The Night Gardener Page 7

  Molly snapped her fingers. “That’s just what we’ll do! I’ll work some extra chores, and you collect a few more bunches of flowers—all the paper in the world ain’t worth one of your blossoms, and that’s a fact.”

  Kip smiled. He knew she was just being nice, but he liked hearing it nonetheless. “All right,” he said. “Let’s write a letter.”

  “Perfect!” Molly took the paper from him and laid it on the lid of the box. She produced an inkwell and pen from her cloth and wet the nib. “How do we start it?”

  “Dear Ma and Da,” Kip said, leaning closer. He watched as she wrote the words down. When she had finished, she looked to him for further dictation. Kip thought a moment. “We, um, me and Molly …” He sighed, scratching the back of his neck. He had never written a real letter before, and he wanted it to be very official.

  Molly tapped the end of the pen against her bottom lip, thinking. “How about: We hope this finds you in good health?” she said.

  “That’s perfect! Fancy, just like a real letter!” Kip leaned over his sister and watched her write. “Next, tell ’em: We’re in ugly England. Where are you?” After that, the words came more naturally. He told their parents all about the orphanage, and leaving the city, and the scary old witch Hester, and the sourwoods, and the pale family, and the house, and the big tree, and the man in the fog, and most of all he told their parents that they loved them and missed them and wanted them to come back right away.

  When the letter was finished, Molly signed her name and then helped Kip sign his. They carefully folded the paper and put it into the envelope and sealed the flap with wax from a candle Molly had swiped from the pantry.

  Kip sat back on his hands, staring out across the lawn. The sun was fully hidden now, and stars were starting to show in the night sky. He took his sister’s hand. “I hope they find it soon,” he said, imagining what grand adventures the little envelope was about to sail out on.

  His sister stared out at the house, which was dark but for one light at a small window on the second floor. “Aye,” she said softly. “Me, too.”

  istress Windsor fit a glove over her porcelain fingers. “I should be back within the half hour, at which time I would like tea.”

  Molly held open the kitchen door, which led to the garden. “Of course, mum,” she said, bowing. As soon as the woman was outside, Molly closed the door and listened to the house. She could hear Alistair and Penny playing up in their bedrooms. Master Windsor was working in the study. Molly took the kettle off the stove and went downstairs to the servants’ quarters. She slipped into her bedroom and shut the door behind her. A moment alone. She slid a hand into her apron pocket and removed the envelope addressed with her parents’ names. She stared at the made-up address, written in her own clumsy hand. The letter inside did not weigh much, and yet it felt very, very heavy.

  In a brief moment of weakness, she had shared her fears with Kip, which had led to the pair of them writing a letter that, for a variety of reasons, could not be delivered. The logical thing would have been to destroy the letter, but every time she’d had an opportunity to burn it or throw it away, she’d hesitated. Kip had poured his very heart into its composition, and to ignore that seemed cruel, like setting fire to a prayer.

  Molly removed her old trunk from the wardrobe and opened the lid. This was where she hid the things she did not want to think about. Inside lay the rags she and Kip had worn before coming to the house. Beside them sat the old top hat she had found in the foyer. Molly had done her best to put the night man out of her mind. This was not hard to do, for with the sunlight comes a sort of boldness that takes the scare right out of things. But now, even in daylight, the sight of the hat sent a shiver through her body, and she could not help but remember the heavy sound of footsteps in the hall—

  THUMP!

  THUMP!

  THUMP!

  A violent knocking startled Molly out of her thoughts. The racket was coming from outside. It was not footsteps but the sound of someone banging on the front door. Molly buried the envelope inside the trunk, shut the lid, and rushed upstairs.

  The person outside was knocking with such force that it shook the whole house. By the time Molly reached the foyer, half the paintings on the wall were askew. She opened the door to find two men standing on the stoop. One of them towered over Molly; the other barely met her chin. Both of them were unshaven and emanated a sweet, somewhat garbagey odor. Molly could tell from their clothes that they weren’t from the hollow but from the city.

  “Well, lookee there, Fig,” said the shorter one, lowering his cane, which he had apparently been using on the door. “Somebody is home.” The man seemed to fancy himself a gentleman. He wore a too-small suit that was covered with greasy stains and the occasional patch. Pinched in his right eye was a cracked monocle. He adjusted the lens, eyeing Molly up and down. “Dear me. Ain’t you a pretty thing?”

  Molly cringed. “Can I help you, sirs?”

  The man tipped his hat. “I reckon so. I’m Mister Stubbs, and this here’s my associate, Mister Fig.” He gestured grandly to the man beside him, who gave her a dirty wink. Stubbs went on, “We’ve come to see the man o’ the house, as it were.”

  Molly looked between the two men. She had run into more than a few of these types back in town. “Cockney,” people called them. “I’m afraid he’s unavailable,” she said. Molly tried to shut them out, but the man Fig had positioned his foot so as to prevent the front door from moving.

  “Can’t be rid of us so easy, pet.” Stubbs wagged a thick finger. “Not when we gone to such trouble to come all the way out here.”

  “I understand, sirs. But, the thing is, um …” Molly hesitated, struggling to come up with some kind of story that might drive this ugly pair from her door. For perhaps the first time in her life, her imagination seemed to be failing her.

  “It’s all right, M-M-Molly,” said a voice behind her. “I know these men.” She turned to see Master Windsor standing in the hall. If possible, he looked even paler than usual.

  Stubbs beamed. “Ah! Speak o’ the devil!” He and Fig approached Master Windsor like old friends, their arms spread wide.

  “That’s close enough!” Bertrand said sharply. He swallowed. “I’ll ask you to st-st-stay outside of my house.”

  The two visitors exchanged a look of mock chagrin and then took a tandem step backward. Stubbs bowed with a flourish. “Right, then. Now that we’ve obliged you—we’d like it if you’d kindly oblige us.” He held out his hand, rubbing his fingers together in a way that led Molly to understand he was asking for money.

  “H-h-has it been a month already, then?” Master Windsor sighed, shaking his head. “I have it upstairs.” He crossed to Molly’s side and took her arm. “See that they remain outside.” He gave a nervous glance toward the back of the hall. “And if, er, Constance happens to return early from her morning constitutional, perhaps …”

  Molly understood what he was asking. “I should keep her occupied, sir?”

  He nodded and then crossed to the staircase, taking the steps two at a time.

  Molly remained at her post, cheeks burning, trying to ignore the men on the stoop. She could feel them both staring at her, and it made her flesh crawl. Stubbs propped himself against the door frame. “Let this be a lesson to you, pet,” he said. “Don’t fall into arrears unless you want blokes like us stoppin’ by.”

  Fig leaned toward her, his head nearly grazing the lintel. “’Less, of course, you want blokes like us stoppin’ by.” He smiled, revealing a row of rotting teeth.

  Molly wilted under the man’s putrid breath. What possible connection these two had to the Windsor family she could not fathom, but she had the feeling it could lead to no good. She glanced upstairs, wishing that her master would be a little faster in returning.

  After a few very long minutes, Master Windsor appeared at the top of the staircase. He was pulling behind him a large canvas sack similar to the one Molly had seen him with the week
before. He grunted and groaned as he dragged the load inch by inch down the stairs.

  “Seems you’re havin’ a touch o’ trouble,” Stubbs hollered from the stoop. “Perhaps you’d like the little girl to give you a hand.” The two men chuckled.

  “I’m p-p-perfectly capable, thank you!” Master Windsor called back, gasping for breath. He braced himself against the railing and resumed his task. The bag hit each step with a sharp—

  Clink!

  Clink!

  Clink!

  “Now, that’s my kind of music!” Stubbs nudged his accomplice. “Sounds like he’s got the crown jewels in there!” Molly thought to herself that it sounded more like a bag of chains.

  Master Windsor eventually made it to the front door. He straightened up, gasping for breath. “Thank you … Molly …” More gasping. “I can handle things from here.”

  But Molly didn’t move. Her eyes were fixed on the canvas bag at his feet—she was certain it was the very same bag she had seen him carrying before. “You sure you dinna want me to stay, master?” she asked.

  “Quite,” he said firmly.

  Still, Molly didn’t move. This was her one chance to learn what was inside that bag, and she wasn’t going to give up so easily. “I thought maybe you would want me to keep an eye on the hall for your wife’s return, sir.”

  “I see, well …” Embarrassment flushed his pale cheeks. “Perhaps that might be wise.”

  Molly bowed and stepped to the back of the hall. Enough distance to give the illusion of privacy but not so much that she couldn’t overhear the conversation between them.

  Master Windsor turned back to the door. “There you are.” He eyed the bag with something like disgust. “Take it and leave.”

  “Now, that’s a hefty parcel!” Stubbs rubbed his hands together. “You even gift wrapped it!” The men squatted down, untied the bag, and peeked inside. Molly could not see, but she heard a faint clinking noise. Stubbs looked up, disgust on his face. “What in bloody hell is this?”

  Fig plunged a hand into the open bag and came up with a pile of dark coins. “It’s ha’pence, that’s what it is!” He bit a coin just to be sure. “A whole ruddy bag of ’em.”

  It was more money than Molly had ever seen in her life. The men, however, seemed far less impressed. Stubbs stood, scratching his chin in mock rumination. “Well, Fig. This here’s a real enigma. First he comes to us with banknotes. Then it’s pounds. Then sovereigns. Then shillings. And now this.” He kicked the bag with his muddy boot. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say the gentleman was mocking us.”

  Master Windsor set his jaw. “I assure you that if anyone is being mocked in this scenario, it is not you.” He stood tall, an imitation of resolve. “Whatever the denomination, it’s what I owe.”

  Stubbs eyed the bag as if making a visual count. “It still ain’t enough.”

  “There’s an entire sackful!”

  “But full o’ what? That’s the question. If we wanted to buy some lollies, this might pinch it.” He poked a fat finger into Master Windsor’s chest. “But you owe us a lot more than lollies.”

  The conversation was interrupted by the sound of a door opening somewhere in the back of the house. Mistress Windsor had returned from her morning walk in the gardens. “Bertie?” Her voice rang out from the kitchen. “I thought I saw someone at the drive.”

  Bertrand turned back to the men, his face flushed with panic. “P-p-please,” he whispered. “My wife is coming. Just take the bag. It’s all I have.”

  As it turned out, this was exactly the wrong thing to say. Fig and Stubbs looked at each other and then back at him. “It’s all you have?” Stubbs repeated slowly.

  In a flash, Fig snatched his lapels in both fists. He lifted Master Windsor clean off his feet and slammed him against the foyer wall. Paintings fell to the floor. A vase on the sideboard rocked over the edge and shattered. Bertrand sputtered and struggled, beating uselessly against the man’s mighty forearms.

  Molly watched, frozen, her hand clasped over her mouth. She knew she was meant to intercept Mistress Windsor, but she could not look away from the assault.

  Stubbs wandered across the threshold, polishing his monocle with a handkerchief. He replaced the handkerchief, and as he did so, Molly glimpsed a long knife sticking out from under his coat. She took a trembling breath, fearing how that blade might play into negotiations. “You know the reason we do business with stuffed-ups like you?” Stubbs fit the monocle back into his eye. “Abundant collateral. I don’t mean money or furniture or houses. I mean a desperate man with a wife and two children that he would do anything to protect from harm.” His voice was so low that Molly could barely make it out. “Do you understand my meaning, Bertie?”

  “P-p-please!” Master Windsor had stopped struggling. He spoke with naked desperation. “You must listen to me. There is more money, family money—all you could wish for! It will just take time.” He stared between the men, his dark eyes pleading.

  Stubbs considered this for a long moment. “You got a month to deliver the balance—no more games, no more interest. We want every last pip.” He nodded to Fig, who released his grip.

  Master Windsor collapsed to a heap on the floor. “Y-y-yes! Thank you!” He was up on his knees now, practically groveling.

  Fig marched over to the sack of coins and slung it over his shoulder with surprising ease. He carried it outside and threw it in the back of their cart. Stubbs remained in the doorway. “If we have to come back ’ere, it won’t end well for the Windsors. That’s a promise.” He tipped his hat and shut the door behind him.

  Molly rushed to Master Windsor and helped him to his feet. Whatever manly pride may have been left in him before this encounter, now it was completely gone, and he accepted her aid without comment. She stared at his trembling face, her fear replaced by pity.

  “Bertie, who were those men?” said a voice behind her.

  Molly turned to see Constance in the hall. It was unclear how long she had been there or how much she had seen.

  Bertrand rushed to meet her, smiling a weak smile. “Wh-wh-why, it’s nothing, my love! Just some, er, fellows who were, well, um …”

  Molly intervened before he could do further damage. “They were evangelists, mum,” she said. Both Windsors looked at her, their faces marked with two different kinds of surprise. “They came by to see if we had any heathens or sinners they could baptize or burn—I told ’em to try the village a few miles on.”

  Bertrand clapped his hands together. “Yes, exactly! Evangelists! As I said, nothing to worry about … unless you’re a heathen.” He chuckled.

  Constance looked between them, her fingers playing at the diamonds draped around her neck. It was unclear whether she believed the story or not. She looked at Molly. “Next time, see that you don’t leave the door open so long. You’ll give us all a chill.” She turned and walked into the hall. Master Windsor followed after her, trying out a few more heathen jokes as they both disappeared into the parlor.

  Molly stood alone in the foyer, thinking about what she had just witnessed. Master Windsor was in debt, that much was clear. But there was more going on. She thought about his trip to the room at the top of the stairs, emerging with a sackful of coins. She remembered his words to those men, how he’d told them that with time he could get more coins—

  All you could wish for.

  Molly’s eyes drifted upstairs. Through the banister, she could just make out the edge of the little green door.

  olly spun beneath the prickly afternoon sun, both hands clasped over her eyes. “Arghh!” she shouted in her most frightening giant voice (which, Kip had told her more than once, was not very frightening). “There’s pitch in me eyes!” She could hear the sound of children running in the grass around her. Running for dear life.

  Molly spun around one final time and pulled her hands from her face with a great roar. She was standing in the middle of the lawn, legs bent, shoulders hunched, hands spread like claws. “The g
iant realized that he’d been tricked,” she called out, continuing her story. “But by the time he scraped the pitch from his eyes, it was too late—for the children had hid themselves in the mountains, shouting: Catch as catch can!”

  The “mountains” were the little hillocks covering the Windsor lawn. Each mound was about as high as Molly’s knees and perhaps seven feet long—roughly the size of a canoe—and they were perfect for hiding. Not only could you disappear behind them, but you could crawl between them without being seen by flesh-eating giants. “I’ll gobble you up!” she bellowed, storming over the grass, her every footstep an earthquake.

  Molly spotted something dark behind a hill and leapt toward it. It was Kip’s cap, hanging from the end of his abandoned crutch. “Arghh! Fooled again by these clever chiddlers!” She threw down the hat and turned around. “But the giant did not lose hope,” she called out. “For he knew that children had a particular sweet smell to ’em. And so he sniffed at the air, sayin’—

  “‘Fee! Fum! Foe! Fie!

  I smell the blood of an English child!’”

  Molly heard a small giggle just behind her. She turned and saw a pair of small shoes with ribbons on top poking out from behind a hill. She crept closer, lowering her voice—

  “‘Fie! Fiddle! Fum! Furl!

  I smell the blood …‣”

  Molly leapt over the hill and grabbed hold of Penny—

  “‘Of an English girl!!!’”

  Penny screamed with equal parts glee and terror as Molly descended, tickling her to death.

  Penny’s capture marked the end of the round, at which point the other fugitives emerged from their hiding places. “It’s not fair,” Alistair said, appearing behind a largish hill near the stables. “Just when I’ve found a perfect hiding spot, she goes and gets captured—on purpose, no doubt!”