The Forgotten Garden (41 page)

There was something bewitching about them, more than met the eye.’

He scuffed at the dirt with his boot. ‘It’s a bit sad, I guess—a grown man reading children’s fairytales.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Cassandra noticed that he was raising and lowering his shoulders, hands in pockets. Almost as if he were nervous. ‘Which one’s your favourite?’

He tilted his head, squinted a little in the sun. ‘“The Crone’s Eyes”.’

‘Really? Why?’

‘It always seemed different from the others. More meaningful somehow. Plus I had a wild eight-year-old crush on the princess.’ He smiled shyly. ‘What’s not to like about a girl whose castle is destroyed, her royal subjects vanquished, who nonetheless plucks up enough courage to embark on a quest and uncover the old crone’s missing eyes?’

Cassandra smiled too. The tale of the brave princess who didn’t know she was a princess was the first of Eliza’s fairytales she’d read. On that hot Brisbane day, when she was ten years old and had disobeyed her grandmother’s instruction, discovered the suitcase under the bed.

Christian broke his stick in half and tossed the pieces aside.

‘I suppose you’re going to try and sell the cottage?’

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‘Why? Interested in buying it?’

‘On the wage Mike’s paying me?’ Briefly their eyes met. ‘Don’t hold your breath.’

‘I don’t know how I’m going to get it ready,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise how much work there’d be. The garden, the house itself.’ She gestured over the southern wall. ‘There’s a hole in the bloody roof.’

‘How long are you here for?’

‘I’m booked at the hotel for another three weeks.’

He nodded. ‘That ought to be enough time.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Sure.’

‘Such faith. And you haven’t even seen me wield a hammer.’

He reached up to plait a stray piece of wisteria in with the others.

‘I’ll help you.’

Cassandra felt a flush of embarrassment: he thought she’d been hinting. ‘I didn’t mean . . . I don’t have . . .’ She exhaled. ‘There’s no restoration budget, none at all.’

He smiled, the first proper smile she’d seen him give. ‘I’m earning peanuts already. Might as well earn nothing working in a place I love.’

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33

Tregenna, 1975

, Cornwall, 1975

Nell looked out over the churning sea. It was the first overcast day she’d struck since arriving in Cornwall and the whole landscape was shivering. The white cottages clinging to cold crags, the silvery gulls, the grey sky reflecting the swollen sea.

‘Best view in all of Cornwall,’ said the estate agent.

Nell didn’t dignify the inanity with comment. She continued to watch the roiling waves from the little dormer window.

‘There’s another bedroom next door. Smaller, but a bedroom nonetheless.’

‘I need longer to inspect,’ said Nell. ‘I’ll join you downstairs when I’m done.’

The agent seemed happy enough to be dismissed and, within a minute, Nell saw her appear outside the front gate, huddling into her coat.

Nell watched as the woman did battle with the wind to light a cigarette, then she let her gaze drift down towards the garden. She couldn’t see much from up here, had to look through a frayed tapestry of creepers, but she could just make out the stone head of the little boy statue.

Nell leaned on the dusty window frame, felt the salt-roughened wood beneath her palms. She had been in this cottage before, as a child, she knew that now. She had stood at this very spot, in this room, watching the same sea. She closed her eyes and willed her memory into sharper focus.

A bed had stood where she was now, a single bed, simple, with brass ends, dulled knobs that needed polishing. From the ceiling, an 289

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inverted cone of netting fell, like the white mist that hung from the horizon when storms were stirring the distant sea. A patchwork quilt, cool beneath her knees; fishing boats bobbing on the tide, flower petals floating on the pond below.

Sitting in this window that jutted out from the rest of the cottage was like hanging from the top of the cliff, like the princess in one of her favourite fairytales, turned to a bird and left swinging in her golden cage—

Raised voices downstairs, her papa and the Authoress.

Her name, Ivory, sharp and jagged like a star cut from cardboard with pointed scissors. Her name as a weapon.

There were other angry words being hurled. Why was Papa shouting at the Authoress? Papa who never raised his voice.

The little girl felt frightened, she didn’t want to hear.

Nell clenched her eyes tighter, tried to hear.

The little girl blocked her ears, sang songs in her mind, told stories, thought about that golden cage, the princess bird swinging and waiting.

Nell tried to push aside the child’s song, the image of a golden cage.

In the cold depths of her mind, the truth was lurking, waiting for Nell to clutch it and drag it to the surface . . .

But not today. She opened her eyes. Those tendrils were too slippery today, the water around them too murky.

Nell took herself back down the narrow stairs.

The agent locked the gate and together they started in silence down the path to where the car was parked.

‘So, what did you think?’ said the agent in the perfunctory tone of one who thought she knew the answer.

‘I’d like to buy it.’

‘Perhaps there’s something else I can—’ The agent looked up from the car door. ‘You’d like to buy it?’

Nell gazed again across the stormy sea, the misty horizon. She enjoyed a bit of inclemency in her weather. When the clouds hung low and rain threatened, she felt restored. Breathed more deeply, thought more clearly.

She had no idea how she’d pay for the cottage, what she’d have to sell in order to do so. But as sure as black and white made grey, Nell 290

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knew she had to own it. From the moment she’d remembered that little girl by the fish pond, the little girl who was Nell in a different lifetime, she’d known.

c

The agent drove all the way back to the Tregenna Inn with breathless promises to walk round with the contracts just as soon as she had them typed up. She had the name of a good solicitor Nell could use, too. Nell closed the car door and went up the steps to the foyer. She was so intent on her attempt to calculate the time difference—was it add three hours and change am to pm?—so she could call her bank manager and attempt to explain the sudden acquisition of a Cornish cottage, she didn’t see the person coming towards her until they almost collided.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Nell, stopping with a jolt.

Robyn Martin was blinking quickly behind her glasses.

‘Were you waiting for me?’ said Nell.

‘I brought you something.’ Robyn handed Nell a pile of papers clipped together. ‘It’s research for the article I’ve been working on about the Mountrachet family.’ She shifted awkwardly. ‘I heard you asking Gump about them, and I know he wasn’t able to . . . that he wasn’t much help.’ She smoothed already smooth hair. ‘It’s an odd assortment really, but I thought they might be of interest to you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Nell, meaning it. ‘And I’m sorry if I . . .’

Robyn nodded.

‘Is your grandfather . . . ?’

‘Much better. In fact, I was wondering whether you might come to dinner again, one night next week. At Gump’s house.’

‘I appreciate you asking me,’ said Nell, ‘but I don’t think your grandfather will.’

Robyn shook her head, hair swinging neatly. ‘Oh no, you’ve misunderstood.’

Nell’s eyebrows lifted.

‘It was his idea,’ said Robyn. ‘He said there was something he needed to tell you. About the cottage, and Eliza Makepeace.’

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34

New York and Tregenna, 1907

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
9 September 1907

Miss Eliza Mountrachet,

Blackhurst Manor,

Cornwall, England

My Dearest Eliza,

Oh!—What wonder the
Lusitania
! As I write this letter, cousin of mine, I
am seated on the upper deck—a dainty little table on the Veranda Café—

gazing out across the wide blue Atlantic, as our great ‘fl oating hotel’ spirits
us towards New York.

There is an atmosphere of tremendous celebration on board, with
everyone positively overbrimming with hope that the
Lusitania
will take
back the Blue Riband from Germany. At the landing stage in Liverpool,
as the great ship moved slowly from her moorings & began proper her
maiden voyage, the crowd on deck were singing ‘Britons never, never shall
be slaves’ & waving fl ags, so many & so quickly, that even as we pulled
further away & the folk ashore were diminished into tiny dots, I could see
the fl ags still moving. When the boats bade us farewell by tooting their
horns, I confess to goosebumps on my arms & a sensation of swelling pride
in my heart. What joy to be involved in such momentous events! Will
history remember us, I wonder? I do hope so—to imagine that one might
do something, touch an event somehow, & thereby transcend the bounds
of a single human lifetime!

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I know what you will say with regards to the Blue Riband—that it’s
a silly race invented by silly men trying to prove little more than that their
boat can outrun that belonging to even sillier men! But dearest Eliza, to
be here, to breathe the spirit of excitement & conquest—Well, I can only
say that it’s invigorating. I feel more alive than I have done in an age, &
though I know you will be rolling your eyes, you must allow me to profess
my deepest wish that we do make the trip in record speed & win back our
rightful place.

The entire ship is appointed in such a way that it is diffi cult at
times to remember that one is at sea. Mamma & I are staying in one of
two ‘Regal Suites’ on board—it comprises two bedrooms, a sitting room,
dining room, private bath, lavatory & pantry, & is beautifully decorated,
reminding me a little of the pictures of Versailles in Miss Tranton’s book,
the one she brought to the schoolroom that summer long ago.

I overheard a beautifully dressed lady commenting that it is more
like a hotel than any ship she has ever before travelled aboard. I do not
know who that lady was, but I feel sure she must be Very Important, for
Mamma suffered a rare bout of speechlessness when we found ourselves
within her orbit. Never fear, ’twas not abiding—Mamma cannot be
repressed for long. She quickly found her tongue & has been making up
for lost time ever since. Our fellow passengers are a veritable who’s who
of London society, according to Mamma, & thus they must be ‘charmed’.

I am under strict instructions to be always at my best—thank goodness I
have two wardrobes full of armaments with which to dress for battle! For
once Mamma & I are of a mind, though certainly not of a taste!—she is
forever pointing out a gentleman she considers an excellent match & I am
frequently dismayed. But enough—I fear I will lose the audience of my
dearest cousin if I tarry too long on such subjects.

Back to the ship then—I have been carrying out certain explorations,
sure to make my Eliza proud. Yesterday morning I managed briefl y to
escape Mamma, & passed a lovely hour in the roof garden. I thought of
you, dearest, & how amazed you would be to see that such vegetation could
be grown on board a ship. There are tubs at every turn, fi lled with green
trees & the most beautiful fl owers. I felt quite joyous sitting amongst them
(no one knows better than I the healing properties of a garden) & gave
myself over to all kinds of silly daydreams. (You will be able to imagine
well enough the paths down which my fancies rambled . . . )
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Oh! but how I wish you had relented & come with us, Eliza. I shall
make time here for a brief but gentle scold, for I simply cannot understand.

It was you, after all, who fi rst raised the notion that the two of us might
some day travel to America, witness fi rst-hand the skyscrapers of New York

& the great Statue of Liberty. I cannot think what induced you to forsake
the opportunity so that you might stay at Blackhurst with only Father for
company. You are, as always, a mystery to me, dearest, but I know better
than to argue with you when your mind is made up, my dear, stubborn
Eliza. I will say only that I miss you already & fi nd myself frequently
imagining how much mischief might be had were you here with me. (How
we would wreak havoc on poor Mamma’s nerves!) It is strange to think
upon a time when you were unknown to me, it seems we have always been
a pair & the years at Blackhurst before you arrived but a horrid waiting
period.