“Long ago Elizabeth’s unexplained death, the death of the garden, Cosima, Mathilde, your illness . . .” his voice trailed off. “I know it’s mad, but I can’t help but believe that something happened in that place that poisoned it in ages past and does the same to every woman or girl who attempts to revive it.”
“That is mad,” Stella said. “What is madder is that if you believe this theory, then you have deliberately put Sorrel in harm’s way.”
“I know, I know,” Graham said. “What was I to do, Stella? You were so ill, and I was so afraid I’d caused it all with my curse. It does seem to be limited to Kirkwoods, mostly.”
“Good God, Graham, you can’t be serious.”
“Well, obviously I am,” he said. “I called a stranger into our world precisely because she is not a Kirkwood. I won’t let you back into that garden until and unless Sorrel does what she promised.”
“You mean if she doesn’t get sick, too. And if she fails or breaks trying?”
“Now, Stella, I could hardly ignore family history. And look, Sorrel is perfectly fine, isn’t she? Please don’t be angry with me for trying to save the garden and ourselves.”
“At what expense, hmm, the health of a newly precious friend, a perfectly lovely woman who has brought nothing but joy to people all her life? Is that the price, Gray?”
Stella was more than angry. She was frightened. All her research now seemed nothing but a dilettantish folly, or worse. She’d fed Graham’s obsession and never made the connections he did. Women and men died throughout the Kirkwood family tree, this is what history is, but now Stella could glimpse the patterns that Graham was so sure of. First, Elizabeth, whose death so soon after the garden’s demise now looked very much as if it was linked. And then, the midwife who delivered Elizabeth’s children in the eighteenth century disappeared from village records shortly after the last of Thomas Kirkwood’s sons was born, the same year that Elizabeth made the first recorded attempt at reviving the garden. Stella could only assume she had died or moved on soon after Elizabeth succumbed to what was most probably pneumonia—although that was in question now, too. And Cosima, dear harmless Cosima, dead at forty only months after she oversaw a team to work on the damn garden. Then again, the world was a dangerous place all those years ago. Even with every ounce of sense firmly in place Stella wondered, Who else, who next?
“Now you listen to me, Graham,” Stella said. “I am going straight back to Kirkwood Hall. This minute, in fact.”
“You can’t, we’ve only got the one car. Wait for me, please,” Graham said. “We’ll leave first thing in the morning, I promise.”
“I can leave and I will,” Stella said. “I’m driving. You may take the train. I’ll have someone collect you tomorrow while Sorrel and I are in the garden. I won’t have her in there alone.”
“I forbid you,” Graham roared. “I forbid it; do you hear me?”
“Silence!” Stella snapped. “You have no right to forbid me—or Andrew or Poppy for that matter.”
“Oh, please, not Poppy, not our girl!” Graham was tearing up, and Stella had no wish to comfort him. She did love her husband, but this man was someone else entirely.
“Get a grip on yourself, Gray, or I will have to slap you.”
WHILE GRAHAM SLUMPED on his red leather bench in the House of Lords, Stella whipped through the Chelsea house packing what little she needed for the country. As soon as Poppy returned from class, they would make their way to Wiltshire. How much she would tell her daughter about the roots of Graham’s selfish, wild scheme Stella was unsure. Poppy had to know that the Shakespeare Garden, while not off limits, must be approached with caution, and then Sorrel must be told as well. Stella knew that she would probably forgive Graham in time; after all, he was of good heart if not sound mind. Still, how would the others react when they learned that the lord of the manor believed that a centuries-old evil really was afoot, if not in the form of a curse, then certainly in the very soil beneath their feet? Indeed, what would her family say once it learned that Graham was so cavalier as to sacrifice Sorrel to the garden? The more Stella went around and around in her head, the madder it all sounded and the more abstracted she became so that when Poppy walked in, she found her mother standing in the middle of the front hall with one shoe on and a market basket full of leftovers on the floor beside her.
“Are you running away from home, Mum?” Poppy asked.
“Something like that,” Stella said. “I’m taking you with me.”
“That isn’t usually how it works, you know.”
“It’s what we’re doing, so get your things,” Stella said and looked around for her other shoe.
“Hey.” Poppy took her mother’s arm. “What’s happening here?”
“I’ll fill you in on the way, darling,” Stella said. “We have work to do at Kirkwood Hall and very little time to do it.”
POPPY WASN’T SURE who was barmier, her father for his nonsense about a malevolent force or her mother for believing him enough to take action. Of course, she had to admit that she had always thought the Shakespeare Garden was just wrong somehow. And there was that plaque which, for all her teasing, did leave Poppy with a shiver. As for Sorrel, whatever her parents planned, Poppy knew that her friend mustn’t suffer for it.
“Fucking garden,” Poppy growled.
“Indeed,” Stella agreed.
“Fucking Dad,” Poppy spat.
“That’s a fuck too far, sweetie,” her mother said.
“So what’s the plan?” Poppy asked.
“I think we present all we know to Sorrel and see what she makes of it.”
“She’s going to run for the hills, and not our hills either,” Poppy said.
“I wouldn’t blame her, but think about it,” Stella said as she turned into the long drive that led to Kirkwood Hall. “This is not the first time that Sorrel has encountered the unexplainable, or what would we call it—the darkness beneath the light?”
“Oh boy,” Poppy said. “Isn’t that why she came here, to escape the dark?”
“Well, that’s not working out terribly well, is it?” Stella asked. “Never mind what we call it, let’s just make sure that our precious gardener learns what she’s really gotten herself into.”
Gabe stood at the front door as if he’d been waiting for them.
“How does he always do that?” Poppy mumbled.
“Where is everybody?” Stella asked.
Gabe pointed in the direction of the garden. His frown said more than any words.
“Take this, Poppy,” Stella said, handing her the basket. “I’ll be back with Sorrel.”
“Wait, I’ll come with you.”
“No you won’t,” Stella said. “Let me do this part. Your father doesn’t want you near the garden.”
“Oh, now you’re following orders?” Poppy huffed, but she took the basket and followed Gabe into the house. She was surprised when he tapped her shoulder and beckoned her up the stairs. When they stopped in front of the tapestry room, Poppy was thrown.
“What is it, Gabe?” she asked.