Page 11 of One Last Breath

I take a quick measure of the man. He is tall, perhaps six-foot-one or -two, and handsome in a rugged sort of way with dark curly hair, gentle brown eyes and a rough stubble on his chin. He's in his early thirties, which sadly makes him too young for me, but just because I can't order doesn't mean I can't peruse the menu. I smile at him and say, "No need to apologize. Unless, of course, you're going to tell me you're a thief hoping to rob the estate."

He laughs, a hearty sound that has no doubt won him many a heart among the younger women of Savannah. “No, definitely not. I’m Nathaniel Pierce, the gardener.”

He extends a hand, and I am not too proud to say I blush when I take it. I’ve grown accustomed to the life of a spinster, but there are moments when I wonder what could have been.

Ah well. Life had different plans for me.

“So you’re the one I have to thank for those lovely gardens.”

He brightens, lending a boyish quality to his expression that only makes him more handsome. “You like them?”

“I do. They’re lovely. I particularly like how you used hedges and vines to give a sense of separation from the modern world and also to make the gardens appear even larger.”

He grins. “Yeah, I really wanted to pull people away from the architecture. Not that the buildings here aren’t beautiful, but there’s a purity to nature that architecture just can’t match. I guess that’s a little hypocritical. It’s not like I don’t alter the natural appearance of things. You won’t find a sunburst pattern of flowers in orderly rows in a meadow, after all.”

“No, I suppose not,” I reply, “but it’s gorgeous, nonetheless. And it does pull one away from the human side of things. I’ve always believed that one should try to escape the walls of civilization as often as possible. It’s claustrophobic to be stuck inside of the memories of the dead.”

I realize what I’ve just said and blush furiously. “I don’t know why I said that. I suppose these lovely woods have me feeling romantic and maybe a touch melancholy.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” he says with another charming smile. “I actually like the way you said that. Stuck inside the memories of the dead: that’s what these old estates are, isn’t it? Just a home for ghosts. It’s nice to be able to take some of that and focus on life rather than death.”

I think of Elizabeth in her secret garden the week before. She claimed she was simply acting out a passage from a book, but I’m not a fool. She had no book with her when I met her, and no matter how fanciful our imaginations, women in their fifties don’t sneak off to play pretend.

Could she have been talking to ghosts?

A memory from the Carlton job comes to mind. The young boy under my care, Lucas, catches me staring at a portrait of a young woman who went missing on their estate the year prior to my arrival. He informs me in a blood-chilling way that the young woman is still present on their estate.

She hides in the walls. If you stare at her for too long, she’ll haunt you too.

He was right, of course. Sure, there was no literal specter hiding in the timbers of the Carlton house, but the memory of Minerva Montclair hung over the estate like a fog over the moors. I stared at her for too long, and she haunted me until I brought her killers to justice.

I wonder who haunts Elizabeth Greenwood?

“I quite liked the secret garden as well.”

His brow furrows. “Secret garden? What do you mean?”

“With the geraniums. The purple ones.”

He cocks his head. “I’m not sure what that is.”

“Behind the iron gate. The wrought iron one overgrown with ivy.”

His smile fades a little, and I notice a slight tension in his shoulders. He's uncomfortable with this. Why?

“I don’t think I’m aware of that part of the garden,” he says. “Some of the family members cultivate little plots set aside from the main landscaping. Perhaps you found one of those.”

His tone is stiff now, formal, where before it was easygoing and cheerful. What have I asked him to make him so anxious?

“Yes, it was,” I agree. “Elizabeth’s, in fact. I found her there. She says she goes there to act out scenes from her storybooks.”

“It’s a little rude of you to intrude on the mistress of the house, isn’t it?”

I’m taken aback by his reproof, and to be honest, a little offended. “I was invited to join her,” I tell him, “I would never intrude upon anyone.”

He sighs and purses his lips. His shoulders are stiff as boards now. “All right. I apologize.”

“Why are you suddenly so upset?” I challenge. “I only meant to compliment you. If you didn’t plant the geranium garden, that’s all right, but there’s no need to be rude to me.”

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