Page 27 of The Dravenhearst Brides
“Why not?”
Evangeline didn’t answer, only puckered her lips and gazed over the gentle slope toward the distillery. A few crumbles of dirt and roots fell to the ground when she moved.
“Merrick told me I’m not to go in the rickhouses,” Margot said, following the groundskeeper’s sightline. “Not that there was something wrong with the manor itself.”
“Yes. It’s quite dangerous, the distillery.” Her voice turned dreamy, at odds with her words. “There’s a large sinkhole behind Rickhouse One”—she pointed to the nearest warehouse—“so it’s best not to go wandering off. Wouldn’t want you to get swallowed up when you’ve only just arrived.”
Margot swallowed uncomfortably, eyeballing Rickhouse One. The brick was half covered with creeping ivy and unchecked wisteria, as though the earth was trying to swallow it whole.
“What a day it’s been.” Evangeline shook her dirt-laden fingers. “I’ve spent hours and hours weeding. It’s an important task on an estate as long-standing as this.” The pitch of her voice grew deep with promise, suspiciously so. “There will always be critters trying to creep in where they don’t belong. Bold as brass, they are. Can you imagine?”
I’m the weed,Margot thought.That’s what she means, just as Xander implied.
“Pruning, endless pruning.” When Evangeline shifted her weight, the blade of her trowel caught sunlight. “Poison works nicely, for the most stubborn breeds. I blend my own with herbs and flora I grow here on the estate.”
Margot paled, drawing a hand to her throat and stepping back. “Is that a threat?” she whispered.
Evangeline cocked her head. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You said…you just said…about weeds, creeping in where they don’t belong. And pruning and poison,” Margot rambled. Distantly, she sensed her paranoia running away with her, but she couldn’t stop the words from coming.
Evangeline’s brows pulled down, bemused. “Well, yes, weeds can quickly ruin a garden—the grounds of a whole estate—if left unchecked. Nature is one of the most ancient magics, and it must always be kept in balance. I consider myself a steward of that balance.”
“A steward,” Margot repeated. “You mean like a…a witch?”
Evangeline narrowed her eyes. “I prefer steward.”
“O-of course,” she stammered, glancing uneasily back toward the house. “I reckon I’ll go back inside now. I’m feeling much better. Thank you.”
“You shouldn’t go in there just yet. Why don’t you work in the garden with me?”
“No, it’s getting late.” Margot backed away. “Merrick will be expecting me for supper.”
“All right, sugar. You newlyweds have a lovely evening.” Evangeline waggled her long fingers as she turned to depart, causing a few more weeds to tumble to earth. The earth she’d unceremoniously ripped them from.
She’ll do the same to you, given the chance.
The thought was sharp and crystal clear, but it had risen unbidden. Was it her own, or…was it the voice of someone else?
Margot eyed the manor with trepidation as she ascended the steps of the portico. She glanced back, but Evangeline had disappeared. Her gaze traveled downhill until it landed on the stables. Standing outside was the tall, lithe figure of the horse trainer, Ruth. A hand shaded her eyes as she stared up at Margot. The distance was too great to ascertain her expression, but Margot sensed coldness, that her presence was unwelcome.
The hinges of the front door whined as she pulled it open, wailing a warning to any who dared cross its threshold.
“It’s nothing a good oiling won’t fix,” Margot said aloud, feigning cheerfulness. The hinges screeched again when she closed the door.
Evangeline had called the manor a crypt, Ruth a mausoleum. The memory was faint, buried deep from when Margot was half asleep, but it was there.
Why had both women said those things?
Perhaps oil would be superfluous. Perhaps the shrieking first impression suited after all.
9
June 18, 1933
Mr. Merrick Dravenhearst,
Same time. Same place.
