“Cut away all these suckers and water sprouts,” she ordered Higgins, ignoring the gardener’s ominous throat clearing. Megs fingered a brown, twisting vine wrapped around the tree’s trunk. “And cut away whatever this is.”
“M’lady …,” Higgins began.
“Please?” She glanced at him. “I know I’m being silly, but even if it’s dead, we can grow a … a climbing rose up it. Or something similar. I just don’t want to give up quite yet.”
Higgins heaved a deep sigh. He was a bandy-legged man of fifty or so, his upper chest and shoulders heavy and slightly bent forward as if his lower half had trouble carrying the weight of the upper. Higgins had quite definite ideas of garden care—ideas that had meant he’d been let go from more than one position. In fact, he’d been without work when Upper Hornsfield’s vicar had reluctantly given his name to Megs. She’d been looking for an experienced gardener to oversee the renovations at Laurelwood, and though she’d never once seen Higgins smile, she’d always been glad of the impulse that had made her hire him. He might be blunt, but he knew his plants.
“It’s a fool idea, right enough, but I’ll do it, m’lady,” he muttered now.
“Thank you, Higgins.” She smiled at him, feeling affectionate.
He couldn’t help being an old curmudgeon, and she rather thought the fact that in a year and a half of employment he hadn’t yet threatened to quit meant he must like her as well.
Or at least it was nice to think so.
“What about that bed there?” She pointed and soon Higgins was scratching his head and giving his blunt opinion of the rather scraggly looking boxwoods lining the garden.
Megs nodded and looked thoughtful as she half listened. The day was sunny and a bit brisk, and really, meandering around a tumbledown garden was a wonderful way to spend a morning. She’d suffered a setback with her baby plans last night, it was true, but that didn’t mean she was finished by a long shot. Somehow she’d find a way to work around Godric’s reluctance or—
Well, she could have an affair, she supposed. That was what some women in her position—assuming there was anyone else in a position like hers—would do.
But as soon as the notion entered her mind, she rejected it out of hand. No matter her great urge to have a child, she simply couldn’t do that to Godric. It was one thing to marry because of an unwed pregnancy; it was quite another to deliberately cuckold a man she’d pledged herself to in front of friends and family. Even if that man was being quite pigheaded.
Megs’s shoulders slumped. She was being unfair to Godric, she knew. The hard thing was that she understood. She, too, had loved someone desperately, had felt half dead when he’d died. For a moment, the thought brought her up short: Was she betraying Roger by wanting to create life without him? By wanting to do that with another man?
Except it was the baby she wanted, not the bedsport. If she could have one without the other, she would. Besides, she didn’t expect to actually enjoy the physical act with Godric—how could she, after all? She’d loved Roger, not her dry older husband. In any case it didn’t matter—the drive to have a child was simply too overwhelming to ignore.
But thoughts of Roger reminded her that she’d neglected what she’d owed him too long. She’d come to London not only to consummate her marriage, but also to find the Ghost of St. Giles and make him pay for his crime. If she’d been stymied at one goal, well then she could just pursue the other with more vigor. And as she watched Higgins uncover a yellow crocus and grunt with satisfaction, a thought occurred. Her first confrontation with the Ghost had not been exactly successful. Perhaps she should do a bit of information gathering before she tried again.
To that end, after she’d taken leave of her morose gardener, Megs went in search of Sarah.
“There you are,” she exclaimed rather unoriginally when she tracked down her sister-in-law in a room nearly at the top of the house.
“Here I am,” Sarah agreed, and then sneezed violently. With the help of two of the four girls from the home, she’d been taking down the curtains from the windows.
Mary Evening, a child of eleven or so with a freckled face and mouse-brown hair, giggled. Mary Little, the other girl, was rather more solemn with