The Forgotten Garden (52 page)

‘I have no card,’ said Eliza. ‘Let Rose know I called, won’t you Sally.

She knows where to find me.’

With a nod in her aunt’s direction, Eliza set off once more across the lawn, pausing only once to gaze at the window of Rose’s new bedroom, where early spring light bleached the surface to white. With a shiver, her thoughts turned to Davies’s grafting knife: the ease with which a sharp enough blade might sever a plant so that no evidence of the former bond remained.

Around the sun dial and further across the lawn, Eliza came to the gazebo. Nathaniel’s painting equipment was set up inside as it often was these days. He was nowhere to be seen, had probably gone inside for luncheon, but his work had been left pegged to the easel—

Eliza’s thoughts fled.

The sketches on top were unmistakeable.

She suffered the odd displacement of seeing figments from her own imagination brought to life. Characters, hitherto the province of her own mind, turned as if by magic to pictures. An unexpected ripple passed beneath her skin, hot and cold all at once.

Eliza went closer, up the stairs of the gazebo, and examined the sketches. She smiled, couldn’t help herself. It was like discovering an 367

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imaginary friend had gained corporal existence. They were similar enough to her own imaginings to be instantly recognisable, yet different somehow. His hand was darker than her mind, she realised, and she liked it. Without thinking, she unclipped them.

Eliza hurried back: along the maze, across her garden, through the southern door, all the way mulling the sketches over in her mind.

Wondering when he had drawn them, why, what he intended to do with them. It wasn’t until she was hanging her coat and hat in the hallway of the cottage that her thoughts turned to the letter she had recently received from the publisher in London. Mr Hobbins had opened by paying Eliza a compliment regarding her stories. He had a little daughter, he said, who awaited each Eliza Makepeace fairytale with bated breath. Then he had suggested Eliza might like to consider publishing an illustrated collection, and to bear him in mind if such time arose.

Eliza had been flattered but unconvinced. For some reason the concept hadn’t progressed in her imagination from the abstract. Now, however, having seen Nathaniel’s sketches, she found she could envisage such a book, could almost feel its weight in her hands. A bound edition containing her favourite stories, a volume for children to pore over.

Just like the book she had discovered in Mrs Swindell’s rag and bone shop, all those years ago.

And though Mr Hobbins’s letter had not been explicit about remuneration, surely Eliza could expect payment more handsome than that she had received thus far? For an entire book must be worth far more than a single story. Perhaps she should finally have the money necessary to travel across the sea . . .

A fierce knocking at the door drew her attention.

Eliza pushed aside the irrational sense that it was Nathaniel she would see waiting for her on the other side, come for his sketches. Of course it wasn’t. He never came to the cottage, and besides, it would be hours before he realised they were missing.

All the same, Eliza rolled them up and tucked them within her coat pocket.

She opened the door. Mary stood there, cheeks stained with tidelines of tears.

‘Please, Miss Eliza, help me.’

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‘Mary, what is it?’ Eliza ushered the girl inside, glancing over her shoulder before closing the door. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No, Miss Eliza.’ She swallowed a sob. ‘’Tis nothing like that.’

‘Then tell me, what has happened?’

‘It’s Mrs Walker.’

‘Rose?’ Eliza’s heart hammered against her chest.

‘She’s turned me out,’ Mary inhaled wetly, ‘told me to finish up immediately.’

Relief that Rose was unharmed battled with surprise. ‘But Mary, whatever for?’

Mary collapsed onto a chair and wiped the back of her wrist across her eyes. ‘I don’t know how to say it, Miss Eliza.’

‘Then speak plainly, Mary, I implore you, and tell me what on earth has happened.’

Fresh tears began to fall. ‘I’m with child, Miss Eliza. I’m going to have a baby, and though I thought I kept it hid, Mrs Walker has found out and now says I’m not welcome.’

‘Oh, Mary,’ said Eliza, sinking onto the other chair, taking Mary’s hands between her own. ‘Are you sure about the baby?’

‘There’s no doubting the fact, Miss Eliza. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did.’

‘And who is the father?’

‘A lad what lives in the neighbouring street to ours. Please, Miss Eliza, he’s not a bad fellow, and he says he wants to marry me, but I need to earn some money first else there’ll be naught to feed nor clothe the babe. I can’t lose my position, not yet Miss Eliza, and I know I can still perform it well.’

Mary’s face was so desperate that Eliza could answer no other way.

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Will you speak with Mrs Walker?’

Eliza fetched a glass of water from the pitcher and handed it to Mary. ‘I’ll endeavour to do so. Though you know as well as I do that an audience with Rose is not easy to obtain.’

‘Please Miss Eliza, you’re my only hope.’

Eliza smiled with a confidence she didn’t feel. ‘I will give it a few days, enough time for Rose to settle down, and then I shall speak with her on your behalf. I’m certain she will be made to see reason.’

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‘Oh thank you, Miss Eliza. You know I didn’t wish for this to happen, I’ve gone and made a mess of everything. I only wish I could turn the weeks back and have it undone.’

‘We have all wished for similar power at times,’ said Eliza. ‘Go home now, Mary dear, and try not to worry. Things will work out, I’m sure.

I will send word when I have spoken with Rose.’

c

Adeline knocked lightly on the bedroom door and pushed it open.

Rose was sitting in the window seat, attention focused on the ground below. Her arms were so frail, her profile so gaunt. The room had grown listless in sympathy to its owner, cushions flat, curtains sagging in despondence. Even the air seemed to have staled within the streams of weak light.

Rose gave no indication that she noticed or minded the intrusion, so Adeline went to stand behind her. She looked through the window to see what it was that held her daughter’s attention.

Nathaniel was seated at his easel in the gazebo, sifting through pages from his leather portfolio. There was an agitation in his manner, as if he had misplaced a vital tool.

‘He will leave me, Mamma.’ Rose’s voice was pale as the sunlight.

‘For what reason would he stay?’

Rose turned then, and Adeline tried not to let her face reflect her daughter’s grey and terrible state. She laid a hand on Rose’s bony shoulder. ‘All will be well, my Rose.’

‘Will it?’

Her tone was so bitter that Adeline winced. ‘Of course.’

‘I don’t see how that can be, for it seems I am unable to make of him a man. Again and again I fail to give him an heir, a child of his own.’ Rose turned back to the window. ‘Of course he will leave. And without him I will fade away to nothing.’

‘I have spoken with Nathaniel, Rose.’

‘Oh, Mamma . . .’

Adeline lifted a finger to Rose’s lips. ‘I have spoken with Nathaniel and I am confident that he, as I, wants nothing more than your return 370

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to good health. Children will come when you are well, and for that you must be patient. Allow yourself the time to recover.’

Rose was shaking her head, her neck so thin that Adeline wanted to stop the gesture lest she damage herself. ‘I cannot wait, Mamma.

Without a child I cannot go on. I would do anything for a baby, even at my own cost. I would rather die than wait.’

Adeline sat gently on the window seat and took her daughter’s pale, cool hands between her own. ‘It need not come to that.’

Rose blinked large eyes at Adeline; within them flickered a pale flame of hope. Hope that a child never quite loses, faith that a parent can put things to right.

‘I am your mother and I must look after your health, even if you won’t, thus have I given your plight much thought. I believe there may be a way for you to have a child without endangering yourself.’

‘Mamma?’

‘You may be reluctant at first, but I beg of you, cast aside your doubts.’ Adeline lowered her voice. ‘Pray listen carefully now, Rose, to all I have to say.’

c

In the end, it was Rose who made contact with Eliza. Five days after Mary’s visit, Eliza received word that Rose would like to meet. Even more surprising, Rose’s letter suggested that the two should meet in Eliza’s hidden garden.

When she saw her cousin, Eliza was glad she’d thought to fetch cushions for the iron seat. For dear Rose was reduced in every way.

Mary had hinted at a decline but Eliza had never imagined such extreme diminishment. Though she fought to keep her face from registering shock, Eliza knew she must have failed.

‘You are surprised by my appearance, Cousin,’ said Rose, smiling so her cheekbones turned to blades.

‘Not at all,’ Eliza blustered. ‘Of course not, I merely, my face—’

‘I know you well, my Eliza. I can read your thoughts as if they were my own. It is all right. I have been unwell. I have weakened. But I will recover as I always do.’

Eliza nodded, felt a warm shot stinging behind her eyes.

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Rose smiled, a smile all the sadder for its attempt at certitude.

‘Come,’ she gestured, ‘sit by me, Eliza. Let me have my dear cousin by my side. Do you remember the day you first brought me to the hidden garden, and together we planted the apple tree?’

Eliza took Rose’s thin, cold hand. ‘Of course I do. And just look at it now, Rose, look at our tree.’

The sapling stem had thrived so that the tree now reached almost to the top of the wall. Graceful naked branches swept sideways, and willowy offshoots pointed towards the sky.

‘It’s beautiful,’ said Rose wistfully. ‘To think that we needed only plant it in the earth and it knew just what to do.’

Eliza smiled gently. ‘It has done only what nature intended for it.’

Rose bit her lip, left a red mark. ‘Sitting here, I almost believe myself eighteen again, on the verge of my trip to New York. Filled with excitement and anticipation.’ She smiled at Eliza. ‘It feels like an age since we’ve sat together, just you and I, as we used to when we were girls.’

A wave of nostalgia washed away the year of envy and disappointment. Eliza clasped Rose’s hand tightly. ‘Indeed, it does, Cousin.’

Rose coughed a little and her frail body shook with the effort. Eliza was about to offer a shawl for her shoulders when Rose started speaking again: ‘I wonder, have you had news from the house lately?’

Eliza answered cautiously, wondering at the sudden change of topic. ‘I have seen Mary.’

‘Then you know.’ Rose met Eliza’s gaze, held it for a time before shaking her head sadly. ‘She left me no choice, Cousin. I understand that you and she were fond of each other, but it was unthinkable that she should be kept on at Blackhurst in such a state. You must see that.’

‘She is a good and loyal girl, Rose,’ said Eliza gently. ‘She has behaved imprudently, I don’t deny that. But surely you might relent? She is without income and the baby she is growing will have needs she must fulfil. Please think about Mary, Rose. Imagine her plight.’

‘I assure you, little else has been in my thoughts.’

‘Then perhaps you will see—’

‘Have you ever longed for something, Eliza, something you wanted so much that without it you knew you could live no longer?’

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Eliza thought of her imagined sea voyage. Her love for Sammy. Her need for Rose.

‘I want a child more than anything. My heart aches, as do my arms.

Sometimes I can feel the weight of the child I long to cradle. The warm head in the crook of my elbow.’

‘And surely one day—’

‘Yes, yes. One day.’ Rose’s faint smile belied her optimistic words.

‘But I have struggled and done without for so long. Twelve months, Eliza. Twelve months, and the road has been filled with such disappointment and denial. Now Dr Matthews instructs me that my health may let me down. You must imagine, Eliza, how Mary’s little secret made me feel. That she should have by accident the very thing I crave. That she, with nothing to offer, shall have that which I, with everything, have been denied. Why, surely you can see it isn’t right?

Surely God does not intend such contrary occurrences?’

Rose’s devastation was so complete, her frail appearance so at odds with her fierce desire, that suddenly Mary’s wellbeing was the least of Eliza’s concerns. ‘How can I help you, Rose? Tell me, what can I do?’

‘There is something, Cousin Eliza. I need you to do something for me, something that will in turn help Mary, too.’

Finally. As Eliza had always known she must, Rose had realised that she needed Eliza. That only Eliza could help her. ‘Of course, Rose,’ she said. ‘Anything. Tell me what you need and so shall it be.’

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40

Tregenna, 2005

Tregenna, Cornwall, 2005

The weather came in late Friday night, and fog sulked grey and general across the village all weekend. Given such resolute inclemency, Cassandra decided her weary limbs could do with a rest and took a well-earned break from the cottage. She spent Saturday curled up in her room with cups of tea and Nell’s notebook, intrigued by her grandmother’s account of the detective she’d consulted in Truro.

A man named Ned Morrish whose name she’d plucked from the local telephone book after William Martin suggested that she’d figure out her riddle if she learned where Eliza had disappeared to in 1909.

On Sunday Cassandra met with Julia for afternoon tea. Rain had fallen steadily all morning, but by midafternoon the deluge was reduced to drizzle, and fog had been allowed to settle in the gaps. Through the mullioned windows, Cassandra could make out only the sober green of the drenched lawn; all else was mist, bare branches visible occasionally, like hairline fractures in a wall of white. It was the sort of day Nell had loved. Cassandra smiled, remembering how pulling on a raincoat and gumboots had infused her grandmother with enthusiasm. Perhaps, from somewhere deep inside, Nell’s heritage had been calling her.

Cassandra leaned back into the cushions of her armchair and watched the flames flickering in the grate. People were gathered in all corners of the hotel lounge—some playing board games, others reading or eating—and the room was dense with the comforting low voices of the warm and dry.

Julia dropped a spoonful of cream onto her jam-laden scone. ‘So why the sudden interest in the cottage wall?’

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Cassandra’s fingers flattened warm around her mug. ‘Nell believed that if she found out where Eliza went in 1909, she’d discover the answer to her own mystery.’

‘But what’s that got to do with the wall?’

‘I don’t know, maybe nothing. But something in Rose’s scrapbook got me thinking.’

‘Which bit?’

‘She makes an entry in April 1909 that seems to link Eliza’s trip with the building of the wall.’

Julia licked cream from her fingertip. ‘I remember,’ she said. ‘She writes that bit about being careful because when there’s a lot to gain, there’s also a lot to lose.’

‘Exactly. I just wish I knew what she meant.’

Julia bit her lip. ‘How rude of her not to elaborate for the benefit of those of us who’d be reading over her shoulder some ninety years later!’

Cassandra smiled absently, played with a thread coming loose from the chair’s arm. ‘Why would she have said that, though? What was there to gain, what was she so worried about losing? And what does the security of the cottage have to do with any of it?’

Julia took a bite of her scone and chewed it slowly, thoughtfully.

She patted her lips with a hotel serviette. ‘Rose was pregnant at the time, right?’

‘According to that entry in the scrapbook.’

‘So maybe it was hormones. That can happen, can’t it? Women get all emotional and such? Maybe she was missing Eliza and worried that the cottage would be robbed or vandalised. Maybe she felt responsible.

The two girls were still close at that point.’

Cassandra thought about this. Pregnancy could account for some pretty crazy mood swings, but was it enough of an answer? Even allowing for a hormonal narrator, there was something curious about the entry. What was happening at the cottage that made Rose feel so vulnerable?

‘They say it’s going to clear up tomorrow,’ said Julia, laying her knife across a crumb-laden plate. She leaned back into her armchair, pulled the curtain edge aside and gazed into the misty glare. ‘I suppose you’ll be back at work in the cottage?’

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‘Actually, no. I’ve got a friend coming to stay.’

‘Here at the hotel?’

Cassandra nodded.

‘Lovely! You just let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.’

c

Julia was right, by Monday afternoon the mist had finally begun to lift and a tremulous sun promised to break through the clouds. Cassandra was waiting in the lounge when Ruby’s car pulled into the car park outside. She smiled when she saw the little white hatchback, packed up the scrapbooks and hurried into the foyer.

‘Phew!’ Ruby took a step inside and dropped her bags. Then she pulled off her rain hat and shook her head. ‘Talk about a good old Cornish welcome! Not a drop of rain and I’m still soaking wet.’ She stopped still and stared at Cassandra. ‘Well now, look at you!’

‘What?’ Cassandra patted her hair down. ‘What’s the matter with me?’

Ruby grinned so that her eyes pleated at the corners. ‘Nothing at all, that’s what I bloody well mean. You look fabulous.’

‘Oh. Well thanks.’

‘The Cornish air must agree with you, you’re hardly the same girl I met at Heathrow.’

Cassandra started to laugh, surprising Samantha, who was eavesdropping from the main desk. ‘It’s really good to see you, Ruby,’

she said, picking up one of the bags. ‘Let’s get rid of these and go for a walk, check out the cove after all this rain.’

c

Cassandra closed her eyes, tilted her face skyward and let the sea breeze tickle her eyelids. Gulls engaged in conversation further along the beach, an insect flew close by her ear, gentle waves lapped rhythmically against the coast. She felt an enormous sense of calm descend as she matched her breath to that of the sea: in and out, in and out, in and out. The recent rain had stirred up the ocean brine and the strong smell laced the wind. She opened her eyes and looked slowly about the cove.

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The line of ancient trees atop the ridge, the black rock at the cove’s end, the tall grassy hills that hid her cottage. She exhaled; deep pleasure.

‘I feel just like I’ve stumbled into Five Go to Smugglers’ Top,’ called Ruby from further along the beach. ‘I keep expecting Timmy the dog to come running down the sand with a message-filled bottle in his mouth—’ her eyes widened—‘or a human bone; some nefarious thing he’s dug up!’

Cassandra smiled. ‘I used to love that book.’ She started walking along the pebbles towards Ruby and the black rock. ‘When I was a kid, reading it on hot Brisbane days, I’d have given anything to be growing up on a foggy coast with smugglers’ caves.’

When they reached the end of the beach where pebbles met grass, the steep coastal hill that bounded the cove rose before them.

‘Good lord,’ said Ruby, craning to see the top. ‘You actually intend for us to climb that, don’t you?’

‘It’s not as steep as it looks, I promise.’

Time and traffic had worn a narrow path, barely visible amongst the long silvery grasses and little yellow flowers, and they went slowly, stopping every so often for Ruby to catch her breath.

Cassandra relished the clear, rain-stirred air. The higher they got, the cooler it became. Each swirl of breeze was flecked with moisture, swept from the sea to pepper their faces. As she neared the top, Cassandra reached out to grasp the long pale strands of grass, felt them slide through her closed hands. ‘Nearly there,’ she called back to Ruby.

‘It’s just over this crest.’

‘I feel like a von Trapp,’ Ruby said between puffs. ‘But fatter, older, and with absolutely no energy for singing.’

Cassandra reached the summit. Above her, thin clouds fleeted across the sky, chased by strong autumn winds. She wandered towards the cliff edge and looked out across the broad and moody sea.

Ruby’s voice from behind. ‘Oh thank god. I’m alive.’ She was standing with her hands on her knees, catching her breath. ‘I’ll let you in on a secret. I was not confident this moment would ever arrive.’

She righted herself, shifted her hands to the small of her back and came to stand by Cassandra. Her expression lightened as her eyes scanned the horizon.

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Cassandra.

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Ruby was shaking her head. ‘It’s amazing. This is what birds must feel like when they’re sitting in their nests.’ She took a step back from the cliff edge. ‘Except possibly a little more secure, given they have wings in the event of a fall.’

‘The cottage used to be a lookout. Back in the days of the smugglers.’

Ruby nodded. ‘I can believe that well enough. Not much you wouldn’t see from up here.’ She turned, expecting to catch sight of the cottage. Frowned. ‘Shame about that great big wall. It must block a lot of the view.’

‘Yeah, from downstairs it does. But it wasn’t always there, it went up in 1909.’

Ruby wandered over towards the gate. ‘Why on earth would anyone wall it up like that?’

‘Security.’

‘Against what?’

Cassandra followed Ruby. ‘Believe me, I’d love to know.’ She pushed open the creaky iron gate.

‘Friendly.’ Ruby pointed at the sign threatening trespassers.

Cassandra smiled thoughtfully. Keep out or the risk be all yours. She had passed by the sign so often in recent weeks that she’d stopped seeing it. Now, in tandem with Rose’s scrapbook entry, the words took on new significance.

‘Come on, Cass.’ Ruby was standing at the other end of the path by the cottage door, stamping her little feet. ‘I went along with the hike with barely a complaint, surely you don’t expect me to scale the walls and find a window to climb through?’

Cassandra smiled and held up the brass key. ‘Never fear. No more physical challenges. Not for today, anyway. We’ll save the hidden garden for tomorrow.’ She inserted the key in the lock and turned it to the left with a clunk, then pushed open the door.

Ruby stepped across the threshold and made her way along the hall towards the kitchen doorway. It was much lighter inside now that Cassandra and Christian had cleared the windowpanes of creepers and washed a century of grime from the glass.

‘Oh my,’ Ruby whispered, eyes wide as she took in the kitchen, ‘it’s unspoiled!’

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‘That’s one way of putting it.’

‘No one’s destroyed it under the guise of modernisation. What an incredibly rare find.’ She turned to Cassandra. ‘It has a wonderful feel about it, doesn’t it? Enveloping, warm somehow. I can almost feel the ghosts of the past moving about among us.’

Cassandra smiled. She had known Ruby would feel it too. ‘I’m so glad you could come, Ruby.’

‘I wouldn’t have missed it,’ she said, crossing the room. ‘Grey’s just about taken to wearing earplugs when we meet, he’s so bloody sick of my talking about your Cornish cottage. Plus I had business in Polperro so the whole thing couldn’t have worked out better.’ Ruby leaned against the rocking chair to peer through the front window. ‘Is that a pond out there?’

‘Yeah, just a little one.’

‘Cute statue, wonder if he’s cold?’ She let go of the rocking chair so that it was set in gentle motion. The treads squeaked softly against the floorboards. Ruby continued her inspection of the room, running her fingers lightly along the rim of the range shelf.

‘What was your business in Polperro?’ Cassandra sat cross-legged on the kitchen table.

‘My exhibition ended last week and I was returning the Nathaniel Walker sketches to their owner. Just about broke my heart to part with them, I can tell you.’

‘No way she’d consider giving them to the museum on permanent loan?’

‘That’d be nice.’ Ruby’s head had disappeared into the bricked range alcove and her voice was muffled. ‘Perhaps you can sweet talk her for me.’

‘Me? I’ve never met her.’

‘Well not yet, of course you haven’t. But I mentioned you to her when I was there. Told her all about your grandma being related to the Mountrachets, having been born here at Blackhurst, how she came back and bought the cottage. Clara was most interested.’

‘Really? Why would she care?’

Ruby stood up, bumping her head on the range shelf. ‘Bugger,’ she rubbed the spot furiously. ‘Always the bloody head.’

‘Are you all right?’

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‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. High pain threshold.’ She stopped rubbing, blinked her eyes clear. ‘Clara’s mum used to work at Blackhurst remember, as a domestic? Mary, the one who ended up making black puddings with her butcher husband?’

‘Yeah, I remember now. So how did you know Clara was interested in Nell? What did she say?’

Ruby resumed her inspection of the range, opening the grate door.