The painting across from the bed caught her eye, as it had many times before. A lone tree in impressionistic strokes stood out against a pink sky. Darkness moved in on the edges of the frame, and the tree’s kin called out from behind it, but the tree in the foreground ignored them, branches reaching longingly for the air. The painting’s position by the window fascinated her as much as the work itself did, with the colors blending naturally into the dawn and dusk outside each day.
Her mother had loved the painting with a passion almost rivaling her love of Faerie stories, and that love bled into Mouse’s heart. Long before Mouse ever stepped across the entryway, she heard stories about the picture incorporated into her mother’s tales, a sliver of the pink sky or purple shadow. Before Mouse understood what Thistlemarsh meant for her and her father, the thought of seeing the painting pulled on her heart like a song. In the end, it was the only thing inside the Hall that had not disappointed her. When Mouse was growing up, the painting in the Matchbox was the one piece of absolute beauty she had for herself in the house. The colors darted behindher eyes as she dreamed, and the branches closed over her like a blanket. There was an acceptance from it that she could not find anywhere else in the Hall. It remained as fascinating as it had the day Mouse arrived, one of the few things she never wanted changed.
She pulled on her field boots, bubbling with malicious excitement at the idea of scandalizing Dawson by trotting through the great room with muddy shoes. However, it was Mouse’s heart that nearly shot through her ribs when Dawson spoke from the hallway unannounced.
“Do you plan to stay for tea, my lady?” Dawson asked.
“John invited me for tea at the cottage tonight,” she rasped.
“I will call a car from the village to drive you.”
“No, no. That won’t be necessary. I’ll walk.”
Dawson did not respond, most likely in disapproval, but Mouse could use the exercise. Her skin tingled with unused energy. She could still smell the smoke from the train carriage on her clothes.
The evening was remarkably fine for early spring. Thistlemarsh Hall lay against the lawn like a forlorn jewelry box, framed in unruly embroidered green velvet. Mouse’s father had designed the gardens as an intricate pattern of interweaving vines to complement the Elizabethan splendor of the architecture. The Hall’s towers sprang from each corner, carved with flowers and thistles. The mass of windows along each side meant that the sun could shine straight through the house at certain times of day, illuminating the inside.
Stone creatures dotted the landscape. Two matching boar statues stood guard at the front door, their ferocity diminished by their broken tusks. Their little brothers hid within the garden, faces pressed into fountains or emerging from stone benches.
Mouse followed the well-worn path toward the woods. To highlightthe gardens and lawn, the previous lords had planted trees set back from the house, but the trunks leaned inward like old villagers hungry for gossip.
A man emerged from the hedges, his hair feather white and wild beneath his hat.
“While I live and breathe, is that Miss Mouse?” he exclaimed, setting down the trowel in his hands.
Mouse grinned.
“Mr.Hobb! How are you?”
He moved as if to hug her, then seemed at a loss for a second, as though remembering her change in station. She pressed her hand into his, smiling as brightly as she could.
“I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you. Everyone in the house is as stuffy as always.”
He laughed and shook her hand firmly. She felt dirt smudge into her palm, and her smile widened.
“Struggling to place you as the lady of the house now, are they?” he said. “Serves them right, for all their self-righteousness about Lady Evelyn.”
Somehow, Mr.Hobb always knew what to say. Mouse’s gaze traveled to his mud-splattered overalls, and his expression turned solemn again.
“I’m sorry the garden isn’t up to snuff. I’ve done my best alone, but his lordship stopped bothering with anything beyond the cooking after…” He trailed off, caught in the wake of the unspeakable.
“How could I possibly blame you? Anyone can see how hard you have been working, but it’s too big a job for one person. I know you love the garden as much as I do.”
“You’re too kind, miss.”
“The grounds are high on my list for refurbishment, behind theessentials in the house. We can work together to sort things out.” Mouse stooped to grab Mr.Hobb’s trowel. “Where are you headed?”
“Into the village. There is a new magazine coming in with the latest garden styles. When I heard you were coming back, I thought it might interest you.”
“I am off to the vicarage myself. I’ll keep you company.”
“Is that seemly, now that you’re a lady?”
“Don’t start with all that nonsense.”
Mr.Hobb smiled. “Let me put away my tools, and I’ll be right back.”
Mouse waited at the edge of the garden, her eyes trailing along the lines of the house. She frowned, taking in the broken windowpanes and the peeling roof. She’d told Beckett she had her work cut out for her, but the enormity of the task kept sweeping over her with each sign of negligence.