The Forgotten Garden (46 page)

Robyn beamed. ‘It must have been so exciting, an important launch like that. Terrible to think of what happened to that beautiful ship.’

‘Germans,’ said Gump, through a mouthful of broth. ‘Sacrilege that was, a mighty act of barbarism.’

Nell imagined the Germans felt much the same way about the bombing of Dresden but now was neither the time nor the place, and William not the person with whom to have such a discussion. So she bit her tongue and carried on pleasant, pointless conversation with Robyn about the history of the village and the house at Blackhurst until, finally, Robyn excused herself to clear the plates and fetch some pudding.

Nell watched her bustle from the room, then, aware that it might be her last chance to speak with William alone, she seized the opportunity. ‘William,’ she said, ‘there’s something I have to ask you.’

‘Ask away.’

‘You knew Eliza—’

He sucked on his pipe, nodded once.

‘—so why do you think she took me? Did she want a child, do you think?’

William exhaled so that smoke plumed. He clenched the pipe in his back teeth and spoke around it. ‘Doesn’t sound right to me. She was a free spirit. Not the sort to welcome domestic responsibility, let alone steal it.’

‘Was there any talk in the village? Did anyone have a theory?’

‘We all believed that the child, that you, had fallen to the scarlet fever. No one questioned that part.’ He shrugged. ‘As for Eliza’s disappearance, no one thought much of that either. It wasn’t the first time.’

‘No?’

‘She’d done the same a few years before.’ He glanced quickly towards the kitchen and lowered his voice, avoided Nell’s eyes. ‘Always blamed myself a bit for that. It was soon after—soon after the other thing I was 325

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telling you about. I confronted her, told her what I’d seen; called her all manner of names. She made me promise not to tell anyone, told me that I didn’t understand, that it wasn’t as it seemed.’ He laughed bitterly.

‘All the usual things a woman says when caught in such a situation.’

Nell nodded.

‘I did as she asked, though, and kept her secret. Not long after that I learned in the village that she’d gone away.’

‘Where did she go?’

He shook his head. ‘When she finally got back—a year or so later, it was—I asked her over and over, but she never would say.’

‘Pudding’s up,’ came Robyn’s voice from the kitchen.

William leaned forward, pulled his pipe from his mouth and pointed it at Nell. ‘That’s why I had Robyn ask you here tonight, that’s what I wanted to tell you: find out where Eliza went, and I reckon you’ll be some of the way to figuring out your riddle. Because I can tell you something, wherever it was she disappeared to, she was different when she came back.’

‘Different how?’

He shook his head at the memory. ‘Changed, less herself somehow.’

He clenched his teeth on his pipe. ‘There was something missing and she was never the same again.’

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Blackhurst Manor, 1907

Blackhurst Manor, Cornwall, 1907–1908

On the morning scheduled for Rose’s return from New York, Eliza went early to the hidden garden. The November sun was still shrugging off sleep and the way was dim, light just enough to reveal the grass, silver with dew. She went quickly, arms wrapped across her front against the chill. It had rained overnight and puddles lay all about; she stepped around them as best she could, then creaked open the maze gate and started through. It was darker still within the thick hedge walls, but Eliza could have navigated the maze in her sleep.

Ordinarily she loved the brief moment of twilight as night anticipated dawn, but today she was too distracted to pay it any heed.

Ever since she’d received Rose’s letter announcing her engagement, Eliza had battled her emotions. The spiked barb of envy had lodged in her stomach and refused to grant her rest. Each day, when her thoughts turned to Rose, when she re-read the letter, felt her imaginings slide towards the future, fear prickled her insides. Filled her with their dread poison.

For with Rose’s letter, the colour of Eliza’s world had changed. Like the kaleidoscope in the nursery that had so delighted her when she first came to Blackhurst, one twist and the same pieces had rearranged to create a vastly different picture. Where a week ago she had felt secure, enveloped in the certainty that she and Rose were irrevocably tied, now she feared herself alone again.

By the time she entered the hidden garden, early light was sifting through the autumn-sparse canopy. Eliza took a deep breath. She’d come to the garden because it was the place in which she always felt settled, and today more than ever she needed it to work its magic.

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She ran her hand along the little iron seat, beaded with rain, and perched on its damp edge. The apple tree was fruiting, shiny globes of orange and pink. She could pick some for Cook, or perhaps she should tidy the borders, or trim the honeysuckle. Apply herself in some way that would take her mind from Rose’s arrival, the resistant fear that her cousin would be somehow changed when she returned.

For in the days since Rose’s letter, as Eliza had grappled with her envy, she had realised that it wasn’t the man, Nathaniel Walker, whom she feared; it was Rose’s love for him. The marriage she could bear, but not a shift in Rose’s affection. Eliza’s greatest worry was that Rose, who had always loved her best, had found a replacement and would no longer need her cousin most of all.

She forced herself to stroll casually and appraise her plants. The wisteria was shedding its final leaves, the jasmine had long lost its flowers, but the autumn had been mild and the pink roses were still in bloom. Eliza went closer, took a half-opened bud between her fingers and smiled at the perfect raindrop caught within its inner petals.

The thought was sudden and complete. She must make a bouquet, a welcome-home gift for Rose. Her cousin was fond of flowers, but more than that, Eliza would select plants that were a symbol of their bond. There must be ivy for friendship, pink rose for happiness, and some of the exotic oak-leaved geranium for memories . . .

Eliza chose each sprig carefully, making sure to pick only the finest stems, the most perfect blooms, then she gathered the little bouquet together with a pink satin ribbon torn from her hem. She was tightening the bow when she heard the familiar sound of metal wheels jangling on the distant driveway stones.

They were back. Rose was home.

With her heart in her throat, Eliza hitched up her damp-hemmed skirts, clutched the bouquet, and began to run. Zigzagging back and forth through the maze. She splashed through puddles in her haste, pulse hammering apace with the horses’ hooves.

She emerged from the gates just in time to see the carriage draw to a stop in the turning circle. Paused a moment to catch her breath.

Uncle Linus was sitting, as always, on the garden seat by the maze gate, his little brown camera beside him. But when he called to her, Eliza pretended not to hear.

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She arrived at the turning circle as Newton was opening the carriage door. He winked and Eliza waved back. Pressed her lips together as she waited.

Since receiving Rose’s letter, long days had bled into longer nights, and now the moment was finally upon her. Time seemed to slow: she was aware of her hurried breaths, her pulse still racing in her ears.

Did she imagine the change in Rose’s facial expression, the shift in her bearing?

The bouquet slipped from Eliza’s fingers and she picked it up from the wet lawn.

The motion must have caught in their peripheral vision, for both Rose and Aunt Adeline turned; one smiled, the other did not.

Eliza raised her hand slowly and waved. Lowered it again.

Rose’s eyebrows lifted with amusement. ‘Well, aren’t you going to welcome me home, Cousin?’

Relief spread instantly beneath Eliza’s skin. Her Rose was back and all would surely be well. She started forward, began to run, arms outstretched. Wrapped Rose in an embrace.

‘Stand back, girl,’ said Aunt Adeline. ‘You’re covered in mud splatter.

You’ll mark Rose’s dress.’

Rose smiled and Eliza felt the sharp edges of her worry retract. Of course Rose was unaltered. She had been away only two and a half months. Eliza had allowed fear to conspire with absence and effect an impression of change where there was none.

‘Cousin Eliza, how wonderful it is to see you!’

‘And you, Rose.’ Eliza presented the bouquet.

‘How delightful!’ Rose lifted it to her nose. ‘From your garden?’

‘It’s ivy for friendship, oak-leaved geranium for memories—’

‘Yes, yes, and rose, I see. How darling of you, Eliza.’ Rose held the bouquet out towards Newton. ‘Have Mrs Hopkins find a vase, won’t you, Newton?’

‘I’ve so much to tell you, Rose,’ said Eliza. ‘You’ll never guess what’s happened. One of my stories—’

‘Goodness me!’ Rose laughed. ‘I haven’t even reached the front door and my Eliza is telling me fairytales.’

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‘Stop tiring your cousin,’ said Aunt Adeline sharply. ‘Rose needs to rest.’ She glanced towards her daughter and a quaver of hesitation entered her voice. ‘You should consider lying down.’

‘Of course, Mamma. I intend to retire directly.’

The change was subtle, but Eliza noted it nonetheless. There was something unusually tentative in Aunt Adeline’s suggestion, something less pliant in Rose’s response.

Eliza was still pondering this slight shift when Aunt Adeline started into the house and Rose leaned close, whispered in Eliza’s ear: ‘Now come upstairs, dearest. There’s so much I have to tell you.’

c

And tell Rose did. She recounted every moment spent in Nathaniel Walker’s company and, more tediously, the anguish of each moment spent away from him. The epic tale began that afternoon and continued through night and day. In the beginning Eliza was able to feign interest—indeed, at the very first she had been interested, for the feelings Rose described were like none she’d ever felt herself—but as the days wore on, grouped themselves into weeks, Eliza began to flag.

She tried to interest Rose in other things—a visit to the garden, the newest story she had written, even a trip to the cove—but Rose had ears only for tales of love and forbearance. Specifically, her own . . .

So it was, as the weeks cooled towards midwinter Eliza sought more frequently the cove, the hidden garden, the cottage. Places into which she could disappear, where servants would think twice before bothering her with their dreaded messages, always the same: Miss Rose requires Miss Eliza’s presence immediately on a matter of dire import.

For it seemed that no matter how spectacularly Eliza failed to grasp the virtues of one wedding dress over another, Rose never tired of tormenting her.

Eliza told herself that all would settle down, that Rose was just excited: she had always loved fashions and decorations, and here was her chance to play the fairy princess. Eliza just needed to be patient and all would return to normal between them.

Then it was spring again. The birds returned from the bright beyond, Nathaniel arrived from New York, the wedding was upon 332

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them, and next Eliza knew she was waving at the rear of Newton’s carriage as it drew the happy couple towards London and a ship to the Continent.

c

Later that night, as she lay in her own bed in the bleak house, Eliza felt Rose’s absence sharply. The knowledge formed clearly and simply: Rose would never again come to her room at night, neither would Eliza go to Rose. They would no longer lie together and giggle and tell stories while the rest of the house slept. A special room was being prepared for the newlyweds in a distant wing of the house. A larger room, with a view of the cove, far more befitting a married couple. Eliza turned onto her side. In the darkness she glimpsed finally how unbearable it would be to know herself beneath the same roof as Rose and yet be unable to seek her out.

Next day, Eliza sought her aunt. Found her in the morning room, writing at the narrow desk. Aunt Adeline made no acknowledgement of Eliza’s presence, but Eliza spoke regardless.

‘I wondered, Aunt, whether certain items might not be spared from the attic.’

‘Items?’ said Aunt Adeline, without shifting her attention from the letter she was penning.

‘It is only a desk and chair that I require, and a bed—’

‘A bed?’ Dark eyes narrowed as her gaze swept sideways to meet Eliza’s.

In the clarity of night, Eliza had realised that it was better to make changes for oneself than try to mend holes torn by the decisions of others. ‘Now that Rose is married, it occurs to me that my presence might be less required in the house. That I might take up residence in the cottage.’

Eliza’s expectations were low: Aunt Adeline drew particular pleasure from the issuing of denials. She watched as her aunt signed her letter with a careful signature, then scratched sharp fingernails on her hound’s head. Her lips stretched into what Eliza took to be a smile, albeit slight, then she stood and rang the bell.

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c

The first night in her new abode Eliza sat by the upstairs window, watching the ocean swelling and subsiding like a great drop of mercury beneath the moon’s lambent light. Rose was across that sea, somewhere on the other side. Once more her cousin had travelled by ship and Eliza had been left behind. Some day, though, Eliza would set sail on her own journey. The magazine didn’t pay much for her fairytales, but if she kept writing and saved for a year, then surely she would be able to afford the voyage. And there was the brooch, of course, with its coloured gems.