The Forgotten Garden (42 page)

Ah—Mamma is calling. It seems we are expected yet again in
the dining room. (The meals, Eliza! I am having to stroll about the deck
between times in order to stand any hope at all of making a polite attempt
at the next sitting!) Mamma has no doubt managed to harpoon the earl
of so-and-so, or the son of some wealthy industrialist as tablemate. A
daughter’s work is never done, & she is right in this: I shall never meet My
Fate if I keep myself locked away.

I bid you goodbye, then, my dear Eliza, & close by saying that though
you are not with me in person, you most certainly are in spirit. I know that
when I fi rst catch sight of the famed lady of Liberty, standing vigilant over
her port, it will be my cousin Eliza’s voice I hear, saying, ‘Just look at her &
think of all she’s seen.’

I remain always, your beloved cousin, Rose
c

Eliza tightened her fingers around the brown-paper wrapped parcel.

Standing on the doorstop of the Tregenna general store, she watched as a dark grey blanket of cloud sagged towards the mirror below. Haze on the horizon spoke of storms at sea, and the air in the village vacillated with anxious flecks of moisture. Eliza had brought no bag, as when she’d left the house she hadn’t intended a trip to the village. It was sometime during the morning that the story had crept up on her and 294

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demanded immediate description. The five pages left in her current notebook had been sorely inadequate, the need for a new one pressing, thus had she embarked on this impromptu shopping expedition.

Eliza glanced once more at the sullen sky and set off quickly along the harbour. When she reached the point where the road forked, she ignored the main branch and started instead up the narrow cliff track.

She had never followed it before, but Davies had once told her that a short cut from the estate to the village ran along the cliff edge.

The way was steep and the grass long but Eliza proceeded apace.

She paused only once to look out across the flat, granite sea, on which a fleet of tiny white fishing boats was coming home to roost. Eliza smiled to see them, like baby sparrows returning to the nest, hurrying in after a day spent exploring the rim of a vast world.

One day she would cross that sea, all the way to the other side, just as her father had done. There were so many worlds waiting beyond the horizon. Africa, India, Arabia, the Antipodes, and in such faraway places would she discover new stories, magical tales from long ago.

Davies had suggested she write down her own tales, and write Eliza had. She’d filled twelve notebooks and still she hadn’t stopped. Indeed, the more she wrote, the louder the stories seemed to grow, swirling in her mind, pressing against her head, anxious for release. She didn’t know whether they were any good and in truth she didn’t care. They were hers, and writing them made them real somehow. Characters who’d danced around inside her mind grew bolder on the page. They took on new mannerisms she hadn’t imagined for them, said things she didn’t know they thought, began to behave unpredictably.

Her stories had a small but receptive audience. Each night after supper, Eliza would crawl into bed beside Rose, just as she had when they were younger, and there she would begin her most recent fairytale.

Rose would listen, wide-eyed, gasping and sighing in all the right places, laughing gleefully at certain gruesome moments.

It was Rose who had cajoled Eliza into sending one of her tales away to the London office of the Children’s Storytime journal.

‘Don’t you want to see them in print? They will be real stories then, and you a real writer.’

‘They’re already real stories.’

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Rose had taken on a slightly devious look. ‘But if they’re published, you will earn a little income.’

An income of her own. This did interest Eliza, and Rose well knew it. Up until this point Eliza had been fully dependent on her aunt and uncle, but lately she’d been wondering how she was going to fund the travels and adventures she knew the future held.

‘And it certainly wouldn’t please Mamma,’ said Rose, clasping her hands together beneath her chin, biting her lip to stop from smiling.

‘A Mountrachet lady earning a living!’

Aunt Adeline’s reaction, as always, meant little of consequence to Eliza, but the idea of other people reading her tales . . . Ever since Eliza had discovered the book of fairytales in Mrs Swindell’s rag and bone shop, had disappeared inside its faded pages, she’d understood the power of stories. Their magical ability to refill the wounded part of people.

Mizzle was turning now to light rain and Eliza began to run, hugging the notebook to her chest as wet strands of grass brushed against her damp skirt. What would Rose say when Eliza told her the children’s journal was going to publish ‘The Changeling’, that they had asked to see more? She smiled to herself as she ran.

A week to go before Rose was finally home, and Eliza could barely wait. How she longed to see her cousin! Rose had been rather remiss with correspondence—there had been one letter composed en route to America, but nothing since, and Eliza found herself waiting impatiently for news of the great city. She would have loved to visit it herself but Aunt Adeline had been clear.

‘Ruin your own prospects, by all means,’ she said one evening when Rose had retired to bed. ‘But I will not allow you to ruin Rose’s future with your uncivilised ways. She’ll never meet Her Fate if she’s not given opportunity to shine.’ Aunt Adeline had drawn herself to her full height.

‘I have booked two passages to New York. One for Rose and one for myself. I wish to avoid unpleasantness, thus it would be best if she thought the decision had been yours.’

‘Why would I lie to Rose?’

Aunt Adeline inhaled and her cheeks hollowed. ‘To make her happy, of course. Don’t you want her to be happy?’

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A thunderclap echoed between the cliff walls as Eliza reached the hilltop. The sky was darkening and the rain growing heavier. In the clearing stood a cottage. The same little cottage, Eliza realised, that crouched on the other side of the walled garden that Uncle Linus had given her to plant. She hurried to shelter beneath the entrance portico, huddled against the door as rain spilled, thicker and faster, over the eaves.

It had been two months since Rose and Aunt Adeline had left for New York, and though time was dragging now, the first month had passed swiftly in a whirl of fine weather and splendid story ideas. Eliza had split each day between her two favourite places on the estate: the black rock down in the cove, on top of which millennia of tides had washed smooth a seat-sized platform; and the hidden garden, her garden, at the end of the maze. What a delight it was to have a place of one’s own, an entire garden in which to Be. Sometimes Eliza liked to sit on the iron seat, perfectly still, and just listen. To the wind-blown leaves tapping against the walls, the muffled ocean breathing in and out, and the birds singing their stories. Sometimes, if she sat still enough, she almost fancied she could hear the flowers sighing in gratitude to the sun.

But not today. The sun had withdrawn and beyond the cliff edge sky and sea were merged in grey agitation. Rain continued to pour and Eliza sighed. There was no point yet attempting to make her way to the garden and through the maze, not unless she wanted a thorough drenching for herself and her new notebook. If only a hollow tree could be found in which to shelter! A story idea began to flutter on the edge of Eliza’s imagination; she snatched at it, refused to let it go, held on as it grew arms, legs and a clear destination.

She reached inside her dress and withdrew the lead pencil she always kept tucked beneath her bodice. Leaned the new notebook against her bent knee and began to scribble.

The wind blew stronger up here in the realm of the birds, and rain had begun to swirl inside her hiding place, tossing splotches on her pristine pages. Eliza turned towards the door but still the rain found her.

This was no good! Where would she write when the wet weather set in for the season? The cove and the garden would not be fair shelter 297

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then. There was her uncle’s house, of course, with its hundred rooms, but Eliza found it difficult to write when there was always someone nearby. It was possible to think oneself alone, only to discover a housemaid had been knelt by the fire, raking coals all the while. Or her uncle, sitting silent in a dim, dark corner.

A scud of heavy rain landed at Eliza’s feet, drenching the portico.

She closed the notebook and tapped her heel impatiently against the stone floor. She needed better shelter than this. Eliza glanced at the red door behind her. How had she not noticed before? Emerging from the lock was the ornate handle of a big brass key. Without further hesitation, Eliza twisted it to the left. The mechanism shifted with a clunk. She laid her hand on the doorknob, smooth and unaccountably warm, and turned it. A click, and the door was open, as if by magic.

Eliza stepped across the threshold into the dark, dry womb.

c

Beneath the black umbrella Linus sat waiting. He hadn’t caught a glimpse of Eliza all day and agitation possessed his every mannerism.

She would come though, he knew that, Davies said she had intended to visit the garden and there was only one way back from there. Linus allowed his eyes to close and his mind to fall backwards through the years to a time when Georgiana had disappeared daily into the garden.

She had asked him again and again to come, to see the planting she had done, but Linus always declined. He had waited for her though, kept vigil until his poupee reappeared each day from between the hedges. Remembered sometimes his entrapment by the maze all those years before. What an exquisite feeling it had been, the curious melange of old shame mixed with joy at his sister’s emergence.

He opened his eyes and drew breath. Thought at first he was subject to a wishful fantasy, but no, it was Eliza, coming this way and deep in thought. She hadn’t seen him yet. His dry lips moved around the words he wished to speak. ‘Child,’ he called out.

She looked up, surprised. ‘Uncle,’ she said, smiling slowly. She held her hands out to the side; in one was a brown package. ‘How sudden the rain!’

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Her skirt was wet, the transparent rim clinging to her legs. Linus couldn’t look away. ‘I—I was afraid you might be caught in the weather.’

‘And I very nearly was. I found shelter though, in the cottage, the little cottage on the other side of the maze.’

Wet hair, wet hem, wet ankles. Linus swallowed, dug his cane into the damp earth and pushed himself to standing.

‘Is the cottage used by anyone, Uncle?’ Eliza came closer. ‘It appeared unused.’

Her smell—rain, salt, soil. He leaned against his cane and almost fell. She reached to steady him.

‘The garden, child, tell me of the garden.’

‘Oh, Uncle, how it grows! You must come one day and sit amongst the flowers. See for yourself the planting I have made.’

Her hands on his arm were warm, her grip firm. He would give the remaining years of his life to stop time and remain forever in this moment, he and his Georgiana—

‘Lord Mountrachet!’ Thomas was flustering towards them from the house. ‘My Lord, you should have said you needed help.’

And then Eliza was no longer holding him, Thomas was in her place. And Linus could only watch as she disappeared up the stairs and into the entrance hall, paused fractionally at the stand to collect the morning’s post, before being swallowed by his house.

c

M I S S R O S E M O U N T R A C H E T ,

C U N A R D L I N E R ,
L u s i ta n i a
7 November 1907

Miss Eliza Mountrachet,

Blackhurst Manor,

Cornwall, England

Dearest Eliza,

What a time! So much has happened since last we met, I can barely think
where to start. First, I must apologise for the dearth of letters in recent
weeks. Our last month in New York was such a whirlwind, & when I fi rst
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sat down to write to you, as we left the great American port, we fell victim
to such a storm I almost believed myself back in Cornwall. The thunder,

& Oh! the squalls! I was laid up in my cabin for a full two days, & poor
Mamma was quite green. She required frequent tending—what a turn-up
it was, Mamma ill and Sickly Rose her nurse!

After the storm fi nally subsided, the mist remained for many days,
fl oating about the ship like a great sea monster. It put me in mind of
you, dear Eliza, & the stories you used to spin when we were girls, about
the mermaids & the ships lost at sea.

The skies have cleared now, as we draw ever closer towards
England—

But wait. Why am I giving you weather reportage when I have so
much else to relate? I know the answer to that: I am dancing around my
true intentions, hesitating before giving voice to my real news, for Oh!

where to begin . . .

You will remember, Eliza dear, from my last letter, that Mamma

& I had made the acquaintance of certain Important people? One, Lady
Dudmore, turned out to be a person of some consequence indeed; what’s
more, it would seem she took a shine to me, for Mamma & I were issued
many a letter of introduction & were thus inducted into a circle of New
York’s fi nest society. What glittering butterfl ies we were, fl itting from one
party to another—