Page 36 of Ghost in the Garden
No, for Solomon would marry one day, and his wife would not tolerate Constance’s presence in his life, however chaste that presence was.
She drew out the watch she wore on a chain around her neck and looked at the time. Fifteen minutes until she could expect Solomon. A blacker shred of fog drifted, allowing her a glimpse of the apple tree, and she made her way cautiously toward it, straining her ears for the slightest sound.
Abruptly, she froze. Something had clicked, although she couldn’t tell if it came from the house or the garden wall. Someone swore. Someone else sniggered. Pat and Robin. She could locate the sounds now, even make out their shapes moving through the mist toward the garden door. She heard them rattle the latch, to be sure it was still locked, and then they were walking back toward the house, their path erratic, but heading her way.
She was afraid to move or breathe. Though in reality, did it really matter if they found her here? Yes, for they’d probably tell Lambert. Angela had told her not to let herself be seen unless she caught the ghost.
Robin passed within a foot of her. But their attention was all directly ahead, on the misty glow of the kitchen window. When she finally heard the kitchen door close, she moved again toward the back wall, first feeling her way around the apple tree to avoid stepping in the pond, then inching toward the door.
Grasping the key in her pocket, she looked back toward the house. The rooftop was black against the tendrils of mist, the structure mysterious, vanishing into darkness and the occasional faint glow from windows.
She thought about the ghost. Supposing it was a real person, where was it going? Not to the kitchen, for it would be seen. Not to the front of the house, for it had always vanished to the opposite side, to the path. A more thorough check of that side of the building was in order.
She felt rather than heard the movement of the latch, and jerked away from the door. But it didn’t move further. She waited, her breath mingling with the mist. Then, slowly, she brought out the key, fitted it as carefully and as quietly as she could, and turned it. Extracting it, she opened the gate, tensing to face any lurking threat.
Fog and darkness. She waited.
“Constance.”
With relief, she reached for Solomon’s hand and drew him inside, closing and locking the door. She led him back to the apple tree and found him peering down into her face. She stepped closer, standing on tiptoe to reach his ear with her lips.
No one smelled as good as Solomon, all cleanliness and warm spice. “I think we’re fine for half an hour at least. The men have just patrolled the garden. The Lamberts will be dining.”
He’d moved very slightly when she began to speak, as though at the shock of her breath. But he stood perfectly still now, his head lowered to hers.
“And you?” he said in her ear.
A tingle of pleasure passed through her, because it was sweet, and because he cared and was so preciously close. She had to force herself to remember why they were here.
“I think the ghost will come tonight,” she whispered.
“Just because it’s foggy?”
“No. It has always been a Saturday or a Thursday. Earlier in the evening, the ghost comes toward the house, even if not directly. When it’s later at night, it’s going away from the house.”
“On the same evenings?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Not that I’ve found yet, but it makes sense. I don’t think it can be anyone in the house—except Angela, and that makes no sense when she sent for us in the first place. Have you found out any more about Lambert?”
“That he’s dangerous to tangle with. I think it’s him, through Boggie, that’s trying to take over your mother’s business. And I think he’s taking over Gregg’s. He’s almost certainly responsible for the St. Giles disaster.”
“Angela thinks he is too.” She paused, resting her strained feet, then reached up once more. “How do you know that about my mother?”
“Janey sent you a warning message about Boggie and Lambert. I went to see your mother to confirm it.”
Constance closed her eyes. Her fingers on his shoulder curled, gripping the wool of his coat. “She’s in danger, isn’t she? And she won’t—”
“She might,” he murmured. “I’ve given her a way out, if she’ll take it.”
“What…?”
“Later.”
She shifted her head slightly to look into his face, while he gazed beyond her to the garden. Something in her ached. It often did around him, though she didn’t know what it was.
Love, probably, impossible and unrequited.
She rested her forehead against his shoulder, listened to the thud of her own heart, and imagined she could feel his beating in the same rhythm against her. In the circle of his arm, she didn’t feel the cold.
