The Forgotten Garden (32 page)

Lady Adeline Mountrachet may have attempted to banish all mention of the truth long ago—most who knew it had been terrified into wiping it from their memories, and those who hadn’t were too mindful of their positions to dare breathe a word about Lady Mountrachet’s origins—but Grandmamma had felt no such com-punction. She’d been only too happy to remember the Yorkshire girl whose pious parents, fallen on hard times, had leapt at the opportunity to pack her off to Blackhurst Manor, Cornwall, where she might serve as protégée for the glorious Georgiana Mountrachet.

Mamma paused at the door. ‘One last thing, Rose, the most important thing of all.’

‘Yes, Mamma?’

‘The girl must be kept out of Father’s way.’

A task that shouldn’t be difficult; Rose could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen Father during the past year. All the same, her mother’s vehemence was intriguing. ‘Mamma?’

A slight pause that Rose noted with growing interest, then the reply that raised more questions than it answered. ‘Your father is a busy man, an important man. He doesn’t need to be reminded constantly of the stain on his family’s good name.’ She inhaled quickly and her voice dropped to a grey whisper. ‘Believe me when I tell you, Rose, none in this house shall benefit should the girl be allowed near Father.’

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Adeline pressed gently at her fingertip and watched as the red bead of blood appeared. It was the third time she’d pricked her finger in as many minutes. Embroidery had always served to calm her nerves but their fraying this day had been complete. She set the petit point aside.

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tea with Dr Matthews, but beneath it all, of course, lay the arrival of Georgiana’s girl. Though physically a mere scrap of a child, she had brought something with her. Something invisible, like the atmospheric shift that precedes a mighty storm. And that something threatened to bring to an end everything for which Adeline had strived; indeed, it had already started its insidious work, for all day Adeline had been beset with memories of her own arrival at Blackhurst. Memories she’d worked hard to forget, and to ensure that others did too . . .

When she’d arrived in 1886, Adeline had been met by a house that seemed empty of inhabitants. And what a house it was, bigger than anything she’d ever set foot inside. She’d stood for ten minutes at least, waiting for some direction, for someone to receive her, until finally a young man, wearing a formal suit and a haughty expression, had appeared in the hall. He’d stopped, surprised, then checked his pocket watch.

‘You’re early,’ he said, in a tone that left Adeline in little doubt as to his opinion of those who arrived before their time. ‘We’re not expecting you until tea.’

She stood silently, unsure what was expected of her.

The man huffed. ‘If you wait here, I’ll find someone to show you to your room.’

Adeline was aware of being troublesome. ‘I could take a walk through the garden if you prefer?’ she said in a meek voice, more conscious than ever of her northern accent, grown thicker in this glorious, airy room of white marble.

The man nodded curtly. ‘That would do well.’

A footman had whisked her trunks away, so Adeline was unen-cumbered as she went back down the grand stairs. She stood at the bottom, looking this way and that, trying to shake the uncomfortable sense that she had somehow failed before she’d even begun.

Reverend Lambert had mentioned the Mountrachet family’s wealth and stature numerous times during his afternoon visits with Adeline and her parents. It was an honour for the entire diocese, he’d said earnestly and often, that one of their own had been selected to undertake such an important task. His Cornish counterpart had searched far and wide, under direct instruction from the lady of the house, in order to select the most suitable candidate, and it was up to Adeline to ensure 223

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that she was worthy of so great an honour. Not to mention the generous fee that would be paid to her parents for their loss. And Adeline had been determined to succeed. All the way from Yorkshire she’d given herself stern little lectures on topics like ‘The Appearance of Quality is Akin to the Fact’ and ‘A Lady is as a Lady Does’, but inside the house her faithless convictions had withered weakly away.

A noise above drew her attention to the sky, where a family of black rooks was tracing an intricate pattern. One of the birds fell steeply in flight before following the others in the direction of a stand of tall trees in the distance. For want of another destination, Adeline set off after them, lecturing herself all the way about new beginnings and starting as one meant to go on.

So involved was Adeline in her self-haranguing that she had little power of observation left with which to absorb the wondrous gardens of Blackhurst. Before she’d even made a start on her affirmations about rank and the aristocracy, she had cleared the dark coolness of the woods and was standing on the edge of a cliff, dry grasses rustling at her feet. Beyond the cliff, tossed out flat like a hank of velvet, was the deep blue sea.

Adeline clutched hold of a nearby branch. She had never been one for heights and her heart was racing.

Something in the water directed her gaze back towards the cove.

A young man and woman in a little boat, he seated while she stood rocking the boat from side to side. Her dress of white muslin was wet from the ankles to her waist and clung to her legs in a manner that made Adeline gasp.

She felt that she should turn away but she couldn’t take her eyes from them. The young woman had red hair, such bright red hair, hanging loose and long, turning to wet tendrils at the end. The man had on a straw boater, a black box-shaped contraption strung around his neck. He was laughing, flicking water in the girl’s direction. He started crawling towards her, reached out to grab at her legs. The boat rocked more violently, and just when Adeline thought he would touch her, the girl turned and dived in one long, fluid motion into the water.

Nothing in Adeline’s experience had prepared her for such behaviour. What could have possessed the young woman to do such a thing? And where was she now? Adeline craned to see. Scanned the 224

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glistening water until finally a figure in white became visible, gliding to the surface near the great black rock. The girl pulled herself from the sea, dress glued to her body, water dripping, and without turning back climbed the rock and disappeared up a hidden path in the steep hill, towards a little cottage on the cliff top.

Fighting to control her shallow breaths, Adeline turned her attention to the young man, for surely he was equally shocked? He had also watched the girl disappear and was now rowing the boat back to the cove. He pulled it out along the pebbles, picked up his shoes and started up the steps. He had a limp, she noticed, and a cane.

The man passed so close by Adeline and yet he didn’t see her. He was whistling to himself, a tune Adeline didn’t know. A happy, jaunty tune, full of sunshine and salt. The antithesis of the gloomy Yorkshire she was so desperate to escape. This young man seemed twice as tall as the fellows back home and twice as bright.

Standing alone on the cliff top, she was aware suddenly of the heat and weight of her travelling suit. The water below looked so cool; the shameful thought was hers before she could control it. What might it feel like to dive beneath the surface and emerge, dripping wet, as the young woman, as Georgiana, had done?

Later, many years later, when Linus’s mother, the old witch, lay dying, she confessed her reason for selecting Adeline as Georgiana’s protégée. ‘I was looking for the dullest little dormouse I could find, with piety a great plus, in the hopes that some of it would rub off on my daughter. I didn’t suspect for a moment that my rare bird would take flight and the dormouse usurp her place. I suppose I should congratu-late you. You won in the end, didn’t you, Lady Mountrachet?’

And so she had. From humble beginnings, with hard work and determination, Adeline had risen in the world, higher than her parents could ever have imagined when they permitted her departure for an unknown village in Cornwall.

And she had continued working hard, even after her marriage and assumption to the title Lady Mountrachet. She’d run a tight ship so that no matter the mud thrown, none would stick to her family, her grand home. And that was not about to change. Georgiana’s girl was here now, that could not be helped. It was up to Adeline to ensure that life at Blackhurst Manor went on as ever.

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She just needed to free herself from the niggling fear that by Eliza’s accommodation at Blackhurst, Rose would somehow be the loser . . .

Adeline shook away the misgivings that continued to prick her skin and concentrated on regaining her composure. She had always been sensitive where Rose was concerned, that was what came of having a delicate child. Beside her, the dog, Askrigg, whimpered. He, too, had been unsettled all day. Adeline reached down and stroked the knobbled head. ‘Shhh,’ she said. ‘All will be well.’ She scratched his raised eyebrows.

‘I’ll see to that.’

There was nothing to fear, for what risk could this interloper, this skinny girl with cropped hair and skin sallow from a life of poverty in London, possibly present to Adeline and her family? One needed only to glance at Eliza to see that she was no Georgiana, God be thanked.

Why, perhaps these disquieting feelings weren’t fear at all, but relief.

Relief at having faced her worst fears and had them dissipate. For with Eliza’s arrival came the additional comfort of knowing for certain that Georgiana was really gone, never to return. And in her place a waif with none of her mother’s peculiar power for bending people to her will without so much as trying.

The door opened, admitting a gust to tussle with the fire.

‘Dinner is served, ma’am.’

How Adeline despised Thomas, despised them all. For all their yes and no ma’am, dinner is served ma’am, she knew what they really thought of her, what they’d always thought of her.

‘The master?’ Her coldest, most authoritative voice.

‘Lord Mountrachet is on his way from the darkroom, ma’am.’

The wretched darkroom, of course that’s where he was. She’d heard his carriage arrive on the driveway whilst she was enduring tea with Dr Matthews. Had kept one ear trained on the entrance hall waiting for her husband’s signature stride—heavy, light; heavy, light—but nothing. She should have guessed that he’d gone straight to his infernal darkroom.

Thomas was still watching her, so Adeline screwed her composure to the sticking place. She’d sooner suffer at the hands of Lucifer himself than grant Thomas the satisfaction of noting marital disharmony. ‘Go,’

she said, with a wave of her wrist, ‘and see to it personally that the master’s boots are cleaned of the ghastly Scottish mud.’

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Linus was already seated when Adeline arrived at the table. He’d started on his soup and didn’t look up as she entered. He was too busy studying the black and white prints that were laid out over his end of the long table: moss and butterflies and bricks, the spoils of his recent trip.

Seeing him, Adeline suffered a warm shot of air to the brain. What would others say if they knew that the Blackhurst dinner table was host to such behaviour? She glanced sideways at Thomas and the footman, each focused on the distant wall. But Adeline wasn’t fooled, she knew that behind their glazed expressions their minds were busy: judging, noting, preparing to tell their counterparts in other houses about the slipping standards at Blackhurst Manor.

Adeline sat stiffly in her place, waited as the footman placed her soup in front of her. She took a small mouthful and burned her tongue. Watched as Linus, head bowed, continued his inspection of the photographic prints. The little patch at the very crown of his head was thinning. It looked like a sparrow had been at work, laying the first scanty threads for a new nest.

‘The girl is here?’ he said, without looking up.

Adeline felt her skin prickle: the wretched girl. ‘She is.’

‘You’ve seen her?’

‘Of course. She has been accommodated upstairs.’

Finally he lifted his head, took a sip of his wine. Then another. ‘And is she . . . is she like . . . ?’

‘No.’ Adeline’s voice was cold. ‘No, she is not.’ In her lap, her fists balled tight.

Linus exhaled shortly, broke a piece of bread and began to eat it.

He spoke with his mouth full, surely just to spite her. ‘Mansell said as much.’

If anyone was to blame for the girl’s arrival it was Henry Mansell.

Linus may have sought Georgiana’s return, but it was Mansell who’d kept the hope alive. The detective, with his thick moustache and fine pince-nez, had taken Linus’s money and sent him frequent reports.

Every night Adeline had prayed that Mansell would fail, that Georgiana would stay away, that Linus would learn to let her go.

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‘Your trip went well?’ said Adeline.

No answer. His eyes were on the prints again.

Adeline’s pride prevented another sideways glance at Thomas. She composed her features in a mask of contented calm and attempted another spoonful of soup, cooler by now. Linus’s rejection of Adeline was one thing—he’d begun his drift soon after their marriage—but his complete denial of Rose was something other. She was his child; his blood coursed through her veins, the blood of his noble family.

How he could remain so detached, Adeline couldn’t fathom.

‘Dr Matthews has been again today,’ she said. ‘Another infection.’