The Forgotten Garden

by Kate Morton

  Windsocks aside, a certain sense had lurked behind Dr Matthews’s words. Rose was weak and unwell and without allowing herself proper time to heal could not be expected to make a full recovery. And yet her fierce longing for a child consumed her. Adeline had agonised over how best to convince her daughter to put her own health first, and finally she had realised it would be necessary to enlist Nathaniel in the attempt. Awkward though such a conversation promised to be, his obedience had been assured. Over the past twelve months, Nathaniel had learned to toe Adeline’s line, and now, with a royal portrait in the offing, there’d been little doubt he’d see things her way.

  Although Adeline managed to keep a calm veneer, oh how she raged in private. Why should other young women be granted children when Rose must go without? Why should she be blighted when others were made strong? How much more would Rose’s weak body be forced to endure? In her darkest moments, Adeline wondered whether it was something she had done. Whether maybe God was punishing her. She had been too proud, gloated one too many times about Rose’s beauty, her fine manners, her sweet nature. For what worse punishment than to see a beloved child suffering?

  And now, the thought of Mary, that ghastly healthy girl with her broad, beaming face, her nest of unkempt hair, that she should be carrying a child. An unwanted child when others who craved so deeply were continually denied. There was no justice. Little wonder Rose had snapped: it was her turn. The happy news, the child, should belong to Rose. Not Mary.

  If only some way could be found to grant Rose a child without physical toll. Of course, it was impossible. Women would be lined up if such a method existed—

  Adeline paused mid-stroke. Looked at her reflection but saw nothing. Her mind was elsewhere, contemplating the topsy-turvy image of a healthy girl with no maternal instinct, beside a delicate woman whose body failed her willing heart . . .

  She laid down the brush. Pressed cold hands together in her lap.

  Was it possible such contrariness might be righted?

  It would not be easy. First, Rose must be convinced that it was for the best. Then there was the girl. She would need to be made to see that it was her duty. That she owed it to the Mountrachet family, after so many years of goodwill.

  Difficult certainly. But not impossible.

  Slowly Adeline stood. Laid the brush lightly on the dressing table. Mind still honing her idea, she started down the hall towards Rose’s room.

  The key to grafting roses was the knife. Razor sharp it had to be, said Davies, sharp enough to give the hairs on your arm a clean shave. Eliza had found him in the hothouse and he’d been only too happy to help her with the hybrid she was planning for her garden. He’d shown her where to make the cut, how to ensure that there were no splinters or bumps or imperfections that might prevent the scion binding to the new stock. In the end, she’d stayed all morning and helped with the repotting for spring. It was such a pleasure to sink one’s hands into the warm earth, to feel at one’s fingertips the possibilities of the new season.

  When she left, Eliza walked the long way back. It was a cool day, thin clouds skimming quickly in the upper atmosphere, and she relished the chill breeze on her face after the muggy hothouse. Being so near, her thoughts turned as they always did to her cousin. Mary had reported that Rose was low in spirits lately, and though Eliza suspected she wouldn’t be granted admission, she couldn’t bear to come so close without trying. She knocked on the side door and waited until it opened.

  ‘Good day, Sally. I’ve come to see Rose.’

  ‘You can’t, Miss Eliza,’ said Sally, a sullen expression on her face. ‘Mrs Walker is otherwise engaged and unavailable to guests.’ The lines had the melody of those learned by rote.

  ‘Come now Sally,’ Eliza said, smile straining, ‘I hardly qualify as a guest. I’m sure if you just let Rose know that I am here—’

  From the shadows, Aunt Adeline’s voice. ‘Sally is quite right. Mrs Walker is otherwise engaged.’ The dark hourglass drifted into view. ‘We are about to begin luncheon. If you care to leave a calling card, Sally will ensure that Mrs Walker knows you requested an audience.’

  Sally’s head was bowed and her cheeks flushed. No doubt some fuss had occurred amongst the staff and Eliza would hear all about it from Mary later. Without Mary and her regular reports, Eliza would have little idea what went on at the house.

  ‘I have no card,’ said Eliza. ‘Let Rose know I called, won’t you Sally. She knows where to find me.’

  With a nod in her aunt’s direction, Eliza set off once more across the lawn, pausing only once to gaze at the window of Rose’s new bedroom, where early spring light bleached the surface to white. With a shiver, her thoughts turned to Davies’s grafting knife: the ease with which a sharp enough blade might sever a plant so that no evidence of the former bond remained.

  Around the sun dial and further across the lawn, Eliza came to the gazebo. Nathaniel’s painting equipment was set up inside as it often was these days. He was nowhere to be seen, had probably gone inside for luncheon, but his work had been left pegged to the easel—

  Eliza’s thoughts fled.

  The sketches on top were unmistakeable.

  She suffered the odd displacement of seeing figments from her own imagination brought to life. Characters, hitherto the province of her own mind, turned as if by magic to pictures. An unexpected ripple passed beneath her skin, hot and cold all at once.

  Eliza went closer, up the stairs of the gazebo, and examined the sketches. She smiled, couldn’t help herself. It was like discovering an imaginary friend had gained corporal existence. They were similar enough to her own imaginings to be instantly recognisable, yet different somehow. His hand was darker than her mind, she realised, and she liked it. Without thinking, she unclipped them.

  Eliza hurried back: along the maze, across her garden, through the southern door, all the way mulling the sketches over in her mind. Wondering when he had drawn them, why, what he intended to do with them. It wasn’t until she was hanging her coat and hat in the hallway of the cottage that her thoughts turned to the letter she had recently received from the publisher in London. Mr Hobbins had opened by paying Eliza a compliment regarding her stories. He had a little daughter, he said, who awaited each Eliza Makepeace fairytale with bated breath. Then he had suggested Eliza might like to consider publishing an illustrated collection, and to bear him in mind if such time arose.

  Eliza had been flattered but unconvinced. For some reason the concept hadn’t progressed in her imagination from the abstract. Now, however, having seen Nathaniel’s sketches, she found she could envisage such a book, could almost feel its weight in her hands. A bound edition containing her favourite stories, a volume for children to pore over. Just like the book she had discovered in Mrs Swindell’s rag and bone shop, all those years ago.

  And though Mr Hobbins’s letter had not been explicit about remuneration, surely Eliza could expect payment more handsome than that she had received thus far? For an entire book must be worth far more than a single story. Perhaps she should finally have the money necessary to travel across the sea . . .

  A fierce knocking at the door drew her attention.

  Eliza pushed aside the irrational sense that it was Nathaniel she would see waiting for her on the other side, come for his sketches. Of course it wasn’t. He never came to the cottage, and besides, it would be hours before he realised they were missing.

  All the same, Eliza rolled them up and tucked them within her coat pocket.

  She opened the door. Mary stood there, cheeks stained with tidelines of tears.

  ‘Please, Miss Eliza, help me.’

  ‘Mary, what is it?’ Eliza ushered the girl inside, glancing over her shoulder before closing the door. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, Miss Eliza.’ She swallowed a sob. ‘’Tis nothing like that.’

  ‘Then tell me, what has happened?’

  ‘It’s Mrs Walker.’

  ‘Rose?’ Eliza’s heart hammered against her
chest.

  ‘She’s turned me out,’ Mary inhaled wetly, ‘told me to finish up immediately.’

  Relief that Rose was unharmed battled with surprise. ‘But Mary, whatever for?’

  Mary collapsed onto a chair and wiped the back of her wrist across her eyes. ‘I don’t know how to say it, Miss Eliza.’

  ‘Then speak plainly, Mary, I implore you, and tell me what on earth has happened.’

  Fresh tears began to fall. ‘I’m with child, Miss Eliza. I’m going to have a baby, and though I thought I kept it hid, Mrs Walker has found out and now says I’m not welcome.’

  ‘Oh, Mary,’ said Eliza, sinking onto the other chair, taking Mary’s hands between her own. ‘Are you sure about the baby?’

  ‘There’s no doubting the fact, Miss Eliza. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did.’

  ‘And who is the father?’

  ‘A lad what lives in the neighbouring street to ours. Please, Miss Eliza, he’s not a bad fellow, and he says he wants to marry me, but I need to earn some money first else there’ll be naught to feed nor clothe the babe. I can’t lose my position, not yet Miss Eliza, and I know I can still perform it well.’

  Mary’s face was so desperate that Eliza could answer no other way. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Will you speak with Mrs Walker?’

  Eliza fetched a glass of water from the pitcher and handed it to Mary. ‘I’ll endeavour to do so. Though you know as well as I do that an audience with Rose is not easy to obtain.’

  ‘Please Miss Eliza, you’re my only hope.’

  Eliza smiled with a confidence she didn’t feel. ‘I will give it a few days, enough time for Rose to settle down, and then I shall speak with her on your behalf. I’m certain she will be made to see reason.’

  ‘Oh thank you, Miss Eliza. You know I didn’t wish for this to happen, I’ve gone and made a mess of everything. I only wish I could turn the weeks back and have it undone.’

  ‘We have all wished for similar power at times,’ said Eliza. ‘Go home now, Mary dear, and try not to worry. Things will work out, I’m sure. I will send word when I have spoken with Rose.’

  Adeline knocked lightly on the bedroom door and pushed it open. Rose was sitting in the window seat, attention focused on the ground below. Her arms were so frail, her profile so gaunt. The room had grown listless in sympathy to its owner, cushions flat, curtains sagging in despondence. Even the air seemed to have staled within the streams of weak light.

  Rose gave no indication that she noticed or minded the intrusion, so Adeline went to stand behind her. She looked through the window to see what it was that held her daughter’s attention.

  Nathaniel was seated at his easel in the gazebo, sifting through pages from his leather portfolio. There was an agitation in his manner, as if he had misplaced a vital tool.

  ‘He will leave me, Mamma.’ Rose’s voice was pale as the sunlight. ‘For what reason would he stay?’

  Rose turned then, and Adeline tried not to let her face reflect her daughter’s grey and terrible state. She laid a hand on Rose’s bony shoulder. ‘All will be well, my Rose.’

  ‘Will it?’

  Her tone was so bitter that Adeline winced. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I don’t see how that can be, for it seems I am unable to make of him a man. Again and again I fail to give him an heir, a child of his own.’ Rose turned back to the window. ‘Of course he will leave. And without him I will fade away to nothing.’

  ‘I have spoken with Nathaniel, Rose.’

  ‘Oh, Mamma . . .’

  Adeline lifted a finger to Rose’s lips. ‘I have spoken with Nathaniel and I am confident that he, as I, wants nothing more than your return to good health. Children will come when you are well, and for that you must be patient. Allow yourself the time to recover.’

  Rose was shaking her head, her neck so thin that Adeline wanted to stop the gesture lest she damage herself. ‘I cannot wait, Mamma. Without a child I cannot go on. I would do anything for a baby, even at my own cost. I would rather die than wait.’

  Adeline sat gently on the window seat and took her daughter’s pale, cool hands between her own. ‘It need not come to that.’

  Rose blinked large eyes at Adeline; within them flickered a pale flame of hope. Hope that a child never quite loses, faith that a parent can put things to right.

  ‘I am your mother and I must look after your health, even if you won’t, thus have I given your plight much thought. I believe there may be a way for you to have a child without endangering yourself.’

  ‘Mamma?’

  ‘You may be reluctant at first, but I beg of you, cast aside your doubts.’ Adeline lowered her voice. ‘Pray listen carefully now, Rose, to all I have to say.’

  In the end, it was Rose who made contact with Eliza. Five days after Mary’s visit, Eliza received word that Rose would like to meet. Even more surprising, Rose’s letter suggested that the two should meet in Eliza’s hidden garden.

  When she saw her cousin, Eliza was glad she’d thought to fetch cushions for the iron seat. For dear Rose was reduced in every way. Mary had hinted at a decline but Eliza had never imagined such extreme diminishment. Though she fought to keep her face from registering shock, Eliza knew she must have failed.

  ‘You are surprised by my appearance, Cousin,’ said Rose, smiling so her cheekbones turned to blades.

  ‘Not at all,’ Eliza blustered. ‘Of course not, I merely, my face—’

  ‘I know you well, my Eliza. I can read your thoughts as if they were my own. It is all right. I have been unwell. I have weakened. But I will recover as I always do.’

  Eliza nodded, felt a warm shot stinging behind her eyes.

  Rose smiled, a smile all the sadder for its attempt at certitude. ‘Come,’ she gestured, ‘sit by me, Eliza. Let me have my dear cousin by my side. Do you remember the day you first brought me to the hidden garden, and together we planted the apple tree?’

  Eliza took Rose’s thin, cold hand. ‘Of course I do. And just look at it now, Rose, look at our tree.’

  The sapling stem had thrived so that the tree now reached almost to the top of the wall. Graceful naked branches swept sideways, and willowy offshoots pointed towards the sky.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ said Rose wistfully. ‘To think that we needed only plant it in the earth and it knew just what to do.’

  Eliza smiled gently. ‘It has done only what nature intended for it.’

  Rose bit her lip, left a red mark. ‘Sitting here, I almost believe myself eighteen again, on the verge of my trip to New York. Filled with excitement and anticipation.’ She smiled at Eliza. ‘It feels like an age since we’ve sat together, just you and I, as we used to when we were girls.’

  A wave of nostalgia washed away the year of envy and disappointment. Eliza clasped Rose’s hand tightly. ‘Indeed, it does, Cousin.’

  Rose coughed a little and her frail body shook with the effort. Eliza was about to offer a shawl for her shoulders when Rose started speaking again: ‘I wonder, have you had news from the house lately?’

  Eliza answered cautiously, wondering at the sudden change of topic. ‘I have seen Mary.’

  ‘Then you know.’ Rose met Eliza’s gaze, held it for a time before shaking her head sadly. ‘She left me no choice, Cousin. I understand that you and she were fond of each other, but it was unthinkable that she should be kept on at Blackhurst in such a state. You must see that.’

  ‘She is a good and loyal girl, Rose,’ said Eliza gently. ‘She has behaved imprudently, I don’t deny that. But surely you might relent? She is without income and the baby she is growing will have needs she must fulfil. Please think about Mary, Rose. Imagine her plight.’

  ‘I assure you, little else has been in my thoughts.’

  ‘Then perhaps you will see—’

  ‘Have you ever longed for something, Eliza, something you wanted so much that without it you knew you could live no longer?’

  Eliza thought of her i
magined sea voyage. Her love for Sammy. Her need for Rose.

  ‘I want a child more than anything. My heart aches, as do my arms. Sometimes I can feel the weight of the child I long to cradle. The warm head in the crook of my elbow.’

  ‘And surely one day—’

  ‘Yes, yes. One day.’ Rose’s faint smile belied her optimistic words. ‘But I have struggled and done without for so long. Twelve months, Eliza. Twelve months, and the road has been filled with such disappointment and denial. Now Dr Matthews instructs me that my health may let me down. You must imagine, Eliza, how Mary’s little secret made me feel. That she should have by accident the very thing I crave. That she, with nothing to offer, shall have that which I, with everything, have been denied. Why, surely you can see it isn’t right? Surely God does not intend such contrary occurrences?’

  Rose’s devastation was so complete, her frail appearance so at odds with her fierce desire, that suddenly Mary’s wellbeing was the least of Eliza’s concerns. ‘How can I help you, Rose? Tell me, what can I do?’

  ‘There is something, Cousin Eliza. I need you to do something for me, something that will in turn help Mary, too.’

  Finally. As Eliza had always known she must, Rose had realised that she needed Eliza. That only Eliza could help her. ‘Of course, Rose,’ she said. ‘Anything. Tell me what you need and so shall it be.’

  40

  Tregenna, 2005

  The weather came in late Friday night, and fog sulked grey and general across the village all weekend. Given such resolute inclemency, Cassandra decided her weary limbs could do with a rest and took a well-earned break from the cottage. She spent Saturday curled up in her room with cups of tea and Nell’s notebook, intrigued by her grandmother’s account of the detective she’d consulted in Truro. A man named Ned Morrish whose name she’d plucked from the local telephone book after William Martin suggested that she’d figure out her riddle if she learned where Eliza had disappeared to in 1909.

  On Sunday Cassandra met with Julia for afternoon tea. Rain had fallen steadily all morning, but by midafternoon the deluge was reduced to drizzle, and fog had been allowed to settle in the gaps. Through the mullioned windows, Cassandra could make out only the sober green of the drenched lawn; all else was mist, bare branches visible occasionally, like hairline fractures in a wall of white. It was the sort of day Nell had loved. Cassandra smiled, remembering how pulling on a raincoat and gumboots had infused her grandmother with enthusiasm. Perhaps, from somewhere deep inside, Nell’s heritage had been calling her.