In the winter, the stark bare branches turned into platforms of snow, sometimes decorated with glistening icicles. And on bitter nights they sang for her, the wind whipping around and through them, creating a melody that she heard with her heart as much as her ears.
Yes, the forest was hers, and she’d be damned if she’d surrender the pleasure of it just because some rude and idiotic visitor had suggested she needed a companion with her while walking in it.
Hah.
Although, (once again, her weary conscience administered a half-hearted thwack), Cherry found herself forced to confess that he hadn’t really been rude at all.
Upon review of their conversation, it had been her own actions that had set the tone. Perhaps sticking her toe in him to see if he was alive had not been the most appropriate move she could have made.
It had been the shock, she consoled herself. The utter andcomplete shock of seeing someone else inherplace.
Of course, any other young woman would probably have shrieked and run away. Or, being an ordinary and proper young woman, would have had her maid (a poor girl who had to follow her mistress everywhere) find out if he was alive, and then she could have engaged in minimal but appropriate conversation, while the aforementioned maid stood quietly a little distance away, with her hands clasped in front of her, just in case her mistress needed rescuing from the unwanted attentions of this man who had been roaming the wilderness in search of unattended maidens.
And what, she asked herself, was a maid actually supposed to do under such circumstances? Throw herself in harm’s way and beg the attacker to take her instead? Remove her shoe and thump him soundly with it? Kick him in the place she’d been firmly told never to kick a man unless it was absolutely a matter of life and death?
Utter and complete nonsense.
Even her favourite walk back toward the Grange did little to improve her mood. Why was it that young women were so closely guarded? Why was it that their every word, or gesture, was scrutinised or criticised? Were they so precious that they had to be appreciated, or was it that they were so stupid that everyone wanted to remember them so that they could repeat them later?
All right, yes, some were. And unfortunately, she’d met more than a few of that particular category in London. Another reason she was less than enchanted with the city.
But for women of sense, those who weren’t afraid to speak their minds, or—if need be—get into an argument with a gentleman, London was not the place to be.
With a sigh, she found herself heading down the well-trodden path, past the first formally trimmed hedges that surrounded the grounds of Forest Grange.
“Mornin’, Miss Cherry. How’s our trees today?” The gruff voice belonged to Tully, head gardener, and it greeted her as she rounded a massive rhododendron, both plant and man a balm to her turbulent thoughts.
“Same as ever, Tully. Beautiful, fully leafed in, and the ferns are doing well in the shady spots.”
His face creased into a smile. “How’s them flags comin’, then? Likes their feet wet, they does.”
“Oh yes, they do indeed. They’re going to be very happy where they are. By this time next year, the whole bank will be blooming bright yellow. There are even a few flowers showing now.”
“There you are, then, Miss. Put the right thing in the right place, you got years ahead to enjoy it.” He looked toward the Grange. “Goin’ in, are you?”
She sighed. “Yes. I couldn’t walk as much as I wanted. There was a strange man in the woods.”
Tully frowned. “A stranger? Should I tell the house?”
“No, no. It’s all right. A gentleman. Someone staying at Myrtle Manor, apparently. Out for a bit of a wander and decided to lie down for a nap.” She clenched her teeth. “On my spot.”
He shook his head. “Best stay home until he’s gone, Miss Cherry. No point in takin’ chances.”
“I doubt I’d have anything to worry about, but it was quite disappointing. I’d hoped to be able to read most of the morning out there. Now I’ll have to sit inside or in the gardens, I suppose.”
“Not that bad, Miss,” he said quietly.
“But not the forest,” she replied, knowing he’d understand.
He nodded. “Not the forest.” He turned back toward thehedge he’d been trimming. “Ain’t nothin’ like the forest.”
Cherry agreed. “Enjoy the morning, Tully.” She walked away, wondering, as she often did, why it was that an elderly gardener seemed to be the only person in her entire world who understood her feelings about the woods, and never questioned them.
Shrugging, she offered up a quick prayer of thanks that at least someone did. It would have been quite dreadful if she’d been alone in her appreciation of nature.
Crossing the lawn, she entered the Grange by way of a large glass door that led her into what the family called the Summer Room.
It was a good size, big enough for a few of their family parties, and had a huge bow window facing out onto the gardens themselves. Several of the other windows opened, like the one Cherry had just used, thus it was perfect for those wonderful warm evenings when the sun didn’t seem to want to set, and the scented air drifted around the flowers and hedges.
