Chapter 2 (Part Two)

Henry’s New Assignment!

~DAY THREE~

The Transition

“COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!”

I couldn’t bring myself to open my eyes just yet. Sleep had evaded me like a plague of disease. I lay completely still. Fearing the slightest movement might stir Lyra into conversation. 

I breathed in deeply, then let an exaggerated exhale escape my lips. What kind of man had I become? Was I now, not only a man who spoke ill of children, but also one to avoid his loving wife?

I turned to look, her sleeping body just a blurred mass among the darkness of the room. Our conversation from last night rang clear as ever in my head. Amid her barrage of questions, to which I chalked up mostly to curiosity, only one thing stood out to me.

Our lives, albeit shorter married lives, have always allowed us to exist harmoniously. That existence, simple as it may have been, was one we'd crafted from scratch and shared joyfully. When I first met Lyra, she was bold and opinionated. She was a righteous woman, never one to stand by and allow others to suffer. I admired that about her. She was beautiful, intelligent, and a strong woman. From the beginning, I knew she was the woman I wanted to share every second of the rest of my life with…

I thought I knew everything about her, but last night...

Lyra's complete lack of response, while I had felt so strongly about Lady Isadora’s injustice, was strange. She simply remained silent. The image of her flat, unchanging expression remained in my head all night. Then, when sleep wouldn't come, that horrid conversation replayed in my mind's eye as if forced by some cruel god. I found myself desperately searching for something I'd missed. Perhaps she was just tired? I’d felt so strongly about the matter that my tone may have frightened her?

“COCK-A-DOOLE-DOO!”-

“Henry?” I flinched as Lyra's groggy voice called out from beside me.

“Mm?” A moment passed. She did not respond.

“..you'll be late,” She said, sitting up in the dark room. I paused for a second before sitting up as well.

“You're right,” I replied, pushing myself off the bed. 

Although I couldn't see her, her gaze set my body aflame as I dressed for the day. After shuffling around the room in silence, my hand landed on the door.

“Is... is something wrong, Henry?” Lyra asked. I stood frozen in contemplation.

Was there something wrong? Was there something so wrong that warranted allowing the seeds of discord to sprout in our lives?

“No,” I replied, opening the door.

It wasn't necessary to expect her to share my guilt, nor my views on the lady's injustice, and certainly not my fears for the future.

“Everything's fine. Get some more sleep, my love,” I said as the door closed between us with a soft clack.

---------------

I fiddled with the small glass vial of test strips in my hand as I waited for Mr. Murphy to finish the breakfast tray. A full bucket of coal sat ready at my feet.

“A little antsy this morning, Sunshine?” He asked, setting the tray down with a clink.

Yes. You egregious bastard.

“Of course not, Mr. Murphy,” I replied with a smile.

I set to work testing the food, before collecting the tray in one hand and the handle of the coal bucket in the other. I gave him a slight nod before turning my back and walking out of the kitchen. If there was one thing to note about Mr. Murphy, the man was at least consistent in his dogmatism. There was nothing particularly capricious about him, just blatantly annoying consistency.

As I turned down the corridor towards Lady Isadora’s bedroom, my eyes locked with those of Sir Ashborne. His eyebrows were furrowed and deep frown lines marked his face. I had half the nerve to ask him what brought such a look of disdain, but the answer became abundantly clear as I encroached on the slightly ajar door.

I gasped as the sound of retching lingered in the air outside the room.

“..m-maisy..” Lady Isadora’s faint whisper stung my ears.

“Yes,” Maisy’s reply was the softest I’d ever heard her voice.

“...you know.. I’m not-” Lady Isadora stopped short and continued to vomit. We could hear light shuffling in the room. Maisy repositioning the lady, no doubt.

“..I’m not myself… maybe that’s why I feel like I’m dying,” Lady Isadora coughed out weakly.

There was a long silence that grew more unbearable by the second.

“You,” Maisy started before pausing.

“..have faced many trials, I know your efforts feel like that of a fading light,” I flinched as I heard the sliding of a chair against the floor.

“Fear not, you shall glow bright once again. Rest now,” Maisy finished, pushing the door open allowing Sir Ashborn’s frame to disappear behind it, my tray and coal bucket in hand.

“Henry, a word,” Maisy said, gesturing for me to follow her down the corridor.

We walked in a brief silence until we were a distance from the bedroom. I stared into her empty brown eyes, searching for a semblance of emotion, but found nothing. She smiled at me lightly, causing an internal shiver to course through my body.

“I have an assignment for you,” She said, her hands neatly folded at her abdomen. I nodded, her dead gaze beginning to make me uneasy.

“The east wing pleasaunce hasn’t received due care in many years. I’d like to task you with preparing the area for Lady Isadora’s use in the near future,”

I looked at her, unable to make sense of that damn unreadable expression. How in the world could she possibly think Lady’s Isadora would be well enough to galavant about the gardens? This woman really was unbelievable.

“I will inform Anita to prepare the meals as you will be otherwise preoccupied. Please follow this corridor to the end and take the staircase down. There you will find a door leading to the east estate lawn. On the far west end of the lawn you’ll find the area you’ll be renovating,” Maisy instructed, gesturing toward the end of the corridor.

I swallowed what little reluctance I had, making my way toward the staircase. One thing was for sure, she certainly had quite the tone for a commoner maid.  

On the first floor, I pushed open the back door leading to the east lawn with some force. Covering my face as the air grew thick with dust and debris. Just how long has this wing been unoccupied? The overgrown lawn was wild with growth from years, no doubt, of neglect. I carefully maneuvered around the unchecked grass, tall and thick. Wild flowers swallowed the cobbled stones, recessed in the hard dirt, that were once a pleasant walkable path, I'm sure.

I approached an iron gate woven through with weeds and vines. Turning the rusted handle with some force, I shoved the gate open, only to stare in awe at how much worse the enclosure was. It was a stronghold! The plants had grown so rampantly that they'd merged into a solid, impenetrable wall of green. The Lady’s personal garden was an overgrown mess. Chaotic tangles of untamed growth and aggressive weeds seized complete control over what once, I’m sure, was a beautifully tended garden. What in the world happened here?

I shuffled around the garden for a bit, unsure of where I should even start trying to tame the unruly space. That’s when I noticed it, off to the back, near the foot of a shady oak tree, lay large pieces of a broken stone bench. I slowly approached to survey the damage. I heaved over a large section of broken seating with a grunt. Underneath, revealed what looked like a polished granite with an engraving of some sort. Pulling out a handkerchief from the breast pocket of my livery, I kneeled down and slowly wiped away stubborn moss and other weathering debris from the stones surface.

Sighing deeply, I pulled my hands back and rested them on my thighs. Who would have thought the memorial for the late duchess would be out here in such a deplorable state. It looked as though it had lost a fight with a sledgehammer. Among the chiseled blows that marked the smooth granite, only one had landed successfully enough to split the memorial completely in two. Despite the damage, the epitaph was still legible;

In mortal memory of the Beloved Duchess,

Ophelia Alistair,

The Verdant heart, who,

Taught us to learn character from trees,

Value from roots,

and change from leaves.

Her spirit,

Though departed,

Remains a constant guide.

“Who would do such a thing?” I mumbled.

“..that would be the work of Duchess Beatrice,”

I jumped at the sudden noise and looked behind me. My eyes narrowed at Maisy, her eerie voice still echoing in the air. God damn this woman. She stood a mere 5 to 6 feet away from me and I had not heard her at all. The path was littered with enough dry weeds and fallen leaves that a crunch would most certainly accompany every step. Maisy’s silent approach, without a sound underfoot, was even more unsettling than her usual dead, distant demeanor.

“This garden bloomed, once.” She said, taking a step closer as her head scanned the area.

“It was a living, breathing tapestry of Lady Ophelia’s spirit. A sanctuary, if you will, wild abundance that hummed with a life of its own. In those days, this garden was not merely for viewing, but inhabiting for guests and servants alike. You could come inside and immediately find yourself drawn deeper into its embrace. And there,” she pointed to the tree that nested the broken memorial within its roots.

“Amidst the shade of this old oak, you’d find Lady Ophelia. A noblewoman reposed atop the grass, reading classic tales of love and fantasy, or simply listening to the secret poetry of the wind rustling through the leaves,..” She paused, looking off with a distant gaze, somewhere far from the abandoned garden we currently occupied, I’m certain.

“...but now, a quiet hush has fallen over these grounds. The noblewoman is gone, and the garden has since faded.” Maisy continued as she ran her fingertips over a frail rosebush that all too easily seemed to crumble at her touch.

“The cobbled stones of this overgrown path are swallowed by moss and creeping vines. Even the roses have lost their will to bloom, the petals are as dry and delicate as old paper. The only thing left with some semblance of life is this grand oak. A wise guardian, tenderly defying in the face of time… This garden, in its peaceful decay, continues to tell a story. I wonder, Henry, if you might like to hear it?” She said, her distant eyes falling on me.

There I crouched speechless, under the gaze of her focused, hollow eyes. I had never felt such raw emotion from this woman before. Her words radiated with such deep inner sorrow that I felt like they were scratching at my heart, but why? Who exactly was Lady Ophelia to this commoner maid, that made her feel so strongly?

“Yes,” I responded, standing up straight. I would have given anything in that moment to have my questions answered, even by this frightful woman.

Maisy slowly closed the distance between us, her eyes never leaving mine. My heart was beating so loudly in my chest, I could barely register if I had even heard her approaching footsteps. Before I knew it, she was standing right next to me, closer than she’d ever been before. The only thing I could think in my racing head was that the air around her seemed so.. cold.

“Do you happen to know why the former duchess was referred to as ‘the Verdant heart’ on this memorial?” She asked, staring down at the rubble, as I shook my head.

“She was a native of the Verdantia Isle. The Verdantians hold the strong belief that one's life and environment are inseparable. Important memories, oaths, and intentions can not be recorded in ink, but in the living matter of the world.” she said, glancing over at me. I had been aware that the late duchess was a foreign noble, but I had not known her specific origins. I did, however, know that Verdantia was a large island located far to the south.

“The Verdantia Isle is known for its rare silks and unique botanicals. Lady Ophelia not only had a knack for botany, but she was also politically astute. The ladies in high society often referred to her as a gardener,” she continued with a slight chuckle. I clenched my handkerchief tighter, how utterly rude.

“That is how she came to meet the current Duke. During trade negotiations between the De’Wraith Empire and Verdantia Isle. They were betrothed by the end of negotiations and married 3 months later,” She said rather flatly. I looked at her, but couldn’t get any read from her now blank expression.

“So, how did the garden come to be this way if she’d been a botanist?” I asked, unable to hold back the question.

“While the marriage alliance was primarily political and contingent on a successful trade agreement, that didn’t mean it was the only potential arranged marriage being discussed.” She answered with a small chuckle. I could feel my ears burning red from embarrassment. Here I was gossiping like a woman in the middle of a garden.

“So, as another candidate for marriage during that time, you can imagine Duchess Beatrice’s sheer indignation at the matter. It was not only a slight on her honor and reputation to have the Duke stolen from her in less than a fortnight by another woman, but a foreigner at that. It was humiliating,” she said, taking a seat on an unbroken portion of the stone bench.