Free The Dead Queen's Garden by Nicola Slade

had somehow convinced herself that she would see a red brick mansion, brick, and flint also, being prevalent amid the vernacular architecture of Hampshire.
    Lord Granville’s enormous and imposing home was more a castle than a house, bristling with turrets, awash with pointed windows and with gargoyles by the dozen, leering down from every gutter spout. The grey stone was forbidding so that the whole resembled something from
The Mysteries of Udolpho
and similar gothic novels enjoyed by Charlotte and her mother. The crowning embellishment was a shallow moat that looked suspiciously like a working portcullis and drawbridge. It was set in a stone portal over which the brougham was now clattering. There were even pikes, she noted with an amused grimace, set above the grim gateway, though mercifully none bore the severed head that would have seemed appropriate. A shudder ran through her as she recalled that however artificial the castle might be, it was no stranger to recent terrible events.
    Once through the portal and away from the outer wall, there was a sweep of gravel, where the carriage came to a halt outside the house, though Charlotte thought it should rather be described as akeep. This was set upon a slight rise, overlooking a heavily ornate fountain, sprouting naiads and dryads and others of that ilk. Charlotte, gazing at it with a critical eye, trained by her knowledgeable godmother, decided it was a little late for the mediaeval period and was surely a baroque creation. As the groom opened the carriage door, Charlotte glanced around nervously and was relieved to see the massive, heavily-carved and studded oak door flung open to reveal Oz Granville standing at the top of the short flight of steps, a smile of hospitable delight on his fair, freckled face.
    ‘You came after all, ma’am!’ he exclaimed, running down to greet her, his hand outstretched. ‘I did start to worry whether you would cry off.’
    She felt sorry for the boy, all over again, as she had at the church on the previous day. What must his life be like if a mere courtesy visit from a neighbour could loom so large?
    ‘Of course I came, you foolish Oz. I’m most intrigued at the prospect of seeing your Mama’s garden and I’m only sorry to have to convey Lady Frampton’s apologies. She likes to rest in the afternoons and after all, she is more than eighty years old, you know.’
    And she’s a cockney and not in the least interested in chilly winter gardens either. Charlotte concealed a smile at the dismay on the old lady’s face when presented with the invitation. ‘Wot? Parade myself round a garden in this weather? I’d catch me death of cold. No, you go and enjoy yourself but be certain to wear a flannel petticoat to keep you warm, and just be sure you don’t sound too ’appy when you report on the visit to our Lily. She’s still ready to poke out your eyes for getting an invite from ’er Ladyship before she does, don’t forget.’
    The butler now loomed towards her and tenderly divested her of her outer garments, then the boy, who had hopped impatiently from one foot to the other throughout these proceedings, led her through the vaulted and echoing Great Hall. This was a lofty, stone-clad place, double or even treble the normal height, and embellished with carvings in every possible nook and cranny. Well-tutored by her godmother, Charlotte recognised Norman dogtooth doorways, while a sulky winter sun fought with gas lights in the shape of antique torches as it shed pools of light on the marble floorfrom the brightly coloured stained glass in the windows. Enormous pieces of supposedly mediaeval furniture offered no prospect of comfort, had anyone dared to sit upon them.
    Glimpsed through a wide-open, heavily-carved and gilded door, was a vast dining-room with a monumental table made from a massive slab of blackened oak perched on bulbous carved legs and surrounded by carved chairs that looked to combine ugliness with extreme discomfort.