That was just one of the many ways that life in Crowthorne House had changed me.
Death had endeavoured to make its mark on me since before I could remember, and now, I accepted, it had finally achieved its task. I was to be Grace Emily Crowthorne, and whatever embellishment death had woven into the fabric of my soul, I knew the same could be found in Nicholas’, too. It was not a mark that could be seen or detected with the naked eye; only felt, understood, when we were alone together.
We planned a small but beautiful service, with only two witnesses – Eugenie and Dorian Gable – and a reception in the house for the staff and some close friends of Nick, who I supposed would become my friends, too.His friends and acquaintances were equally mine, our lives officially enmeshed. Louisa, we hoped, would be left in blissful ignorance, still living in the infirmary with her dusky pink room. A large marquee was extended from the back of the house, allowing for a band and a floor to dance on. After the disaster of Christmas Eve, I was looking forward to hosting my very first party; to feel, for the first time, like the lady of the house.
Tom, as far as anybody else was concerned, had fallen off the face of the planet. After that fateful night, he had simply disappeared, leaving no trace. Without a body, he was merely missing and, after a time, would be presumed dead. When I received irate letters and phone calls from Tom’s family, they didn’t touch me; like the dead, I heard their anguish and returned only silence. It was far too late for Tom, and besides, I was already so far beyond him.
On the morning of our wedding, Eugenie laced me into the boned bodice of the extravagant white ball-gown I had chosen for my wedding dress. With its high lace neck and smattering of pearls and diamonds that extended all the way down to the train, I felt like royalty. A light dabbing of makeup, pearl earrings, my long white-blonde hair cascading over my shoulders, a long ghostly veil, and I was almost ready. All there was left to do was top my head with the crown of dried lilies Eugenie and I had spent several evenings meticulously sewing together, attaching them to a band of white velvet.
I admired myself in the full-length mirror of Louisa’s old bedroom, almost disbelieving of what I saw, and yet unable to tear my gaze away. When Eugenie lifted the crown of lilies and lowered it over my head, tears sprangto my eyes. I looked ethereal, haunted, and every bit a Crowthorne. I lifted my polished red nails to touch the delicate dried petals, expecting them to fall away immediately, carrying my image away with them on a whistling wind.
“Don’t touch them! They’re fragile,” said Eugenie, gently guiding my hand away. “But my goodness, Grace, do you ever look stunning.”
A smile ripened across my face, my lips rouged as my nails, contrasting starkly with the icy white of my hair, skin, and gown.
“And so do you,” I said, admiring her long fitted dress in a pearlescent white, with hues of pink and blue as her movements caught the light. “You’re such the perfect bridesmaid that I could cry.”
Her makeup was dramatic and dark as usual, with deep red lips and black shadow around her strikingly cold eyes, and yet she still did not upstage me. Her hair was honey-gold and mussed in a lazy punk fashion, with an arrangement of a white rose, beads, and a stream of white ribbon pinned above one ear.
“I feel so nervous,” I said, hoping that if I admitted my unease then it would abate it in some way.
“I’ve never met a bride who wasn’t nervous,” said Eugenie. “But if you think you might change your mind about marrying Nick, say the word, and I will whisk you away from here in an instant.” She winked, indicating her light-heartedness, but I knew she meant every word.
The day after Tom’s death, when I found Eugenie wasted in the gardens, only the sobering cold of the morning allowed her a coherent thought or sentence. She’dbeen drinking heavily, in part to distract herself and calm her nerves, and in part to quash her regret.
“I couldn’t forgive myself for letting you go,” she said at the time, dismissively shaking her head as if to shoo away unhelpful thoughts. “I should have insisted you come with me. And to think, if it wasn’t for Nick following you – what that disgusting brute would havedoneto you if you hadn’t been found – ”
“None of that matters now,” I replied, taking her hand in mine and squeezing it. I only wished I could explain why none of it mattered now; that even his ghost couldn’t haunt me, because I’d lived with and endured much worse than him. “You have never let me down, Eugenie. I only hope I can prove to be half as good a friend to you as you have been to me.”
We’d walked through the gardens, talking about Louisa. We wondered if Eugenie’s car fire had been caused by her; an extension of her jealous rage. It was hard to imagine the drug-addled, barely-there woman we had seen swaying in the hallway being capable of such a thing. But without her medications, when she was sober and capable, was another matter. Perhaps she was more capable than we could ever have guessed.
“I can’t help but admire her tenacity,” I had admitted at the time, as we'd strolled by the orangery. I'd looked uneasily at the fig tree, curled against the glass, as we passed. “Any woman who can take her troubles and set them ablaze is a more powerful woman than me.”
Eugenie sighed, gently adjusting my crown and veil. “I’m just so excited for the two of you. Imagine meeting the love of your life in a funeral home, your eyes meeting overthe...formaldehyde.”
I smiled bashfully. If only she knew that real, passionate love could never be so simple...or maybe, it could. I was twenty-one years old. It was strange to inhabit this body that knew so little, and had experienced so much. I hoped beyond hope that it would make me an excellent funeral director.
Eugenie glanced at the grandfather clock, standing tall and still as an officer against the pink flock wallpaper. I vowed that, once we were married, I would mark our transition by stripping that wallpaper down to the plaster with my own two hands.
“It’s time, Grace. Are you definitely, absolutely ready? No cold feet?”
“There are plenty of cold feet in this house,” I said, referring to the bodies stored in the mortuary, awaiting us once the festivities were through. “And I’m glad to say that none of them are mine.”
I smiled humourlessly, hoping my facetiousness would disguise my nervous state.
Eugenie rolled her eyes as she linked her arm with mine, but not before passing me my bouquet – a trailing arrangement of red roses and white lilies, just the same as the arrangements in the chapel. I stopped us in our tracks as I noticed the foliage packing out the arrangement. With their distinctive shape and size, I recognised them instantly, but they didn’t belong in my bouquet.
“Who put this together?” I asked, so nervous that my hands shook as I felt their sandpaper texture between my thumb and forefinger, and the stiff hairs on their underside.
“The florist on the King’s Road,” said Eugenie. “The very same who designed the sprays in the chapel, in the drawing room, on the head table, the cake table...Nick’s buttonhole, my corsage...”
“These arefigleaves,” I said, feeling haunted, the darkness coming over me, acrid as black smoke. I suddenly felt afraid, that the leaves were a terrible omen. The presence of the figs, either imagined or real, always heralded something terrible. “Who would ever use such a thing in a bridal bouquet, let alone the other arrangements?”
Eugenie blinked, frowning, looking very confused indeed.
“What’s wrong with fig leaves?” she asked.
It would be a long and confusing explanation, and we didn’t have time. How could I ever explain my nightmares, and the uncanny placement of the fig tree in the Crowthorne orangery compared to the one at Heather House? Even as I gave a brief explanation in my mind, I realised it sounded ludicrous. They were just plants, nothing more.
