After dinner she went back to the book, flipping through pages as she tried to find the tree that bore such unusual leaves. After seeing the colour drawing in the library, she was convinced the leaf belonged to the tree and not the vine. It sat on the arm of the chair, so she could refer to the swoop of its shape when comparing images. At long last her patience was rewarded.
The Ravensblood tree is a very rare specimen. Only five specimens are known to exist in all of England, carefully guarded in private estates and gardens. The name comes from both the unusual shape of the leaves that resemble raven feathers and that it seems to attract nesting ravens. Under normal circumstances, the leaves are varying hues of red through to orange, said to resemble either fire or blood in certain lights. However, if the tree is distressed, the leaves turn black.
The estate’s Ravensblood tree was distressed. That was why the leaf she found was turning black. But what caused the distress? Dawn wouldn’t know the source until she found the centre of the maze and could examine the tree. Part of her perked up at having a mystery to unravel, even if it was only surrounding a tree.
Many thoughts ran through Dawn’s mind as she prepared for bed. Her life experience was limited, but she compensated with her green fingers and knowledge of plants. Was the sick tree evidence of a larger problem at the estate? Perhaps there was a deficiency in the soil that was allowing the vine to flourish while other plants sickened. Thinking of the vine made her wrist itch and she rubbed at the scratch. The line was dark red as though infection were brewing under her skin. She might have to show it to Nurse Hatton or Dr Day for a professional opinion.
As she climbed into bed, Dawn mulled over her fragile health and how working in her parents’ small backyard saw her improve. And when she first stepped onto Ravenswing soil, that strange energy ran up through her legs. And despite the physical exertion, she was using less of her tonic than she expected. Curious.
Kneeling on the quilt, she examined the books tucked in the shelves at either side of the window. Most were plant identification books, and the others worn and battered notebooks that contained the daily tasks and notes recorded by the gardener, such as she kept in her apron pocket.
While at the village, Dawn had bought a brand new notebook to record her efforts in restoring the estate. One day she would add her battered and worn volume to the other histories of the estate.
As she pushed one book into place, the movement dislodged a tiny one that fell down the back of the shelf and landed on the quilt. She was about to replace it among its larger companions when idle curiosity made her flick it open. Tight script covered the pages, and as she peered closer she found it wasn’t a gardener’s journal, but a personal diary.
… Each day the sickness creeps closer to the Ravensblood tree and soon will reach its exposed roots. She has banned me from the maze and says I cannot enter anymore, no doubt so I cannot see when it claims the tree and its leaves begin to turn black. When it withers and dies, what will become of the estate? Each day she spreads her poison deeper into the soil. Already neglect is taking hold, and only the constant efforts of the gardeners keep it at bay.
The earl is obsessed with her and blind to the damage she inflicts. I fear that already it is too late. I have been given notice, my services are no longer required…
Dawn turned back the pages, looking for a date or anything that identified the unknown narrator. February 13, 1840. Forty years ago. Had the tree even survived if sickness reached for it so long ago? More interesting, who was the she that the earl was obsessed with? It could be a mistress or a wife, or even the mother of Jasper, Julian, and Letitia.
Dawn considered what the author of the diary meant by saying she was poisoning the garden. It could be literal as in someone had salted the earth, or figurative and merely a dispute between lady and gardener. However, salt would render entire areas barren and even the vine wouldn’t survive, so it must be something else.
There was no point starting this novel in the middle of the story, or at the very end since that particular gardener was dismissed. Dawn opened the diminutive book at page 1, dated September 1830, and began a journey with the unknown gardener who cared so deeply for his charge. The entries were sporadic, sometimes one a week or just one a month, which was why so slim a volume held a decade of experience. Dawn followed the gardener from the day he arrived to take on his role to the day the earl gave him notice ten years later.
Dawn laboured over the tiny scrawl for as long as she could before the flickering light gave her a headache. Then she tucked the journal under her pillow, not wanting to leave it exposed least it disappear during the night.
In just a couple of days, life fell into a regular routine, and Dawn’s days were so full it was only alone at night that she remembered a different time in her parents’ town house in Whetstone. The ache in her chest remained, but grief no longer overwhelmed her mind. Each night, Dawn held the photograph of her parents and tears clouded her vision as she told her mother events of the day. Would the pain of their loss ever ease, or would she carry it with her until she saw her parents again?
Her sleep was again interrupted by the banshee screams and howls, and she worried for poor Lady Letitia. What fuelled her night time horrors? Then, exhausted from the long hours of physical exertion, Dawn fell back to sleep.
Dawn awoke as colour spread over the horizon and lit her cosy bedroom. Breakfast was waiting on the doorstep when she let Mouse out for his morning snuffle around the garden. She looked up at the raven, in his usual spot on the wall that ran along the other side of the path.
Dawn waggled a finger at him. “Are you spying on me?”
And reporting to a stone master? Her mother’s stories whispered through her mind.
After breakfast, she washed in the kitchen sink and dressed. Considering the big day ahead, she took a mouthful of tonic and quietly warned her heart not to cause any problems. It had been rather obliging so far. As she prepared to face the day, Dawn grabbed a large straw hat to keep the building heat from her head and shoulders. By the time she walked down to the large courtyard between stables and house, she found ten men waiting for their orders.
“Good morning,” she said in a quiet voice, not used to so much male company or the position of having to give them orders. Mouse sat at her side, and she touched his head for comfort.
Ten heads turned in her direction and twenty eyes fixed on her.
Hector took off his cap and bowed. “Morning, Miss Uxbridge. Your workforce is here and eager to start.”
The men all muttered Good morning, Miss Uxbridge as though she were a new teacher in the classroom.
She tried not to fluster under their stares and clasped her hands in front of her. She called to mind what she had written in her notebook, in case she forgot what to say. “If you could split into two groups of five please, gentlemen. One group will tackle the entrance to the maze, but please be very careful. The old vine blocking the way has large and nasty thorns. You will need gloves and machetes to clear it away. The other group will work on the potager. The vegetable beds need weeding and digging over, and the fruit trees are in desperate need of a prune. If you follow Hector, he will equip you with all you need.”
Hector waved to the men to follow his tall and lean form down the path, toward the shed that contained all the gardening implements. As the men left, Dawn glanced up at the house. High up in the west wing tower, a pale figure watched events unfold in the courtyard.