The Forgotten Garden (61 page)

‘Excuse me, ma’am.’

Adeline swung around, the folds of her skirt hissing against each other. It was Daisy, returned finally from the cove.

‘Well? Where is she?’ said Adeline.

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‘I couldn’t see her, ma’am.’

‘You checked all over? The black rock, the hills?’

‘Oh no, ma’am. I didn’t go near the black rock.’

‘Whyever not?’

‘It’s so big and slippery and . . .’ The girl’s silly face turned bright as a ripe peach. ‘They say it’s haunted, is the great rock.’

Adeline’s hand itched to slap the girl black and blue. If she had just done as instructed in the first place, and ensured the child remained in bed! No doubt she’d been off somewhere, talking to the new footman in the kitchen . . . But it would not do to punish Daisy. Not yet. It might seem as if Adeline’s priorities were out of step.

Instead, she turned away, swept her skirts behind her and repaired to the window. Looked out across the darkening lawn. It was all so overwhelming. Ordinarily Adeline found herself adept at the art of social performance, but today the part of the concerned grandmother was proving her undoing. If only someone would find the girl, dead or alive, injured or well, and bring her back. Then Adeline could close a door on the episode and continue unabated in her grieving for Rose.

But it seemed that such a simple solution was not to be. Dusk would be upon them in the matter of an hour and still no sign of the child. And Adeline’s pursuit could not be ended until every option was exhausted. The servants were watching, her reactions were no doubt being reported and dissected in the servants’ hall, so must she continue the hunt. Daisy was near useless and the other staff not much better.

She needed Davies. Where was that brute of a man when he was needed?

‘It’s his afternoon off, ma’am,’ said Daisy, when asked.

Of course it was. The servants were always underfoot yet never to be found.

‘I imagine he’s at home, or visiting in the village, my Lady. I think he said something about fetching some deliveries off the train.’

There was only one other person who knew the estate like Davies.

‘Fetch Miss Eliza then,’ said Adeline, mouth souring as she spoke the name. ‘And bring her to me at once.’

c

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T h e F o r g o t t e n G a r d e n

Eliza looked across at the sleeping child. Long lashes dusted smooth cheeks, pink lips sat plump and pouted, little fists bunched on her lap.

How trusting children were, to find sleep at such a time. The trust, the vulnerability, made a part of Eliza want to weep.

What had she been thinking? What was she doing here, on a train, heading towards London with Rose’s child?

Nothing, she had thought nothing at all, and that’s why she had done it. For to think was to dip the paint-loaded brush of doubt into the clear water of certainty. She had known the child could not be left alone at Blackhurst in the hands of Uncle Linus and Aunt Adeline, thus had she acted. She had failed Sammy, but she wouldn’t fail again.

What to do with Ivory now was another question, for surely Eliza couldn’t keep her. The child deserved more than that. She should have a father and mother, siblings, a happy home filled with love that would grant her memories for a lifetime.

And yet Eliza couldn’t see what choice she had. The child must be kept far from Cornwall, the risk otherwise was too great that she’d be discovered and taken straight back to Blackhurst.

No, until Eliza thought of some better alternative, the girl must stay with her. At least for now. There were five days until the ship departed for Australia, for Maryborough, where Mary’s brother lived, and her Aunt Eleanor. Mary had given her an address and when she got there, Eliza intended to contact the Martin family. She would send word to Mary, of course; let her know what she had done.

Eliza already had her ticket, booked under a false name. Superstitious, but when time had come to make the reservation she had been possessed, suddenly, by an overwhelming sensation that a clean break required a new name. She didn’t want to leave an imprint of herself at the booking office, a path between this world and that. So she had used a pseudonym. A stroke of luck, as it turned out.

For they would come looking. Eliza knew too much about the origins of Rose’s child for Aunt Adeline to let her slip so easily away.

She must be prepared to hide. She would find an inn near the port, somewhere that would rent a room to a poor widow and her child, on their way to join family in the New World. Was it possible, she wondered, to purchase a ticket for the child at such short notice? Or would she find a way to board the girl without drawing attention to her?

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Eliza looked across at the scrap of a child, slumbering in the corner of the train carriage. So vulnerable. She reached out slowly and stroked her cheek. Withdrew as the girl flinched, wrinkled her little nose and nestled her head further into the carriage corner. Ridiculous though it was, Eliza could see some of Rose in the child, in Ivory; Rose as a girl, when Eliza had first known her.

The child would ask after her mother and father, and Eliza would tell her one day. Though which words she would find to explain she wasn’t sure. She noticed that the fairy story that might have done so for her was no longer in the little girl’s collection. Someone had removed it. Nathaniel, Eliza suspected. Both Rose and Aunt Adeline would have destroyed the whole book; only Nathaniel would pluck out the one story in which he was implicated, yet preserve the rest.

She would wait to contact the Swindells until the very last, for though Eliza couldn’t see how they might pose a threat, she knew better than to be too trusting. If an opportunity to profit was glimpsed, the Swindells would seize upon it. Eliza had considered at one point abandoning the visit, wondered whether perhaps the risk outweighed the reward, but she had decided to take the chance. She would need the gems from the brooch in order to pay her way in the New World, and the plaited part was precious. It was her family, her past, her link to her self.

c

As Adeline waited for Daisy’s return, time dragged slow and heavy like a petulant child at her skirt. It was Eliza’s fault that Rose was dead. Her unsanctioned visit through the maze had precipitated the plans for New York, and thus brought forward the trip to Carlisle. Had Eliza stayed on the other side of the estate as she had promised, Rose would never have been on that train.

The door opened and Adeline drew breath. Finally, the servant was back, leaves in her hair, mud on her skirt, and yet she was alone.

‘Where is she?’ Adeline said. Was she searching already? Had Daisy used her own head for once and sent Eliza straight to the cove?

‘I don’t know, ma’am.’

‘You don’t know?’

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T h e F o r g o t t e n G a r d e n

‘When I got to the cottage it were all locked up. I looked through the windows but there was no sign.’

‘You should have waited a while. Perhaps she was in the village and would have returned soon.’

The girl was shaking her insolent head. ‘I don’t think so, ma’am.

Only the fire were raked clean and the shelves were empty.’ Daisy blinked in that bovine way of hers. ‘I think she’s gone too, Ma’am.’

Then Adeline understood. And knowledge heated quickly into rage, and rage seared beneath her skin, filling her head with sharp red shots of pain.

‘Are you all right, my Lady? Should you sit down?’

No, Adeline didn’t need to sit down. Quite the contrary. She needed to see for herself. Witness the girl’s ingratitude.

‘Take me through the maze, Daisy.’

‘I don’t know my way through, ma’am. No one does. None excepting Davies. I went round the road way, up the cliff track.’

‘Then fetch Newton and the carriage.’

‘But it’ll be getting dark soon, ma’am.’

Adeline narrowed her eyes and lifted her shoulders. Enunciated clearly: ‘Fetch Newton now and bring me a lantern.’

c

The cottage was neat but not empty. The kitchen area was still hung with various cooking instruments but the table was wiped clear. The coat hook by the door was bare. Adeline suffered a wave of illness and felt her lungs contract. It was that girl’s lingering presence, thick and oppressive. She took the lantern and started up the narrow stairs. There were two rooms, the larger spartan but clean, containing the bed from the attic, an old quilt pulled tight across its surface. The other housed a desk and chair and a shelf full of books. The objects on the desk had been arranged into stacks. Adeline pressed her fingers against the wooden top, and leaned forward a little to see outside.

The last colour of the day had broken over the sea, and the distant water rose and fell, gold and purple.

Rose is gone.

The thought came fast and jagged.

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Here, alone, finally unobserved, Adeline could briefly stop pretending. She closed her eyes and the knots in her shoulders dropped.

She longed to curl up on the floor, wooden boards smooth and cool and real beneath her cheek, and never have to rise again. To sleep for a hundred years. To have no one looking to her for an example. To be able to breathe—

‘Lady Mountrachet?’ Newton’s voice drifted up the stairs. ‘’Tis growing dark, my Lady. The horses will have difficulty getting down if we don’t leave soon.’

Adeline drew a sharp breath. Shoulders were wrenched back into position. ‘A minute.’

She opened her eyes and pressed a hand against her forehead. Rose was gone and Adeline would never recover, but there was further risk now. Though a part of Adeline longed to let Eliza and the girl disappear out of her life forever, things were more complicated than that. With Eliza and Ivory missing, surely together, Adeline faced the risk that people might learn the truth. That Eliza might speak of what they’d done. And that must not be allowed to happen. For Rose’s sake, for her memory, and for the Mountrachet family’s good name, Eliza must be found, returned, and silenced.

Adeline’s gaze swept once more across the desktop and lit upon the edge of a piece of paper emerging from beneath a stack of books.

A word she recognised though at first could not place. She plucked the paper from where it was lodged. It was a list of sorts, made by Eliza: things to be done before she left. At the bottom of the list was printed Swindell. A name, Adeline thought, though she wasn’t sure how she knew.

Her heart beat faster as she folded the piece of paper and tucked it in her pocket. Adeline had found her link. The girl couldn’t expect to slip from notice. She would be found, and the child, Rose’s child, brought back where she belonged.

And Adeline knew just whose help to enlist to make it so.

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46

Polperro, 2005

Polperro, Cornwall, 2005

Clara’s cottage was small and white, and clung to the edge of a rock sheer, a short walk uphill from a pub called the Buccaneer.

‘Want to do the honours?’ asked Christian when they arrived.

Cassandra nodded, but she didn’t knock. She had been beset, suddenly, by a wave of nervous excitement. Her grandmother’s long-lost sister was on the other side of the door. In just a few moments, the riddle that had plagued Nell for most of her life would be solved.

Cassandra glanced at Christian and thought again how pleased she was that he had come with her.

After Ruby had left for London that morning, Cassandra had waited for him on the front steps of the hotel, clutching her copy of Eliza’s fairytales. He’d brought his, too, and they’d discovered that there was indeed a story missing from Cassandra’s book. The gap in the binding was so narrow, the cut so neat, that Cassandra hadn’t noticed it before. Even the missing page numbers hadn’t drawn her attention. The figures were so swirly, so elaborate that it would have taken a degree in penmanship to discern the difference between 54

and 61.

On the drive to Polperro, Cassandra had read ‘The Golden Egg’

aloud. As she did so, she’d became more and more convinced that Christian was right, that the story was an allegory for Rose’s acquisition of her daughter. A fact which made her more certain than ever of what it was that Clara wished to tell her.

Poor Mary, forced to give up her first child then keep it a secret.

No wonder she’d unburdened herself to her daughter in her final days.

A lost child followed a mother all her life.

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Leo would be almost twelve now.

‘Are you okay?’ Christian was watching her, a frown of concern narrowing his eyes.

‘Yeah,’ said Cassandra, folding away her memories. ‘I’m okay.’ And, as she smiled at him, it didn’t feel so much a lie as usual.

c

She lifted her hand and was about to rap on the knocker when the door flew open. Standing in the low and narrow frame was a plump old woman whose apron, tied around her middle, gave the impression of a body formed by two balls of dough. ‘I seen you standing there,’ she said, grinning, finger curled to point at them, ‘and I says to myself,

“They must be my young guests.” Now come on in, the two of you, and I’ll make us all a nice cup of tea.’

Christian sat beside Cassandra on the floral sofa and they juggled patchwork cushions between them to make room. He looked so hopelessly oversized amongst such dainty adornments that Cassandra had to fight the urge to laugh.

A yellow teapot occupied pride of place on the seachest in the lounge room, shrouded in a knitted cosy shaped like a hen. It looked remarkably like Clara, Cassandra thought: small alert eyes, a plump body, sharp little mouth.