searching inside for a pair of heavy gloves when she spied a photograph.
The image took her by surprise. An older woman and adolescent-aged girl stood outdoors beside a barbed-wire fence—afarm, perhaps?—against a backdrop of snowy mountains and thick forests. It might have been winter but for the white flowers in the grass at their feet. Spring or summer then. Both females wore white shirtwaists and light-colored skirts and had the same dark hair and soulful eyes as her maid.
Agnes had never shown her a picture of her family, as these two undoubtedly were.
Feeling guilty for prying, and worried Mrs. Vance might find her here, Grace hastily returned the photograph to the bag and abandoned her search for gloves. Outside, she was relieved to see only the horses patiently grazing on a bit of grass. She walked toward the rear of the cart, wondering what had caught her eye earlier . . .
The sight of the empty cage made her gasp. Grace heard squealing and whipped around to see a dozen pigs tearing across Roxwood’s lawn. Panicked, she ran around to the back of the cart and spied the opened latch. The gangway had been let down.
“ Noooo! ” she cried in disbelief—then saw the flower pendant lying in the grass beside it. Realization struck. “ Claaare! ”
Grace scooped up the necklace and glanced wildly about the gatehouse grounds. The woman was nowhere in sight.
By now several of the four-legged demons were headed toward Roxwood’s gardens. With a yell, Grace took up the chase, alternately shouting at them to stop and muttering curses at Clare. She envisioned her demise in the WFC. After the others made her a laughingstock, she’d be forced to resign and return to London. Da would follow through on his threat and send for Aunt Florence until Clarence Fowler could return from America to wed her.
A sob tore from her throat as she observed two of the pigs foraging in Lord Roxwood’s rhododendrons. Another stood just a few feet in front of her, uprooting one of his prized rosebushes.
“Stop!” she shrieked, and made to throw herself bodily onto the culprit. The pig was faster, causing Grace to slide front first into the mud of a wet garden.
The pig froze for a moment and watched her, the rosebush still clamped in its mouth. Then the animal dashed toward the entrance of an enormous hedge maze several yards away. Grace scrambled from the mud, determined to rescue the plant from the omnivorous thief.
By the time she realized the pig had eluded her, Grace had become completely turned around inside the six-foot-high hedge. Breathless, she stood in her filthy uniform as tears brimmed at her lashes. Now what? She turned around slowly, trying to decide which way to go. She hadn’t even known of the labyrinth’s existence; a row of tall poplars blocked its view from the road and her window at the gatehouse.
She decided to take a left turn, hoping it would bring her back to the entrance. After several minutes and growing more disorientated, her frustration gave way to stirrings of distress. What if she couldn’t get out? She might die of hunger or thirst—
The gurgle of running water caught her attention. Grace walked toward the sound and soon arrived at the center of the maze.
A man in a beige linen suit and wide-brimmed straw hat sat on a stone bench in front of a small fountain. Leaning forward, he cupped his hands beneath the running spout of water.
“Oh, thank goodness!” she cried. “I was afraid no one would know I was here . . .”
He launched from his seat. “Who’s there?”
Grace backed away—and bit her lip to keep from crying out. He grabbed for the mask still lying on the bench. “Tell me now!” he demanded, knocking away the straw hat in his haste to retie the covering across his face.
The Tin Man. She caught only a glimpse before he donnedthe mask, but long enough to observe his scars: a cruel gash along one cheek, and the angry, serrated flesh surrounding his eyes. Eyes that
The image took her by surprise. An older woman and adolescent-aged girl stood outdoors beside a barbed-wire fence—afarm, perhaps?—against a backdrop of snowy mountains and thick forests. It might have been winter but for the white flowers in the grass at their feet. Spring or summer then. Both females wore white shirtwaists and light-colored skirts and had the same dark hair and soulful eyes as her maid.
Agnes had never shown her a picture of her family, as these two undoubtedly were.
Feeling guilty for prying, and worried Mrs. Vance might find her here, Grace hastily returned the photograph to the bag and abandoned her search for gloves. Outside, she was relieved to see only the horses patiently grazing on a bit of grass. She walked toward the rear of the cart, wondering what had caught her eye earlier . . .
The sight of the empty cage made her gasp. Grace heard squealing and whipped around to see a dozen pigs tearing across Roxwood’s lawn. Panicked, she ran around to the back of the cart and spied the opened latch. The gangway had been let down.
“ Noooo! ” she cried in disbelief—then saw the flower pendant lying in the grass beside it. Realization struck. “ Claaare! ”
Grace scooped up the necklace and glanced wildly about the gatehouse grounds. The woman was nowhere in sight.
By now several of the four-legged demons were headed toward Roxwood’s gardens. With a yell, Grace took up the chase, alternately shouting at them to stop and muttering curses at Clare. She envisioned her demise in the WFC. After the others made her a laughingstock, she’d be forced to resign and return to London. Da would follow through on his threat and send for Aunt Florence until Clarence Fowler could return from America to wed her.
A sob tore from her throat as she observed two of the pigs foraging in Lord Roxwood’s rhododendrons. Another stood just a few feet in front of her, uprooting one of his prized rosebushes.
“Stop!” she shrieked, and made to throw herself bodily onto the culprit. The pig was faster, causing Grace to slide front first into the mud of a wet garden.
The pig froze for a moment and watched her, the rosebush still clamped in its mouth. Then the animal dashed toward the entrance of an enormous hedge maze several yards away. Grace scrambled from the mud, determined to rescue the plant from the omnivorous thief.
By the time she realized the pig had eluded her, Grace had become completely turned around inside the six-foot-high hedge. Breathless, she stood in her filthy uniform as tears brimmed at her lashes. Now what? She turned around slowly, trying to decide which way to go. She hadn’t even known of the labyrinth’s existence; a row of tall poplars blocked its view from the road and her window at the gatehouse.
She decided to take a left turn, hoping it would bring her back to the entrance. After several minutes and growing more disorientated, her frustration gave way to stirrings of distress. What if she couldn’t get out? She might die of hunger or thirst—
The gurgle of running water caught her attention. Grace walked toward the sound and soon arrived at the center of the maze.
A man in a beige linen suit and wide-brimmed straw hat sat on a stone bench in front of a small fountain. Leaning forward, he cupped his hands beneath the running spout of water.
“Oh, thank goodness!” she cried. “I was afraid no one would know I was here . . .”
He launched from his seat. “Who’s there?”
Grace backed away—and bit her lip to keep from crying out. He grabbed for the mask still lying on the bench. “Tell me now!” he demanded, knocking away the straw hat in his haste to retie the covering across his face.
The Tin Man. She caught only a glimpse before he donnedthe mask, but long enough to observe his scars: a cruel gash along one cheek, and the angry, serrated flesh surrounding his eyes. Eyes that
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