by Kate Morton
Some years after, the youngest son of a woodcutter came to the forest from a distant land. While he was working, there arrived upon the breeze a melody so glorious that he stopped mid-stroke and remained as still as if he had been turned to stone, listening to every note. Unable to help himself, he laid down his axe and went in search of the bird that could sing so sadly and so splendidly. As he made his way through the overgrown forest, birds and beasts appeared to help him and the woodcutter’s son made sure to thank them, for he was a gentle soul who could communicate with all in nature. He climbed through brambles, ran across fields, scaled mountains, slept at night in hollow trees, ate only fruits and nuts, until finally he arrived at the castle walls.
‘How came you into this forsaken land?’ said the guard.
‘I followed the song of your beautiful bird.’
‘Turn back if you value your life,’ said the guard. ‘For all in this kingdom is cursed, and whosoever touches the sad bird’s cage shall be lost.’
‘I have nothing to love nor lose,’ said the woodcutter’s son. ‘And I must see for myself the source of such glorious singing.’
It so happened that, just in that instant, the princess bird attained her eighteenth year and she began to sing the saddest and most beautiful song of all, lamenting the loss of her youth and her freedom.
The guard stood aside, and the young man crossed into the castle and climbed the stairs to the highest turret.
When the woodcutter’s son saw the trapped bird, his heart was full of care, for he liked to see neither bird nor beast imprisoned. He looked beyond the gold cage and saw only the bird inside. He reached for the cage door and, at his touch, it sprang open and the bird was set free.
At that moment, the bird was transformed into a beautiful woman with long hair that swirled about her, and a crown of glistening seashells upon her head. Birds came from distant trees and from their beaks showered her with pieces of shining flint that clung to her so that she was attired all in silver. Animals returned to the kingdom, and crops and flowers began instantly to grow from the barren soil.
The following day, as the sun rose brilliant over the ocean, a thundering sound could be heard, and six enchanted horses appeared at the castle gates dragging a golden carriage behind. The Fairy Queen stepped from inside and all her subjects bowed down. Following her was the fairy from the sea cave, who had proved herself most certainly good, by doing her true Queen’s bidding and ensuring that the Princess Rosalind was ready when her destiny came for her.
Under the Fairy Queen’s watchful eye, the Princess Rosalind and the woodcutter’s son were married, and the joy of the young couple was so great that magic returned to the land and all in Fairyland were thenceforward free and happy.
Excepting, of course, the Queen, who was nowhere to be found. In her place was a huge ugly bird with a cry so horrid it made the blood curdle of all who heard it. It was chased from the land and flew to a distant wood, where it was killed and eaten by the King, who had been driven to madness and despair by his wicked and unfruitful hunt for the Fairy Queen.
31
Blackhurst Manor, 1907
There was a blunt knock at the door and Eliza hid ‘The Changeling’ behind her back. Felt her cheeks flush with anticipation.
Mary hurried in, curls messier than ever. Her hair always gave fair indication of her mood and Eliza was left in little doubt that the kitchen was abuzz with birthday preparations.
‘Mary! I was expecting Rose.’
‘Miss Eliza.’ Mary pressed her lips together. An unusually prim gesture and one that made Eliza laugh. ‘The master wishes to see you, Miss.’
‘My uncle wishes to see me?’ Though she had roamed far and wide across the estate, in the years she’d been at Blackhurst Eliza had barely encountered her uncle. He was a shadowy figure who spent most of his time touring the Continent in search of bugs, the images of which he stole for his darkroom.
‘Come now, Miss Eliza,’ said Mary. ‘Look sharp.’
Mary was more serious than Eliza had ever seen her. She went quickly along the hall and down the narrow back stairs, and Eliza had to scurry to keep up. At the bottom, instead of turning left to the main part of the house, Mary turned right and hurried along a quiet passageway, dim for having fewer whispering lanterns than elsewhere in the house. There were no pictures either, Eliza noticed; indeed, little attempt at decoration had been made along the cool, dark walls.
When they reached the furthest door, Mary stopped. As she was about to open it she glanced over her shoulder and gave Eliza’s hand a slight squeeze, completely unexpected.
Before Eliza could ask what the matter was, the door was open and Mary was announcing her.
‘Miss Eliza, your Lordship.’
And then she was gone and Eliza was alone on the threshold to her uncle’s lair, subject to a most peculiar smell.
He was seated behind a large wooden desk at the back of the room.
‘You wished to see me, Uncle?’ The door closed behind her.
Uncle Linus peered over his glasses. Once again Eliza found herself wondering that this blotchy old man could be related to her beautiful mother. The tip of his pale tongue appeared between his lips. ‘I hear you have performed well in the schoolroom during the years you’ve been at Blackhurst.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Eliza.
‘And according to my man, Davies, you are fond of the gardens.’
‘Yes, Uncle.’ From her first morning at Blackhurst, Eliza had been enamoured of the estate. Along with the passageways that ran beneath the cliffs, she knew the cleared part of the maze and the wider garden as well as she’d once known the foggy streets of London. And no matter how far and wide she explored, the garden grew and changed with each season.
‘It is within our family. Your mother . . .’ His voice cracked. ‘Your mother when she was a girl had a great fondness for the garden.’
Eliza tried to accord this information with her own memories of Mother. Through the tunnel of time came fragmented images: Mother in the windowless room above Mrs Swindell’s shop; a small pot with a fragrant herb. It hadn’t lasted long, there was little that could survive in such dim conditions.
‘Come closer, child,’ the uncle said, beckoning with his hand. ‘Come into the light that I might see you.’
Eliza went to the other side of the desk so that she was standing by his knees. The room’s smell was stronger now, as if it were coming from her uncle himself.
He reached out a hand, trembling slightly, and caressed the golden ends of Eliza’s long red hair. Lightly, so lightly. Withdrew his hand, as if scorched.
He shuddered.
‘Are you unwell, Uncle? Should I fetch someone to help?’
‘No,’ he answered quickly. ‘No.’ He reached out to stroke her hair once more, closed his eyes. Eliza was so near that she could see the eyeballs moving beneath his lids, could hear the tiny clicking noises in his throat. ‘We searched so long, so wide, to bring your mother . . . to bring our Georgiana home.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Mary had told Eliza as much. About Uncle Linus’s attachment to his younger sister, his heartbreak when she left, his frequent trips to London. The searching that had consumed his youth and his little good humour, the eagerness with which he left Blackhurst each time, the inevitable disappointment of his return. The way he would sit alone in the darkroom, drinking sherry, refusing any counsel, even that of Aunt Adeline, until Mr Mansell would appear once more with a new lead.
‘We were too late.’ He was stroking harder now, wrapping Eliza’s long hair around his fingers, this way and that, like ribbon. It was pulling, and Eliza had to hold the edge of the desk to save herself from stumbling. She was transfixed by his face, it was that of the wounded fairytale king whose subjects have all deserted him. ‘I was too late. But you are here now. By God’s grace, I have been given another chance.’
‘Uncle?’
Her uncle’s hand dropped to his lap and his eyelids peeled open. He poin
ted to a little bench on the far wall, shrouded in white muslin cloth. ‘Sit,’ he said.
Eliza blinked at him.
‘Sit.’ He limped to a black tripod by the wall. ‘I wish to take your photograph.’
Eliza had never had a photograph taken, had no interest in having one taken now. Just as she opened her mouth to tell him so, the door opened.
‘The birthday luncheon—’ Aunt Adeline’s words ended with a shrill rise. Her thin hand leapt to her chest. ‘Eliza!’ The word was passenger on a desperate exhalation. ‘Whatever are you thinking, girl? Upstairs at once. Rose is asking for you.’
Eliza hurried towards the door.
‘And stop bothering your uncle,’ hissed Aunt Adeline as Eliza passed her. ‘Can’t you see he’s exhausted from his travels?’
And so the day had come. Adeline hadn’t known what form it would take, but the threat had always been there, lurking in dark places so she could never fully be at ease. She ground her teeth, channelled her rage into the bones at the back of her neck. Willed herself to clear the image from her mind. Georgiana’s girl, her hair hanging loose, looking for all the world like a ghost from the past, and the expression on Linus’s face, his old face turned foolish by a young man’s desire. To think he had been about to take the girl’s photograph! To do what he had never done for Rose. Nor for Adeline.
‘Close your eyes, Lady Mountrachet,’ said her maid, and Adeline did as she was asked. The other woman’s breath was warm as she brushed the hair from Adeline’s brow, strangely comforting. Oh, to sit here forever, the warm, sweet breath of this dull, cheerful girl on her face, no other thoughts to plague her. ‘And open again, ma’am, while I fetch your pearls.’
The maid bustled away and Adeline was left alone with her thoughts. She leaned forward. Her brows were smooth, her hair neat. She pinched each cheek, harder perhaps than was necessary, and sat back again to observe the whole. Oh, but to age was cruel! Little changes that slipped by unnoticed, that could never be arrested. The nectar of youth slipping through a blind sieve whose holes continued to widen. ‘And thus was friend turned to foe,’ whispered Adeline to the merciless mirror.
‘Here you are, ma’am,’ said the maid. ‘I’ve brought the set with the ruby clasp. Nice and festive on such a happy occasion. Who could have imagined it, Miss Rose’s birthday luncheon. Eighteen years old! A wedding next, you mark my words . . .’
As the maid babbled on, Adeline shifted her gaze, refusing to look any longer upon her own decay.
The photograph hung where it always had, beside the dressing table. How proper she looked in her bridal dress, how right. No one would guess by this photo at the fierce self-coaxing she’d suffered in order to affect this model of calm. Linus, for his part, looked every bit the gentleman groom. Glum perhaps, but that was the custom.
They were married a year after Georgiana disappeared. From the moment of their engagement Adeline Langley had worked hard to reinvent herself. She determined to become a woman worthy of the grand old name of Mountrachet: cast off her northern accent and small-town tastes, devoured the writings of Debrett’s, and schooled herself in the twin arts of vanity and gentility. Adeline knew she had to be twice as much a lady as anyone else if she were to wipe from people’s memories the reality of her origins.
‘Would you like your green bonnet, Lady Mountrachet?’ said the maid. ‘Only it always suits this dress so well, and you’ll be wanting a hat if you’re headed to the cove. I’ll lay it out on the bed, shall I?’
Their wedding night had been nothing like Adeline expected. She couldn’t tell, and certainly there were no words to ask, but she suspected it had disappointed Linus too. They shared a marriage bed only rarely afterwards, even less when Linus started his roaming. Taking photographs, he said, but Adeline knew the truth.
How worthless she felt. How failed as a wife and as a woman. Worse still, failed as a society lady. For all her efforts, they were rarely invited out. Linus, when he was at Blackhurst, was such poor company, standing alone most of the time, answering questions when necessary with belligerent remarks. When Adeline grew sickly, pale and tired, she presumed it was despair. Only when her stomach began to swell did she realise she was with child.
‘There you are, Lady Mountrachet. Your hat’s on the bed, and you’re all ready for the party.’
‘Thank you, Poppy.’ She managed a thin smile. ‘That will be all.’
As the door closed, Adeline dismantled her smile and met her own gaze once more.
Rose was the rightful inheritor of the Mountrachet glory. This girl, Georgiana’s daughter, was little more than a cuckoo, sent back to supplant Adeline’s own child. To push her from a nest that Adeline had fought to make her own.
For a time order had been maintained. Adeline made sure to decorate Rose with darling new dresses, a pretty sofa to sit upon, while Eliza was clothed in the previous season’s fashions. Rose’s manners, her feminine nature, were perfect, where Eliza could not be taught. Adeline was calm.
But as the girls grew older, grew unstoppably towards womanhood, things were changing, slipping from Adeline’s control. Eliza’s prowess in the schoolroom was one thing—no one liked a clever woman—but now, with the time she spent outdoors in the fresh sea air, her complexion had taken on a healthy glow, her hair, that accursed red hair, had grown long, and she was filling out.
The other day Adeline had heard one of the servants talking about how beautiful Miss Eliza was, more beautiful even than her mother, Miss Georgiana. Adeline had frozen in her tracks when she’d heard the name spoken. After all these years of silence, it now awaited her at every corner. Laughing at her, reminding her of her own inferiority, her own failure ever to match up, despite working so much harder than Georgiana.
Adeline felt a dull thump in her temple. She raised her hand and pressed lightly. Something was the matter with Rose. This spot on her temple was Adeline’s sixth sense. Ever since Rose was a tiny baby, Adeline had pre-empted her daughter’s maladies. It was a bond that couldn’t be broken, mother to daughter.
And now her temple was once again throbbing. Adeline’s lips tightened with resolve. She observed her stern face as if it belonged to a stranger, the lady of a noble house, a woman whose control was infrangible. She inhaled strength into that woman’s lungs. Rose must be protected, poor Rose who failed even to perceive Eliza as a threat.
An idea began to form in Adeline’s mind. She couldn’t send Eliza away, Linus would never permit it and Rose’s sorrow would be too great, and besides, it was better to keep one’s enemies close, but perhaps Adeline might find a reason to take Rose abroad for a time? To Paris, or New York? Give her an opportunity to shine without the unexpected glare of Eliza drawing everyone’s attention, ruining Rose’s every chance . . .
Adeline smoothed her skirt as she went towards the door. One thing was certain, there would be no visiting the cove today. It was a foolish promise to have made, a moment of weakness on Adeline’s part. Thank God there was still time to correct her error in judgement. Eliza’s wickedness would not be allowed to taint Rose.
She closed the door behind her and started down the hall, skirt swishing. As for Linus, he would be kept busy. She was his wife, it was her duty to ensure he was given no opportunity to suffer at the hands of his own impulses. He would be packed off to London. She would implore the wives of government ministers to enlist his services, suggest exotic photographic locations, send him far away. Satan would not be allowed to find mischief for his idle hands to do.
Linus leaned back against the garden seat and hooked his cane beneath the decorative arm. The sun was setting and dusk spilled, orange and pink, across the western edge of the estate. There had been plenty of rain throughout the month and the garden glistened. Not that Linus cared.
For centuries the Mountrachets had been keen horticulturalists. Forebear after forebear had travelled far and wide, spanning the globe in search of exotic specimens with which to augment their plot. Linus, however, had not inherited
the green thumb. That had gone to his little sister—
Well, now, that wasn’t completely true.
There had been a time, long ago, when he had cared for the garden. When, as a boy, he had followed Davies on his rounds, marvelling at the spiky flowers in the Antipodean garden, the pineapples in the hothouse, the way new shoots appeared overnight, taking the place of seeds he’d helped to lay.
Most miraculous of all, in the garden Linus’s shame had disappeared. The plants, the trees, the flowers, cared not at all that his left leg had stopped growing inches short of his right. That his left foot was a useless appendage, stunted and curved, freakish. There was a place for everything and everyone in the Blackhurst garden.
Then, when Linus was seven, he’d become lost in the maze. Davies had warned him not to go inside alone, that the way was long and dark, full of obstacles, but Linus had been dizzy on the thrill of being seven years old. The maze with its dense lush walls, its promise of adventure, had lured him. He was a knight, off to do battle with the fiercest dragon in the land, and he was going to emerge triumphant. To find his way to the other side.
Shadows came early to the maze. Linus had not foreseen how dark it would become, and how quickly. In the dusk, sculptures came to life, leering at him from their hiding places, tall hedges turned to hungry monsters, low hedges played nasty tricks: made him think he was heading in the right direction, when in fact he was doubling back. Or was he?
He had reached as far as the centre before his slide to despair was complete. Then, to add injury to insult, a brass ring attached to a platform on the ground had leapt up and tripped him, tossed him to the ground so that his good ankle was twisted like that of a cheap rag doll. There’d been little choice for Linus but to sit where he was, ankle aching, angry tears spilling hot down his cheeks.
Linus had waited and waited. Dusk became dark, cool became cold, and his tears dried up. He later learned that it was Father who had refused to send anyone in for him. He was a boy, Father said, and, lame or not, any boy worth his salt would find his own way out of the maze. Why, he—St John Luke—had made it through when a mere four years old. The boy needed to toughen up.