by Kate Morton
The guests had been arriving in the turning circle for the past quarter hour, and Adeline had been on hand to greet them and usher them in the direction of the lawn. How grand they looked in their fine hats—though none so fine as Rose’s, brought back specially from Milan.
From where she now stood, concealed by the giant rhododendron, Adeline surveyed the guests. Lord and Lady Ashfield sitting with Lord Irving-Brown; Sir Arthur Mornington sipping tea by the croquet set while the young Churchills laughed and played; Lady Susan Heuser involved in a tête-à-tête with Lady Caroline Aspley.
Adeline smiled to herself. She had done well. Not only was the garden party a fitting way to welcome home the newlyweds, Adeline’s careful selection of connoisseurs, gossips and social climbers ensured the best opportunity for disseminating word of Nathaniel’s portraiture. Along the walls of the entrance hall she’d had Thomas hang the works she deemed finest, and later, when tea had been served, she planned to usher select guests through. In this way would her new son-in-law be introduced as subject matter for the ready pens of art’s critics and the quick tongues of society’s fashion makers.
All Nathaniel had to do was charm the guests half as comprehensively as he had charmed Rose. Adeline scanned the group and spotted her daughter sitting with Nathaniel and the American, Mrs Hodgson Burnett. Adeline had debated inviting Mrs Hodgson Burnett, for where one divorce was unfortunate, two seemed terribly close to godlessness. But the writer was indubitably well connected on the Continent, and therefore, Adeline had decided, her potential assistance outweighed her infamy.
Rose laughed at something the woman said and warm waves of satisfaction welled inside Adeline. Rose was looking spectacularly beautiful today, as radiant as the wall of roses that provided her a glorious backdrop. She looked joyous, Adeline thought, as a young woman ought when marriage sat newly upon her, and the vows of commitment had only shortly crossed her lips.
Her daughter laughed again and Nathaniel pointed in the direction of the maze. Adeline hoped they weren’t wasting precious time discussing the walled garden or some other of Eliza’s nonsense when they should be speaking of Nathaniel’s portraiture. For, oh, what an unexpected gift from providence, the removal of Eliza!
During the weeks of party preparation, Adeline had lain awake night after night wondering how best to prevent the girl upsetting the day. What blessed surprise the morning she had appeared by Adeline’s writing desk requesting relocation to the distant cottage. To her credit, Adeline had managed to keep veiled the joy she felt. Eliza safely ensconced in the cottage was an eminently more desirable arrangement than anything Adeline had managed to contrive, and the removal had been complete. Adeline had seen neither hide nor hair of the girl since she’d left; the entire house was lighter and more spacious. Finally, after eight long years, she was freed from the suffocating gravity of that girl’s orbit.
The greatest sticking point had been determining how to convince Rose that Eliza’s exclusion was for the best. Poor Rose had always been blind where Eliza was concerned, had never perceived in her the threat Adeline knew was there. Indeed, one of the first things the dear girl did upon returning from her honeymoon was to enquire about her cousin’s absence. When Adeline provided a judicious explanation as to why Eliza was now living in the cottage, Rose had frowned—it seemed so sudden, she said—and resolved to call on Eliza first thing the following day.
Such a visit was unthinkable, of course, if Adeline’s small deception was to play out as planned. So it was, immediately after breakfast the following morning, that Adeline sought out Rose in her new room, where she was busy assembling a delicate arrangement of flowers. While Rose plucked a cream clematis from amongst the others, Adeline asked, casually and calmly: ‘Do you think Eliza should be invited to attend the garden party?’
Rose turned, the clematis dripping water from the end of its stalk. ‘But of course she must come, Mamma. Eliza is my dearest friend.’
Adeline pressed her lips together: it was the response she had anticipated and thus she was prepared. The appearance of capitulation is always a calculated risk, and Adeline deployed it knowingly. A sequence of lines she’d prepared earlier, repeated over and over beneath her breath so that they fell naturally from her lips. ‘Of course, my dear. And if you desire her presence, so it shall be. We will have no further discussion on the matter.’ Only after such generous and sweeping concession did she allow herself a wistful little sigh.
Rose had her back turned, a sprig of gardenia in her hand. ‘What is it, Mamma?’
‘Nothing at all, dearest.’
‘Mamma?’
Carefully, carefully. ‘I was merely thinking of Nathaniel.’
This drew Rose’s gaze, sparked a blush. ‘Nathaniel, Mamma?’
Adeline stood, smoothing the front of her skirt. She smiled brightly at Rose. ‘Never mind. I’m sure things will go just as well for him with Eliza in attendance.’
‘Of course they will.’ Rose hesitated before threading the gardenia into the arrangement. She didn’t look again at Adeline but she didn’t need to. Adeline could picture the uncertainty that creased her pretty face. Sure enough, the cautious question came: ‘Whyever should Nathaniel benefit from Eliza’s absence?’
‘Only that I had hoped to direct a certain amount of attention towards Nathaniel and his artworks. Eliza, blessed girl, has a way of stealing the focus. I was hoping the day might belong to Nathaniel, and to you, my darling. But of course you shall have Eliza there if you think it best.’ She laughed then—a light, gay laugh, practised to perfection. ‘Besides, I dare say once Eliza learns you’re home early she’ll be over here so often that one of the servants will be bound to let slip about the party. And despite her aversion to society, her devotion to you, my dear, is such that she’ll insist upon attending.’
Adeline had left Rose then, had smiled to herself when she noted the stiff set to her daughter’s shoulders. A clear sign that the shot had reached its mark.
Sure enough, Rose had appeared at Adeline’s boudoir later the same day, had suggested that seeing as Eliza didn’t enjoy parties, perhaps she might be spared attendance on this occasion. She’d continued in a quieter voice, said that she’d thought better of calling on her cousin today. She’d wait until after the garden party, when things had settled down and the two could have a longer visit.
An eruption of applause at the croquet drew Adeline’s attention. She clapped her gloved hands and called up a gregarious smile, made her way back across the lawn. As she approached the settee, Mrs Hodgson Burnett stood and opened a white parasol. She nodded farewell to Rose and Nathaniel, and started off in the direction of the maze. Adeline hoped she didn’t intend to enter; the maze gate had been closed earlier as an obvious discouragement, but it was just like an American to form her own ideas. Adeline increased her pace a little—searching for a lost guest had no place in her plans for the day—and intercepted Mrs Hodgson Burnett before she managed to achieve a great distance. She bestowed on her guest a most gracious smile. ‘Good day, Mrs Hodgson Burnett.’
‘Why, good day, Lady Mountrachet. And what a fine day it is too.’
That accent! Adeline smiled indulgently. ‘We couldn’t have wished for better. And I see you’ve met the happy couple.’
‘Monopolised, more like. Your daughter is a most glorious creature.’
‘Thank you. I’m rather partial to her.’
Polite laughter on both sides.
‘And her husband clearly dotes,’ said Mrs Hodgson Burnett. ‘Isn’t young love grand?’
‘I was delighted by the match. Such a talented gentleman—’ the shadow of a pause—‘of course, Nathaniel mentioned his portraits?’
‘He did not. I dare say I didn’t give him a chance. I was too busy quizzing them on the secret garden they say is hidden on this grand estate of yours.’
‘A trifle of a thing.’ Adeline smiled thinly. ‘A plot of flowers with a wall surrounding. There’s one like it on every estate in England.
’
‘Not with such romantic tales attached, I’m sure. A garden raised from ruins to help bring a delicate young lady back to health!’
Adeline laughed with brittle cheer. ‘Goodness! It would appear my daughter and her husband have told you quite a fairytale. Rose owes her health to the efforts of a fine physician, and I must assure you the garden really is very ordinary.
Nathaniel’s portraits, on the other—’ ‘Nonetheless, I should love to see it. The garden, I mean. My interest has been piqued.’
There was little Adeline could say to that. She nodded with as much grace as she could muster and cursed beneath her smile.
Adeline was all set to give Nathaniel and Rose a stern talking-to, when in her peripheral vision she caught a flurry of white fabric through the maze gates. She turned, just in time to see Eliza open the gate right into Mrs Hodgson Burnett.
Her hand leapt to her mouth, caught the shriek before it was launched. Of all the days and of all the moments. That girl: always rushing, regrettably attired, certainly unwelcome. With her rude good health, flushed cheeks, tangled hair, ungainly hat, and—Adeline noted with horror—bare hands. Small mercy, she was wearing shoes.
Mouth tightening at the sides like that of a wooden puppet, Adeline glanced about, trying to assess the extent of the disturbance. A servant was at Mrs Hodgson Burnett’s side, helping her to a nearby chair. All else seemed calm, the day was not yet lost. Indeed, only Linus, sitting beneath the maple tree ignoring old Lord Appleby’s conversation, had paid the arrival any notice, lifting his boxy little photographic contraption to point it at Eliza. Eliza, for her part, was staring in Rose’s direction, her face a study in consternation. Surprised, no doubt, to see her cousin home from the Continent so soon.
Adeline turned quickly, determined to spare her daughter upset. But Rose and Nathaniel were oblivious to the intrusion, too absorbed, each with the other. Nathaniel had shifted to the edge of his chair and was seated so that his knees reached almost to touch (or did they make slight contact? Adeline couldn’t tell) Rose’s own. Between two fingertips he held one of Davies’s hothouse strawberries by its stalk, was twirling the fruit this way and that, bringing it close to Rose’s lips before withdrawing it once more. Each time Rose laughed, her chin tilted so that dappled sunlight stroked her bare throat.
Flushing, Adeline lifted her fan to block the sight. Such unsuitable display! What would people think? She could just imagine that gossip Caroline Aspley setting pen to paper as soon as she arrived home.
Adeline knew it was her duty to head off such wanton behaviour, and yet . . . She lowered her fan once more, blinked over its rim. Try as she might, she couldn’t turn away. Such ripeness! The freshness of the image was magnetic. Even though she knew Eliza was causing havoc behind her, even though her husband was behaving with no thought for propriety, it was as if the world had slowed and Adeline stood alone at its centre, aware only of her own heartbeat. Her skin tingled, her legs grew unexpectedly weak, her breath was shallow. The thought was hers before she had the chance to stop it: what must it be like, to be so loved?
The smell of mercury vapour filled his nose and Linus breathed it deeply. He held it in, felt his mind expand, his eardrums burn, before finally exhaling. Alone in his darkroom, Linus was six foot tall, each leg as straight and as strong as the other. Using his silver tongs, he slid the photographic paper back and forth, watched closely as the image began to materialise.
She would never consent to pose. In the beginning he had insisted, then he had pleaded, then in time he had discerned the nature of her game. She enjoyed the chase, and it had been up to Linus to rethink his tactics.
Rethink them he had. Mansell had been dispatched to London for a Kodak-Eastman Brownie—an ugly little thing, the province of unskilled amateurs, photographic quality nothing on his Tourograph, but it was light and portable and that was the thing. So long as Eliza continued her teasing, Linus knew it was the only way to catch her.
Her removal to the cottage was a bold step and one for which Linus gave her credit. He had gifted her the garden so that she might come to love it as her mother had before her—nothing had put light in his poupee’s eyes quite like the walled garden—but Linus had not foreseen this recent repatriation. Eliza hadn’t been near the house for weeks. Day after day he waited by the maze gates, but she continued to torment him with her absence.
And now, to complicate matters further, Linus found he had an adversary. Three mornings ago, while maintaining his vigil, he’d been confronted with a most unpleasant sight. While he awaited Eliza, what had he seen coming through the maze gates in her stead but the painter, the new husband. Linus had been shocked, for what did the man think he was doing, passing through those gates? Treading boldly where Linus himself could never bear to go. Linus simmered with questions: had he seen her? Spoken with her? Looked into her eyes? It was unthinkable, the painter sniffing about his prize.
But Linus had won in the end. Today, finally, his patience had paid off.
He inhaled. The image was coming. With only the small red light to see by, Linus leaned close. Dark surrounds—the maze hedges—but paler in the middle where she had faltered into frame. She had noticed him straightaway and Linus had felt his neck warm with pleasure. Her wide eyes, parted lips, like an animal unexpectedly cornered.
Linus squinted into the pan of developing lotion. There she was. The white of her dress, the narrow waist—oh, how he longed to lay his fingers around it, feel her light breaths fluttering fearfully beneath her rib cage. And that neck, the pale, pale neck, its pulse flecking just like her mother’s before her. Linus closed his eyes briefly and pictured his poupee’s neck with the red slice across it. She had tried to leave him, too.
He’d been in the darkroom when she’d come that final time. He’d been cutting backing card in order to mount his newest selection of prints: grasshoppers of the West Country. He’d been excited about the photographs, had even considered asking Father whether he might permit a little exhibition, and would have tolerated very few interruptions. But Georgiana was an exception to most rules.
How ethereal, how perfect she’d looked, framed in his doorway, the lamp’s flame enlivening her features. She’d lifted a finger to her lips and bade him catch his words before he spoke them, eased the door closed behind her. He’d watched her walking slowly towards him, a slight smile animating her lips. Her secrecy was one of the things that most excited him, being alone with his poupee provoked a tantalising sense of collusion, rare for Linus, who had little time for others. For whom others had little time.
‘You’ll help me, won’t you, Linus?’ she’d said, eyes wide and clear. And then she’d started speaking about a man she’d met, a sailor. They were in love, going to be together, a secret from Mother and Father, he would help her, wouldn’t he? Those eyes, imploring, uncomprehending of his pain. Time had stretched out between them, her words swirling in his mind, growing and shrinking, louder and softer. A lifetime of loneliness had gathered in an instant.
Without thinking twice, he’d lifted his hand, still clutching the penknife, and drawn it swiftly along her milky skin, made his pain her own . . .
Linus used his tweezers to hold the print closer to the light. Squinted, blinked. Damnation! Where Eliza’s face should be was only white light, grey-flecked. She had moved at the precise moment he depressed the shutter. He hadn’t been quick enough and she had vanished beneath his fingertip. Linus clenched his fist. Brought to mind, as he always did in spots of bother, that little girl who’d sat by him on the library floor, offered up her dolly and with it the promise of herself. Before she disappointed him.
Never matter. A mere setback, that’s all it was, a temporary twist in the game they were playing, the game he had played with her mother. He had lost that time: after the incident with the penknife his Georgiana had vanished, never to return. But this time he would be more careful.
Whatever it took, however long he had to wait, Linus would prevail.
Rose plucked petals from the white daisy until none was left: boy, girl, boy, girl, boy, girl. She smiled and closed her fingers around the daisy’s golden heart. A little daughter for Nathaniel and herself, and then perhaps a son, and then another of each.
Ever since she could remember, Rose had wanted a family of her own. A family very different from the cold and lonely arrangement she had known as a child, before Eliza came to Blackhurst. There would be closeness and, yes, love between the parents, and many children, brothers and sisters who would always look after one another.
Though these were her desires, Rose had been privy to enough discussions by grown-up ladies to have gleaned that while children were a blessing, the act of begetting them was a trial. Consequently, on the night of her wedding she had expected the worst. When Nathaniel unpeeled her dress, removed the lace that Mamma had ordered specially, Rose held her breath, watched his face carefully. She was very nervous. Fear of the unknown combined with worry over her marks, and she sat holding her breath. Waiting for him to speak yet frightened that he might. He cast aside her dress and shift, still silent. Did not meet her gaze. Looked her over slowly and closely as one might a piece of art that one had always longed to see. His dark eyes were focused, his lips slightly parted. He lifted his hand and Rose shivered in anticipation; a fingertip traced lightly along her larger mark. The touch sent chills across Rose’s stomach, down her inner thighs as well.
Later they made love, and Rose discovered that the ladies had been right, it was painful. But Rose was no stranger to pain, was quite able to step outside herself so that the experience became something she observed rather than felt. She concentrated instead on the curious fact of his face, so close to her own—his closed eyes, smooth dark lids; full mouth held in an attitude she’d rarely glimpsed before; breaths grown quick and heavy—and Rose realised she was powerful. In all her years of ill health she had never identified herself as possessing strength. She was poor Rose, delicate Rose, weak Rose. But in Nathaniel’s face Rose read desire, and that made her strong.