The Forgotten Garden (68 page)

This was it. The treasure for which Eliza had returned to the Swindells’ house, whose price had been an encounter with a strange man. An encounter responsible for the separation of Eliza and Ivory, for all that had come afterwards, for Ivory becoming Nell.

‘What is it?’

Cassandra looked up at him. ‘A mourning brooch.’

He frowned.

‘The Victorians used to have them made from the hair of family members. This one belonged to Georgiana Mountrachet, Eliza’s mother.’

Christian nodded slowly. ‘Explains why it was so important to her.

Why she went to retrieve it.’

‘And why she didn’t make it back to the boat.’ Cassandra studied Eliza’s precious items in her lap. ‘I just wish Nell had seen them. She always felt abandoned, never knew that Eliza was her mother, that she was loved. It was the one thing she longed to learn: who she was.’

‘But she did know who she was,’ Christian said. ‘She was Nell, whose granddaughter Cassandra loved her enough to cross the ocean to solve her mystery for her.’

‘She doesn’t know that I came here.’

‘How do you know what she does and doesn’t know? She might be watching you right now.’ He raised his brows. ‘Anyway, of course she knew you’d come. Why else would she have left you the cottage? And that note on the will, what did it say?’

How odd the note had seemed, how little she had understood when Ben had first given it to her. ‘For Cassandra, who will understand why.’

‘And? Do you?’

Of course she did. Nell, who had needed so desperately to confront her own past in order to move beyond it, had seen in Cassandra a kindred spirit. A fellow victim of circumstance. ‘She knew I’d come.’

Christian was nodding. ‘She knew you loved her enough to finish what she’d started. It’s like in “The Crone’s Eyes”, when the fawn tells 486

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

the princess that the crone didn’t need her sight, that she knew who she was by the princess’s love for her.’

Cassandra’s eyes stung. ‘That fawn was very wise.’

‘Not to mention handsome and brave.’

She couldn’t help smiling. ‘So now we know. Who Nell’s mother was. Why she was left alone on the boat. What happened to Eliza.’ She also knew why the garden was so important to her, why she felt her own roots connecting to its soil, deeper and deeper with each moment she spent within its walls. She was at home in the garden, for in some way she couldn’t explain Nell was here too. As was Eliza. And she, Cassandra, was the guardian of both their secrets.

Christian seemed to read her mind. ‘So,’ he said, ‘still planning on selling it?’

Cassandra watched as the breeze tossed down a shower of yellow leaves. ‘Actually, I thought I might stay around a bit longer.’

‘At the hotel?’

‘No, here in the cottage.’

‘You won’t be lonely?’

It was so unlike her, but in that moment Cassandra opened her mouth and said exactly what she was feeling. Gave no pause for second-guessing and worry. ‘I don’t think I’ll be alone. Not all the time.’ She felt the hot-cold sensation of an impending blush and hurried on. ‘I want to finish what we’ve started.’

He raised his eyebrows.

The blush found her. ‘Here. In the garden, I mean.’

‘I know what you mean.’ His gaze held hers. As Cassandra’s heart began to hammer against her ribs, he let his shovel drop, reached out to cup her cheek. He leaned nearer and she closed her eyes. A sigh, heavy with years of weariness, escaped her. And then he was kissing her, and she was struck by his nearness, his solidity, his smell. It was of the garden and the earth and the sun.

When Cassandra opened her eyes, she realised she was crying. She wasn’t sad though, these were the tears of being found, of having come home after a long time away. She tightened her grip on the brooch.

Past. Future. Family. Her own past was filled with memories, a lifetime of beautiful, precious, sad memories. For a decade she had moved amongst them, slept with them, walked with them. But something had 487

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K a t e M o r t o n

changed, she had changed. She had come to Cornwall to uncover Nell’s past, her family, and somehow she had found her own future. Here, in this beautiful garden that Eliza had made and Nell had reclaimed, Cassandra had found herself.

Christian smoothed her hair and looked at her face with a certainty that made her shiver. ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he said finally.

Cassandra took his hand in hers. She had been waiting for him, too.

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Epilogue

Greenslopes Hospital, Brisbane, 2005

Greenslopes Hospital, Brisbane, 2005

Cool against her eyelids; tingles like tiny feet, those of ants, walking back and forth.

A voice, blessedly familiar. ‘I’ll get a nurse—’

‘No.’ Nell reached out, still couldn’t see, grasped for anything she could find. ‘Don’t leave me.’ Her face was wet, recycled air cold against it.

‘I’ll be back soon. I promise.’

‘No—’

‘It’s all right, Grandma. I’m getting help.’

Grandma. That’s who she was, now she remembered. She’d had many names in her lifetime, so many she’d forgotten a few, but it wasn’t until she acquired her last, Grandma, that she’d known who she really was.

A second chance, a blessing, a saviour. Her granddaughter.

And now Cassandra was getting help.

Nell’s eyes closed. She was on the ship again. Could feel the water beneath her, the deck swaying this way and that. Barrels, sunlight, dust.

Laughter, faraway laughter.

It was fading. The lights were being turned down. Dimming, like the lights in the Plaza theatre, before the feature presentation. Patrons shifting in their seats, whispering, waiting . . .

Black.

Silence.

And then she was somewhere else, somewhere cold and dark.

Alone. Sharp things, branches, either side of her. A sense that walls were pushing in on both sides, tall and dark. The light was returning; 489

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not much, but sufficient that she could crane her neck and see the distant sky.

Her legs were moving. She was walking, hands out to the sides brushing against the leaves and branch ends.

A corner. She turned. More leafy walls. The smell of earth, rich and moist.

Suddenly, she knew. The word came to her, ancient and familiar.

Maze. She was in a maze.

Awareness, instant and fully formed: at its end was a most glorious place. Somewhere she needed to be. Somewhere safe where she could rest.

She reached a fork.

Turned.

She knew the way. She remembered. She had been here before.

Faster now, she went faster. Need pushing in her chest, certainty.

She must reach the end.

Light ahead. She was almost there.

Just a little further.

Then suddenly, out of the shadows and into the light came a figure.

The Authoress, holding out her hand. Silvery voice. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

The Authoress stepped aside and Nell saw that she had reached the gate.

The end of the maze.

‘Where am I?’

‘You’re home.’

With a deep breath, Nell followed the Authoress across the threshold and into the most beautiful garden she had ever seen.

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And at last, the wicked Queen’s spell was broken, and the young woman, whom circumstance and cruelty had trapped in the body of a bird, was released from her cage. The cage door opened and the cuckoo bird fell, fell, fell, until finally her stunted wings opened, and she found that she could fly. With the cool sea breeze of her homeland buffeting the undersides of her wings, she soared over the cliff edge and across the ocean. Towards a new land of hope, and freedom, and life. Towards her other half. Home.

— f r o m ‘ T h e C u c k o o ’ s F l i g h t ’ b y E l i z a M a k e p e a c e Bh1449M-PressProofs2.indd 491

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Acknowledgements

For helping to bring The Forgotten Garden into the world, I’d like to thank:

My Nana Connelly, whose story first inspired me; Selwa Anthony for her wisdom and care; Kim Wilkins, Julia Morton and Diane Morton, for reading early drafts; Kate Eady for hunting down pesky historical facts; Danny Kretschmer for providing photos on a deadline; and Julia’s workmates for answering questions of vernacular. For research assistance—archaeological, entomological and medical—I’m grateful to Dr Walter Wood, Dr Natalie Franklin, Katharine Parkes, and especially Dr Sally Wilde; and, for help with specific details, many thanks to Nicole Ruckels, Elaine Wilkins and Joyce Morton.

I am fortunate to be published worldwide by extraordinary people and I’m thankful to everyone whose efforts have helped to turn my stories into books. For their sensitive and tireless editorial support on The Forgotten Garden, I’d like to make special mention of Catherine Milne, Clara Finlay, and the wonderful Annette Barlow at Allen & Unwin, Australia; and Maria Rejt and Liz Cowen at Pan Macmillan, UK. I’m much obliged to Julia Stiles and Lesley Levene for their fine attention to detail.

I would also like to pay tribute here to authors who write for children. To discover early that behind the black marks on white pages lurk worlds of incomparable terror, joy and excitement is one of life’s great gifts. I am enormously grateful to those authors whose works fired my childhood imagination, and inspired in me a love of books and reading that has been a constant companion. The Forgotten Garden is, in part, an ode to them.

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Finally, as always, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my husband, Davin Patterson, and my two sons, Oliver and Louis, to whom this story belongs.

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ALSO FROM ALLEN & UNWIN

The Shifting Fog

by Kate Morton

‘Full of lovely writing, grand houses, snobbery, cruelty and passion, this compelling mystery-cum-love story is utterly addictive.’

The Australian Women’s Weekly

Summer 1924: on the eve of a glittering society party, by the lake of a grand English country house, a young poet takes his life. The only witnesses, sisters Hannah and Emmeline Hartford, will never speak to each other again.

Winter 1999: Grace Bradley, 98, one-time housemaid of Riverton Manor, is visited by a young director making a film about the poet’s suicide.

Ghosts awaken and memories, long consigned to the dark reaches of Grace’s mind, begin to sneak back through the cracks. A shocking secret threatens to emerge; something history has forgotten but Grace never could.

Set as the war-shattered Edwardian summer surrenders to the decadent twenties, The Shifting Fog is a thrilling mystery and a compelling love story.

Kate Morton’s debut novel, The Shifting Fog (published as The House at Riverton in the UK and the US), has become an international publishing sensation and a bestseller around the world.

‘Kate captures the atmosphere and ambience of the time and place, the melancholy and wistfulness as well as the glittering moments . . . It’s a haunting and enthralling book, exquisite not only in the writing but also in the structure.’

Good Reading

ISBN 978 1 74175 177 2

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Document Outline

• Praise for The Shifting Fog
  
• About the author
  
• Part title
  
• Title page
  
• Part One
  
  • 1 London, 1913
    
  • 2 Brisbane, 1930
    
  • 3 Brisbane, 2005
    
  • 4 Brisbane, 2005
    
  • 5 Brisbane, 1976
    
  • 6 Maryborough, 1913
    
  • 7 Brisbane, 2005
    
  • 8 Brisbane, 1975
    
  • 9 Maryborough, 1914
    
  • 10 Brisbane, 2005
    
  • 11 The Indian Ocean, 1913
    
  • 12 Over the Indian Ocean, 2005
    
  • The Crone's Eyes by Eliza Makepeace
    
  • 13 London, 1975
    
  • 14 London, 1900
    
  • 15 London, 2005
    
  • 16 London, 1900
    
  • 17 London, 2005
    
  • 18 London, 1975
    
  • 19 London, 2005
    
  • 20 London, 1900
    
• Part Two
  
  • 21 The road to Cornwall, 1900
    
  • 22 Cornwall, 2005
    
  • 23 Blackhurst Manor, 1900
    
  • 24 Cliff Cottage, 2005
    
  • 25 Tregenna, 1975
    
  • 26 Blackhurst Manor, 1900
    
  • 27 Tregenna, 1975
    
  • 28 Blackhurst Manor, 1900
    
  • 29 The Blackhurst Hotel, 2005
    
  • 30 Blackhurst Manor, 1907
    
  • The Changeling by Eliza Makepeace
    
  • 31 Blackhurst Manor, 1907
    
  • 32 Cliff Cottage, 2005
    
  • 33 Tregenna, 1975
    
  • 34 New York and Tregenna, 1907
    
  • 35 The Blackhurst Hotel, 2005
    
  • 36 Pilchard Cottage, 1975
    
• Part Three
  
  • 37 Blackhurst Manor, 1907
    
  • 38 Cliff Cottage, 2005
    
  • 39 Blackhurst Manor, 1909
    
  • 40 Tregenna, 2005
    
  • 41 Cliff Cottage, 1975
    
  • 42 Blackhurst Manor, 1913
    
  • 43 Cliff Cottage, 2005
    
  • 44 Tregenna, 1975
    
  • The Golden Egg, by Eliza Makepeace
    
  • 45 Cliff Cottage, 1913
    
  • 46 Polperro, 2005
    
  • 47 Brisbane, 1976
    
  • 49 Cliff Cottage, 2005
    
  • 50 Blackhurst Manor, 1913
    
  • 51 Tregenna, 2005
    
• Epilogue
  
• Acknowledgements