“What was that, Mouse?” she whispered to the dog.
Mouse slept on the rug beside the bed, where his sides heaved in steady breaths. The wolfhound hadn’t even woken. Why did the earl suggest him to guard her when it appeared she would be protecting him from strange noises in the dark?
Seconds ticked past without another screech, cry, or even a whimper.
It was just an owl hunting. Perhaps it found a rabbit. They can scream, she convinced herself and settled back down on the pillow.
Morning tugged Dawn into consciousness and she stretched her arms over her head. Her fingers touched wood, and it took a moment to remember she slept in a strange bed in a quaint cottage on a long-neglected estate. She reached up and flicked open the shutter behind the bed to admit the early light. Before moving any further, she evaluated her body. She found no lingering fatigue and her heart seemed slow and steady, without the usual erratic moth’s wing pace that often plagued her.
She allowed herself a quiet smile and sense of enjoyment for the coming day. There was much to be done and she needed to be careful, but how glorious to explore acres of land rather than the same few feet. Then a pang of sadness dropped through her. What she would give to have her mother here later this evening, to sit and discuss the day’s events. She tried to imagine what her mother would say if she confessed that she found the earl rather handsome, although in a dour and stern way. Her mother would give that secret little smile, the one that said she knew something her daughter did not.
Mouse nuzzled her hand and gave her a curious look. Long hairs hung from his eyebrows and partly obscured his eyes. Dawn passed a hand over his face to push the hair away and his tail wagged. Meeting the dog’s brown eyes, she found a keen intellect looking back at her. It was as though he could peer right into her soul and was perplexed by what he found.
Nonsense. Dogs can’t see into our souls.
“Good morning, Mouse. I assume you need me to open the door.” She was quietly pleased that she was already able to interpret the dog’s requests.
She opened the door to let Mouse out. Her gaze roamed over the scraggly lavender, across the lime chip path, and then up the nearby red brick wall to discover the raven. Large wings flapped as it called out and took flight up over the cottage’s roof.
As her line of sight dropped from the bird back to earth, to one side of the door she found another tray with a silver covered plate. She brought it in and lifted the lid to reveal a steaming hot bowl of porridge. Another jar contained fresh milk and on a tiny saucer, a knob of butter. Was the delivery simply coincidental timing or, more fancifully, did the watcher on the wall alert the kitchen?
Dawn brought her breakfast inside and took it through to the bedroom to curl back up in the warm bed. There was no one to see, so what did it matter if she sat at the table or not? After her meal, she contemplated the one thing she missed about the town house back in Whetstone – the bathroom.
She ignored the tiny sink in the water closet in preference for the larger kitchen sink. Once washed, she pulled her hair back in a bun then dressed in a pale green cotton gown. The sturdy canvas apron was tied around her waist. A notebook and pencil went into the large front pocket so she could record her thoughts about the garden.
For a moment she toyed with taking a bottle of her tonic in case the walk proved too much. But she didn’t want to risk it breaking if she knocked against a tree or branch, a distinct possibility given the state of the garden. No, she would simply have to make do until lunchtime. Then she could return to the cottage to take a dose if she felt light-headed.
Next, Dawn borrowed a set of secateurs from the greenhouse. She buckled the worn leather pouch strap around her waist and grabbed a straw hat, ready to begin her exploration.
Mouse waited outside.
“Where to first?” she asked her companion, but he had no response. “I think we should start close to the cottage and then work our way outward in circles.”
She walked along the path, keeping the wall on her right. Each step of woman and dog crunched on the crisp morning air. Twenty feet along the wall and from the cottage, she came upon a wooden door with iron hinges. The top was arched like a church window, and the timbers had weathered to silver and seemed more metallic than wooden. The hinges sprouted nibbles of rust on their flat faces.
From what Dawn had discerned from the defaced map, beyond lay the kitchen garden. But in what condition? A mystery that would only be solved by pushing into whatever lay on the other side. These hinges were better maintained than those in the glasshouse. The large door opened on a gentle push. Inside sprawled roughly one acre of enclosed garden. Along the south side, in full sun, were a series of glass-covered trenches.
“Pineapple pits,” Dawn murmured. “How grand.”
Pineapples could be grown under the glass; all that was needed was for a stable boy to deposit manure in the covered trench that ran alongside. Heat from the decomposing pile would transfer to the bricks and keep the plants toasty warm.
A corner of the plot sheltered a large shed with a single barn door. Time had faded the cedar cladding to a soft grey, but the roof appeared intact. There were no windows, but that wouldn’t be necessary to stowing larger gardening equipment.
Fruit trees occupied the back third of the garden and were years overdue for a hard prune, but they continued to fruit, regardless. Developing apples and pears hung amid the twisted branches, their perfect skins marred by rubbing against bark.
While over half of the vegetable beds were full of weeds that slumped back over the gravel paths, someone was making an effort to grow vegetables for the big house. In the few planted beds, Dawn spotted cabbages, carrots, and leeks. Tall willow spirals supported beans while others tipped under the burgeoning weight of tomatoes.
It would only take a small amount of organisation and hard work to make the potager far more productive. Her attention drifted to the row of glassed frames on the south side of the enclosure once again. Pineapples were a luxury unless they had someone to haul the necessary manure, but Dawn could mention it to the earl over dinner.
She pulled out the notebook and made a few notes. Somewhere in the cottage or greenhouse she might find the original crop rotation plans that would detail how best to utilise the space and ensure the big house had sufficient produce all year round.
“Onward, Mouse.” Dawn slipped back through the door in the wall and pulled it closed behind her.
With the dog at her side, she turned to study the hothouse. All the panes seemed to be in place, only in need of a good clean to remove years of grime. It wouldn’t be a job for the faint hearted, or the weak hearted. Ladders and scaffolding would need to be erected for the task. Another issue to raise with the earl: Who was nimble enough to climb up the metal structure to clean the windows?
From the hothouse, they veered northeast to the garden behind the big house. The lawn was large enough to play croquet, tennis, or to host a lavish outdoor party. Someone maintained the edges, and it looked regularly mown. The same could not be said for what were once wide herbaceous borders.
While stinging nettle and dandelion had their place in a medicinal garden, they didn’t normally overtake lush borders meant to delight ladies over summer. The hedges at the back were also neglected, and instead of neat lines they sprouted wild haircuts. A thick black vine crept through the hedges and pulled tufts out or split trees as it went.