The Forgotten Garden (23 page)

Cassandra dunked some focaccia into the oil and vinegar.

‘Come Cassandra,’ said Grey, ‘save an old unmarried couple from bickering, tell us about your afternoon.’

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She picked up a crumb of bread that had fallen onto the table.

‘Yes, anything exciting?’ said Ruby.

Cassandra heard herself start speaking, ‘I found out who Nell’s biological parents were.’

Ruby squealed. ‘What? How? Who?’

She bit her lip, arresting its attempt to tremble into a smile of selfconscious pleasure. ‘Their names were Rose and Nathaniel Walker.’

‘Oh my goodness,’ Ruby laughed, ‘it’s the same as my painter, Grey!

What are the odds of that, and us just speaking of him today, and he once living on the same estate as . . .’ She froze as realisation turned her face from pink to white. ‘You do mean my Nathaniel Walker.’ She swallowed. ‘Your great-grandfather was Nathaniel Walker?’

Cassandra nodded, couldn’t stop herself grinning. Felt vaguely ridiculous.

Ruby’s mouth dropped open. ‘And you had no idea? Today, when I saw you at the gallery?’

Cassandra shook her head, still smiling like a fool. She spoke, if only to force the goofy grin from her face. ‘Not until this afternoon when I read it in Nell’s notebook.’

‘I can’t believe you didn’t say something as soon as we got here tonight!’

‘With all your talk of salsa, I imagine she didn’t have the opportunity,’

said Grey. ‘Not to mention, Ruby darling, that some people actually like to keep their private life private.’

‘Oh Grey, no one really likes keeping secrets. The only thing that makes a secret fun is knowing that you weren’t supposed to tell it.’ She shook her head at Cassandra. ‘You’re related to Nathaniel Walker. Some people have all the bloody luck.’

‘It feels a little strange. It’s very unexpected.’

‘Too right,’ said Ruby. ‘All those people searching through history in the hopes they’re related to Winston bloody Churchill, and provenance drops unexpectedly into your lap in the shape of a famous painter.’

Cassandra smiled again, couldn’t help it.

The waiter reappeared and poured them all a glass of prosecco.

‘To solving mysteries,’ said Ruby, holding hers aloft.

They clinked glasses and all took a sip.

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‘Pardon my ignorance,’ said Grey, ‘my knowledge of art history isn’t what it might be, but if Nathaniel Walker had a daughter who went missing, surely there’d have been a huge search?’ He held his palms out towards Cassandra. ‘I’m not doubting your grandmother’s research, but how on earth did the daughter of a famous artist go missing and no one knew it?’

Ruby, for once, had no ready answer. She looked to Cassandra.

‘From what I can gather, reading Nell’s notebook, all the records say Ivory Walker died when she was four. The same age Nell was when she turned up in Australia.’

Ruby rubbed her hands together. ‘You think she was kidnapped and whoever did it made it look like she had died? How completely thrilling.

So who was it? Why did they do it? What did Nell find out?’

Cassandra smiled apologetically. ‘It seems she never managed to solve that part of the mystery. Not for sure.’

‘What do you mean? How do you know?’

‘I read the end of her notebook. Nell didn’t find out.’

‘She must have found something though, formed a theory?’ Ruby’s desperation was palpable. ‘Tell me she formed a theory! Left us something to go on?’

‘There’s a name,’ said Cassandra. ‘Eliza Makepeace. Nell wound up with a suitcase containing a book of fairytales that sparked some memories. But if Eliza put Nell on the boat she didn’t make it to Australia herself.’

‘What happened to her?’

Cassandra shrugged. ‘There’s no official record. It’s like she disappeared into thin air right around the time Nell was being spirited to Australia. Whatever Eliza’s plans, they must’ve gone wrong somehow.’

The waiter topped up their glasses and asked whether they were ready to order their main course.

‘I suppose we should,’ said Ruby. ‘Could you give us five minutes though?’ She opened her menu with purpose and sighed. ‘It’s all tremendously exciting. To think: tomorrow you’re off to Cornwall to see your secret cottage! How can you bear it?’

‘Are you staying in the cottage itself?’ said Grey.

Cassandra shook her head. ‘The solicitor who’s been holding the key said it’s not really habitable. I’ve made a reservation at a nearby 157

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hotel, the Blackhurst Hotel. It’s the house where the Mountrachet family used to live, Nell’s family.’

‘Your family,’ said Ruby.

‘Yes.’ Cassandra hadn’t thought of that. Now her lips were at it again, acting against her wishes to form a trembling smile.

Ruby shivered theatrically. ‘I’m completely envious. I’d give anything for a mystery like that in my family’s past, something exciting to unravel.’

‘I do feel quite excited. It’s started to haunt me, I think. I keep seeing that little girl, little Nell, plucked from her family, sitting alone on the wharf. I can’t get her out of my head. I’d love to know what really happened, how she wound up on the other side of the world all alone.’

Cassandra felt self-conscious suddenly, realised she’d been doing a lot of talking. ‘It’s silly, I suppose.’

‘Not at all. I think it’s completely understandable.’

And something in the sympathetic quality of Ruby’s tone made Cassandra’s skin cool. She knew what was coming. Her stomach tightened and her mind grasped for words to change the subject.

But she wasn’t fast enough.

‘There can’t be much worse than losing a child,’ came Ruby’s kind voice, her words cracking the thin protective shell of Cassandra’s grief so that Leo’s face, his smell, his two-year-old laugh, slipped free.

Somehow she managed to nod, to smile weakly, to hold back the memories as Ruby reached to take her hand.

‘After what happened to your little boy, it’s no wonder you’re so intent on discovering your grandmother’s past.’ Ruby gave a little squeeze. ‘Makes perfect sense to me: you lost a child and now you hope to find one.’

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20

London, 1900

London, UK, 1900

Eliza knew who they were as soon as she saw them turn the corner into Battersea Church Road. She’d glimpsed them in the streets before, the old one and the young one, dressed to the nines, doing their Good Works with all the violent certainty as if God himself had come down from on high and bid them do so.

Mr Swindell had been threatening to call the Do-Gooders ever since Sammy left them, had let no opportunity pass to remind Eliza that if she didn’t find a way to earn the coins of two, she’d find herself in the workhouse. And though Eliza did her best to meet the rent and still leave a little spare for the leather pouch, her gift for rat-catching seemed to have deserted her, and week by week she slipped further behind.

Downstairs, a knock at the door. Eliza froze. She surveyed the room, cursing the tiny crack in the mortar, the blocked chimney. Being windowless and unobserved was all well and good when one wanted to spy upon the street, but not much use when gripped by an urgent need to escape.

The knock came again. A short sharp rap, urgent, and then a high trilling voice that pierced the brick wall. ‘Parish calling.’

Eliza heard the door opening, the bell atop tinkling.

‘I’m Miss Rhoda Sturgeon, and this is my niece, Miss Margaret Sturgeon.’

Then Mrs Swindell: ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’

‘My, what a lot of funny old things, and barely space to swing a cat.’

Mrs Swindell again, her tone soured: ‘Follow me, the girl’s upstairs.

And watch yourselves. Breakages must be paid for.’

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Footsteps, coming closer. The squeaky fourth step, then again, and again. Eliza waited, heart beating as fast as one of Mr Rodin’s captured rats. She could picture it, flickering away in her chest, like a flame in a light breeze.

Then the traitorous door was open, the two Do-Gooders framed by the jamb.

The older one smiled, eyes receding into folds of skin. ‘Ladies of the Parish calling,’ she said. ‘I’m Miss Sturgeon, and this is my niece, Miss Sturgeon.’ She bent forward so that Eliza had to inch backwards.

‘And you must be little Eliza Makepeace.’

Eliza didn’t respond. She tugged slightly at Sammy’s cap, which she was still wearing.

The old lady’s gaze lifted to take in the dark and dingy room behind.

‘Oh my,’ she said, and made a clicking sound with her tongue, ‘your plight was not exaggerated.’ She raised an open hand and fanned her full chest. ‘No, it certainly was not exaggerated.’ She brushed past Eliza.

‘Is it any wonder ill health flourished here? No window to speak of.’

Mrs Swindell, offended by the scandalous affront to her room, scowled at Eliza.

The older Miss Sturgeon turned to the younger, who had not moved from the doorway. ‘I advise you afix your handkerchief, Margaret, what with your delicate constitution.’

The young woman nodded and plucked a lacy square from her sleeve. Folded it in half to form a triangle then clamped it over her mouth and nose while she ventured a step across the threshold.

Filled with the certainty of her own righteousness, the old Miss Sturgeon proceeded undeterred. ‘I’m delighted to announce that we’ve been able to find somewhere for you, Eliza. As soon as we heard of your situation, we immediately set about trying to help. You’re a mite too young for service—and, I suspect, of the wrong character—but we’ve managed to do very well. With God’s good grace we’ve found you a place at the local workhouse.’

Eliza’s breath shortened, caught in her throat.

‘So if you’ll gather your things,’ Miss Sturgeon’s gaze flickered sideways beneath her blunt lashes, ‘such as they are, we’ll be on our way.’

Eliza didn’t move.

‘Come now, don’t tarry.’

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‘No!’ said Eliza.

Mrs Swindell landed a slap on the back of Eliza’s head and the older Miss Sturgeon’s eyes widened.

‘You’re a fortunate girl to be given a place, Eliza. I can assure you, there are worse things than the workhouse awaiting young girls left to their own devices.’ She sniffed knowingly and her nose went begging skyward. ‘Come along now.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Maybe she’s dense,’ the young Miss Sturgeon said through her handkerchief.

‘She ain’t dense,’ said Mrs Swindell, ‘just wicked.’

‘The lord claims all his lambs, even the wicked ones,’ said old Miss Sturgeon. ‘Now try to find some more suitable clothing for the girl, Margaret dear. And be careful not to breathe the foulness.’

Eliza shook her head. She wasn’t going to the workhouse and neither was she changing out of Sammy’s clothing. It was part of her now.

This was when she needed her father to appear, heroic at the door.

To scoop her up and take her with him, sailing across the seas in search of adventure.

‘This’ll do,’ said Mrs Swindell, holding Eliza’s tatty pinafore high.

‘She won’t need any more than that where she’s going.’

Eliza thought suddenly of Mother’s words. Her insistence that a person need rescue themselves, that with a strong enough will even the weak could wield great power. Suddenly she knew what must be done.

Without another thought she leapt towards the door.

The old Miss Sturgeon, with advantageous heft and surprisingly fast reactions, blocked her way. Mrs Swindell moved to form a second line of defence.

Eliza bucked her head and her face hit fulsome Sturgeon flesh. She bit with all her might. Old Miss Sturgeon let out a scream, clutched at her thigh. ‘Why, you little wildcat!’

‘Aunt! She’ll have given you the rabies!’

‘I told you she were a menace,’ said Mrs Swindell. ‘Here, forget about the clothes. Let’s get her downstairs.’

They each took an arm and the young Miss Sturgeon hovered nearby offering useless advice as to the presence of stairs and doorways, while Eliza thrashed this way and that.

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‘Be still, girl!’ Old Miss Sturgeon.

‘Help!’ yelled Eliza, almost breaking free. ‘Someone help me.’

‘You’ll get a walloping,’ Mrs Swindell hissed as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

Then suddenly, an unexpected ally.

‘A rat! I saw a rat!’

‘There’s no rats in my house!’

The young Miss Sturgeon screamed, leapt atop a chair and sent an assortment of green bottles scuttling.

‘Clumsy girl! Breakages must be paid for.’

‘But it was your own fault. If you hadn’t been harbouring rats—’

‘I never did! There ain’t a rat within a hair’s breadth—’

‘Auntie, I saw it. A horrid thing, large as a dog, with beady black eyes and long sharp claws . . .’ Her voice tapered off and she slumped against the chair back. ‘I’ve come over all faint. I’m not made for such horrors.’

‘There now, Margaret, courage to the sticking place. Think of Christ’s forty days and forty nights.’

The old Miss Sturgeon proved her own impressive constitution by keeping a tight grip on Eliza’s arm while leaning in to bolster her collapsing niece who was now snivelling: ‘But its beady little eyes, the horrible twitchy nose—’ She gasped. ‘Arggghhh! There it is!’

All eyes turned in the direction of Margaret’s pointing finger.

Crouched behind the coal scuttle, a quivering rat. Eliza willed him freedom.

‘Come here you little blighter!’ Mrs Swindell seized a cloth rag and started chasing the rodent about the room, swiping in all directions.

Margaret was squealing, Miss Sturgeon shushing, Mrs Swindell cursing, glass shattering, and then, from nowhere, a new voice. Loud and low.