The Forbidden Garden
Ellen Herrick
PROLOGUE
The garden waited. Behind the yew hedges, beyond the crumbling brick wall, within sight of the ancient house, under skies both heavy and light, the garden waited for someone to save it. Beneath the soil, now emptied of any nourishment, seeds huddled, asleep or worse, and still the garden waited.
First there were the birds that flew over and settled to pick at the bones of the garden. Then the small creatures dug and scrabbled until bulbs were gnawed raw and white. Finally, the larger animals came, deer and dog, a lost soldier, shoes worn to paper, a farmer broken by blight. These animals were hungry too, their ribs pressed sharp against their fur, their fingers frost-tipped, their eyes as empty as the garden had become.
Years passed with nothing to show in a land once so enchanted that bees and butterflies slept safe in the blossoms after their nectar was gathered. Here was a place that defined beauty in petals and leaves, scent and sight, hue and touch. Now, no matter the trowels pressed into the earth, the care taken with each tiny seedling, the garden would not wake. It was waiting for one pair of hands, one heart, one fine and tender soul to rouse it and release its magic.
CHAPTER 1
Thistledown
Graham, Lord Kirkwood put the phone down and turned to his wife, Stella.
“Fiona says she’s found a gardener,” he said.
“In America? What good does that do us here?” Stella asked, looking up from her book.
“Fiona thinks this person may be willing to travel—something about a bad summer in her village, a child’s death, townspeople on edge, not a good thing. It’s been nearly a year, but apparently everyone’s still a bit shell-shocked.” Graham tapped away at his laptop for a moment in silence.
“Yes, here it is in the papers over there: modern-day witch hunt involving three sisters and their own gardens, all very peasants-with-pitchforks-and-torches. I’ll send you over the story. Perfect for us, right, my love? A professional to sort things out at last and time for you to regain your strength.”
Stella’s head came up. “I am hardly an invalid,” she said. “Whatever made me ill is gone now, and I am none the worse for it. Besides, is that the kind of thing we need right now, Gray?” she asked. “Isn’t the garden enough of an uncanny mystery without dropping some poor innocent into the middle of our rather ‘interesting’ lives?”
“But that’s just it, Stella,” Graham said. “That’s why this Sorrel Sparrow must come to England. With all she has suffered in that town—the ruination of her own gardens—and all she has recovered in this year with her sisters, I am hoping that she can find the key to our ruined garden, and perhaps more. I know you think I’m silly to feel that the place needs more than just time and compost. There is something to the old stories and to this young woman. Fiona agrees and she knows Sorrel. I believe they are meant for each other, the garden and the girl.”
“I don’t know why you won’t let me continue with this project. I am perfectly capable of working with someone here to put the place right again. Others may have failed, but I am determined,” Stella said.
“Yes, my love, this is true but I have no wish to lose you to this garden when a capable young woman has presented herself to us.”
“She hasn’t, Gray,” Stella said. “You and your sister are going to press-gang her into coming to England.”
Graham laughed. “We can be very persuasive.”
Stella looked at her husband with all the love she felt in her heart and the indulgence she had come to need when Graham got hold of a project, even if it had been her project from the start.
“My darling,” she said and held out her hand, “if it is Sorrel Sparrow we need, then it is Sorrel Sparrow we shall have.”
IT WOULD BE days before Sorrel even noticed the letter as the Nursery prepared for its own reawakening in Granite Point. Then it took some more time before she was nudged into reading it. In fact, it was her sister Nettie who finally read it aloud as Sorrel sat at the kitchen table trimming improbably robust asparagus spears toward the end of March. These were from the Sisters’ own garden behind Ivy House and, like the Sparrows Sisters Nursery on Calumet Landing, this garden did not play by the rules. The angry townsmen who blamed the women for everything that had gone so terribly wrong less than a year before couldn’t breach the Sisters’ private spaces, and for some reason the wild weather of that nasty summer had passed their garden by. The numbness and exhaustion of that time were only a memory in the relative calm of Ivy House.
The thick, pale blue envelope sat in the silver tray by the front door for almost a week along with the bills that were still a bother to pay after the poor high season of the last year. It was Nettie, in fact, who picked it up and, weighing it in her palm, carried it into the kitchen.
Nettie handed Sorrel the envelope and stood behind her chair.
“It’s postmarked days and days ago, sweetie,” Nettie said, nudging her sister. “It’s from England.”
“I know, I saw it earlier,” Sorrel said and leaned her head against Nettie’s side. “I just forgot.”
“Open it.” Nettie sat down. “Maybe you have a secret inheritance worth millions, hidden by dastardly relatives.”
“Breathe, Miss Marple!” Sorrel laughed. “Honestly, I’ve gotten a bit afraid of the mail.”
Nevertheless, Sorrel turned the envelope over and slit it open. Inside was a handwritten letter. She passed it to Nettie.
“Here, you read it,” Sorrel said.
Nettie took the letter and made a show of smoothing it out and holding it before her as if she needed glasses.
“A letter, on paper, with ink and such penmanship,” Nettie said. “I feel a good story coming on!”
She began reading, and as she did, both sisters felt their curiosity rise. When she finished, Nettie looked at Sorrel with one eyebrow raised.
“Well, he’s confident, I’ll say that,” Sorrel said. “I haven’t agreed to anything and he’s got me all Sherlock to his Watson.”
“How great would it be, Sorrel, if you did take him up on the offer? I mean, an adventure of this sort doesn’t come along often, not for us anyway.”
“Yeah, but it’s no unexpected fortune,” Sorrel said as she took the letter from Nettie.
Nettie slapped the table. “Close enough!” she crowed. “Jackpot, Sorrel! Go forth and garden!”