by Kayte Nunn
Elizabeth bolted down her breakfast, delighting in the fact that there was no one to chide her for slurping her tea – Mam’zelle Violette would have been horrified – and went to collect her things for the carriage ride to Truro.
Before departing, she slipped around to the back of the house. Her boots – she had reverted to an older, more comfortable pair, knowing she would be traipsing the town’s cobbled streets – crunched on the gravel path that surrounded the rectangular green lawns. She made her way across the grass, which was bisected by the path and had a circle of gravel at its centre. In the middle of the clearing stood the new sundial. It had been commissioned more than a year earlier and installed in the last weeks of dear Papa’s life. He had roused himself from his sickbed to see it and it was one of the last times she had seen a look of pleasure upon his craggy features. It was indeed a thing of beauty, cast in bronze with a raised relief of thirty-eight different herbs on a horizontal ring. She removed a pale kid glove and ran her bare hand along its cool surface, recognising mint for virtue, oregano for joy, lavender for devotion, hyssop to cleanse, lemon balm for wit, borage for courage, chamomile for comfort and bay for glory. Aside from the relief of herbs, the main feature of the sundial was a globe, which turned on an axis, the countries of the world etched onto it. Elizabeth traced the outline of Great Britain, and then ran a finger across the Atlantic Ocean to the Americas until it reached the southernmost tip. Her destination. It looked so far away, but the metal was cool and soothing to the touch and helped steady her resolve.
‘Ma’am?’
She turned around, surprised to have been disturbed. ‘Yes Daisy?’ The maid stood in the shadows of the house, barely visible, but Elizabeth could make out the vibrant red of her hair.
‘Ma’am, the carriage is ready,’ her soft Cornish burr carried in the still morning air.
‘Thank you, Daisy.’
She made as if to return to the house but Elizabeth called her closer. ‘Daisy?’
‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘Come over here, will you? I have something to discuss with you.’
Elizabeth waited as the maid walked along the path to join her.
‘Daisy. You know that my father had planned another journey …’ She paused, taking in the display of scarlet pelargoniums, the topiary lion painstakingly created by Hoskins, the head gardener, and the tall monkey-puzzle tree that her father had planted on the occasion of her birth twenty-five years before. She noticed bees flitting from bloom to bloom, filling the air with the sound of their low hum, and over that the bright squawks of a pair of choughs. In the distance, the kitchen garden beckoned, sunlight reflecting off the panes of the glasshouse, where pineapples and tomatoes grew in the forced tropical heat. It was all so dear and familiar to her that, for a second, she hesitated, wondered if she was doing the right thing.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Well,’ Elizabeth forced her attention back to the maid. ‘I intend to go on his behalf. To continue his work. And I am hopeful that you will accompany me.’ She paused, waiting for her reaction.
Daisy’s eyes widened in surprise, but she quickly recovered herself. ‘Of, of course, Miss Elizabeth,’ she stammered. ‘It … it would be a great honour.’
‘Not to mention a great adventure!’ Elizabeth’s eyes gleamed with excitement, her earlier trepidation forgotten as she relished the audaciousness of her plan.
‘If you say so, ma’am.’ The maid looked far less enthusiastic than her mistress.
Elizabeth had reckoned that Daisy, who like her had grown up in this wild part of Cornwall, would not find it easy to leave. She reached for her maid’s hands and took them in hers, looking at her earnestly. ‘We won’t be gone forever, Daisy. I promise you that. A year at most.’
‘Right you are, ma’am.’ Daisy looked bewildered at the thought of such a long and uncertain journey, but when Elizabeth released her hands she gave a quick bob of a curtsey, saying only, ‘The carriage, ma’am?’
‘Tell Banks I’ll be there shortly,’ she replied.
Daisy made her way towards the stables as Elizabeth took a last look at the sundial and the sweeping lawns behind it, taking in the rhododendrons along the eastern border, the camellias and azaleas growing along the western edge, up against the red brick walls of the ladies’ walk. The garden was where she felt her father’s presence – or more accurately, his absence – most keenly. He had brought back many of the plants from his various travels and, lovingly raised and propagated, they had flourished over the years in this rich soil and temperate climate. Cornwall was a fertile place for growing exotic species, often from all parts of the southern hemisphere, the warm trade winds providing a kinder climate than anywhere else in Britain, with perhaps the exception of the Isles of Scilly. Such plants were highly prized by society gardeners and botanists alike, and her father had made a good deal of money supplying them with the most fashionable and rare plants.
Elizabeth’s governess had been the one to encourage her artistic talents, steering her towards the study of plants, showing her how to document their structure and blooms with unerring accuracy. She had proved a prodigious pupil, earning the approbation of several of her father’s regular guests, experts in the field of botanical study. One such visitor, the eminent botanist George Bentham, who was now sadly dead and buried these past few years, had seen her talent, even as a young girl, and encouraged her in it. She had swelled with pride as he singled her out, declaring that she should devote several hours of her day to the study and drawing of plants, in order to understand them all the better. Mam’zelle Violette was instructed to accommodate this, and, much to Elizabeth’s delight, she was allowed to spend the most part of every afternoon with her sketchbooks, while Georgiana was schooled in the more conventional endeavours of needlepoint and playing the pianoforte. Elizabeth was much relieved to be excused from needlework in particular – she might be able to draw the most detailed pattern of veins on an oak leaf, but she could barely sew a straight seam.
As she gazed across the lush gardens, her heart thrilled with a mix of excitement and apprehension at what she might experience in the months ahead, what she might discover, document and perhaps bring back for all of England to marvel at. A chill ran through her as she recalled Papa’s words about Mr Chegwidden. Her father had said that he had left aboard a ship some two months previously. What if he had already discovered the plant of which her father had spoken?
Chapter Eight
SYDNEY, AUTUMN 2017
After saying goodbye to her mother, Anna made a detour to Gussie’s house.
Earlier in the week she had arranged for her assistant, Sally, to take over for a few days so Anna could spend some time sorting out the house, but she felt guilty – even though The Secret Garden was her company, she reminded herself, and she was her own boss – for neglecting her clients’ gardens. She had taken enough time off to nurse Granny Gus as it was.
She had started The Secret Garden five years ago, not long after she graduated. Vanessa and Harvey had been her first clients, but now Anna had more work than she could cope with – it seemed the good people of the affluent North Shore spent more time adjusting their cufflinks on their bespoke French-cuffed shirts than actually rolling them up and getting their hands dirty. She didn’t mind – it kept her in business. If it meant she wasn’t exactly making the best use of her degree, no one in the family had dared say so.
Anna had employed Sally in the weeks before Gussie died. It was a decision she had mulled over, but because she was spending so much time with her grandmother she had eventually seen the necessity of it. Sally was a bright and bubbly girl who made up for her lack of plant knowledge with an irrepressible enthusiasm for even the dirtiest of jobs. She also had the added advantage of being able to chat up the clients in an easy, carefree way that Anna had never quite managed. Anna grudgingly admitted to herself that hiring Sally had been a good decision, and it also meant that taking a few days off wasn’t exactly the end of
the world.
She had driven past the locksmith on her way to Gus’s, pulling up outside it only to find that they were closed on Saturdays. As she drove on, she made a mental inventory of the tools in the back of her ute. A hedge trimmer and a couple of hoes, hacksaws, rakes and a shovel wouldn’t be of any use, but the heavy-duty pruning shears might work.
As soon as she arrived at the house, she rummaged through the toolbox, found what she needed and hauled the box inside.
Late-afternoon sunlight angled through the kitchen windows, illuminating the downstairs level of the terrace. All traces of 1970s laminate were gone, and the only thing remaining was a thick layer of builders’ dust. Anna set the box down on the scarred timber floorboards, not caring that her leggings might get dusty as she sat beside it. ‘Now then, you little mystery,’ she said, her voice echoing in the empty room, shears at the ready. ‘Let’s see if you’ll give up your secrets.’ She grasped the small lock and angled the blade to cut through the bolt. Nothing budged. She rattled the lock in frustration. It suddenly seemed terribly important that she find out what the box contained, right then and there. She was sitting glumly on the floor when she had a flash of inspiration. There was a hardware store up on the main road. Grabbing her wallet, she flew out of the door.
The owner was arranging a stand of paintbrushes and garden rakes that were on display outside the store when Anna rushed up, breathless.
‘Steady on there, where’s the fire?’ he asked.
‘Please …’ She tried to catch her breath. ‘I need something to break into a padlock. It’s rusted over.’
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask why. ‘You’d better come in then and I’ll see what we’ve got.’
Anna returned to Gus’s house, at a somewhat slower pace than she’d left it, and let herself in. From her bag she pulled a small pair of bolt cutters and placed them in the middle of the lock, then gave them the hardest squeeze she could, her fingers white from the effort. Nothing. She took a deep breath and tried again. This time there was a loud crack and the lock split in two. Sometimes you have to break a heart, she told herself, her lips twisting at the irony of it.
‘Bloody hell,’ she breathed quietly as a small thrill at her handiwork surged through her. ‘Anna, you did it.’
She slid the bar of the lock carefully through the lid of the box, placing it on the floor next to her. She pushed hard at the lid and it seemed for a moment as if it too might have rusted shut and she tore a nail trying to force it open. Grimacing at the exposed tender flesh, she sucked on her finger and reached for a paint-spattered chisel left behind by the builders on a windowsill.
Easing the end of the chisel into the seam between the box and its lid, she felt it loosen slightly. She wiggled it more forcefully and then gave it another shove with the heel of her hand. It moved a few millimetres. She shoved it again, and again, slamming her hand against the chisel until the lid finally popped off with a snap and clattered onto the floor. Anna wrinkled her nose. A mustiness, overlaid with a salty smell, wafted towards her, as if the box had been kept near the ocean and some of that briny air had become trapped inside it. She ran her fingers over the lining, a faded blue velvet that was darker in the corners. In the middle of the box was a large, leather-bound volume. It was as soft as a baby’s cheek and about the same blush colour. On its surface was an embossed, curlicued letter E picked out in gold leaf, just as there had been on the lid of the box.
Scarcely daring to breathe, Anna gingerly lifted the hard cover of the album to reveal a sheet of pale tissue paper, darkened yellow at the edges. As she lifted it, it crumbled between her fingers, the edges disintegrating to dust. She wiped her hands on her leggings and caught her breath when she saw what lay beneath. Carefully, she lifted the album from its velvet casket.
Anna sat, absorbed in the album, turning the thick cottony pages slowly, astonished by what she saw before her. She barely felt the hard boards of the floor, nor cared that the sun was disappearing from the room.
It wasn’t until her stomach gave a loud growl that she looked at her watch. It was nearly three and she’d not had anything since the coffee with her mother that morning. The album – a sketchbook, really – contained exquisite botanical illustrations that boasted intricate detail, breathtaking precision and colours as bright as if they were painted only yesterday. Her botanist’s heart thrilled at the sight of such artistry and accuracy, but her stomach rumbled again and she reluctantly closed the book, replaced it and leant on the lid to close it completely.
Her head swirled with questions as she got awkwardly to her feet, shaking out her stiff legs and wincing at the pins and needles that invaded her toes.
Who was the mysterious E to whom this had belonged? How had it survived? And how had such a thing ended up behind the bookshelves of her grandmother’s house?
Anna locked up the house and trudged westward towards bustling Oxford Street, where she was forced to weave her way past slow-strolling couples, a group of girls laden with shiny shopping bags, and an old man slumped in a doorway and clutching a bottle in a brown paper bag. Saturday afternoon in the city. She reached the cafe she’d had in mind and was shown to a small table at the back. It was filled with family groups and a couple clearly on a first date, the girl laughing and flicking her hair as they chatted, toying with the piece of cake in front of them, the man fiddling nervously with the cutlery, grinning with relief every time the girl laughed at something he said.
She studied the menu, unsure whether to have a late lunch or make it an early dinner, and surreptitiously watched the first-date couple. She’d forgotten what it was like to go out with someone you were interested in, the excitement of getting ready. The anticipation of what such a meeting might bring was a dim and distant memory. The couple might as well have been aliens from another planet. She shook her head. That kind of complication only led to trouble. It wasn’t for her.
Chapter Nine
CORNWALL, 1886
‘Lizzie dear, I trust you had a successful journey?’ Georgiana enquired as Elizabeth alighted from the carriage upon her return from Truro. She was tired and dusty and looking forward to a glass of cool lemonade, perhaps a sandwich and some of Cook’s damson preserves made from last year’s orchard fruit.
‘Quite, thank you. Though I have a terrible thirst.’
‘Why don’t we take some tea? Mrs Pascoe can see to your purchases.’
Once Elizabeth had removed her hat and gloves and the two sisters were sitting comfortably in the parlour, Elizabeth began to speak. ‘I hope you have had some time to think over our conversation of last night,’ she began.
‘Indeed,’ said Georgiana, ‘it has been preying on my mind. But you must not think I am about to commence lecturing, for I do not desire to quarrel with you.’
‘Good,’ said Elizabeth, relieved. ‘Because I am not to be persuaded out of it.’
Georgiana looked her sister square in the eye, her gaze steady. ‘I was rather afraid of that. You always were the stronger of the two of us.’
‘Then you understand that I must go?’
Georgiana nodded sadly. ‘I do.’
‘And do you think you can convince Robert of it? A blessing from both of you would mean the world to me,’ Elizabeth pleaded.
‘I will try,’ Georgiana said. ‘I need to pick a time when he is likely to be most amenable.’
‘Of course.’
‘But I will miss you so,’ she wailed. ‘It has been hard to be separated since my marriage. We were so close as girls. Do you remember how we used to give Mam’zelle the slip and hide in the potting shed, or take the horses for gallops along the cliff edge?’
‘Egging each other on to see who could go the fastest,’ said Elizabeth, reminiscing. ‘I’m surprised we were never caught.’
‘I will worry terribly for you, my dearest sister,’ said Georgiana, her smile fading.
‘I know you will, but I have steadfast faith that no ills will befall me. I am young and stro
ng and quick-witted. In any case, you have Robert and your life with him. When do you plan to return to Plymouth?’
‘Next week, I believe. But we will move our household here before long. Robert has decided it, and I shall be happy to return home.’ She sighed. ‘Even if it will be a quieter and more sombre place without you in it.’
‘I shall not be away forever.’ Elizabeth placed a reassuring hand on her sister’s arm. ‘The time shall fly by.’
‘I imagine you shall find things quite changed on your return.’
‘What do you mean? Does Robert already have plans afoot?’ Elizabeth looked at her with concern. ‘Will he alter the house? Or the gardens?’ The thought of the fabric of the house, most especially the gardens, changing without her knowledge, though she had little control over such matters, set her stomach churning.
‘No, nothing like that,’ Georgiana replied with a smile. ‘In fact, it is I who shall be most changed.’
‘Why, sister dear?’ Elizabeth took a sip of her tea.
Georgiana glanced coyly down at her lap. ‘I am with child.’
‘What?’ Elizabeth hastily put down her cup, inadvertently slopping hot liquid into the saucer and narrowly missing staining her skirts. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure,’ Georgiana replied. ‘Though I must confess, we had hardly dared hope, not after so long …’
‘Oh, but that is the first piece of good news we have had here in weeks!’ Elizabeth exclaimed, before looking at her sister more carefully. ‘You have been looking a little pale, but I thought that was due to Papa’s passing. How are you feeling?’ Elizabeth knew only the barest outline of what carrying a baby entailed; it was something only married women were privy to, and Mam’zelle’s teachings on the matter had been vague.
‘I’m perfectly fine,’ said Georgiana. ‘Though I have been a little tired, and somewhat delicate in the mornings.’ She looked soberly at her sister. ‘I am happy, but I am also terrified, dear sister.’ They both glanced at the portrait of their mother, Augusta, which hung on the wall in front of them. Mr Rossetti had been commissioned to make her likeness and he had done a fine job. Her gown was of a blue that perfectly matched her eyes, with creamy lace at her sleeves and bodice. A dimple marked each of her cheeks, giving her a sweet countenance – both of her daughters had inherited these dimples – and her fair hair and cornflower blue eyes shone out from the painting, almost making her seem alive; as if she could step down and take tea with them on this sunny afternoon.