Page 11 of Ghost in the Garden
“In no particular direction?”
“Seemed to be random kind of movements.”
“But definitely toward the house?”
Angela thought. “Yes.”
“What was its position when you last saw it?”
“By the willow, there. It seemed to glide over the pond, and then it sort of…broke up and vanished.”
“Is it possible the fog swirled more thickly over the figure, hiding it from your view?”
“Yes,” Angela said again. “That’s what I tell myself. But then I need to know, who was in my garden and why?”
“Yes, I can see that,” Constance murmured. “May I go out and look around?”
“Of course. I’ll show you the herb garden properly too. I like mint and chamomile tea at bedtime. First, I’ll show you your room.” Mechanically, Angela picked up Constance’s bag and went to the door.
Constance hurried after her. “Mrs. Lambert, I should take it.”
The woman flushed slightly, looking flustered and vulnerable for a moment. It endeared her just a little to Constance, who was a good judge of most people but couldn’t quite grasp her client.
Carrying the bag, Constance followed her across the hall to a staircase, lit from a tall stained-glass window stretching up from the half-landing.
“I’ve put you in the room just off mine,” Angela said. “It’s meant to be a dressing room, but I never use it. And besides, it makes sense in terms of nearness to me, and your own privacy from the other servants. They sleep in the attic rooms. Apart from Mrs. Feathers, who has her own little cupboard bedroom in the kitchen.”
Whatever her background, it seemed Angela had exacting standards. Her home was spotlessly clean and well maintained. It was all a little cluttered and over-opulent for Constance’s taste—her own much-less-respectable establishment was less vulgar and considerably more soothing to the senses—but her new employer was clearly proud of it in a quiet, almost shy way.
“My husband has come up in the world,” Angela said. “We need to be able to entertain gentlemen—and ladies—in style.”
“What does your husband do, ma’am?”
“He owns property. Like the aristocracy.”
“Is it all like this?” Constance asked, allowing a little awe into her voice. In truth, it wasn’t hard, for Angela had just led her into her own bedchamber, a large and luxurious apartment that, apart from the quality of the furnishings, resembled the brothel in which Constance had spent her early years. Red velvet predominated, with lavish cushions and gold embroidery.
“All sorts,” Angela said vaguely. She cast an unexpectedly anxious glance at Constance as though seeking approval. “His ambition is to have it all like this or better, but you got to start somewhere. What do you think?”
“Magnificent,” Constance said, hoping her own accommodations were plainer, or she would never sleep.
“My husband has the connecting bedchamber. It makes sense when he works so late and goes out early.”
“Most considerate of him.”
Angela walked in the other direction. “This is your room.” She opened the door to a slightly cramped room containing a narrow bed, a small chest of drawers with a mirror, and a washstand, then opened the door to a cupboard. “There’s hanging space for dresses in here. Will it do?”
“Of course.” Constance laid her bag on the bed, then hung up her plain coat and hat and the two spare gowns she had brought with her. “You had better tell me what I need to do as your lady’s maid, and when I’ll have free time to investigate in my own way.”
They discussed this for a little. Angela had clearly never had a lady’s maid before and didn’t need one now. But, for show, Constance would be summoned at certain times and be required to carry out duties like pressing clothes and bringing morning tea.
“The other servants used to do those things, but I’ve told them that from now on, only you are allowed in this room—though when my bed is changed, you’ll need one of the maids to help. When you’re here with me pretending to help me dress, we can discuss anything you are or aren’t finding out.”
“Tell me about the household,” Constance said, sitting down on one of the two armchairs indicated by Angela. “Is it just yourself and your husband? And the servants, of course.”
“Yes. We were never blessed with children.”
“Do you mind?” Constance asked impulsively. She herself would never have children, and yet just occasionally, the thought of them slipped into her mind, with the ache of regret.
