The Forgotten Garden (67 page)

‘I’ve found something.’ The tone of his voice was odd, difficult to read.

Electricity fired hot beneath Cassandra’s skin. ‘Something scary or something exciting?’

‘Exciting, I think.’

Cassandra went to kneel by him and peered into the hole. She followed the direction he was pointing.

Deep down amidst the moist soil, something had emerged from the muddy base. Something small, brown and smooth.

Christian reached down and eased the object free, withdrew a clay pot, the sort once used to store mustard and other preserves. He wiped the mud from its sides and passed it to Cassandra. ‘I think your garden just gave up its secret.’

The clay was cool on her fingers, the pot surprisingly heavy.

Cassandra’s heart thumped in her chest.

‘She must have buried it here,’ said Christian. ‘After the man abducted her in London, he must have brought her back to Blackhurst.’

But why would Eliza have buried the clay pot after taking such a risk to reclaim it? Why would she risk losing it again? And if she had time to bury the pot, why hadn’t she made contact with the ship?

Retrieved little Ivory?

The realisation was sudden. Something that had been there all along became clear. Cassandra inhaled sharply.

‘What?’

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‘I don’t think she buried the pot,’ Cassandra whispered.

‘What do you mean? Who did?’

‘No one, I mean, I think the pot was buried with her.’ And for over ninety years she had lain here, waiting for someone to find her. For Cassandra to find her and unravel her secret.

Christian stared into the hole, eyes wide. He nodded slowly. ‘That would explain why she didn’t go back for Ivory, for Nell.’

‘She couldn’t, she was here all along.’

‘But who buried her? The man who abducted her? Her aunt or uncle?’

Cassandra shook her head. ‘I don’t know. One thing’s for sure, though, whoever it was didn’t intend anyone to know about it. There’s no gravestone, nothing at all to mark the spot. They wanted Eliza to disappear, the truth about her death to remain hidden forever. Forgotten, just like her garden.’

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50

Blackhurst Manor, 1913

Blackhurst Manor, Cornwall, 1913

Adeline turned from the fireplace, inhaled suddenly so that her waist gathered tightly. ‘What do you mean, things didn’t go to plan?’

Night had fallen and the surrounding woods were converging upon the house. Shadows hung in the corners of the room, candlelight teasing their cold edges.

Mr Mansell straightened his pince-nez. ‘There was a fall. She threw herself from the carriage. The horses lost control.’

‘A physician,’ said Linus. ‘We must telephone a physician.’

‘A physician will be of no assistance.’ Mansell’s steady voice. ‘She is already dead.’

Adeline gasped. ‘What?’

‘Dead,’ he said again. ‘The woman, your niece, is dead.’

Adeline closed her eyes and her knees buckled. The world was spinning; she was weightless, painless, free. How was it that such burden, such weight, could lift away so swiftly? That one fell swoop could rid her of the old and constant foe, Georgiana’s legacy?

Adeline cared not. Her prayers had been answered, the world had righted itself. The girl was dead. Gone. That was all that mattered.

For the first time since Rose’s death she could breathe. Warm tendrils of gladness infused her every vein. ‘Where?’ she heard herself say.

‘Where is she?’

‘In the carriage—’

‘You brought her here?’

‘The girl . . .’ Linus’s voice drifted from the armchair in which he was enfolded. His breath was quick and light. ‘Where is the little girl with the flame-red hair?’

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‘The woman uttered a few words before she fell. She was groggy and the words soft, but she spoke about a boat, a ship. She was agitated, concerned to get back in time for its departure.’

‘Go,’ said Adeline sharply. ‘Wait by the carriage. I shall make arrangements, then call for you.’

Mansell nodded swiftly and left, taking the room’s little warmth with him.

‘What of the child?’ Linus bleated.

Adeline ignored him, her mind busy racing towards solutions.

Naturally, none of the servants could know. As far as they were concerned, Eliza had left Blackhurst when she learned that Rose and Nathaniel were relocating to New York. It was a blessing that the girl had spoken often of her desire to travel.

‘What of the child?’ said Linus again. His fingers quivered about his collar. ‘Mansell must find her, find the ship. We must have her back, the little girl must be found.’

Adeline swallowed a lump of thick distaste as she ran her gaze over his crumpled form. ‘Why?’ she said, skin turning cold. ‘Why must she be found? What is she to either of us?’ Her voice was low as she leaned close. ‘Don’t you see? We have been freed.’

‘She is our granddaughter.’

‘But she is not of us.’

‘She is of me.’

Adeline ignored the pale utterance. There was no need to comment upon such sentimentality. Not now that they were finally safe. She turned on her heel and paced the rug. ‘We will tell people that the child was found on the estate only to be stricken with scarlet fever. It will not be questioned, they already believe her ill in bed. We will instruct the servants that I alone shall tend her, that Rose would have wished it that way. Then after a time, when every appearance of a proper struggle against the illness has been made, we will hold a funeral service.’

And while Ivory was receiving the burial befitting a beloved granddaughter, Adeline would ensure that Eliza was disposed of quickly and invisibly. She would not be buried in the family cemetery, that 481

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much was certain. The blessed soil that surrounded Rose would not be so polluted. She must be buried where no one would ever find her.

Where no one would ever think to look.

c

The following morning, Adeline had Davies show her through the maze. Ghastly damp place. The smell of musty undergrowth that never saw the sun pressed in on Adeline from all sides. Her black mourning skirts swished along the raked ground, fallen leaves catching like burrs in the hem. She resembled a great black bird, her feathers gathered around her to ward off the chill winter of Rose’s death.

When they finally arrived at the hidden garden, Adeline brushed Davies aside and swept along the narrow path. Clusters of tiny birds took flight when she passed, twittering madly as they fled their hidden branches. She went as quickly as was properly permitted, anxious to be free of this bewitched place and the heady, fecund fragrance that made her head swoon.

At the far end of the garden Adeline stopped.

A sharp smile thinned her lips. It was just as she had hoped.

A cool shiver and she turned suddenly on her heels. ‘I have seen enough,’ she said. ‘My granddaughter is gravely ill and I must return to the house.’

Davies held her gaze a fraction of a second too long and a shiver of trepidation slipped down her spine. Adeline quashed it. What could he possibly know of the deception she planned? ‘Take me back now.’

As she followed his large, lumbering form through the maze, Adeline kept her distance. She had one hand in the pocket of her dress, fingertips emerging at regular intervals to drop tiny white pebbles from Ivory’s collection, the little jar in the nursery.

c

The afternoon dragged, the night-stretched hours passed, and finally it was midnight. Adeline rose from her bed, pulled on her dress and laced up her boots. Tiptoed along the hall, down the stairs and out into the night.

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The moon was full and she went quickly across the open lawn, keeping to the shadowy cool patches by the trees and bushes. The maze gate was closed, but Adeline soon had the clasp undone. She slipped inside and smiled to herself when she saw the first little stone, glistening like silver.

From pebble to pebble she went, until finally she reached the second gate, entrance to the hidden garden.

The garden hummed within its tall stone walls. Moonlight turned the leaves to silver and whispering breezes made them jangle lightly, like pieces of fine metal. A quivering harp string.

Adeline had the odd sense that she was being watched by a silent observer. She gazed about the moon-whitened landscape, drew breath when she noticed a pair of wide eyes in the fork of a nearby tree. An instant and her mind filled in the blanks, the feathers of the owl, his round body and head, sharp beak.

And yet she felt little better. There was something strange in the bird’s stare. A worldliness. Those eyes, watching, judging.

She looked away, refused to grant a mere bird the power to unsettle her.

Noise then, coming from the direction of the cottage. Adeline crouched by the garden seat and watched as two night-draped figures came into view. Mansell she expected, but who was it he brought with him?

The figures walked slowly, something large strung between them.

They laid it down on the other side of the wall, then one of the men stepped across the hole and into the hidden garden.

A sizzle as Mansell struck a match, then a flash of warm light: an orange heart haloed by blue. He held it to the lantern wick and turned the dial so the light expanded.

Adeline stood tall and made her approach.

‘Good evening, Lady Mountrachet,’ said Mansell.

She pointed at the second man and spoke with a chill voice. ‘Who is this?’

‘Slocombe,’ said Mansell. ‘My coachman.’

‘Why is he here?’

‘The cliff is steep, the parcel heavy.’ He blinked at Adeline, the lantern flame reflected in the glass of his pince-nez. ‘He can be trusted 483

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not to speak.’ He swung the lantern sideways and the bottom of Slocombe’s face came into view. The lower jaw, horribly disfigured, lumpen nodules and pocked skin where a mouth should be.

As they started digging, deepening the hole that the workmen had already made, Adeline’s attention drifted to the dark shroud on the ground beneath the apple tree. Finally, the girl was to be relegated to the earth. She would disappear and be forgotten: it would be as if she’d never existed. And in time people would forget that she had.

Adeline closed her eyes, blocked out the noise of the wretched birds who had started to twitter keenly, the leaves that were rustling urgently now. She listened instead for the blessed sound of loose dirt falling onto the solid surface beneath. It would soon be over. The girl was gone and Adeline could breathe—

The air moved, cool on her face. Adeline’s eyelids flew open.

A dark shape coming towards her, right by her head.

A bird? A bat?

Dark wings beating the night sky.

Adeline stepped back.

A sudden sting and her blood was cold. Hot. Cold again.

As the owl coasted away, over the wall, Adeline’s palm began to throb.

She must have exclaimed, for Mansell paused his shovelling to swing the lantern near. In the dancing yellow light, Adeline saw that a long thorny rose tendril had wrested its way free from the flowerbed to clutch at her. Its thick thorn was lodged in her palm.

With her free hand she plucked it from her skin. A bead of blood rose to the surface, a perfect, glistening droplet.

Adeline withdrew a handkerchief from her sleeve. She pressed it to the wound and watched as the red stain seeped through.

It was only a thorn. Never mind that her blood was ice beneath her skin, the wound would heal and all would be well.

But that rose bush would be the first item removed when Adeline ordered the garden razed.

What business had a rose now in the Blackhurst gardens?

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51

Tregenna, 2005

Tregenna, Cornwall, 2005

As Cassandra stared into the deep hole, into Eliza’s grave, she felt surrounded by a strange calm. It was as if with the discovery the garden had breathed a great sigh of relief: the birds were quieter, the leaves had stopped rustling, the curious restlessness had gone. The long-forgotten secret the garden had been forced to keep had now been told.

Christian’s gentle voice, as if from somewhere distant: ‘Well, aren’t you going to open it?’

The clay pot, heavy now in her hands. Cassandra ran her fingers along the old wax that sealed the rim. She glanced at Christian, who nodded encouragement, then she pressed and twisted, snapped the seal so that the lid could be prised open.

There were three items inside: a leather pouch, a swatch of red-gold hair and a brooch.

The leather pouch contained two old coins, a pale yellow colour, stamped with the familiar jowly profile of Queen Victoria. The dates were 1897 and 1900.

The hair was tied with a piece of twine and coiled like a snail’s shell to fit inside the pot. Years of containment had left it smooth and soft, very fine. Cassandra wondered whose it was, then remembered the entry in Rose’s early notebook, written when Eliza first came to Blackhurst. A litany of complaint about the little girl whom Rose described as ‘little better than a savage’. The little girl whose hair had been cut off as short and jagged as a boy’s.

The brooch Cassandra turned to last. It was round and sat neatly in the palm of her hand. The border was ornate, decorated with gems, 485

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while the centre contained a pattern, a little like tapestry. But it wasn’t tapestry. Cassandra had worked long enough amongst antiques to know what this brooch was. She turned it over and ran her fingertip over the engraving on the back. For Georgiana Mountrachet, read the tiny print, on the occasion of her sixteenth birthday. Past. Future. Family.