Harriet knew it well.
The fox sniffed the plum first. It was easy prey, already lying on the ground, waiting for someone to claim it. Harriet could almost see the little creature drooling from here, so indulgently it licked its mouth in anticipation. And then, it began to nibble. The plum rolled a short way away at the first breaking of the skin, yellow flesh exposed, and the fox chased it hungrily. Now that he had a taste, it was going to be hard to resist.
The fox played this game of nibble and chase until half the fruit was consumed, and then he took the last of it in his mouth and chewed with fervor.
Just then, the train roared past. The little fox gave the machine a brief, wary look, and Harriet did too, watching blurs of black cross hervision like splatters of ink.
The greens and pinks and whites of her garden glowed in the hazy morning light while the train burst through, a violent shadowy interruption. She had become quite used to the train over the years, so much so that it was a part of the garden’s natural rhythm. It used to drown out her father’s thundering commands, and for that, Harriet had been grateful.
But now that it was just her, she found she did not appreciate the train quite as much as she once had.
A shower of overripe fruit thunked to the ground near the fox. The animal was too distracted by the juicy finale of his dessert to care. Now, he stumbled over the fallen plums. There was a distinct imbalance to his gait, and then he lay down right where he was, part of him shadowed by the thicket of blackberry brambles that stood guard along the garden wall and part of him glinting in the brightness of the day. He curled his head around so he lay snugly on top of his tail, a little white tuft sticking out like the corner of a pillow.
A tendril of leafed ivy, as alive as a hand, slunk up to the tiny fox, then another, and another. Soon, the animal was shrouded by vines and covered in veiny green leaves.
The garden explored the visitor, and the visitor slept.
Harriet turned away. The room around her was still and quiet, such a contrast to her garden. The flowers that adorned the walls in here were stuck in a flat, lifeless existence. The paper peeled away at the corners, exposing spots of bare adhesive and plaster. She had lived in this space since she’d been too small to see out of the window. Now, the neatly made bed lay half illuminated, stripped of its bed curtains, posts prodding the air like spears. A faded blanket that had once matched the wallpaper covered the bed, and a droopy pillow peaked limply, though she’d tried, and failed, to help it sit upright. The room smelled faintly stale, like dust trapped too long under layers of damp.
Though she had lived at Sunnyside house her whole life, it wasn’t exactly homey. Her father no longer paced the halls, shouting her name, making sure she was not out running through the streets barefoot and wild. He was no longer here to force her to stay indoors, closed off from the garden she loved and the world beyond it. That much was true. With her father gone now, she should have been happier in this house. She no longer had to cower in corners or lie on the floor peering beneath locked doors for hours at a time. But even now that she was alone, this place still did not feel like home. Perhaps even less so now that it was mostly bare. Her footfalls echoed in the emptiness as the floors moaned beneath her, and the walls appeared even more askew, leaning in as if taunting her.
And the off-key chimes of the Dutch clock that stood guard outside the basement door never trilled at the correct hour. It was enough to drive anyone mad.
Harriet knew she could leave these dark corridors for good. He was no longer here to keep her locked up, hidden away. The daughter he wished he’d never had. And yet, despite all this, she decided to stay. To her, the reason was obvious. It wasn’t the constricted rooms within Sunnyside’s tired, sagging walls that kept her here. It was the small patch of land just outside its doors.
She felt the urge to go down there, as she always did first thing in the morning. But her eyes fell again on the letter, and she sighed. She knew what was inside and could not bear to read it. They continued to arrive, these letters, getting more frequent and menacing. She always burned the letters as they came. What else could she do? Harriet could not pay down her father’s debts. The truth was, he left nothing behind for her. He had simply vanished. In the meantime, she had taken to pawning nearly everything of value in the house just so she could live. For most of her life, animal hides and ivory tusks had adorned the rooms of this house. Growing up, she’d been terrified by the sad, hulking remnants ofdead animals that he paraded proudly to guests when they arrived for parties, which he spoke of as if he’d hunted them down himself, even though Harriet knew he’d never left England. But, in recent months, she’d earned enough to live off of when she pawned them. Now she kept her life minimal, specifically to avoid such extravagance—an order from the butcher once every fortnight, small amounts of butter, oil for the lamps, paper and ink, tea, milk.
Yesterday, she was going to destroy the letter, just as she had done with the others, but there was something odd about this one. It was not addressed to her father as all the others were. It was addressed to her.
She stuffed the letter into the pocket of her dress—the same dress she wore every day. Perhaps she would have the willpower to open it later.
Glancing in the mirror as she pinned her tawny red hair up without bothering to comb it through first, she nodded at her staid and sturdy reflection. She was no beauty—her plain features blossomed only in the best lighting. And then there was the darkened imprint of the scar that trailed gruesomely from lip to cheekbone on her right side.
Harriet grabbed her boots, though she did not put them on, and hurried down the worn stairs, which drooped and moaned. She passed the clock in the hall and shouldered her way out through the back door to her garden. Relief flooded her as she did, and she drew in a deep breath. She squinted happily into the late-summer glow.
The garden itself was enjoying the painted-on brightness of the day. The flowers were in full bloom—the dramatic pink of the Duchess of Sutherland roses and the flesh-colored Madame Audots met Harriet’s eye as she stepped out of the house. Flanking those stood the La Reines with their silvery undertones and the cabbage roses to the right. The cabbage roses, though they did not have a grand name, were Harriet’s favorite. More layers inside one flower than she could even count. She inhaled the sweet smell of the Duchesses and watched as every lastbloom turned to face her as she padded barefoot from the door onto the stone walkway, bordered by lush green moss. Satisfied that Harriet was content, the flowers resumed their nourishing tilt toward the sky. The stones were cool beneath her feet.
And then there was the plum tree. The tree was the central presence in her back garden, spreading out freely between the house and garden wall. Its branches hung low with thick clusters of fruit that, indeed, looked sumptuous, but they were not exactly the kind of plums she could bake into a tart. Harriet felt guilty about letting most of them rot as they fell to the ground, but such was the fate of wild things that did not want to be tamed. The moss and earth beneath the tree were churned up, as if the roots were continuously growing and stretching. As she watched, small patches of green sprouted up before her eyes, blooming and covering the fresh dirt with expediency.
“You never sit still, do you?” she said aloud to the tree.
As she turned, she saw the familiar vines that snaked up the walls of the house on all sides, covering the brick up to her bedroom window. More roses perched high up on the walls too, woven within the evergreen ivy—spots of white that added to the garden’s feral dreaminess.
From the outside, the house showed signs of dilapidation. Though its structure was not falling down, not really, the roof did sag in places. The side door had become warped from incessant fog and rain, and the color of the brick was fading. None of this was from age. The house was no more than a few decades old. It was simply from a lack of care. Harriet’s father had decorated the rooms with his treasures, but never once did he repair the peeling paint of the parlor or the chipped wood of the banister. Though, over the last seven months, she couldn’t say she’d paid Sunnyside much attention either. It was far too damp and closed-in, like shackles around her. To get some relief—a sensation only truly available now that her father had gone—she let her garden grow up around it, let it snake in through windows on summer days, allowed it to grow wildand thick. If Harriet’s home would not be supported by love—and by now she knew better than that—it would have to be supported by plants.
And yet.
The garden could not be allowed complete freedom. Not after what happened. Because she was the sole keeper of this garden, she must remain as diligent as ever. She felt a small shudder at her feet in response to her thoughts.Yes, the garden seemed to say.There would be no limit to my wildness without you.
“And that is why I must always be here.”
It’s no wonder they all thought she was mad, speaking aloud to her plants.
The garden was, of course, more unruly than the neighbors appreciated. She heard as much from passersby almost daily.Unkempt. Too much. A waste.They did not even try to keep their voices low. But Harriet didn’t mind. They had always said the same about her too. She never interacted with neighbors except for the odd furtive look when she dared to venture out or the unabashed stares from children who had surely heard of the mad young woman of Sunnyside. It struck her as ironic that, despite her father’s best efforts, many people seemed to know about her, and they kept their distance. It was just as well. Harriet was fidgety and nervous around strangers. It had always been so. Years of being hidden, of being told she was unnatural, of being made so small it was almost as if she did not exist. She supposed that ought to take a toll on a person.
Her only visitor was Eunice. Dear Eunice, who never judged her and always overlooked her quirks. What a breath of fresh air it was to finally throw open the gate when she did come, and laugh freely, loudly, together in the garden without Harriet’s father barreling through the door or casting his dark shadow.
She strode over to the brambles, which resembled a thick, thorned tangle of hair. She knelt where the fox had curled up only minutes ago,looking for traces of the animal, but she could see nothing—no orange or white tufts, no beady black eyes. He was gone. Once again, she had been abandoned, and once again, she was surprised that she cared.
