The Forgotten Garden (60 page)

‘I have been sent once more by the Queen of the
land,’ said the handmaiden. ‘She seeks your assistance
in healing her daughter’s ill health. Your duty is to serve
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your kingdom; if you fail to relinquish the egg, the Queen
says you will be responsible for the Princess’s eternal
sorrow and the kingdom will be cast into an endless
winter of grief.’

The maiden of the cottage sat still and silent for a long
time. Then she nodded slowly. ‘To spare the Princess and to
spare the kingdom, I will relinquish the Golden Egg.’

The handmaiden shivered as the dark woods grew
quiet and an ill wind slipped beneath the door to worry
the hearth fire. ‘But there is nothing more important
than protecting your birthright,’ she said. ‘It is your duty
to the kingdom.’

The maiden smiled. ‘But what use is such duty if
my actions sink the kingdom into an endless winter? An
endless winter will freeze the land—there will be no birds
or animals or crops. It is because of my duty that I now
relinquish the Golden Egg.’

The handmaiden looked sadly at the maiden. ‘But
there is naught more important than protecting your
birthright. The egg is a part of you, yours to protect.’

But the maiden had already taken a large golden
key from around her neck and was fitting it in the lock
of the special door. As she turned it, there was a groan
from deep within the floor of the cottage, a settling of the
hearth stones, a sigh from the ceiling rafters. Light faded
in the cottage as a glow appeared from inside the secret
room. The maiden disappeared then appeared once more,
holding in her hands a shrouded object, so precious that
the air around it seemed to hum.

The maiden walked the handmaiden out of the cottage
and when the two reached the edge of the clearing,
she handed over her birthright. When she turned back
towards her cottage, she saw that it was darker. Light
had disappeared, unable suddenly to penetrate the thick
surrounding woods. Inside, the rooms grew cold, no longer
warmed from within by the glow of the Golden Egg.

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Over time, the animals stopped coming and the birds
flew away, and the maiden found that she had no purpose.

She forgot how to spin, her voice faded to a whisper and,
finally, she felt her limbs grow stiff and heavy, immobile.

Until one day she realised that a layer of dust had coated
the cottage and her own frozen form. She allowed her
eyes to close, and felt herself falling through the cold
and the silence.

Some seasons later, the Princess of the kingdom
was riding with her handmaiden on the edge of the dark
woods. Though once she had been very ill, the Princess
had recovered miraculously and was now married to a
fine prince. She lived a full and happy life: walked and
danced and sang, and enjoyed all the vast riches of health.

They had a dear baby girl who was much loved and ate
pure honey and drank the dew from rose petals and had
beautiful butterflies for playthings.

As the Princess and her handmaiden rode by the dark
woods on this day the Princess felt an odd compulsion to
enter the woods themselves. She ignored the handmaiden’s
protestations and steered her horse across the border
and into the cold, dark forest. All was silent in the woods,
neither bird nor beast nor breeze stirred the still, cool air.

The horses’ hooves made the only sound.

By and by, they came across a clearing in which a tiny
cottage had been devoured by foliage. ‘Why, what a dear
little house,’ said the Princess. ‘I wonder who lives here.’

The handmaiden turned her face away, shivering
against the strange chill of the clearing. ‘No one, my
Princess. Not any more. The kingdom thrives, but there is
no life in the dark woods.’

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45

Cliff Cottage, 1913

Cliff Cottage, Cornwall,

Eliza knew she would miss this coastline, this sea, when she left.

Though she would come to know another, it would be different.

Other birds and other plants, waves whispering their stories in foreign tongues. Yet it was time. She’d waited long enough and with little cause.

What was done was done and no matter her present feeling, the remorse that crept upon her in the dark, held sleep at bay while she tossed and turned and cursed her part in the deception, she had little choice but to move forward.

Eliza went the final way down the narrow stone steps to the pier.

One fisherman was still loading up for the day’s work, stacking woven baskets and rolls of line into his boat. As she drew closer, the lean, muscular limbs and sun-brushed features came into focus, and Eliza realised it was William, Mary’s brother. Youngest in a long line of Cornish fishermen, he’d distinguished himself amongst a host of the brave and the foolhardy so that tales of his feats spread like sea grass along the coast.

He and Eliza had once enjoyed a friendship and he had kept her in thrall with his wild stories of life on the sea, but a cool distance had grown between them for some years now. Ever since Will had witnessed that which he should not, had challenged Eliza and insisted she explain the inexplicable. It had been a long time since they’d spoken and Eliza had missed his company. Knowledge that she would soon be leaving Tregenna filled her with determination to put the past behind her, and with a steady exhalation she made her approach. ‘You’re late this morning, Will.’

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He looked up, straightened his cap. A blush spread across his weather-hardened cheeks and he answered stiffly. ‘And you’re early.’

‘I’m getting a head start on the day.’ Eliza was by the boat now.

Water lapped gently against its side and the air was thick with brine.

‘Any word from Mary?’

‘Not since last week. She’s still happy there in Polperro, quite the butcher’s wife she is too.’

Eliza smiled. It was a genuine pleasure to hear that Mary was well.

After all she had been through, she deserved nothing less. ‘That is good news, Will. I must write her a letter this afternoon.’

William frowned a little. His gaze fell to his boots as he stubbed the rock wall of the pier.

‘What is it?’ said Eliza. ‘Have I said something odd?’

William shooed away a pair of greedy gulls, swooping for his bait.

‘Will?’

He glanced sideways at Eliza. ‘Nothing odd, Miss Eliza, only—I must say, while I’m glad to see you well, I’m a little surprised.’

‘Why is that?’

‘We were all sorry to hear the news.’ He lifted his chin and scratched the whiskers that lined his sharp jaw. ‘About Mr and Mrs Walker, about them . . . leaving us.’

‘New York, yes. They leave next month.’ Nathaniel had been the one to tell Eliza. He’d come to see her in the cottage again, Ivory in tow once more. It was a rainy afternoon and thus the child had been brought inside to wait. She’d gone upstairs to Eliza’s room, which was just as well. When Nathaniel told Eliza of their plans, his and Rose’s, to start afresh on the other side of the Atlantic, she had been angry. She’d felt abandoned, used. Even more so than she had before. At the thought of Rose and Nathaniel in New York, the cottage had suddenly seemed like the most desolate place in the world; Eliza’s life, the most desolate a person could lead.

Soon after Nathaniel had left, Eliza had remembered Mother’s advice, that she was to rescue herself, and she had decided the time had come to set her own plans in train. She’d booked passage on a ship that would take her on her own adventure, far from Blackhurst and the life she’d led in the cottage. She’d written, too, to Mrs Swindell, said that she was coming to London in the next month and wondered 431

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whether she might pay a visit. She hadn’t mentioned Mother’s brooch—

God willing, it was still stowed safely in the clay pot inside the disused chimney—but she intended to get it back.

And with Mother’s legacy she would begin a new life, all her own.

William cleared his throat.

‘What is it, Will? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘Nothing like that, Miss Eliza. It’s just . . .’ His blue eyes scanned her own. The sun was full and heavy on the horizon now and he was forced to squint. ‘Is it possible you don’t know?’

‘Don’t know what?’ She shrugged lightly.

‘Of Mr and Mrs Walker . . . the train from Carlisle.’

Eliza nodded. ‘They’ve been in Carlisle these past days. Due back tomorrow.’

William’s lips settled in a sombre line. ‘They’re still due back tomorrow, Miss Eliza, only not in the way you think.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Word’s all over the village, in the newspapers. To think nobody told you. I’d have come myself only . . .’ He took her hands, an unexpected gesture, and one which set her heart to racing as all unexpected shows of closeness were wont to do. ‘There was an accident, Miss Eliza. One train hit into another. Some of the passengers—Mr and Mrs Walker . . .’ he exhaled, met her gaze. ‘I’m afraid they were both killed, Miss Eliza. Up at a place called Ais Gill.’

He continued, but Eliza wasn’t listening. Inside her head a loud red light had spread out over everything, so that all sensation, all noise, all thoughts were blocked. She closed her eyes and was falling, blindfolded, down a deep shaft without end.

c

It was all Adeline could do to keep breathing. Grief so thick it blackened her lungs. The news had come by telephone late Tuesday night. Linus had been locked in the darkroom so Daisy had been sent to summon Lady Mountrachet to the receiver. A policeman on the other end, voice crackly with the miles of air that separated Cornwall from Cumberland, had delivered the crushing blow.

Adeline had fainted. At least, she presumed that must be what had happened, for her next memory was of waking in her bed, a heavy 432

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weight upon her chest. A split second of confusion and then she’d remembered; the horror had been born afresh.

It was as well there was a funeral to arrange, procedures to be followed, or else Adeline might not have resurfaced. For never mind that her heart had been hollowed out, leaving but a dry and worthless husk, there were certain things expected of her. As the grieving mother she could not be seen to shirk her responsibilities. She owed it to Rose, to her dearest one.

‘Daisy.’ Her voice was raw. ‘Fetch some writing paper. I need to prepare a list.’

As Daisy hurried from the dim room, Adeline began her list mentally. The Churchills should be invited of course, Lord and Lady Huxley. The Astors, the Heusers . . . Nathaniel’s people she would inform later. Lord knew, Adeline hadn’t the strength to incorporate their type at Rose’s funeral.

Neither would the child be permitted to attend: such a solemn occasion was no place for one of her nature. Would that she had been on the train with her parents, that the beginnings of a cold had not kept her home in bed. For what was Adeline to do with the girl? The last thing she needed was a constant reminder that Rose was gone.

She stared out of the window towards the cove. The line of trees, the sea beyond. Stretching forever and forever and forever.

Adeline refused to let her eyes shift left. The cottage was hidden from view, but knowing it was there was enough. Its horrid pull exerted itself, brought a chill to her blood.

One thing was certain. Eliza would not be told, not until after the funeral. There was no way Adeline could bear to see that girl alive and well when Rose was not.

c

Three days later, while Adeline and Linus and the servants gathered at the cemetery on the far side of the estate, Eliza took a last walk around the cottage. She had already sent a case ahead to the port so there was little for her to carry. Just a small travelling bag with her notebook and some personal items. The train left Tregenna at midday and Davies, who was collecting a shipment of new plants from the London train, 433

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had offered to drive her to the station. He was the only one she’d told that she was going.

Eliza checked her small pocket watch. There was time for one last visit to the hidden garden. She had saved the garden until last, purposely limited the time she would have available to spend there, for fear if she granted longer she would be unable ever to extricate herself.

But so would it be. So must it be.

Eliza went around the path and made her way towards the entrance.

Where once the southern door had stood, now was only an open wound, a hole in the ground and a stack of huge sandstone blocks awaiting use.

It had happened during the week. Eliza had been weeding when she’d been surprised by a pair of burly workmen making their way through from the front of the cottage. Her first thought was that they were lost, then she realised the absurdity of such a notion. People didn’t stumble upon the cottage accidentally.

‘Lady Mountrachet sent us,’ the taller of the men said.

Eliza stood, wiping her hands on her skirt. She said nothing as she waited for him to continue.

‘She says this door wants removing.’

‘Does it now,’ said Eliza. ‘Funny, it’s never said as much to me.’

The smaller man sniggered, the tall man looked sheepish.

‘And why is the door being removed?’ said Eliza. ‘Is there another replacing it?’

‘We’re to brick up the hole,’ said the taller man. ‘Lady Mountrachet says there won’t be access needed from the cottage no more. We’re to dig a hole and lay new foundations.’

Of course. Eliza should have expected there would be repercussions after her journey through the maze a fortnight before. When all was done and decided four years ago, the rules had been clearly set out.

Mary had been given funds to start afresh in Polperro and Eliza had been forbidden from crossing beyond the hidden garden and into the maze. Yet finally she had been unable to resist.

It was just as well Eliza would be at the cottage no longer. Without access to her garden she didn’t think she could bear life at Blackhurst.

Certainly not now that Rose was gone.

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She stepped her way over the rubble where the door had once stood, around the edge of the hole, and crossed into the hidden garden.

The scent of jasmine was still strong, and the apple tree was fruiting.

The creepers had made their way right across the top of the garden and plaited themselves together to form a leafy canopy.

Davies would look in, she knew that, but it wouldn’t be the same.

He had sufficient duties to keep him busy, and the garden took so much of her time and love. ‘What will become of you?’ said Eliza softly.

She looked at the apple tree and a sharp pain lodged within her chest, as if some part of her heart had been removed. She remembered the day she had planted the tree with Rose. So much hope they’d had then, so much faith that all would turn out well. Eliza couldn’t bear even to contemplate that Rose was no longer in the world.

Something caught Eliza’s eye then. A piece of fabric protruding from beneath the foliage of the apple tree. Had she left a handkerchief here last time she came? She knelt down and peered through the leaves.

There was a little girl, Rose’s little girl, fast asleep on the soft grass.

As if by the lifting of some enchantment, the child stirred. Blinked open her eyes until her wide gaze fixed on Eliza.

She didn’t jump or startle or behave in any way that might have been expected from a child caught unawares by an adult not well known to them. She smiled, comfortably. Then yawned. Then crawled out from underneath the branch.

‘Hello,’ she said, standing before Eliza.

Eliza stared at her, surprised and pleased by the girl’s utter disregard for the stifling dictates of manners. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Reading.’

Eliza’s brows lifted, the girl was not yet four. ‘You can read?’

Brief hesitation, then a nod.

‘Show me.’

The little girl dropped to her hands and knees and scurried beneath the apple tree branch. Withdrew her own copy of Eliza’s fairytales. The copy Eliza had taken through the maze. She opened the book and launched into a perfect rendition of ‘The Crone’s Eyes’, tracing her finger earnestly along the text.

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Eliza concealed a smile as she noticed the fingertip and the voice were not in step. Remembered her own childhood ability to memorise favourite stories. ‘And why are you here?’ she said.

The girl paused in her reading. ‘Everybody else has gone away.

I saw them from the window, shiny black carriages crawling down the driveway like a line of busy ants. And I didn’t want to be alone in the house. So I came here. I like it here, best of all. In your garden.’ Her gaze flickered towards the ground. She knew that she had crossed a line.

‘Do you know who I am?’ Eliza said.

‘You’re the Authoress.’

Eliza smiled slightly.

The little girl grew bolder: tilted her head to one side so that her long plait spilled over her shoulder. ‘Why are you sad?’

‘Because I am saying goodbye.’

‘To what?’

‘To my garden. To my old life.’ There was an intensity to the little girl’s gaze that Eliza found bewitching. ‘I am going on an adventure.

Do you like adventures?’

The little girl nodded. ‘I’m going on an adventure soon, too, with Mamma and Papa. We’re going to New York on a giant ship, bigger even than Captain Ahab’s.’

‘New York?’ Eliza faltered. Was it possible the little girl didn’t know that her parents were dead?

‘We’re going across the sea and Grandmamma and Grandpapa won’t be coming with us. Nor the horrid broken dolly.’

Was that the point from which there was no return? As Eliza met the earnest eyes of a little girl who didn’t know that her parents were dead, who faced a life with Aunt Adeline and Uncle Linus as guardians?

Later, when Eliza looked back, it would seem that no decision had been made, rather that the decision had already been made for her. By some strange process of alchemy, Eliza had known instantly and certainly that the girl could not be left alone at Blackhurst.

She held out her hand, observed her own palm extended towards the girl, as if it knew precisely what it did. She pressed her lips together and found her voice. ‘I have heard about your adventure. In fact, I have been sent to collect you.’ The words came easily now. As if they were 436

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part of a plan made long ago, as if they were truth. ‘I am going to take you some of the way.’

The little girl blinked.

‘It’s all right,’ Eliza said. ‘Come. Take my hand. We’re going to go a special way, a secret way that no one knows but us.’

‘Will my mamma be there when we get to the place we’re going?’

‘Yes,’ said Eliza, without flinching. ‘Your mamma will be there.’

The little girl considered this. Nodded her head approvingly. Sharp little chin with a dimple in its centre. ‘I must bring my book.’

c

Adeline felt the edges of her mind unfurl. It had been midafternoon before the alarm was raised. Daisy—stupid girl—had come knocking at Adeline’s boudoir door, hedging her words, shifting sheepishly from one foot to the other, wondering whether perhaps the mistress had seen Miss Ivory.

Her granddaughter was a known wanderer, so Adeline’s first instinct had been irritation. Just like the wicked girl to choose her timing thus.

Today of all days, having buried her darling Rose, consigned her child to the earth, now to have to mount a search. It was all Adeline could do not to shriek and curse.

The servants had been enlisted, sent throughout the house to check the usual nooks, but all to no avail. When an hour had been fruitlessly exhausted, Adeline had been forced to contemplate the possibility that Ivory had gone further afield. Adeline, and Rose too, had warned the child against the cove and other areas of the estate, but obedience had not come easily for Ivory as it had for Rose. There was a wilfulness about her, a deplorable trait that Rose had indulged by eschewing punishment. But Adeline was not so lenient, and when the girl was found she would be made to see the error of her ways; she would not offend so brazenly again.