her off at the bottom of the hill so that she can see the famous fountain— and then, when Tom Quinn comes through the door, she’ll feel as if her past has finally caught up with her. She’ll feel as though the crouching girl in the maze has sprung up to trap her.
Chapter Four
It’s not the past, though, that Corinth senses coming through the glass doors with Tom Quinn, it’s the future, smelling of rust and decaying vegetation, hanging over the sunlit garden like a veil of green gauze.
Corinth blinks her eyes and the veil lifts.
“Mr. Quinn, you’ll be wanting Mrs. Ramsdale, no doubt.”
The young man takes a few more steps forward and, without taking his eyes off Corinth, answers yes. Mrs. Ramsdale rises from the table in the alcove and brushes past Corinth, releasing from the folds of her dress a sweet odor.
“Are you ready for your dictation, Tom? I have the next chapter entire in my head.” Mrs. Ramsdale turns toward Aurora, laying a hand across her copious bosom and fingering a strand of pearls that are the shape and color of slightly spoiled Concord grapes. Beneath the sweet scent is the darker hint of decay, surprising in a woman as young and attractive as Mrs. Ramsdale, who surely can’t be much past her midthirties. “We’ll work in the garden, Aurora, so as not to disturb your interview with Miss Blackwell.”
Aurora leans back in her chair and closes her eyes for answer. Mrs. Ramsdale gathers the skirt of her dress in her hand and sweeps out of the room, leaving in her wake another long trail of the sweet heavy smell.
Laudanum, Corinth thinks, taken to relieve some inner pain that’s eating away at her, which explains the aura of decay that emanates from her.
The young man—Tom Quinn—inclines his head slightly in Corinth’s direction and follows his mistress.
“Mr. Quinn is Mrs. Ramsdale’s amanuensis,” Aurora says, her eyes still closed and then, opening them. “You’ve perhaps read her novels?”
Corinth shakes her head. An image appears in her mind of a man and a woman in a moonlit garden, night-blooming flowers opening to release their scent; only instead of perfume the flowers exude the stench of death. “No, I haven’t had the privilege . . .”
“They’re abominable,” Aurora says tonelessly, as if informing her butler that the wine has turned, “but she’s a very sympathetic presence. I think you’ll find her a welcome addition to our circle. She’s quite interested in the spirit world. She claims to have seen the spirit of my little girl Cynthia playing in the garden.”
With a laudanum habit strong enough to imbue even her clothing with the scent, she probably sees plenty, Corinth thinks, and then, turning to Aurora, considers how best to approach the issue of the children. A moment she always dreads.
“I felt,” she begins, allowing her genuine reluctance to creep into her voice, because to appear reluctant is always a good effect, “a number of presences as I walked through the garden”—she thinks of the figure she saw at the end of the ilex grove—“especially in the little ilex grove to the west of the fountain allée . . . There’s a bench beneath a wisteria arbor . . .”
“The drawing master used to give Cynthia her lessons there.”
“And in the maze,” Corinth says, suddenly picturing the statue of the crouching Indian maid transforming into a child crouched beneath an overgrown hedge.
“Of course they loved to play there. They played hide-and-seek and I’m afraid that sometimes the boys were naughty enough to forget about Cynthia. She once spent a whole day hiding in the hedges before one of the gardeners found her. Sometimes I’m afraid that their poor little spirits are lost in the windings of those paths. It’s what haunts me the most.”
Corinth leans forward and lays her hand over Aurora’s cool fingers. It’s a risky gesture, she knows, considering how reserved this woman is, but she’s learned to trust her instincts
Chapter Four
It’s not the past, though, that Corinth senses coming through the glass doors with Tom Quinn, it’s the future, smelling of rust and decaying vegetation, hanging over the sunlit garden like a veil of green gauze.
Corinth blinks her eyes and the veil lifts.
“Mr. Quinn, you’ll be wanting Mrs. Ramsdale, no doubt.”
The young man takes a few more steps forward and, without taking his eyes off Corinth, answers yes. Mrs. Ramsdale rises from the table in the alcove and brushes past Corinth, releasing from the folds of her dress a sweet odor.
“Are you ready for your dictation, Tom? I have the next chapter entire in my head.” Mrs. Ramsdale turns toward Aurora, laying a hand across her copious bosom and fingering a strand of pearls that are the shape and color of slightly spoiled Concord grapes. Beneath the sweet scent is the darker hint of decay, surprising in a woman as young and attractive as Mrs. Ramsdale, who surely can’t be much past her midthirties. “We’ll work in the garden, Aurora, so as not to disturb your interview with Miss Blackwell.”
Aurora leans back in her chair and closes her eyes for answer. Mrs. Ramsdale gathers the skirt of her dress in her hand and sweeps out of the room, leaving in her wake another long trail of the sweet heavy smell.
Laudanum, Corinth thinks, taken to relieve some inner pain that’s eating away at her, which explains the aura of decay that emanates from her.
The young man—Tom Quinn—inclines his head slightly in Corinth’s direction and follows his mistress.
“Mr. Quinn is Mrs. Ramsdale’s amanuensis,” Aurora says, her eyes still closed and then, opening them. “You’ve perhaps read her novels?”
Corinth shakes her head. An image appears in her mind of a man and a woman in a moonlit garden, night-blooming flowers opening to release their scent; only instead of perfume the flowers exude the stench of death. “No, I haven’t had the privilege . . .”
“They’re abominable,” Aurora says tonelessly, as if informing her butler that the wine has turned, “but she’s a very sympathetic presence. I think you’ll find her a welcome addition to our circle. She’s quite interested in the spirit world. She claims to have seen the spirit of my little girl Cynthia playing in the garden.”
With a laudanum habit strong enough to imbue even her clothing with the scent, she probably sees plenty, Corinth thinks, and then, turning to Aurora, considers how best to approach the issue of the children. A moment she always dreads.
“I felt,” she begins, allowing her genuine reluctance to creep into her voice, because to appear reluctant is always a good effect, “a number of presences as I walked through the garden”—she thinks of the figure she saw at the end of the ilex grove—“especially in the little ilex grove to the west of the fountain allée . . . There’s a bench beneath a wisteria arbor . . .”
“The drawing master used to give Cynthia her lessons there.”
“And in the maze,” Corinth says, suddenly picturing the statue of the crouching Indian maid transforming into a child crouched beneath an overgrown hedge.
“Of course they loved to play there. They played hide-and-seek and I’m afraid that sometimes the boys were naughty enough to forget about Cynthia. She once spent a whole day hiding in the hedges before one of the gardeners found her. Sometimes I’m afraid that their poor little spirits are lost in the windings of those paths. It’s what haunts me the most.”
Corinth leans forward and lays her hand over Aurora’s cool fingers. It’s a risky gesture, she knows, considering how reserved this woman is, but she’s learned to trust her instincts
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