she’d made a tiny difference that would benefit her favourite place—her woods.
But after a few moments of appreciation, the music of the birds above her head encouraged her to move along, her steps accompanied by the delightful rustle of branches and leaves.
There was a spot she had found many years ago—she would rest there for a bit and let her thoughts run free.
A slight rise followed by a gentle dip lay tucked just off the path and in just the right place to catch the sun as it shone between two grand old oak trees. Surrounded by wild azaleas, it was private, beautiful, and the grass was softer here than anywhere else she knew.
She’d discovered it several years ago and knew it to be the perfect location for a few hours spent lazing with a book, ornapping, or just spending time alone and thinking.
Cherry liked to think, which separated her from most of the other young women her age. But today those girls were the furthest thing from her mind.
She had the latest novel from an unknown author, “A Lady”, tucked under her arm. The first one she’d read had fascinated and intrigued her, offering a sharp, amusing, and accurate glimpse of society’s foibles. She was so looking forward to this newest one, hoping that it would meet or exceed the delights of the first one, titled “Sense and Sensibility.”
So, with a sense of eagerness, she strode up the path to the rise. And with a sudden chilling shock, found it already occupied.
There was amanlying on the grass, his eyes closed, his body unmoving.
Dear God. Was hedead?
*~~*~~*
The sun was warm, the grass soft beneath him, and if he could have just twisted the throats of a few noisy birds to shut them up, the day would have been perfect.
Even his headache was receding, although he decided that actually opening his eyes to the bright sky above might not be the best of ideas quite yet.
