The Forgotten Garden

by Kate Morton

  It was possible, of course, that William hadn’t realised Mary was pregnant. Cassandra had heard of such occurrences, in magazines and on American talk shows, girls who concealed their pregnancies the full nine months. And it made sense that Mary would have done so. In order for the exchange to work, Rose would have insisted on discretion. She couldn’t have had the small village aware that her baby wasn’t her own.

  But was it really likely that a girl could fall pregnant, get engaged to her boyfriend, lose her job, give the baby away, resume her life, and no one know anything about it? There was something Cassandra was missing, there must be.

  ‘It’s kind of like Eliza’s fairytale, isn’t it?’

  Cassandra looked up at Christian. ‘What is?’

  ‘The whole thing: Rose, Eliza, Mary, the baby. Doesn’t it remind you of “The Golden Egg”?’

  Cassandra shook her head. The name was not familiar.

  ‘It’s in Magical Tales for Girls and Boys.’

  ‘Not in my copy, we must have different editions.’

  ‘There was only one edition. That’s why they’re so rare.’

  Cassandra lifted her shoulders. ‘I’ve never seen it.’

  Ruby flapped her hand. ‘Enough, who gives two hoots how many editions there were? Tell us about the story, Christian. What makes you think it’s about Mary and the baby?’

  ‘It’s an odd one actually, “The Golden Egg”; I always felt that. Different to the other fairytales, sadder and with a shakier moral frame. It’s about a wicked Queen who coerces a young maiden into giving up a magical golden egg to heal the ailing Princess of the land. The maiden resists at first because it’s her life’s work to guard the egg—her birthright, I think, is how she describes it—but the Queen wears her down and in the end she consents because she’s convinced that if she doesn’t, the Princess will suffer eternal sorrow and the kingdom will be cursed to an endless winter. There’s a character who plays the go-between in the transaction, the handmaiden. She works for the Princess and the Queen, but when it comes down to it she tries to convince the maiden not to part with the egg. It’s as if she realises that the egg is a part of the maiden, that without it the maiden will have no purpose, no reason to live. Which is exactly what happens: she hands over the egg and it ruins her life.’

  ‘You think the handmaiden was Eliza?’ said Cassandra.

  ‘It fits, doesn’t it?’

  Ruby leaned her chin on her fist. ‘Let me get this straight, you’re saying the egg was the child? Nell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Eliza wrote the story as a way to assuage her guilt?’

  Christian shook his head. ‘Not guilt. The story doesn’t feel guilty. It’s more like sadness. For herself and for Mary. And for Rose, in a way. The characters in the story are all doing what they think is right, it’s just that it can’t have a happy ending for all of them.’

  Cassandra bit her lip thoughtfully. ‘You really think a children’s fairytale might be autobiographical?’

  ‘Not autobiographical exactly, not in a literal sense, unless she had some pretty wacky experiences.’ He raised his eyebrows at the thought. ‘I just reckon Eliza probably processed bits of her own life by turning them into fiction. Isn’t that what writers do?’

  ‘I don’t know. Do they?’

  ‘I’ll bring “The Golden Egg” with me tomorrow,’ said Christian. ‘You can judge for yourself.’ The warm ochre candlelight accented his cheekbones, made his skin glow. He smiled shyly. ‘Her fairytales are the only voice Eliza has any more. Who knows what else she’s trying to tell us?’

  After Christian left to make his way back to the village, Ruby and Cassandra laid their sleeping bags out on the foam mattress he’d brought for them. They’d decided to stay downstairs so they could take advantage of the still-warm range, and had pushed the table aside to make room. Wind from the sea blew gently through cracks beneath the doors, up between the gaps in the floorboards. The house had a smell of damp soil, more so than Cassandra had noticed in the daytime.

  ‘This is the part where we tell each other ghost stories,’ whispered Ruby, rolling over heavily to face Cassandra. She grinned, face shadowy in the flickering light. ‘What fun. Have I told you how lucky you are to have a haunted cottage on the edge of a cliff?’

  ‘Once or twice.’

  She gave a cheeky smile. ‘What about how lucky you are to have a “friend” like Christian, who’s handsome, clever and kind?’

  Cassandra concentrated on the zip of her sleeping bag, drew it up with a precision and attention to detail far outweighing the task.

  ‘A “friend” who obviously thinks the sun shines out of you.’

  ‘Oh, Ruby,’ Cassandra shook her head, ‘he does not. He just likes helping in the garden.’

  Ruby raised her eyebrows, amused. ‘Of course, he likes the garden. That’s why he’s given up the better part of a fortnight to work for nothing.’

  ‘It’s true!’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  Cassandra bit back a smile and adopted a slightly indignant tone. ‘Whether you believe it or not, the hidden garden is very important to Christian. He used to play in it as a kid.’

  ‘And that intense passion for the garden must explain why he’s taking you to Polperro tomorrow.’

  ‘He’s just being nice, he’s a nice person. It’s nothing to do with me, with how he feels about me. He certainly doesn’t “like” me.’

  Ruby nodded sagely. ‘You’re right, of course. I mean, what’s to like?’

  Cassandra glanced sideways, smiled despite herself. ‘So,’ she said, biting her bottom lip, ‘you think he’s handsome?’

  Ruby grinned. ‘Sweet dreams, Cassandra.’

  ‘Goodnight, Ruby.’

  Cassandra blew out the candle, but a full moon meant that the room wasn’t completely dark. A silvery film spilled across every surface, smooth and dull like wax gone cool. She lay in the half-light running pieces of the puzzle through her mind: Eliza, Mary, Rose, then every so often, out of place, Christian, meeting her gaze before looking away.

  Within a couple of minutes, Ruby was snoring softly. Cassandra smiled to herself. She might have guessed Ruby was an easy sleeper. She closed her own eyes and each lid gained weight.

  As the sea swirled at the base of the cliff, and the trees overhead whispered in the midnight wind, Cassandra, too, drifted into sleep . . .

  . . . She was in the garden, the hidden garden, sitting beneath the apple tree on the softest grass. The day was very warm and a bee droned around the apple blossoms, hovering near before floating away on the breeze.

  She was thirsty, longed for a drink of water, but none was nearby. She reached out her hand, tried to push herself to standing but couldn’t. Her stomach was huge and swollen, the skin tight and itchy beneath her dress.

  She was pregnant.

  As soon as she realised, the sensation became familiar. She could feel her heart pumping heavily, the warmth of her skin, then the baby started to kick . . .

  ‘Cass.’

  . . . kicked so hard, enough force that her stomach lurched on one side, she laid her hand on her bump, tried to catch the little foot . . .

  ‘Cass.’

  Her eyes opened. Moonlight on the walls. The ticking of the range.

  Ruby was propped up on one arm, tapping her shoulder. ‘Are you all right? You were groaning.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Cassandra sat up suddenly. Felt her stomach. ‘Oh my god. I had the strangest dream. I was pregnant, very pregnant. My stomach was huge and tight, and everything was so vivid.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘I was in the walled garden and the baby started to kick.’

  ‘It’s all that talk earlier, of Mary’s baby, and Rose, and golden eggs, all getting mixed up together.’

  ‘Not to mention the wine.’ Cassandra yawned. ‘But it was so real, it felt exactly like the real thing. I was so uncomfortable, and hot, and when the baby kicked it was so painful.’

  ‘You paint
a lovely picture of pregnancy,’ said Ruby. ‘You’re making me glad I never tried it.’

  Cassandra smiled. ‘It’s not much fun in the final months, but it’s worth it in the end. That moment when you finally hold a tiny new life in your arms.’

  Nick had cried in the delivery room, but Cassandra hadn’t. She’d been too present, too much a part of the powerful moment, to react in such a way. To cry would have necessitated a second level of feeling, an ability to step outside events and view them within a larger context. Cassandra’s experience had been too immediate for that. She’d felt fired from within by a sort of dizzy jubilation. As if she could hear better, see better than she ever had before. Could hear her own pulse pumping, the lights humming above, her new baby’s breaths.

  ‘Actually, I was pregnant once,’ said Ruby. ‘But only for about five minutes.’

  ‘Oh, Ruby.’ Cassandra was awash with sympathy. ‘You lost the baby?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. I was young, it was a mistake, he and I agreed it was stupid to go through with it. I figured there was plenty of time later for all that.’ She lifted her shoulders, then smoothed her sleeping bag across her legs. ‘Only problem was, by the time I was ready I no longer had the necessary ingredients at my disposal.’

  Cassandra leaned her head to the side.

  ‘Sperm, m’dear. I don’t know whether I spent my entire thirties with PMT, but for whatever reason the greater population of menfolk and I failed to see eye to eye. By the time I met a bloke I could live with, the baby ship had sailed. We tried for a while but—’ she shrugged—‘well, you can’t fight nature.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ruby.’

  ‘Don’t be. I’m doing all right. I have a job I love, good friends.’ She winked. ‘And come on, you’ve seen my flat. I’m onto a winner there. No room to swing a cat, but hey—I haven’t got a cat to swing.’

  Cassandra smiled.

  ‘You make a life out of what you have, not what you’re missing.’ Ruby lay down again and snuggled into her sleeping bag. She pulled it up around her shoulders. ‘Nightie-night.’

  Cassandra continued to sit for a while, watching shadows dance along the walls as she thought about what Ruby had said. About the life that she, Cassandra, had built out of the things, the people, she was missing. Was that what Nell had done too? Forsaken the life and the family she’d been given, to focus instead on the one she’d been without? Cassandra lay down and closed her eyes. Let the night-time sounds drown out her disquieting thoughts. The sea breathing, waves crashing against the great black rock, treetops shushing in the wind . . .

  The cottage was a lonely place, isolated by day but even more so once darkness fell. The road didn’t extend all the way up the cliff, the entrance to the hidden garden had been closed off, and beyond it lay a maze whose route was difficult to follow. It was the sort of place one might live in and never see another soul.

  A sudden thought and Cassandra gasped. Sat upright. ‘Ruby,’ she said, then louder, ‘Ruby.’

  ‘Asleep,’ came the slurred response.

  ‘But I just figured it out.’

  ‘Still asleep.’

  ‘I know why they built the wall, why Eliza went away. That’s why I had the dream—my unconscious figured it out and was trying to let me know.’

  A sigh. Ruby rolled over and propped herself on a bent arm. ‘You win, I’m awake. Just.’

  ‘This is where Mary stayed when she was pregnant with Ivory, with Nell. Here, in the cottage. That’s why William didn’t know she was pregnant.’ Cassandra leaned closer to Ruby. ‘That’s why Eliza went away: Mary was here instead. They kept her hidden in the cottage, built the wall so that no one would accidentally catch sight of her.’

  Ruby rubbed her eyes and sat up.

  ‘They turned this cottage into a cage until the baby was born and Rose was made a mother.’

  44

  Tregenna, 1975

  The afternoon before she was due to leave Tregenna, Nell went a last time to Cliff Cottage. She took the white suitcase with her, filled with the documents and research she’d collected during her visit. She wanted to look over her notes and the cottage seemed as good a place as any in which to do so. At least that’s what she’d told herself when she’d decided to make her way up the steep cliff road. It wasn’t true of course, not completely. For although she had wanted to look over the notes, that wasn’t why she’d come to the cottage. She’d come simply because she couldn’t stay away.

  She unlocked the door and pushed it open. Winter was approaching and the cottage was cool: stale air sat thick and heavy in the hallway. Nell took the suitcase upstairs to the bedroom. It pleased her to look out over the silver sea, and on her last visit she’d spied a little bentwood chair in the corner of the room that would serve her purposes very well. The cane had unravelled from the back but that was no impediment. Nell positioned the chair by the window, sat tentatively and opened the white suitcase.

  She leafed through the papers inside: Robyn’s notes on the Mountrachet family, the contact details of the detective she’d hired to look into Eliza’s whereabouts, searches and correspondence from the local solicitors about her purchase of Cliff Cottage. Nell found the letter relating to the property boundaries and flipped it over to study the surveyor’s map. She could see quite clearly now the area young Christian had told her was a garden. She wondered who on earth had bricked up the gate, and why.

  As she pondered, the paper slipped from Nell’s hand and fluttered to the ground. She reached down to pick it up and something caught her eye. Damp weather had buckled the skirting board, pulled it loose from the wall. A piece of paper was wedged behind. Nell caught the corner between her fingers and retrieved it.

  A small piece of card, spotted with foxing, on which a woman’s face had been drawn, framed by an arch of brambles. Nell recognised her from the portrait she’d seen in the gallery in London. It was Eliza Makepeace, but there was something different about this sketch. Unlike the Nathaniel Walker portrait in London that made her look untouchable, this one was somehow more intimate. Something in the eyes suggested that this artist had been better acquainted with Eliza than had Nathaniel. Bold lines, certain curves, and the expression: something in her eyes both compelled Nell and confronted her.

  Nell smoothed over the top of the card. To think it had been lying there in wait for so long. She pulled the book of fairytales from the suitcase. She hadn’t been precisely sure why she’d brought it with her to the cottage, only that there seemed a pleasant symmetry in bringing the stories home, back to the very place in which Eliza Makepeace had written them. Undoubtedly silly, embarrassingly sentimental, but there you are. Now Nell was glad she had. She opened the cover and slipped the sketch inside. That would keep it safe.

  She leaned back against the chair and ran her fingers over the book’s cover, the smooth leather and raised centre panel with its illustration of a maiden and a fawn. It was a beautiful book, as beautiful as any that had passed through Nell’s antiques shop. And it was so well preserved, decades spent in Hugh’s care had done it no harm.

  Though it was earlier times she sought to recall, Nell found her mind returning over and again to Hugh. In particular, the nights he’d read her bedtime stories from the fairytale book. Lil had been concerned, worried they might be too scary for a little girl, but Hugh had understood. In the evenings, after dinner, when Lil was clearing the day away, he would collapse back into his wicker chair and Nell would curl up in his lap. The pleasant weight of his arms wrapped around her to grasp the edges of the book, the faint smell of tobacco on his shirt, the rough whiskers on his warm cheek catching her hair.

  Nell sighed steadily. Hugh had done well by her, he and Lil both. All the same, she blanked them out and willed her mind back further. For there was a time before Hugh, a time before the boat trip to Maryborough, the time of Blackhurst and the cottage and the Authoress.

  There—a white cane garden chair, sun, butterflies. Nell closed her eyes and clutched
the memory’s tail, let it drag her into a warm summer’s day, a garden where shade spilled cool across a sprawling lawn. Air filled with the scent of sunbaked flowers . . .

  The little girl was pretending to be a butterfly. A woven wreath of flowers encircled her head and she was holding her arms out to the sides, running in circles, fluttering and swooping while the sunlight warmed her wings. She felt so grand as the sun turned the white cotton of her dress to silver.

  ‘Ivory.’

  At first the little girl did not hear, for butterflies do not speak the languages of men. They sing in sweetest tone with words so beautiful grown-up ears cannot hear them. Only children notice when they call.

  ‘Ivory, come quickly.’

  There was a sternness to Mamma’s voice now so the little girl swooped and fluttered in the direction of the white garden chair.

  ‘Come, come,’ said Mamma, reaching out her arms, beckoning with the pale tips of her fingers.

  With a warm happiness spreading beneath her skin, the little girl climbed up. Mamma wrapped her arms around the little girl’s waist and pressed cool lips against the skin beneath her ear.

  ‘I’m a butterfly,’ the little girl said, ‘this chair is my cocoon—’

  ‘Shh. Quiet now.’ Mamma’s face was still pressed close and the little girl realised she was looking at something beyond. The little girl turned to see what it was that held Mamma’s attention so.

  A lady was coming towards them. The little girl squinted into the sun to make some sense of this mirage. For this lady was different from the others who came to visit Mamma and Grandmamma, the ones who stayed for tea and games of bridge. This lady looked somehow like a girl stretched to grown-up height. She wore a dress of white cotton and her red hair was only loosely tied in place.

  The little girl looked about for the carriage that must have brought the lady up the drive, but there was none. It seemed that she had materialised from thin air, as if by magic.

  Then the little girl realised. She caught her breath, filled with wonder. The lady was not walking from the direction of the entrance, she had come from inside the maze.