Page 6 of A Secret In The Garden

But the idea of her working here alone was…different in a way I couldn’t fully articulate.

“You stay. You work. You don’t leave unless I say so.”

She looked at me, as if trying to read something in my face. “You’re out of your mind,” she muttered under her breath. I could see the decision to run beginning to settle into her posture, her body tensing as if literally getting ready to flee…when her sharp eyes darted to the center of the overgrown space. She gasped. “Is that a corpse flower?”

Puzzled by every word she had just muttered, I looked at the spot that held her eyes and saw nothing but piles of green and brown madness. “How should I know?” I snapped.

“One condition,” she said suddenly, shocking me that she was not only agreeing but still negotiating.

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. “Go on.”

“When the restoration is complete,” she said, “you’ll host a party, a grand event that I can invite anyone I want to—for my colleagues, the press, philanthropists. I want this to be more than just some quiet, private restoration. If I’m going to work here alone and complete this in that time frame, you’ll give me the recognition I deserve. And you’ll host it in the conservatory when it’s done.”

The audacity of this fucking woman. But then again, I was sure she’d quit long before the conservatory got finished—it was far too much work for one person to manage, and stubbornness only got you so far.

“Done,” I said.

Her hand was outstretched before I’d even finished the single word. I took it without hesitation, feeling the faintest pulse of heat between our palms.

“We’ll begin in a week,” she said, her voice tight with unspoken frustration.

“Three days,” I countered. “And don’t be late.” I pulled my hand back and retreated down the hallway, nodding when I saw Sowerby. “Sowerby will show you out and make the necessary arrangements.”

The manor was so big, I probably wouldn’t even know she was here.

Chapter 6

Eliza

The air inside the enormous conservatory was different. Not fresh like the clean, crisp breeze I was used to in the gardens of Pinehurst. Here, it was thick and heavy with a weird, cloying scent, as though it had been sitting for centuries and frozen in time. I’d only been at the estate for the better part of an hour, and already I felt the weight of Blackwood Manor pressing down on me. How anyone could stay in this enormous place all alone and remain sane was beyond me.

When I ventured over the twisted, gnarled vines and the patches of bamboo so tall they had broken through the ceiling glass to stand at the far end of the Victorian structure, I could see the edges of the cliff. Half of the manor’s grounds jutted out like a cape, filled with gardens, manicured hedges; it was where the conservatory was positioned. The other half of the manor’s backside was seated against the large stone cliff, resting high above the nearby towns. At first glance, it appeared as though the manor and the cliff were fighting, each trying to swallow the other whole. It was beautiful and imposing at the same time, but the gravity—pun intended—of what it meant to be this high up the mountain wasn’t evident until I was at the back of the property, where the dangerous beauty toyed with my senses. The angle of the property gave all the back windows of the manor a breathtaking view, making it feel as if I could reach out and touch the heavens with the distant twinkling lights of towns and the stars. But the land drop was alarming. No fences or blocks—like an infinity pool of land. Nothing to prevent someone from stumbling to their death. There was a solid-looking concrete bench twenty feet from the ledge to enjoy the view.

But I couldn’t enjoy the view. Even from inside the confines of glass, I found myself unable to look out at the sea of sky.

My eyes turned back to the manor, the morning sun pressing heat against my cheek and arm while I scanned the dark balconies and windows. My room was one of those. It was as if Jasper Blackwood knew I was deathly afraid of heights and chose to get in one last shot in our—whatever it was that seemed to be brewing between us. I didn’t know if it was a stand-off or a fight or what.

I didn’t like him.

For the sake of pacification, I’d told my parents and colleagues that the rumors were obviously just that: rumors. But I believed them more now than I did prior to meeting him. Jasper Blackwood had the demeanor of a boa constrictor. There was a suffocating power that quietly swirled about him.

Luckily, I hadn’t seen him since that first meeting. Sowerby, the older butler, and a few of the other staff members helped me with my belongings when I arrived the following day. I hadn’t brought much—a basket of clothes, another of books, and random hygiene products and other things I didn’t want my mother to find while she took care of my apartment: journals filled with entries about her, a bottle of purple Fabuloso, half a pack of cigarettes that I bought on my eighteenth birthday and hadn’t brought myself to throw away, things like that.

The morning fog rolled around the property, obscuring some of the view, and I was grateful for it. The drive up here had been frightening enough having to look out at the road and see nothing but empty sky in the distance. It wasn’t like I could close my eyes, though several times they flinched closed. Of course, there are no guardrails on the property either. Why would there be? Much easier to kill someone when they “accidentally” fall from the edge of your property. Had he killed anyone since his parents? By now he was so powerful and wealthy, I had no doubt the Pinehurst PD was comfortably seated in his padded back pocket, so he may have gotten away with god only knew what.

I shook my head, trying to free the plaguing thoughts and turned my focus back to the chaotic, overgrown garden at my feet.

Caged within the conservatory’s glass panels was a field of disarray, with wild tendrils of dead vines and creeping weeds overtaking what was once a place of beauty. The structure looked like a broken relic, a forgotten dream tangled in nature’s ruthless embrace.

It was essentially what I’d expected after that first glimpse, but still, nothing could have fully prepared me for this. I wasn’t someone who shied away from hard work. But this? This was something else entirely. Standing there, I felt as though I was intruding, like someone—something—was watching, waiting for me to make the wrong move before hurling me over the ledge as punishment.

The pressure of the job was suddenly overwhelming. I was far from the most skilled person for this, and the fact that it all rested in my hands made me want to cry in frustration. My boss was thrilled at the prospect of a hefty donation and the chance at the infamous Hester Blackwood’s rare propagations, though he wasn’t shy about vocalizing that I was undoubtedly the last employee he would have chosen for such a job. Unfortunately, I had to agree with him. I was the least skilled of our botanists, and I’d only been there for a short time. He was right to question my capabilities—I certainly was—but I had something in my favor that the others did not: pure desperation. I would do anything to keep this job; it was my only source of independence. As a botanist, my focus was on research and conservation, not this; this was the job of an expert gardener, someone who cultivated and cared for plants, not studied them. I’d barely helped in my family’s backyard garden growing up and only had a small amount of experience in the large gardens at Pinehurst. I had no idea how I was going to do all of this.

Jasper Blackwood surely knew that as well as anyone else, and that was why he pushed for it—to go out of his way to make me feel unqualified for this while ignoring my actual expertise.

I pulled the door open to the outside in an attempt to freshen the air. The screech of metal was unsettling, like a warning, but I pushed farther. It took me fifteen minutes of cutting through warped, knobby vines and weeds before I could fully open the door, only for a gust of irritated wind to push the stale air back in my face. It smelled of rot and earth mingled with the faintest hint of mildew. It was as if the very walls were breathing, exhaling centuries of pain and memories.

I took a deep breath, but it only felt like I was swallowing the decay, becoming a part of it. I’d never been a very emotional person; I thought my friends—if I had any—would say I was detached, numb, boring, which I suppose I was and why I didn’t have any. My coworker, Nick, said he was my friend, but he said that to everyone at the botanical gardens. He was happy and round, and his skin was always a shade of pink. I liked him immensely, which was why I never knew what to say to him and remained quiet most of the time we worked together.