The Forgotten Garden (21 page)

Then she started to cackle.

‘You know her?’ Nell held her breath.

‘I know ’er all right, I’ll remember ’er to me dying days. Used to frighten the bejesus out of me when I was a littl’un. Told me all sorts of wicked stories when she knew my ma weren’t around to give ’er a pounding and send ’er scuttling.’ She looked up at Nell, frowning so that her forehead concertinaed. ‘Elizabeth? Ellen?’

‘Eliza,’ Nell said quickly. ‘Eliza Makepeace. She became a writer.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that, not much of a reader m’self. Can’t see the point of all them pages. All’s I know is that the girl there in your picture told stories to make your hair stand on end. Kept most of us local kids frightened of the dark, though we was always coming back for more. Don’t know where she learned the likes of ’em herself.’

Nell looked again at the house, tried to get a sense of this young Eliza. An inveterate storyteller, scaring the younger children with her tales of terror.

‘We missed her when she were taken.’ The old woman was shaking her head sadly.

‘I’d have thought you’d be pleased not to be frightened any more.’

‘Not likely,’ said the old woman, lips moving as though she were chewing her own gums. ‘There ain’t a child alive what don’t enjoy a good scare now and then.’ She dug her walking stick into a spot on the 142

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stairs where the render was crumbling. Squinted up at Nell. ‘That girl herself got the worst sort of scare though, far worse than any of her tall tales. Lost her brother, you know, one day in the fog. Nothing she could tell us was as ghastly as what happened to him. It was a big black horse, trod right through his heart.’ She shook her head. ‘The girl, she were never the same after that. Went a bit batty, you ask me, cut off all her hair and started wearing breeches if I remembers properly!’

Nell felt a rush of excitement. This was new.

The old woman cleared her throat, withdrew a tissue and spat into it. Continued as if nothing had happened. ‘There was a rumour going around she were taken to the workhouse.’

‘She wasn’t,’ said Nell. ‘She was sent to live with family in Cornwall.’

‘Cornwall.’ A kettle began to whistle from inside. ‘That’s nice then, isn’t it?’

‘I imagine it was.’

‘Well then,’ the old woman said with a nod towards the kitchen,

‘that’s teatime.’ The pronouncement was so matter of fact that for a brief, hopeful moment Nell thought she might be being invited inside, offered tea and countless other anecdotes about Eliza Makepeace. But when the door began to close, the old lady on one side and Nell on the other, the fond fancy passed.

‘Wait,’ she said, pushing her hand out to hold off the closing door.

The old woman held the door ajar as the kettle continued to shrill.

Nell pulled a piece of paper from her handbag and began to scribble on it. ‘If I write down the address and phone number of the hotel I’m staying at, will you contact me if you remember anything else about Eliza? Anything at all?’

The old woman cocked a silvery eyebrow. She paused briefly, as if sizing Nell up, then took the piece of paper. Her voice when she spoke was slightly changed. ‘If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.’

‘Thank you, Mrs . . .’

‘Swindell,’ said the old woman. ‘Miss Harriet Swindell. Never met a man I’d let make me his own.’

Nell lifted a hand to wave farewell, but old Miss Swindell’s door was already closed. As the kettle finally stopped shouting inside, Nell glanced at her watch. If she hurried, there was still enough time to get 143

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to the Tate Gallery. There she could see Nathaniel Walker’s portrait of Eliza, the one he’d called The Authoress. She pulled the little tourist map of London from her bag and ran her finger up the river until she found Millbank. With a final glance down Battersea Church Road, as a red London bus shuddered past the banks of Victorian houses that had played host to Eliza’s childhood, Nell set off.

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And there she was, The Authoress, hanging on the gallery wall. Just as Nell remembered her. Thick braid slung over one shoulder, frilly white collar buttoned to her chin so that her fine neck was encased, hat on her head. Quite different from the sorts of hats usually worn by Edwardian ladies. Its lines were more masculine, its pitch more jaunty, its wearer irreverent somehow, though Nell wasn’t sure how she knew that. She closed her eyes. If she tried hard enough she could almost remember a voice. It came to mind at times, a silvery voice, full of magic and mystery and secrets. But it always slipped away before she could clasp the memory to her, make it her own to command and recall.

People were moving behind her and Nell opened her eyes again.

The Authoress came once more into frame and Nell walked closer. The portrait was unusual: for one thing, it was a charcoal sketch, more a study than a portrait. The framing was interesting, too. The subject wasn’t facing the artist, but had been drawn as if walking away, as if she’d turned back her gaze only at the last minute and been frozen in that moment. There was something engaging in her wide eyes, her lips parted as if to speak; and something uncomfortable, too. It was the absence of even the hint of a smile, as if she’d been surprised.

Observed. Caught.

If only you could speak, Nell thought. Then perhaps you could tell me who I am, what I was doing with you. Why we boarded that boat together and why you didn’t come back for me.

Nell felt set upon by the dull weight of disappointment, though what revelations she’d imagined might be gleaned from Eliza’s portrait, she didn’t know. Not imagined, she corrected herself, hoped. Her entire quest was based on hope. The world was an awfully large place and it 144

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wasn’t easy to find a person who’d gone missing sixty years earlier, even if that person was oneself.

The room was beginning to empty and Nell found herself surrounded on all four sides by the silent gazes of the long-dead. All observing her in that strange, heavy way the portrait subject has: eyes, eternally watchful, following the voyeur around the room. She shivered and slipped on her coat.

The other portrait caught her eye when she was almost at the door.

As her gaze fell upon the painting of the dark-haired woman with pale skin and plump red lips, Nell knew exactly who she was. A thousand snatches of long-forgotten memories combined in an instant, certainty flooded every cell. It wasn’t that she recognised the name printed beneath the portrait, Rose Elizabeth Mountrachet—the words themselves meant very little. It was more and it was less. Nell’s lips began to quiver and something deep inside her chest clenched. Breathing was difficult.

‘Mamma,’ she whispered, feeling stupid and elated and vulnerable all at once.

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Thank god the Central Reference Library was open late, for there was no way Nell could have waited until morning. Finally she knew her mother’s name, Rose Elizabeth Mountrachet. Later, she would look back on that moment in the Tate Gallery as a birth of sorts. Swiftly, with neither warning nor fuss, she was someone’s child, she knew her mother’s name. She said the words over and over as she scurried along the darkening streets.

It was not the first time she’d heard them. The book she’d bought from Mr Snelgrove with its entry on Eliza had mentioned the Mountrachet family. Eliza’s maternal uncle, minor member of the aristocracy, owner of the grand estate in Cornwall. Blackhurst, where Eliza had been sent after her mother’s death. It was the link she’d been looking for. The thread that tied the Authoress of Nell’s memory to the face she now recognised as her mother’s.

The woman at the library desk remembered Nell from the day before, when she’d come searching for information on Eliza.

‘Did you find Mr Snelgrove then?’ she said with a grin.

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‘I did,’ said Nell, rather breathlessly.

‘And you lived to tell the tale.’

‘He sold me a book that was very helpful.’

‘That’s our Mr Snelgrove, always manages to make a sale.’ She shook her head fondly.

‘I wonder,’ said Nell, ‘if you could help me again. I need to find some information on a woman.’

The librarian blinked. ‘I’m going to need a little more to go on than that.’

‘Of course. A woman born sometime in the late nineteenth century.’

‘Was she a writer too?’

‘No, at least I don’t think so.’ Nell exhaled, collected her thoughts.

‘Her name was Rose Mountrachet and her family were aristocrats of some kind. I thought perhaps I might find something in one of those books, you know the sort, with details of members of the peerage.’

‘Like Debrett’s. Or Who’s Who.’

‘Yes, exactly.’

‘Worth a look,’ said the librarian. ‘We’ve got both publications here, but Who’s Who is probably the easier to read. Hereditary peers are automatically invited for inclusion. She might not have an entry of her own but if you’re lucky she’ll be mentioned in someone else’s, her father’s perhaps, or her husband’s. Don’t s’pose you know when she died?’

‘No, why?’

‘Given that you don’t know when she was entered, if at all, it might save you time if you just looked her up in Who Was Who first. Need to know when she died for that, though.’

Nell shook her head. ‘I couldn’t even guess. If you point me in the general direction I’ll just check through the Who’s Who—start this year and work backwards until I find mention of her.’

‘Might take a while, and the library’s closing soon.’

‘I’ll be quick.’

The woman shrugged. ‘Take the stairs to the first floor and you’ll find the backfiles at the enquiry desk. The listings are alphabetical.’

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Finally, in 1934, Nell struck gold. It wasn’t Rose Mountrachet, but it was a Mountrachet nonetheless. Linus, the uncle who’d claimed Eliza Makepeace after Georgiana’s death. She scanned the entry: MOUNTRACHET, Lord, Linus St John Henry. b. 11 January 1860, s.

of late Lord St John Luke Mountrachet and late Margaret Elizabeth Mountrachet, m. 31 August 1888 Adeline Langley. One d. late Rose Elizabeth Mountrachet, m. late Nathaniel Walker.

Rose had married Nathaniel Walker. That meant, didn’t it, that he was her father? She read the entry again. The late Rose and Nathaniel.

So they’d both died earlier than 1934. Was that why she’d been with Eliza? Had Eliza been appointed her guardian because her parents were both dead?

Her father—that is, Hugh—had found her on the Maryborough wharf in late 1913. If Eliza had been appointed guardian after Rose and Nathaniel were killed, that meant, didn’t it, that they must have died before then?

Suppose she were to look up Nathaniel Walker in Who’s Who for that year? He was sure to have an entry. Better yet, if her theory was correct and he was no longer alive in 1913, she should go straight to Who Was Who. She hurried along the line of shelves and plucked out Who Was Who 1897–1915. Fingers trembling, she flicked through from the back, Z, Y, X, W. There he was.

WALKER, Nathaniel James, b. 22 July 1883, d. 2 September 1913. s. of Anthony Sebastian Walker and Mary Walker, m. the late Hon. Rose Elizabeth Mountrachet, 3 March 1908. One d. the late Ivory Walker.

Nell stopped short. One daughter was correct, but what did they mean by late? She wasn’t dead, she was very much alive.

Nell was aware suddenly of the library heating, felt she couldn’t breathe. She fanned her face and looked back at the entry.

What could it possibly mean? Could they have got it wrong?

‘Found her?’

Nell looked up. The woman from the front desk. ‘Are these ever wrong?’ she said. ‘Do they ever get things wrong?’

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The woman pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘They’re not the most reliable sources, I suppose. They’re put together with information supplied by the subjects themselves.’

‘What about when the entry is dead?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘In Who Was Who the entries are all dead. Who supplies the information then?’

She shrugged. ‘Remaining family, I expect. Most of it I guess they just copy from the last questionnaire the entry provided. Add the death dates and Bob’s your uncle.’ She brushed a bit of lint from the top of the shelf. ‘We’re closing in ten minutes. Let me know if there’s anything else I can help you with.’

There had been a mistake, that was all. It must happen often; after all, the person setting the type didn’t know the subjects personally. It was possible, wasn’t it, that a typesetter’s mind might wander for a moment, the word ‘late’ be inserted by error? A stranger consigned to early death in posterity’s silent eyes?

It was little more than a typo. She knew she was the child of whom the entry spoke and she most certainly was not ‘late’. All she needed to do was find a biography of Nathaniel Walker and she could prove the entry was wrong. She had a name now; her name had once been Ivory Walker. And if it didn’t feel familiar, if it didn’t slip over her like a well-worn coat, then that was as it was. There was no accounting for memory, which things stuck and which didn’t.

She remembered suddenly the book she’d bought on her way into the Tate, all about Nathaniel’s paintings. It was bound to include a brief biography. She pulled it from her bag and flipped it open.

Nathaniel Walker (1883–1913) was born in New York to Polish immigrant parents, Antoni and Marya Walker (originally Walczwk). His father worked on the city wharves and his mother took in laundry and raised their six children, of whom Nathaniel was the third. Two of his siblings died of various fevers and Nathaniel was set to follow his father onto the wharves when a picture he had been sketching on a New York street was noticed by passer-by Walter Irving Jnr, heir to the Irving oil fortune, who commissioned Nathaniel to paint his portrait.