Chapter Three

The gardens were vast and sprawling and yet wild and unkempt. Through a wooden door set into a stone wall Catherine found the kitchen garden - the only place which seemed to be looked after. The vegetable patches were placed in neat, regimented formations; strawberry plants with their delicate white flowers and green steams laden with ripe, shining red fruit; cabbages, green and red, lying in rows like large exotic flowers; potato plants, their lush green leaves the only evidence of the vegetables which lay hidden in the earth; pea plants, their pods hanging in crescents on their vines; carrots, onions, turnips, parsnips and spinach, broccoli and cauliflowers, numerous types of beans and herbs, and all looked healthy and appetising, even in their natural, uncooked state. Some fruit trees also grew in the garden: plums, peaches, nectarines and apricots, and in the middle of the garden was a large mulberry-tree, a simple wooden bench standing underneath in the shade of its vast branches.

A wooden gate inside one of the garden walls led to a walled orchard, its many trees stretching out for almost a mile. Apple-trees, pear-trees and cherry-trees, their trunks covered in moss and silver lichen and their branches a mass of pretty blossom, the teardrop shaped petals falling amongst the soft, springy grass and the snowdrops which grew there.

As she explored Wrolf walked by her side; he was so large that his head was parallel to her hip and she walked with her hand resting atop it, feeling the soft velvet of the fur beneath her fingertips.

She found a rose garden situated directly below her bedroom window. The rose garden was circular and at its centre was a fountain, surprisingly still in working order, the water tumbled from bowl to bowl, bubbling and frothing where it fell, catching the pale March sunlight. Atop the fountain was a carved figure of Eros, his bow and arrow at the ready, seemingly aiming straight for her balcony. The roses were in every colour possible; lustrous red; yellow and orange; pink, growing on the trellis beneath the balcony; white, pure and unblemished, their petals like silk; even rare varieties with two colours marbleised together. But clearly the plants had not been cared for in a long time for they grew spindly in all directions with many thorns, their points thin and sharp. The garden was bordered by a low hedge which, once upon a time, boasted topiary decorations. Catherine stared at the formless shapes: was that supposed to be a peacock or a squirrel? Had this once been a Sea Monster or an elephant?

Walking through a pergola wrapped in a trailing pink bougainvillea, led to a square pond and a pillared pavilion. The area surrounding the pond was lined with beautiful shining tiles: metallic blues and greens like peacock feathers, gold and bronze, and a smooth sparkling ivory white. The pond itself was choked with weeds and lily pads and the water stagnant and green.

As Catherine continued to explore the seemingly endless gardens she discovered the overgrown lawns and the weeds rearing amongst the flowerbeds. The varieties of flowers and plants were in their hundreds; great fireworks of colour planted carefully so as to make patterns and knot gardens. She walked through forests of bosquet trees and even discovered a long forgotten walled garden planted entirely with white plants and flowers.

The tall stone walls surrounding the estate were so old and laden with ivy and other plants which had found their way into small cracks as seeds and flourished, that they were crumbling and fallen in many places. It was next to the Eastern wall that Catherine discovered something which shocked her: the wall here was covered in a blanket of ivy so thick that the stone on which it grew was not visible, opposite this, a great, overgrown lawn sprawling behind it, stood a decorative white garden bench; the garden bench where Catherine's family photograph had been taken. It stood alone and forgotten, the white paint peeling to reveal the dark grey metal underneath.

Catherine began to sway, she quite suddenly felt very faint. She sat down heavily upon the bench and began to sob uncontrollably. She found herself unable to stop shivering and her vision was clouded by a mass of silver, like sunlight upon lapping water. She was going to be sick, she could feel the water gushing into her mouth and feel the bile rising in her throat. Quickly, she leant forward and put her head between her knees to try and fight off the feeling of faintness, closing her eyes and breathing deeply, filling her lungs with cool air. "You are going into shock." a voice said, a distant beacon of sanity amongst the swirling mass of confusion within her mind. She stared at her pale, shaking hands clasped in front of her face amongst the layers of black material of her dress.

Catherine looked up, everything was blurred and she wasn't thinking straight. She glanced around for Wrolf but he was gone and she couldn't remember where she had lost him within the vast gardens. She looked at the wall of ivy in front of her, suddenly the tendrils of leaves began to move: coiling and writhing like languorous snakes, shadows began to close in on her and Catherine felt faint again, she dropped her head.

"Who is that?" a voice hissed.

"I don't know." whispered another. Catherine raised her head and blinked into the darkness. The shadows, the shadows were talking about her?

"Where is she from?" the first voice said.

"I said I don't-" the curtain of ivy shuddered, leaves fell to the ground.

"London." a third voice, soft and silken, interrupted.

"How do you know that?" the first asked.

"Look at her clothes. No girls around here wear clothes like that. Things are different there."

Catherine got to her feet and apprehensively approached the wall of foliage. She stared, trying to discern the invisible figures amongst the leaves.

"Your father will want to know about this. Do you suppose he'll know who she is Robi-"

"Shut up! She's walking towards us! She can hear us!" the soft voice hissed.

The voices fell silent. Catherine stood completely still, staring as though hypnotised at the hanging tendrils of ivy. The seconds seemed to drag on forever as she searched for the invisible whisperers until, all at once, an explosion of sniggers startled her. Catherine gasped and stumbled backwards. She felt something soft brush against her hand which hung by her side: it was Wrolf, he stood growling ferociously; his ink black fur standing erect in hackles along his back and his once doleful brown eyes seemed to be flashing with the fires of Hell. There was a commotion from behind the leaves and the bushes rocked violently. Catherine was sure that she heard footsteps running hastily away on the other side of the wall.

"Oh Wrolf!" she moaned, glad that he had returned to her while she felt so ill and afraid. The big dog nudged the back of her hand with is cold wet nose.

"Take me home." Catherine whispered.

And so, with her hand buried in the soft fur upon his neck, the black hound led his ailing Mistress to the house via the quickest route. Once through the front door, Catherine collapsed immediately into Benjamin's arms.