May 1970
Poppy Higgins, the senior attendant to the young Lady of the Ashford Manor, stepped in the front gate of the Ashford manor, her day's errands for the manor complete. Her role there had shifted somewhat, with the Lady's odd condition. Despite the seemingly hale health of the Lady, her illness of a little over a year ago had led to a regimen of confinement.
The whole thing seemed wretchedly Victorian to Poppy at first. The previous year she had taken over as the de facto head of the family while the heir skipped off to some holding in the South Pacific. The poor girl, who had brought Poppy along to London with her to help her get by, seemed to do nothing but read and network, and work and read.
The gardener, a sweet young man with a cherubic face named Luther, poked his head up from the shrubbery at the sound of the gate. "Miss Higgins!" He waved at her, cheeks pinking. "Lovely day, innit?" Down by his feet were planters- herbs for the kitchen garden, and more roses than he would be able to use. They always order too many, she thought, waving back.
About halfway through the previous year, a throng of Umbrella suits had realized that Lady Ashford was bringing in more business than all of them, and was doing it in her lunch breaks. Lord Ashford, may he rest, had moved right quick to get that group off their scent before he passed.
It was a boon for her reputation. Lord knew it needed a good varnish.
But now, all of the rich little weasels fancying themselves wolves were coming out of the woodwork.
The aftermath of the first, and most brazen of the lot last fall was still a clear memory. Marigold had come back from a small celebratory party with a few colleagues. She had refused to tell Poppy anything at first, but her hands had been shaking when taking off her coat. The look in her eyes that night had been grim.
Poppy had been working with the Lady since her teens- she knew that look. Marigold Ashford was a planner, but her temper was also legendary. This was the look she always wore on the heels of a particularly impulsive retaliation. This time, Poppy could almost feel the storm clouds rolling off of her.
Still, she'd gone into work the next day, mask of gentility firmly set in place once more. Them at evening, Poppy had timidly asked if they should be expecting a visit from the police after finding blood on her discarded blouse the following day. The question seemed to startle Marigold into letting her gently pry out a few details.
Lady Ashford had landed a major account. It wasn't the first; her mentor at the office was beginning to see that she had a talent for the work. This one, however, had been done in a way that Lord Spencer himself had called into their meetings and actively, explicitly, commended her on all of the legwork she had done to land it.
One of the younger men at the office, knowing Lady Ashford's situation was uniquely fragile, had attempted to corner her at the party they held a few days later. Poppy had paled at this, pressing for more. "Were you hurt? Should we get the police involved?"
Lady Ashford had looked at her evenly for a long time. "I handled it," she said finally. "He was a little fool about it- he won't be trying anything like that again. She blew out a breath in frustration. "Alexander was right, damn him. The wolves are circling round."
That had been the fall of 1969. Whatever had happened had left Lady Ashford weak for days, relatively speaking. Months had passed- a bleak Christmas at the manor, a long winter, and Lady Ashford throwing herself into her work, her studies, with a frightening intensity. Poppy had quickly learned to hold her expression as impenetrable stone, a golem denying entry to the London flat they stayed in. The telephone calls began to roll in, as did the dinner invitations. Lady Ashford evaded the suitors studiously through to the spring. There were no more incidents that Poppy was aware of; it was always possible that the Lady was getting better at covering her tracks.
Those working at the manor sensed the incongruity of Marigold's stated chronic illness, allegedly the long-term effects of malaria infection. They avoided the topic- something had been wrong when her family had bundled her home from the Africa expedition.
Poppy herself had borne witness to how the Lady's physical strength had actually increased quite dramatically: when a waifish girl like her could suddenly manage to get trunks up the stairs, the work of two strong men, it was the sort of thing one noticed.
The staff had still closed ranks when Marigold had claimed her condition was worsening, and needed regular respite back home, in the country. Poppy had been the one to deliver the news, with a young, strapping young man who worked as a driver for the family came through with a list and a box for her files.
Now back at home, it was more obvious than ever that the bout of "illness" was a ruse. Yet…since coming back from that Africa trip, something about the young Lady had fundamentally changed. She was stronger than she'd ever been, for one; The staff had stopped using the fine china in the house for a while until the Lady adjusted to her newfound strength during that turbulent period at the end of 1968. Her brother had helped her in that regard, although his focus had been split between quantifying his sister's condition and preparing her to be on her own before departing to the family holdings in the other side of the world.
For the staff, any sharp shift in her mood seemed to move through manor like a burst of wind. When she had gingerly reported this to the elder Lord Ashford, back when she had been briefly sick, he had decreed that they limit her exposure to only family and those who had already been exposed too much already- mainly, herself, Poppy. It created a bit of an awkward situation with Mrs. Kettleby, the head housekeeper, a steely woman in her fifties who ran the house with an iron fist- especially when the family splintered and shatter as it did. She came around eventually.
They all did.
As May 1970 rolled around, Poppy was confronted by a massive bouquet of roses in the front hall. Poppy cringed at the sight. Kettleby had placed them in a vase on display. The woman in question was arranging them just so with a sour expression. Poppy looked to her. "Who's this one, then?"
Kettleby turned that sour expression on her. "Lord Beardsley decided to 'pop in' to get some country air." Beardsley had holdings out in the North Sea, but was one of the founders. Kettleby clearly had opinions on just how spontaneous this visit truly was.
Poppy made a face. "At least it makes some sense, in the spring. Christmas had swarms of disinherited little weasels." She sighed. The roses were lovely, even if the intent was unwanted. "She's going to start sending out contempt bouquets before long if this keeps up. Isn't he in his fifties?"
"Not quite forty, I believe…a girl her age should be taking this sort of thing seriously. That boy, bless him, leaving her to fend for herself here was inevitably going to bring men like that around to see what they can peel off?" Kettleby scoffed, and Poppy smiled in spite of herself. The older woman had taken a strong stance on Alexander's decision to go to Rockfort Island rankled the older staff, despite a good argument, and Lady Ashford's steadfast support, for re-establishing their family's presence there. "What goes into a contempt bouquet anyhow?"
"Yellow carnations," came the reply from the top of the stairs as Marigold Ashford began to make her way down. She paused at the landing halfway down. "Geraniums and foxglove would be an interesting touch. There could probably be more." She regarded the flowers cooly. "He's after Father's estate. A widower, I believe. I'm young enough to be ornamental and manage the house, but I wouldn't displace his children with new heirs." She scoffed at Kettleby's discomfort. "Oh hush, it's an open secret. And this isn't Veronica's day. The name is still enough to build up a little clout of my own before I need to make negotiations in that regard."
Kettleby looked at her, dubious. "Age comes for all of us, dear. So long as you keep it in mind that they won't be breaking down your door forever." She looked to the roses, forlorn. " I wish your father had tried to settle this matter when he had the time."
Lady Ashford smiled at Mrs. Kettleby, apologetic. The chill coming off her, however, nearly froze Poppy to the spot. "You know, that very nearly happened on our trip? Father and Uncle Oswell had a whole plan in place." Her smile hardened. "Believe me. The current situation is better."
With that, the Lady Ashford turned back to re-seal herself within the office.
So long as those vultures are circling, we need to find something to keep the Lady distracted, she thought. For all our sakes.
With a decisive thunk, Poppy set the lunch tray down on Marigold's desk, on top of her notes. "You're going to run yourself ragged locked up in here the whole month, miss." Without missing a beat, she turned and started opening curtains and windows. "It's been absolutely beautiful out all week. Stretching your legs would do you some good." She eyed the ledgers, strewn out along a side table of the study. "You still have to live life outside of those."
Marigold looked at her, blank and more than a little bleary. She wasn't sleeping again, Poppy realized. "They're all over the village, Poppy. I can't do that again."
Poppy, who had been there the night that Marigold had come in late that night last year in London with a bloody handkerchief and dried blood on her collar, never quite worked up the nerve to ask what that was. The details didn't matter. Someone had tested Lady Ashford, and whatever she had done in response had rattled her but good. Time wasn't helping to heal that wound- in fact, it was just adding to her paranoia.
No one had died. Nothing had been in the papers. Marigold went out less after work, and avoided drinking socially for a while. Disaster, it seemed had been averted.
Still…"Danny at the booksellers mentioned that Beardsley's assistant paid him and Sarah, down at the cafe, to ring them if you showed up. They're having a blast calling them up whenever a blonde shows up on the street. Apparently, the Royland's boy is letting his hair grow out just a touch too long." She smiled at the sound of Marigold chuckling behind her. Better. "Besides, the estate's quite large. No reason we can't set you up a few quiet spots." Poppy squinted, looking over the sprawling moors. "Aren't there some old buildings near the edge of the wood?
"Those are ruins," Marigold said behind her. She was engaging the topic. Good. "An old monastery. All that's left are the walls of the stone chapel. Alex thought that local hunters used it for a staging site after the crown repossessed the lands."
"Hmm." Poppy said, thoughtful. "Is it safe?"
Marigold made a noncommittal sound. "Why." She knew she was being led somewhere. She got quite mulish when she worked that sort of thing out.
Poppy shrugged. "Luther always overdoes it with the number of rosebushes he tries to plant out front. There's a surplus." She turned back to Marigold with a little smile. "Seems like an ideal little spot for a private garden."
Marigold (privately) had to admit that it wasn't the worst idea.
She made to slip out the kitchen door early that evening when Poppy came across her. "Headed back there?"
Marigold swore and scowled. "You're like a cat, sometimes!"
Poppy laughed. "You might need better footwear. I set out some galoshes and an old coat for the moors. It's still quite wet out there!" She pointed to the coat and boots set neatly on the bench by the door. Poppy looked Marigold up and down. "I doubt you'll have trouble, but your clothes will be a wreck."
Marigold stared at the maid, then sighed. "Alright. Alright. I shall defer to your better judgment." She sat at the kitchen table to start taking off her clearly inadequate shoes.
Poppy smiled brightly at her charge. "You've been dealing with a lot. No shame in getting a bit of a nudge and a push every now and then to steer you back." She set a plate of fruit, cheese, and scones in front of her. "Now eat something before you run off into the wilds. Luther obliged me, and put a few things in a milk crate that you can bring along."
The crate Poppy had mentioned was at the back gate of the kitchen garden, owning onto the moors. True to her word, poppy had loaded the silly thing up with a couple of potted climbing roses, barely started. She'd thrown in a few herbs, some lavender, and rosemary, 'to keep the bugs away'.
A few small tools in a canvas wrap were tucked in, and a small bundle of bread and cheese was carefully wedged in with the lot. Marigold had to laugh. Poppy had sent her off for a little sunset picnic. All that was missing was a dapper blanket to settle herself upon- and lo, there it was, right there at the bottom.
Marigold hefted her package up. The lot of it likely weighed about thirty, perhaps forty pounds. It would have been a burden a few years back. Now, it was about as bad as carrying a light jacket on a warm day.
The trudge to the tree line took about thirty minutes. There was no real path through Tempe moors, just a wild and lonely stretch of field, strewn with some outcropping. The area was marshy, the paths shifting with the seasons. The walk itself might have been worse. Silently, she thanked Poppy for making her change out of her shoes for something sensible on the squishy ground. May might be beautiful, but it was also awfully damp.
The ruin itself had been a small stone building once. Three walls and part of the fourth still survived, along with the stone arch of the door. The interior was overgrown, although the walls provided some shelter for a wild raspberry bush huddled by the west wall. A stone platform at the far end survived, where an altar had once stood. Stained and rusted tools were scattered across the stones. Poppy had been correct- at some point, someone had used this to dress their kills from hunting. One of the flagstones was stained a pale brown - blood and oxidation interacting with the iron in the stones themselves.
But even that had been a long time ago. Marigold turned back towards the manor, a distant spot off in the distance. The sightlines themselves were good. The gently rolling landscape and outcrops meant that there were myriad pathways to this point, but someone unfamiliar with the land would struggle to reach this point. It was likely that the monks who had built this place had been keenly aware of that fact, relying on it for their survival in darker times.
The area was mired in superstition. After all, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had set The Hound of the Baskervilles in the neighboring county for a reason. There was always something lurking, out in the dark, that you didn't disturb if you knew what was good for you. Somewhere in the deep shadows of history, the wild loneliness of the countryside had blended Celtic tradition, marauder philosophy, and Christian doomsaying to imprint deeply upon the local population.
No one answers the moors at night. It just wasn't done. And if you happened to see something, you left it the hell alone and got out of there.
The light was fading from the day. Sunset would be upon her soon. The sky was clear, and she'd enjoy a full, bright moon tonight. She knew for a fact that her night vision had improved dramatically. Were she so inclined, Marigold could claim this isolated spot for herself.
Marigold stepped up to the stone platform, setting the crate down. The north wall to the side of the building would be a perfect spot for roses. She'd need to learn more about taking care of them, but the shelter of the walls would do its part. Even now, she could feel some of the tension sloughing from her shoulders.
Well. Perhaps she ought to look around then, just for a while. Eyeing a particularly mossy patch of ground next to the stage, Marigold kneeled down and began to unpack the little crate of supplies she has been sent along with.
After all, Poppy had gone to such trouble to organize this. It would only be proper to see this little journey through.
"Have you lost your tiny little mind? Sending the Lady out into the fields before nightfall! I ought to have you tossed out on your ear for this."
Poppy was sat at the kitchen table, solemnly regarding a furious Mrs. Kettleby. She'd lit a candle and helped herself to a cup of tea to wait for Marigold's return when Mrs. Kettleby had realized their charge had gone out. The elder housekeeper had worked for the patriarch of the family for years - Poppy knew that this looked bad from the other woman's point of view.
Much of the household staff really wasn't sure what had happened with Marigold when she had taken sick. Mrs. Kettleby was doing her level best to keep the young Lady Ashford free of any more scandal, but in her eyes that meant encouraging a respectable match and securing the estate for the good of the community. Goodness knew there were plenty of landless nobility happy to take what she had to offer, scandals and all.
Mrs. Kettleby had no way of knowing the strange changes Lady Ashford had been experiencing throughout the previous two years. Not truly. Much of the household - especially the junior household staff - had mellowed considerably over Christmas, but the older woman held herself apart, as part of her station.
And she really couldn't follow through. They both knew it, and it infuriated Mrs. Kettleby. Lord Ashford himself had decreed that his daughter be minded closely by a closed circle that they trusted. Poppy fell into that circle. The surviving son, Alexander, had reiterated this protocol when the final say in the matter passed to him.
Mrs. Kettleby hadn't been shy about sharing her disdain of Poppy and that particular rule with the rest of the staff, and thereby, the village. Many of the older shopkeepers had grown chillier towards her specifically, of late. She'd been more careful about speaking ill of Alexander, but it wasn't a secret that she gave the rumors about his role in the patriarch's death some weight.
Marigold didn't go into the village herself anymore, and the isolation made it so that if Poppy wasn't gossiping about the staff in such a manner (she would never), she'd likely never know. Either Mrs. Kettleby would have to be read in on the situation, or Lady Ashford would have an insurrection on her hands.
Under normal circumstances, Mrs. Kettleby would be absolutely correct. She was a pragmatic woman, who adored her charges. But…things had changed. Lady Ashford no longer fell under normal circumstances. And Poppy wasn't going to expose the secret to someone who had their own ideas of what 'for your own good' meant.
So there she sat. Waiting. Lady Ashford had been gone for a few hours now, following the hint to take a few hours to herself and get her head sorted. Waiting, stone-faced and silent while Mrs. Kettleby build herself such a head of steam that Poppy fancied a thunderhead forming above her reddening face. Let Kettleby call her stupid, arrogant. She was doing her job. Just as Lord Ashford had required her to.
Both of them.
Mrs. Kettleby was still shouting herself hoarse when the air shifted within the room. Poppy sat up straighter, brows furrowing. The candle flickered in front of her. Poppy glanced at the kitchen door, the source of the draft.
Marigold had returned. The room was dim, but the shadow of the young woman was eerily still. Her eyes held a slight gleam in the low light. Poppy was suddenly sure that the Lady had been listening quietly for the last few minutes.
Mrs. Ketteby, however, had only noticed in her building rage that Poppy had stopped paying attention. "Witless child, look at me when I'm talking to you!" She raised her hand as if to slap.
Marigold moved.
The kitchen was small enough that those few steps were no great distance, but there was something unsettling at how smooth the movement was. Mrs. Kettleby found her momentum stopped by the small hand of Lady Ashford gripping her firmly by the wrist. "Lady?" She choked out with surprise, and no small measure of anxiety.
Marigold, for her part, looked sidelong at Poppy's stony face, and, after a long moment, released Mrs. Kettleby. The housekeeper grasped her wrist to herself and seemed to shrink inwards. Marigold stepped back and surveyed the scene. At Mrs. Kettleby. Back to Poppy, who kept her face neutral. Inside, Poppy was seething, but at least this time Kettleby had been caught when her mask of maternal concern had slipped.
"A moment," Marigold said softly. She stepped back and disappeared deeper into the house. Kettleby looked back at Poppy, her anger transmuted to puzzled anxiety. Poppy, for her part, shrugged.
The clink of glasses from the other room caught their attention. Marigold stepped back into the kitchen with three tumblers on a tray, along with a decanter of scotch. One of the tumblers had already been poured a healthy serving of the liquor.
"Miss, you don't need to-" Mrs. Kettleby looked appalled at the thought of being served by Marigold, but she was gently hushed when Marigold set down the tray upon the table. "Enough. I did this in the office in London when the boys in the office forgot I wasn't a secretary." She took the full tumbler and handed it to the housekeeper. "You've obviously had a difficult day. Have one." The housekeeper took it automatically, then stared at the glass as if she's been handed a live salmon. "Lady, Ashford, I'm not sure what you heard, but-"
Marigold put up a hand to stop her. "And I'm sure it can wait until morning for cooler heads to prevail, don't you agree?" She poured herself a glass as well. Looking at the third glass, she pushed the tray towards Poppy. "Up to you. I'm not sure if you can manage scotch." She took a small sip of her own drink, looking back to Kettleby. Poppy stared at her, and swallowed. "Perhaps later, ma'am."
Marigold had kept that eerie gaze locked on Kettleby, who glanced at the drink in her hand in discomfort. The decanter Lady Ashford had brought in was top shelf, really excellent stuff. She wasn't wont to share it unless a particularly prestigious visitor came by.
Kettleby, for her part, looked thoroughly rattled, and chose the course of least resistance. "Thank you very much, miss," she said quietly, and took a drink. The three of them sat in a tense tableau for several moments, until Mrs. Kettleby set her glass down on the table, now emptied. "Perhaps I should take my leave for the evening, then. I do worry, but we can discuss that in the morning. Please get some rest, Lady Ashford."
"Try not to worry too much, Mrs. Kettleby. Have a good night," Marigold responded. Mrs. Kettleby, now thoroughly unsettled, only nodded, set down her tumbler, and fled towards her quarters.
Marigold sat quietly, watching the dark of the doorway through which Mrs. Kettleby had scurried off. Poppy, in turn, watched her carefully. Marigold's nervous tension seemed to have melted away. She was quietly sipping at her tumbler of scotch. And her hands…
Poppy was on her feet before she realized it, reaching for Marigold's hand to inspect it, who allowed it. The nails were caked with dirt. And there were some other stains…
"Is this blood?" She asked quietly.
Marigold nodded. "I was going to wash up in the kitchen, but I heard the commotion." She gave a little smile. "The roses are really lovely. I was a bit clumsy handling them before I got them into the ground, so there was a bit of blood."
Poppy inspected her hands further. "I don't see any scratches…" She trailed off. "Oh."
"Marigold sighed. "Yes. Oh." She took another sip with her free hand, draining the tumbler. "One more thing." She set the tumbler down. "That was a good idea, Poppy. I don't think my head's been that clear in some time."
Poppy gave a little smile at that. "I'm glad to hear that. I worried a bit as well when you came back so late, but, well," she trailed off while gesturing vaguely at Marigold's general visage. Marigold laughed quietly, and Poppy glanced to Mrs. Kettleby's abandoned tumbler. "Did you do something? Just now?"
Marigold hesitated, then nodded. "I learned something after my little…incident last year. I'm sorry if the situation has made things harder for you in the manor. I think…Mrs. Kettleby looked out for Alexander and I, quite a bit after Mother passed. In normal circumstances, she'd have a point." Marigold glanced up at Poppy. "We both know these aren't normal circumstances." Marigold hesitated. Then: "She should be more amenable in the morning. You'll see."
Poppy, who had witnessed the early days of her Lady's subtle metamorphosis, went quiet. "Will she be alright?" She asked in a small voice, after a moment. She couldn't make herself ask what she really wanted to. The question was buried so deep she could barely perceive its shape.
Still, Marigold seemed to sense her deep sense of unease. "She'll be fine. She'll feel much better in the morning." She smiled, a bit sad. "Go ahead and have a glass if you like. It's safe enough."
Poppy's brows furrowed and then…she let it go. "Perhaps later. Right now…" she looked Marigold up and down. "I think I ought to draw you a bath. After that, you can have another one of those and tell me about running dramatically through the moors like a Brönte character under the moonlight?"
Marigold laughed, and all was well again.
At least, it was in the kitchen.
Mrs. Kettleby stumbled to her quarters in the staff wing of the manor. Lady Ashford's behavior as of late had been extremely odd. She'd run a little wild as a teenager, as children of that age were wont to do. The poor girl had been unfortunate enough to hit some of the pitfalls inherent in the wildness of youth. The tragedies that fell up her health and the greater family made Mrs. Kettleby worry greatly for the future of the estate, and the village that it supported.
Now…the girl had become something of a recluse. Lord Spencer, a lively man when the late lord Ashford had hosted him at Christmas when the men were in medical school, had shifted into something reclusive following a several-year disappearance about a decade back. Secretive. Harder. Mrs. Kettleby feared greatly that the family had come upon something similar on their road to 'greatness'.
She worried it had broken them all.
Ugh, she thought, tottering to her own doorway. I used to be able to hold my scotch better than this. At least the Lady Ashford seemed reasonable enough still to wait for cooler heads to prevail, still. Someone needs to take a firm hand with that girl before she's run into the ground before taking care of her duties.
In the morning, though.
She would see to it in the morning.
She would…
The next day, Mrs. Kettleby rose from a sound sleep. Something…there was something she was meant to do today. Something important. Something about Lady Ashford, and protecting her…
After a moment, she shrugged and got ready for the day. It couldn't be that important. Poppy attended to Lady Ashford, and she seemed to be recovering slowly from the losses of 1968.
The poor thing just needed time.