Bransley Manor was the first stop on Emma’s meticulously planned itinerary. She’d learned of Bransley at a gardening seminar and toured its grounds once before, with Richard. She’d been enchanted by the avenue of monkey-puzzle trees, Richard by the hedge maze beyond the pond. Bransley Manor wasn’t known for its massed azaleas, but Emma had included it on her tour nonetheless. A one-hour visit would break up the drive from London to Plymouth.
Emma parked her rental car beside an ancient black Morris Minor, the sole occupant of the manor’s small parking area. Bransley was an inconspicuous British gem, well off the tour buses’ beaten track, and after a whirlwind week of theater in London Emma relished the prospect of having the grounds to herself. Removing her neatly printed itinerary from her shoulder bag, she made a careful X beside the first entry, then took a moment to savor the scene.
The monkey puzzles were just as she remembered them, thorny and twisted and eccentrically grand. The fritillaria borders were new, though, and she wasn’t sure she approved. The spiky topknots seemed too dramatic for the setting, and that particular shade of orange clashed resoundingly with the buttery tones of the stone gateposts. If she were head gardener here—
“Everything all right, ma’am?”
Emma started. A young man was standing a few yards away from her car, hunched over and peering at her, a mud-encrusted trowel dangling from one hand.
“Can I help you, ma‘am?” He was wearing a tan shirt and tight jeans, and his auburn hair glinted penny-bright in the sun. He was no more than twenty, brown-eyed, freckle-faced, and well muscled, and his voice held the detached politeness that a well-brought-up young man might show to the elderly or infirm. It was the constantly reiterated “ma’am” that did it. He might as well call me “Granny,” Emma thought.
“Are you lost, ma’am?” he inquired.
“No, thank you,” said Emma. “I know exactly where I am.”
“Good enough,” the young man said. “Hope you enjoy your visit, ma’am.” With a courteous smile, he walked past Emma’s car and disappeared between the gateposts. Watching the sway of his narrow hips, Emma felt a wave of self-pity wash over her. Would it have been such a terrible moral compromise, she wondered dismally, to have touched up her mousy-brown hair with something livelier, blonder?
Catching sight of herself in the rearview mirror, Emma paused to take stock. Was her nose a bit too long, her jaw a touch too strong to be called beautiful? Had long hours in the garden traced fine lines across her forehead, crow’s feet around her clear gray eyes? Were her wire-rim glasses dowdy and out of date? Was she?
We can’t all be fairy princesses, she thought glumly. Nor would we want to! As self-pity veered toward anger, Emma closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and sought refuge in wry humor. “Well, Granny,” she murmured, glancing at her watch, “better get out your cane and start cracking. Time waits for no woman.”
Bransley’s airy profusion of wallflowers, columbines, and tulips should have sent Emma’s spirits soaring, but the longer she strolled its paths, the lower her spirits sank. By the time she reached the hedge maze, tucked away beyond the pond, it was as though a gray cloud had settled over her. She stood in the entrance to the maze, remembering Richard’s shout of triumph when he’d reached the center, and knew that her return to Bransley Manor had been a mistake.
The obvious remedy was to leave at once and never come back, but as she turned to go, the young man with the trowel appeared on the far side of the pond. Emma gasped, then scurried into the maze, paying no attention to its twists and turns, thinking only that she’d rather spend the summer lost among the hornbeams than face the young man’s polite smile again.
Once safely out of sight, though, Emma began to enjoy herself. She had a retentive memory and was fond of puzzles. In no time at all, she was entering the small clearing that marked the center of the maze, where she looked up in triumph, blinked, and shook her head to clear it.
She was losing her mind. First she’d let a musclebound boy send her into an emotional tailspin, and now she was seeing double. Removing her glasses, she passed a weary hand over her eyes, then ventured another look into the clearing.
They were still there: two frail, elderly women who were more alike than any two peas Emma had ever encountered in any one pod. They were dressed identically, from the tips of their white crocheted gloves to the toes of their sensible shoes. They held matching handbags—the word “reticules” flitted through Emma’s mind—and wore matching straw sunhats tied with wide lavender ribbons. They were seated side by side on the stone bench beneath the chestnuts, looking at Emma with bright bird’s eyes and smiling identical smiles.
“Good afternoon,” said one.