The Forgotten Garden

by Kate Morton

  Nothing in Adeline’s experience had prepared her for such behaviour. What could have possessed the young woman to do such a thing? And where was she now? Adeline craned to see. Scanned the glistening water until finally a figure in white became visible, gliding to the surface near the great black rock. The girl pulled herself from the sea, dress glued to her body, water dripping, and without turning back climbed the rock and disappeared up a hidden path in the steep hill, towards a little cottage on the cliff top.

  Fighting to control her shallow breaths, Adeline turned her attention to the young man, for surely he was equally shocked? He had also watched the girl disappear and was now rowing the boat back to the cove. He pulled it out along the pebbles, picked up his shoes and started up the steps. He had a limp, she noticed, and a cane.

  The man passed so close by Adeline and yet he didn’t see her. He was whistling to himself, a tune Adeline didn’t know. A happy, jaunty tune, full of sunshine and salt. The antithesis of the gloomy Yorkshire she was so desperate to escape. This young man seemed twice as tall as the fellows back home and twice as bright.

  Standing alone on the cliff top, she was aware suddenly of the heat and weight of her travelling suit. The water below looked so cool; the shameful thought was hers before she could control it. What might it feel like to dive beneath the surface and emerge, dripping wet, as the young woman, as Georgiana, had done?

  Later, many years later, when Linus’s mother, the old witch, lay dying, she confessed her reason for selecting Adeline as Georgiana’s protégée. ‘I was looking for the dullest little dormouse I could find, with piety a great plus, in the hopes that some of it would rub off on my daughter. I didn’t suspect for a moment that my rare bird would take flight and the dormouse usurp her place. I suppose I should congratulate you. You won in the end, didn’t you, Lady Mountrachet?’

  And so she had. From humble beginnings, with hard work and determination, Adeline had risen in the world, higher than her parents could ever have imagined when they permitted her departure for an unknown village in Cornwall.

  And she had continued working hard, even after her marriage and assumption to the title Lady Mountrachet. She’d run a tight ship so that no matter the mud thrown, none would stick to her family, her grand home. And that was not about to change. Georgiana’s girl was here now, that could not be helped. It was up to Adeline to ensure that life at Blackhurst Manor went on as ever.

  She just needed to free herself from the niggling fear that by Eliza’s accommodation at Blackhurst, Rose would somehow be the loser . . .

  Adeline shook away the misgivings that continued to prick her skin and concentrated on regaining her composure. She had always been sensitive where Rose was concerned, that was what came of having a delicate child. Beside her, the dog, Askrigg, whimpered. He, too, had been unsettled all day. Adeline reached down and stroked the knobbled head. ‘Shhh,’ she said. ‘All will be well.’ She scratched his raised eyebrows. ‘I’ll see to that.’

  There was nothing to fear, for what risk could this interloper, this skinny girl with cropped hair and skin sallow from a life of poverty in London, possibly present to Adeline and her family? One needed only to glance at Eliza to see that she was no Georgiana, God be thanked. Why, perhaps these disquieting feelings weren’t fear at all, but relief. Relief at having faced her worst fears and had them dissipate. For with Eliza’s arrival came the additional comfort of knowing for certain that Georgiana was really gone, never to return. And in her place a waif with none of her mother’s peculiar power for bending people to her will without so much as trying.

  The door opened, admitting a gust to tussle with the fire.

  ‘Dinner is served, ma’am.’

  How Adeline despised Thomas, despised them all. For all their yes and no ma’am, dinner is served ma’am, she knew what they really thought of her, what they’d always thought of her.

  ‘The master?’ Her coldest, most authoritative voice.

  ‘Lord Mountrachet is on his way from the darkroom, ma’am.’

  The wretched darkroom, of course that’s where he was. She’d heard his carriage arrive on the driveway whilst she was enduring tea with Dr Matthews. Had kept one ear trained on the entrance hall waiting for her husband’s signature stride—heavy, light; heavy, light—but nothing. She should have guessed that he’d gone straight to his infernal darkroom.

  Thomas was still watching her, so Adeline screwed her composure to the sticking place. She’d sooner suffer at the hands of Lucifer himself than grant Thomas the satisfaction of noting marital disharmony. ‘Go,’ she said, with a wave of her wrist, ‘and see to it personally that the master’s boots are cleaned of the ghastly Scottish mud.’

  Linus was already seated when Adeline arrived at the table. He’d started on his soup and didn’t look up as she entered. He was too busy studying the black and white prints that were laid out over his end of the long table: moss and butterflies and bricks, the spoils of his recent trip.

  Seeing him, Adeline suffered a warm shot of air to the brain. What would others say if they knew that the Blackhurst dinner table was host to such behaviour? She glanced sideways at Thomas and the footman, each focused on the distant wall. But Adeline wasn’t fooled, she knew that behind their glazed expressions their minds were busy: judging, noting, preparing to tell their counterparts in other houses about the slipping standards at Blackhurst Manor.

  Adeline sat stiffly in her place, waited as the footman placed her soup in front of her. She took a small mouthful and burned her tongue. Watched as Linus, head bowed, continued his inspection of the photographic prints. The little patch at the very crown of his head was thinning. It looked like a sparrow had been at work, laying the first scanty threads for a new nest.

  ‘The girl is here?’ he said, without looking up.

  Adeline felt her skin prickle: the wretched girl. ‘She is.’

  ‘You’ve seen her?’

  ‘Of course. She has been accommodated upstairs.’

  Finally he lifted his head, took a sip of his wine. Then another. ‘And is she . . . is she like . . . ?’

  ‘No.’ Adeline’s voice was cold. ‘No, she is not.’ In her lap, her fists balled tight.

  Linus exhaled shortly, broke a piece of bread and began to eat it. He spoke with his mouth full, surely just to spite her. ‘Mansell said as much.’

  If anyone was to blame for the girl’s arrival it was Henry Mansell. Linus may have sought Georgiana’s return, but it was Mansell who’d kept the hope alive. The detective, with his thick moustache and fine pince-nez, had taken Linus’s money and sent him frequent reports. Every night Adeline had prayed that Mansell would fail, that Georgiana would stay away, that Linus would learn to let her go.

  ‘Your trip went well?’ said Adeline.

  No answer. His eyes were on the prints again.

  Adeline’s pride prevented another sideways glance at Thomas. She composed her features in a mask of contented calm and attempted another spoonful of soup, cooler by now. Linus’s rejection of Adeline was one thing—he’d begun his drift soon after their marriage—but his complete denial of Rose was something other. She was his child; his blood coursed through her veins, the blood of his noble family. How he could remain so detached, Adeline couldn’t fathom.

  ‘Dr Matthews has been again today,’ she said. ‘Another infection.’

  Linus looked up, eyes drawn with the familiar veil of disinterest. Ate another mouthful of bread.

  ‘Nothing too serious, thank goodness,’ said Adeline, buoyed by his lifted gaze. ‘No need for grave concern.’

  Linus swallowed his piece of bread. ‘I head for France tomorrow,’ he said blankly. ‘There’s a gate at Notre Dame . . .’ His sentence faded away. Commitment to keeping Adeline informed of his movements only went so far.

  Adeline’s left brow peaked slightly before she caught it and ironed it smooth. ‘Lovely,’ she said, winding her lips back into a tight smile; smothering the image, from nowhere, of Linus in
the little boat, camera pointed at a figure dressed all in white.

  27

  Tregenna, 1975

  There it was, the black rock of William Martin’s story. From the top of the cliff, Nell watched as white sea froth swirled about the base before rushing inside the cave and being sucked back out on the tide. It didn’t take much to imagine the cove as the site of thrashing storms and sinking ships and midnight smuggling raids.

  Across the cliff top a line of trees stood soldierlike, blocking Nell’s view of the house at Blackhurst, her mother’s house.

  She dug her hands deeper into the pockets of her coat. The wind was strong up here and it took all her strength to maintain balance. Her neck was numb, her cheeks simultaneously warm with chafing and cool with the breeze. She turned to follow the path of flattened grass back from the cliff edge. The road didn’t come this far and the way was narrow. Nell went cautiously: her knee was swollen and bruised after the rather impromptu entrance she’d made to the Blackhurst estate the previous day. She’d gone intending to deliver a letter saying that she was an antiques dealer visiting from Australia, and requesting that she might come and see the house at a time convenient to its owners. But as she’d stood by the tall metal gates, something had overcome her, a need every bit as strong as that to breathe. The next she knew she’d abandoned all dignity and was clambering gracelessly up the gate, seeking footholds in the decorative metal curls.

  Ridiculous behaviour for a woman half her age, but that was as it was. To stand so close to her family home, her own birthplace, and be denied as much as a glimpse was intolerable. It was only regrettable that Nell’s physical dexterity had been no match for her tenacity. She’d been embarrassed and grateful in equal measure when Julia Bennett chanced upon her trespass attempt. Thankfully the new owner of Blackhurst had accepted Nell’s explanation and invited her to take a look.

  It had been such an odd feeling, seeing inside the house. Strange, but not in the way she’d expected. Nell had been speechless with anticipation. She’d walked across the entrance hall, climbed the stairs, peered around doorways, telling herself over and over: your mother sat here, your mother walked here, your mother loved here; and she had waited for the enormity to hit her. For some wave of knowing to launch itself from the house’s walls and crash over her, for some deep part of herself to recognise that she was home. But no such knowingness had come. A foolish expectation, of course, and not like Nell at all. But there it was. Even the most pragmatic person fell victim at times to a longing for something other. At least she could now add texture to the memories she was trying to rebuild; imagined conversations would take place in real rooms.

  In the long shimmery grass Nell spied a stick just the right length. There was something immeasurably pleasant in walking with such a stick, it added a sense of industry to a person’s journey. Not to mention it would take some pressure off her swollen knee. She reached to pick it up and continued carefully down the slope, past the tall stone wall. There was a sign on the front gate, just above that which threatened trespassers. For Sale, it read, and then a phone number.

  This, then, was the cottage belonging to the Blackhurst estate, the one Julia Bennett had mentioned the day before, and that William Martin had wished burned to the ground, that had stood witness to things that ‘weren’t right’, whatever they might be. Nell leaned against the gate. There didn’t look to be much threatening about it. The garden was overgrown and the approaching dusk spilled into every corner, settled for the night in cool, dim pockets. A narrow path led towards the cottage before scurrying left at the front door and continuing its windy way through the garden. By the far wall stood a lonely statue plastered with green lichen. A small naked boy in the middle of a garden bed, wide eyes turned eternal on the cottage.

  No, not a garden bed, the boy stood in a fish pond.

  The correction came swiftly and certainly, surprising Nell so that she held tighter to the locked gate. How did she know?

  Then before her eyes the garden changed. Weeds and brambles, decades in the growing, receded. Leaves lifted from the ground, revealing paths and flowerbeds and a garden seat. Light was permitted entry once more, tossed dappled across the surface of the pond. And then she was in two places at once: a sixty-five-year-old woman with a sore knee, clinging to a rusty gate, and a little girl, long hair plaited down her back, sitting on a tuft of soft, cool grass, toes dangling in the pond . . .

  The plump fish bobbed to the surface again, golden belly shining, and the little girl laughed as he opened his mouth and nibbled her big toe. She loved the pond, had wanted one at home, but Mamma had been fearful that she’d fall in and drown. Mamma was often fearful, especially where the little girl was concerned. If Mamma knew where they were today, she’d be very cross. But Mamma didn’t know, she was having one of her bad days, was lying in the dark of her boudoir with a damp flannel on her forehead.

  A noise and the little girl looked up. The lady and Papa had come back outside. They stood for a moment and Papa said something to the lady, something the little girl couldn’t hear. He touched her arm and the lady started walking slowly forwards. She was watching the little girl in a strange way, a way that reminded her of the boy statue who stood by the pond all day, never so much as blinking. The lady smiled, a magical smile, and the little girl pulled her feet from the pond and waited, waited, wondering what the lady would say . . .

  A rook flew close overhead and with it time was restored. The brambles and creepers re-formed, leaves dropped, and the garden was once more a damp, moist place at the mercy of the dusk. The boy statue green with age, just as he should be.

  Nell was aware of an ache in her knuckles. She loosened her grip on the gate and watched the rook, broad wings beating the air as he soared towards the top of the Blackhurst trees. In the west a flock of clouds had been lit from behind and glowed pink in the darkening sky.

  Nell glanced dazedly at the cottage garden. The little girl was gone. Or was she?

  As Nell dug the stick in before her and started back towards the village, a peculiar sense of duality, not unwelcome, followed her all the way.

  28

  Blackhurst Manor, 1900

  Next morning, as pale wintry light rippled the glass of the nursery windows, Rose smoothed the ends of her long, dark hair. Mrs Hopkins had brushed it until it shone, just the way Rose liked, and it sat perfectly against the lace of her very finest dress, the one that Mamma had sent for from Paris. Rose was feeling tired and a little tetchy, but that was her wont. Little girls with weak constitutions weren’t expected to be happy all the time and Rose had no intention of performing against type. If she were honest, she rather liked having people walk on eggshells around her: it made her feel a little less miserable when others were similarly stifled. Besides, Rose had good reason for weariness today. She had lain awake all night, tossing and turning like the princess with her pea, only it hadn’t been a lump in the mattress that had kept her awake, rather Mamma’s astonishing news.

  After Mamma had left the bedroom, Rose had fallen to pondering the precise nature of the stain on her family’s good name, exactly what sort of drama had erupted after her Aunt Georgiana’s flight from home and family. All night she had wondered about her wicked aunt, and the thoughts had not evaporated with the dawn. During breakfast, and later while Mrs Hopkins dressed her, even now as she waited in the nursery, her mind was so engaged. She was watching the firelight flickering against the pale hearth bricks, wondering whether the dusky orange shadows resembled the door to hell through which her aunt must surely have passed, when suddenly—footsteps in the hallway!

  Rose jumped a little in her seat, smoothed the lamb’s wool blanket across her knees, and quickly arranged her face along the lines of placid perfection she’d learned from Mamma. Cherished the little thrill that worked its way down her spine. Oh, what an important task it was! The assignment of a protégée. Her very own wayward orphan to remake in her own image. Rose had never had a friend before, nor been all
owed a pet of any kind (Mamma had grave concerns about rabies). And despite Mamma’s words of caution, she harboured great hopes of this cousin of hers. She would be turned into a lady, would become a companion for Rose, someone to mop Rose’s brow when she was ill, stroke her hand when she was peevish, brush her hair when she was bothered. And she would be so grateful for Rose’s instruction, so happy to have been granted insight into the ways of ladies, that she would do exactly as Rose ordered. She would be the perfect friend—one who never argued, never behaved tiresomely, never so much as ventured a disagreeable opinion.

  The door opened, the fire sputtered crossly at the disturbance, and Mamma strode into the room, blue skirts swishing. There was an agitation to Mamma’s manner today that piqued Rose’s interest, something in the set of her chin that suggested her misgivings about the project were greater and more varied than she had revealed. ‘Good morning, Rose,’ she said rather curtly.

  ‘Good morning, Mamma.’

  ‘Allow me to present your cousin,’ the slightest pause, ‘Eliza.’

  And then, from somewhere behind Mamma’s skirts, was thrust forth the skinny sapling Rose had glimpsed from the window the day before.

  Rose couldn’t help it, she drew back a little into the safe arms of her chair. Her gaze slid from top to bottom, taking in the child’s short, shaggy hair, the ghastly attire (breeches!), her knobbly knees and scuffed boots. The cousin said nothing, merely stared in a wide-eyed way Rose found exceptionally rude. Mamma was right. This girl (for surely she wasn’t expected to think of her as a cousin!) had been deprived of even the most basic education on manners.

  Rose recaptured her flagging composure. ‘How do you do?’ Her tone was a little weak, but a nod from Mamma assured her that she had performed well. She awaited a return greeting, but none was forthcoming. Rose glanced at Mamma who indicated that she should push on regardless. ‘And tell me, Cousin Eliza,’ she tried again, ‘are you enjoying your time here with us?’