The Forgotten Garden (31 page)

As for Rose, the thimble was passed (most indecorously) some forty-eight hours later and she was able to bask in the certain knowledge that she’d finally managed to please Father, if only briefly. Not that he said as much, that was not his way, but Rose was perspicacious when it came to recognising the moods of her parents (if not yet their divining causes). And Father’s pleasure had made Rose’s own spirits rise as high and as light as one of Cook’s soufflés.

‘With your permission, Lady Mountrachet, I’ll finish my examination.’

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Rose sighed as Dr Matthews lifted her nightgown to expose her stomach. She closed her eyes tighter as cold fingers pressed on her skin, and she thought about her scrapbook. Mamma had arranged for a periodical from London with pictures of the latest bridal fashions and, using lace and ribbons from her craft box, Rose was decorating the scrapbook page beautifully. Her bride was coming along splendidly: a veil of Belgian lace, little seed pearls glued around the rim, pressed flowers for her bouquet. The groom was rather a different matter: Rose didn’t know much about gentlemen. (And neither should she. It wouldn’t be proper for a young lady to know such things.) But it seemed to Rose that the specifics of the groom were of little importance, as long as the bride was pretty and pure.

‘All looks satisfactory,’ said Dr Matthews, patting Rose’s nightgown back into place. ‘Fortunately the infection is not general. Might I suggest though, Lady Mountrachet, that I speak with you further regarding the best possible treatment?’

Rose opened her eyes in time to catch the doctor’s sycophantic smile at Mamma. How tiresome he was, always angling for an invitation to tea, the opportunity to meet and treat more of the county’s gentry.

The published photos of Rose’s thimble in situ had garnered him a certain cachet amongst the county’s well heeled, and he’d been quick to capitalise upon it. As he tucked his stethoscope carefully inside his big black bag, patted it into place with his neat little fingers, Rose’s tedium turned to irritation.

‘Am I not yet headed to heaven then, Doctor?’ she said, blinking plainly at his reddening face. ‘Only I’m working on a page for my scrapbook and it would be a shame to leave it unfinished.’

Dr Matthews laughed girlishly and glanced at Mamma. ‘Well now, child,’ he stammered, ‘there’s no need for worry. In time we shall all be welcomed at God’s table . . .’

Rose watched for a while as he launched into an uncomfortable lecture on life and death, before turning her head to conceal a faint smile.

The prospect of an early death sits differently upon each person.

In some it gifts maturity far outweighing their age and experience: calm acceptance blossoms into a beautiful nature and soft countenance. In others, however, it allows formation of a tiny ice flint in their heart. Ice that, though at times concealed, never properly melts.

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Rose, though she would have liked to be one of the former, knew herself deep down to be one of the latter. It wasn’t that she was nasty, rather that she’d developed a gift for dispassion. An ability to step outside herself and observe situations without the distraction of sentiment.

‘Dr Matthews.’ Mamma’s voice interrupted his increasingly desperate description of God’s little girl angels. ‘Why don’t you go downstairs and wait for me in the morning room. Thomas will fetch the tea.’

‘Yes, Lady Mountrachet,’ he said, relieved to be delivered from the sticky conversation. He avoided Rose’s eyes as he left the room.

‘Now Rose,’ said Mamma, ‘that was ill mannered of you.’

The admonition was diluted by Mamma’s recent concern and Rose knew she wouldn’t suffer castigation. She never did. Who could be cross with a little girl waiting for death to find her? Rose sighed.

‘I know, Mamma, and I’m sorry. Only I feel so light-headed, and listening to Dr Matthews makes it so very much worse.’

‘A weak constitution is a dreadful cross to bear.’ Mamma took up Rose’s hand. ‘But you are a young lady, a Mountrachet. And ill health is no excuse for manners less than perfect.’

‘Yes, Mamma.’

‘I must go and speak with the doctor now,’ she said, laying cool fingertips on Rose’s cheek. ‘I’ll look in on you again when Mary brings your tray.’

She swept towards the door, dress rustling as she crossed from rug to floorboards. ‘Mamma?’ called Rose.

Her mother turned back. ‘Yes?’

‘There’s something I wanted to ask you.’ Rose hesitated, unsure how to proceed. Aware how curious her question was. ‘I saw a boy in the garden.’

Mamma’s left eyebrow briefly broke formation. ‘A boy?’

‘This morning, I saw him from the window when Mary moved me to my chair. He was standing behind a rhododendron bush speaking with Davies, a naughty-looking boy with shaggy red hair.’

Mamma pressed a hand against the pale skin beneath her neck.

Exhaled slowly and steadily so that Rose’s interest was further piqued.

‘That was no boy you saw, Rose.’

‘Mamma?’

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‘That was your cousin, Eliza.’

Rose’s eyes widened. This was unexpected. Principally because it couldn’t be so. Mamma had no brothers or sisters, and with Grandmamma’s passing, Mamma, Papa and Rose were the only Mountrachets left. ‘I have no such cousin.’

Mamma straightened, spoke unusually swiftly. ‘Unfortunately, you do. Her name is Eliza and she has come to live at Blackhurst.’

‘For how long?’

‘Indefinitely, I fear.’

‘But Mamma . . .’ Rose felt more light-headed than ever. How could such a tatty urchin be her cousin? ‘Her hair . . . her manner . . . her clothes were all wet, and she dirty and wind-blown . . .’ Rose shuddered.

‘There were leaves all over her person . . .’

Mamma lifted a finger to her lips. She turned to face the window and the dark curl at the nape of her neck shivered. ‘She had nowhere else to go. Father and I agreed to take her in. An act of Christian charity she’ll never appreciate, let alone deserve, but one must always be seen to do the right thing.’

‘But Mamma, what is she to do here?’

‘Cause us great vexation, I’ve little doubt. But we could hardly turn her away. Failure to act would have looked dreadful, thus must we turn necessity to virtue.’ Her words had the sound of sentiments being forced through a sieve. She seemed to sense their emptiness herself and said nothing further.

‘Mamma?’ Rose poked cautiously at her mother’s silence.

‘You asked what she is to do here?’ Mamma turned to face Rose and a new edge entered her voice. ‘I am giving her to you.’

‘Giving her to me?’

‘As a project of sorts. She will be your protégée. When you are well enough, you will be responsible for teaching her how to behave. She’s little better than a savage, not one whit of grace or charm. An orphan who’s had little if any guidance as to living in polite society.’ Mamma exhaled. ‘Of course, I have no illusions and don’t expect you to work miracles.’

‘Yes, Mamma.’

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‘You can only imagine, child of mine, the influences to which this orphan has been exposed. She has been living in London amongst such dreadful decadence and sin.’

And then Rose knew just who this girl must be. Eliza was the child of Papa’s sister, the mysterious Georgiana whose portrait Mamma had banished to the attic, of whom nobody dared speak.

Nobody, that is, except Grandmamma.

In the old woman’s final months, when she had returned like a wounded bear to Blackhurst and retired to the turret room to do her dying, she drifted in and out of wakefulness, speaking in fits and starts about a pair of children called Linus and Georgiana. Rose knew Linus was her father thus, she gathered, Georgiana must be his sister. The one who had disappeared before Rose was born.

It was a summery morning, and Rose was resting in the armchair by the turret window, a warm sea breeze tickling the back of her neck.

Rose liked to sit by Grandmamma, to study her as she slept, each breath possibly her last, and had been watching curiously as beads of sweat glazed the old woman’s forehead.

Suddenly Grandmamma’s eyes blinked open: they were wide and pale, bleached by a lifetime of bitterness. She stared at Rose a moment but her gaze remained untouched by recognition and slid sideways.

Transfixed, or so it seemed, by the gentle billowing of the summer curtains. Rose’s first instinct was to ring for Mamma—it had been hours since Grandmamma last awoke—but just as she reached for the bell the old woman heaved a sigh. A long, wearied sigh, so thoroughly deflating that thin skin sagged into hollows between her bones.

Then out of nowhere a wizened hand clutched Rose’s wrist. ‘Such a beautiful girl,’ she said, so quietly that Rose had to lean close to hear the words that were spoken next. ‘Too beautiful, a curse. Had all the young men’s heads turning. He couldn’t help himself, followed her everywhere, thought we didn’t know. She ran away and didn’t come back, not a word from my Georgiana . . .’

Now Rose Mountrachet was a good girl who knew the rules. How could she be anything other? Her entire life, confined to her sickbed, she’d been captive to her mother’s episodic lecture on the rules and nature of good society. Rose knew all too well that a lady must never wear pearls or diamonds in the morning; must never ‘cut’ someone 219

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socially; must never, under any circumstances, call on a gentleman alone. But most importantly of all, Rose knew that scandal was to be avoided at all costs, that it was an evil whose very hint could smite a lady where she stood. Smite, at least, her good name.

And yet this mention of her errant aunt, the tantalising whiff of family scandal, did no such thing to Rose. On the contrary, it sent a wicked thrill racing down her spine. For the first time in years she felt her fingertips tingle with excitement. She leaned closer still, willing Grandmamma to continue, eager to follow the flow of conversation as it swirled into dark uncharted waters.

‘Who, Grandmamma?’ prodded Rose. ‘Who was it followed her?

Who did she run away with?’

But Grandmamma didn’t answer. Whatever the scenarios that played across her mind they refused manipulation. Rose persisted but to no avail. And in the end she had to be content with turning the questions over and over in her mind, the name of her aunt becoming for her a symbol of dark and testing times. Of all that was unfair and wicked in the world . . .

‘Rose?’ Mamma’s brows were knitted into a slight frown. One she tried to conceal but which Rose had become practised at recognising.

‘Are you saying something, child? You were whispering.’ She reached out a hand to gauge Rose’s temperature.

‘I’m all right, Mamma, just a little distracted by my thoughts.’

‘You seem flushed.’

Rose pressed her own hand against her forehead. Was she flushed?

She couldn’t tell.

‘I shall send Dr Matthews up again before he leaves,’ said Mamma.

‘I’d sooner be careful than sorry.’

Rose closed her eyes. Another visit from Dr Matthews, two in the one afternoon. It was beyond her capacity to bear.

‘You’re too weak today to greet our new project,’ said Mamma. ‘I’ll speak with the doctor and, if he deems it suitable, you may meet Eliza tomorrow. Eliza! Imagine bestowing a Mountrachet family name on the daughter of a sailor!’

A sailor, this was new. Rose’s eyes snapped open. ‘Mamma?’

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Mamma grew flushed herself then. She’d said more than she intended, an unusual slip in her armour of propriety. ‘Your cousin’s father was a sailor. We do not speak of him.’

‘My uncle was a sailor?’

Mamma gasped and her thin hand leapt to her mouth. ‘He was not your uncle, Rose, he was nothing to you or me. He was no more married to your Aunt Georgiana than I was.’

‘But Mamma!’ It was more scandalous than Rose had ever been able to invent for herself. ‘Whatever can you mean?’

Mamma’s voice was low. ‘Eliza may be your cousin, Rose, and we have little choice but to have her in this house. But she’s lowborn, make no mistake of that. She is fortunate indeed that her mother’s death has brought her back to Blackhurst. After all the shame this family suffered at the hands of her mother.’ She shook her head. ‘It nearly killed your father when she left. I can’t bear to think what might have happened had I not been here to see him through the scandal.’ She looked directly at Rose. Her voice contained the slightest tremble. ‘A family can bear only so much shame before its good name is irreparably tarnished.

That is why it’s so important that you and I live spotlessly. Your cousin Eliza will present a challenge, of that I’ve little doubt. She will never be one of us, but through our best efforts we will at least elevate her from the London gutter.’

Rose pretended absorption in the ruffled sleeve of her nightdress.

‘Can a girl of low birth never be taught to pass herself off as a lady, Mamma?’

‘No, my child.’

‘Not even if she were taken in by a noble family?’ Rose glanced at Mamma from beneath her eyelashes. ‘Married a gentleman, perhaps?’

Mamma turned sharp eyes upon Rose and hesitated before speaking slowly, carefully. ‘It is possible, of course, that a rare girl of humble but proper beginnings, who works ceaselessly to improve herself, may effect an elevation.’ She drew a quick breath designed to settle her composure. ‘But not, I fear, in the case of your cousin. We must lower our expectations, Rose.’

‘Of course, Mamma.’

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The real reason for her mother’s discomfort sat between them, though Mamma, if she’d suspected Rose knew, would have been mortified. It was another family secret that Rose had managed to glean from her dying grandmother. A secret that explained so much: the animosity between the two matriarchs, and even more than that, Mamma’s obsession with manners. Her devotion to the rules of society, her commitment to presenting always as a paragon of propriety.