The Rose Garden

by Susanna Kearsley

  ‘Hey.’ From the hoarseness of that single word I guessed what it was costing him to try to reassure me. ‘Sure it was. I mean, where else—?’

  ‘With you.’ I heard my voice break, just a little, and I steadied it to tell him, ‘She belonged with you.’

  For several heartbeats afterwards the muted party noises were the only sounds that carried down the line. Perhaps, like me, he was imagining Katrina’s ashes blowing westward over the Atlantic. Heading home.

  ‘I just … I wanted to apologise,’ I said. ‘I got it wrong. You were the great love of her life, Bill. Where you were, that’s where Katrina would have wanted most to be. That’s where she should be.’

  His lighter clicked, and I could hear his deep pull on the cigarette, and then the long exhale. ‘She still is, Eva. She’s here with me, every day. You didn’t get it wrong.’ Another pause, and I could sense that he was searching for the words that would convince me of that, grant me absolution. After half a minute more he said, ‘Trelowarth’s just a place, you know?’

  Trelowarth, said Daniel’s voice, warm in my memory, is rooms gathered under a roof, nothing more.

  My eyes stung. ‘Yes, I know.’

  We left it there.

  I’d been afraid the day would stretch unbearably. This was still new and strange to me, this knowing what was yet to come, and thanks to Claire I knew that what was coming would not happen until dark. I’d thought the waiting might be my undoing, but the fact was there were still things left to finish, and the knowledge that I wouldn’t have another chance to finish them made every hour fly faster.

  It took me till that afternoon to get the files in order that I’d wanted to leave Susan, so she could take care of any future PR work herself. And when I’d switched off the computer there was still the packing left to do.

  The afternoon had given way to evening almost before I had noticed, and by the time Claire came round after supper I was only just then finishing the final task of pinning up my hair.

  She sat and watched me. ‘I must say, you do that very neatly, Eva. Who taught you how?’

  ‘Fergal, actually.’

  ‘The Irishman?’ She placed him with a nod. I’d told her all about the people living at Trelowarth in the past, and Claire had an efficient memory. ‘It sounds as though he helped you quite a bit this summer.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He did.’

  ‘I’m glad. It makes a world of difference, having someone to confide in.’

  There was something faintly wistful in her voice that made me feel a twinge of guilt at leaving her, until I realised that I wasn’t really leaving her alone.

  I thought about that evening in her garden when she’d told me what the future held in store for me, and how she’d come to know it. She’d begun a little curiously in my view, by asking whether I remembered when she’d told the story of the Grey Lady who’d vanished at Trelowarth.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I’d said.

  ‘Do you remember when I said it happened?’

  ‘Yes, before your parents’ time, you said.’ And I’d looked up at her in sudden realisation.

  Claire had met my eyes. ‘My parents, dear, aren’t born yet. Not in this time.’

  ‘And the Grey Lady … ?’

  ‘Is you.’

  She had explained it all again to me, how in the future she would meet an old man in the village who would tell her of the woman who had disappeared before his eyes when he was young. And he would know exactly who I was. He’d know my name.

  She’d told me his name, too, and I had tried to take it in, but even so I’d had to stop her midway through her tale to make sure I’d heard her correctly.

  ‘And he was the old man you met in the pub,’ I’d said, just to be certain, ‘the old man you rented this cottage from.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you said that the cottage had come to him through his wife’s family. And she’d been a Hallett.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Claire had waited patiently, her gaze expectant on my face, until I’d sorted through the possibilities and reached the only answer.

  ‘Susan.’ I had been surprised at first, but then it seemed so right that I’d repeated it with pleasure. ‘His wife was Susan.’

  Claire had nodded. ‘It was, he said, a very happy marriage. He had lost her just the year before I met him, and he clearly still adored her.’

  I had thought a moment, making sense of everything. ‘So you believe him, then. That I’m the Grey Lady?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He might have been a very old man when we first met,’ she’d admitted, ‘but there wasn’t any problem with his memory. Everything he ever told me would happen did happen, my darling. And he was quite sure about this. As I said, he was there.’

  ‘Will be there,’ I’d corrected her, vaguely. ‘I haven’t gone anywhere, yet.’

  I’d looked towards the sundial with its butterfly forever frozen on the brink of flight. Below them waved the ring of bright geraniums I’d helped Claire plant – the only mark I’d left upon Trelowarth in this time, and even that was passing. Soon the blooms would fade and nod and die and no one would remember them. ‘Aunt Claire,’ I’d said, asking the question she hadn’t yet answered, the one that most mattered to me.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did she ever come back, this Grey Lady who vanished?’

  Claire had turned to me fully that time, and our eyes had met. ‘No,’ she had told me, ‘she never came back.’

  And I’d felt a small catch of emotion then, tight round my heart, feeling almost like hope.

  I could feel it again, growing stronger as I covered my hair with the white linen pinner and turned around now to face Claire so she’d have the full effect. ‘There.’

  ‘Very nice.’ Claire looked me up and down, admiring the lines of the dress. ‘He chose that for you, did he? Clever man. The colour’s lovely.’

  The green had a soothing effect on my nerves as I lifted the skirts to adjust them and took a look round to make sure I’d done everything. Both of my suitcases sat neatly packed on the furthermost bed. ‘I suppose,’ I said slowly, ‘I’m ready.’

  We each took a suitcase, and carried them down the short way to the first landing, setting them down while I sprang the stiff panel that hid the old priest’s hole. ‘You’re sure this will be OK?’

  ‘Darling, it’s been here for centuries now without anyone knowing. It’s quite the safest place to leave things,’ she said. ‘Better than a cupboard.’

  To prove it she tucked one case neatly away in the narrow dark space, taking care not to pull at the delicate fabric of Ann’s faded gowns that we’d hung in here earlier, next to the coat that had been the man Peter’s, and Daniel’s silk banyan that I’d first brought back. I slid the second case into its place and positioned Felicity’s pisky on top of it, leaving him there with his all-knowing smile to watch over things as I stepped back a pace, letting the panel swing closed again.

  Someday, I thought, when Trelowarth House fell to the elements, some archaeologist might stumble over those twenty-first century cases of clothes sharing space with an old bloodstained coat and the banyan and two eighteenth-century gowns, and might wonder about them, and try to form theories explaining the puzzle of how they had come to be there in one place … but I’d lay odds that none of the theories would ever come close to the truth.

  And the walls held their silence, no whispers this evening as I followed Claire down the staircase and through the bright kitchen and out the back door with the dogs coming, too, keeping close to our heels in a tail-wagging pack, ever curious, seeking excitement.

  They seemed to find it in the scents that rode the cooling night breeze blowing shoreward from the sea, and with their noses bouncing happily from air to ground and back again they snuffed their way around the yard, some venturing with interest to the stable building doorstep, no doubt hoping that their master had returned.

  I stayed with Claire, and went no further than the honeysuckle
vine that climbed the wall beside the kitchen window. There was light here slanting out across the softness of the grass and casting shadows through the vine’s leaves in a finely tangled net that made a pattern on my green silk gown.

  I asked Claire, ‘Are you sure we’re not too late?’

  ‘Darling,’ she said. ‘You can’t possibly miss it, there’s no need to worry.’

  I realised she was right, that while for me the whole event had not yet taken place, in Claire’s time it was something done and finished with, belonging to the past; the Moving Finger had already written what must happen.

  But that knowledge, reassuring as it might be, didn’t make me feel less nervous.

  ‘Yes, but when—?’ I left the question hanging, because just then one of the dogs raised its head and gave a shortened bark that brought the other dogs to quick attention, all their noses turned in the direction of the road.

  Like them, I heard the footsteps on the gravel drive. Claire did, as well.

  ‘Quite soon, I should imagine,’ was her answer as she turned to greet our visitor as he came round the corner of the house. ‘Good evening, Oliver.’

  And in that single moment I knew everything she’d told me had been true.

  Oliver came round the side of the house and glanced up at Claire’s greeting.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, fending the happily leaping dogs off with one hand as I saw him both notice my gown and, with typical nonchalance, choose not to comment beyond a quick nod and a cheerful, ‘Nice frock.’ He stepped closer and flashed his endearing smile. ‘I thought with everyone gone off to Southport, you might be in need of some company.’

  Claire said, ‘I see you’ve brought wine.’

  There was something about how she said that, some note in her voice that reminded me this was a night she herself must have waited a very long time for – this night when she’d finally be able to sit down and talk, really talk, to the man who would become her friend and confidant; the man who would one day be Susan’s husband, and the man whom she would meet again some sixty years from now, when he was old, and she was young.

  She wouldn’t know him then, of course, because for her it would be their first meeting, but Oliver would recognise her. On that day she walked into the pub, he would approach her, and he’d offer her the cottage, and he’d share with her the story of the Grey Lady he’d once seen disappear before his eyes, here at Trelowarth. Eventually, he’d tell her more.

  He’d be as good a friend to her in her own time as he would be in this one, after they sat down and talked tonight, and I was pleased to know that by my leaving I was bringing them together.

  ‘It does make a world of difference,’ Claire had told me, ‘having someone to confide in.’

  She would have that soon, I thought.

  But for the moment Oliver was still in total ignorance of what was yet to come.

  He looked down at the bottle he was holding. ‘Yes, it’s only the one bottle, I’m afraid, but—’

  ‘That will do,’ Claire told him, ‘for a start.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  She didn’t explain. She only reached to take the bottle from him. ‘Here, you’d better let me hold that, dear.’

  And just in time. The air around me had already started changing, and the breeze had stopped, and at the edges of my vision all the colours of the landscape had begun to run, the honeysuckle vine washed grey against the stone walls of Trelowarth House.

  I had the sense of movement to the side of me and, turning, I could see a shape that might have been a man approaching. Unaware of me at first, he nearly passed me by before he stopped, and I could see that it was Fergal now. I saw the quick flash of his grin as his head lifted slightly and, although I couldn’t hear him, it appeared that he was calling out to someone in the house.

  Oliver’s voice seemed to come from a very great distance. ‘My God,’ he said. ‘Eva …’

  Claire calmed him, ‘It’s all right. She’s fine.’

  A sudden brightness flashed behind me and I turned instinctively towards it, blinking, watching it resolve itself into a shape I recognised: the warm light of the open doorway, with one shadowed figure framed within it.

  Daniel.

  Looking at him then I knew there was no need to wonder, any more, where I belonged. There lay my home, I thought, and all the comforts I could want, and come the spring when all the Duke of Ormonde’s plans to raise a great rebellion in the west of England had been set aside for schemings of a newer sort, the Sally would raise anchor on the turning tide and sail towards the south, to Spain perhaps, or the Canary Isles, where no one would remark upon my accent and where Fergal could indulge his taste for sack and maybe find a Spanish woman who could match his wit and temper.

  What did it matter that our lives would leave no mark upon Trelowarth? That the path through the woods which had led to the cliffs where the Sally lay moored would be needed no longer, and little by little the years would reclaim it, the trees growing over the trails of our feet until no one would know we had walked there at all?

  I would know, and remember, and that was enough.

  A breath of wind brushed past my face and brought the scent of woodsmoke with it from the kitchen hearth.

  I looked back once at Oliver and Claire. Claire’s cheeks were wet but she was smiling as she gave a nod and mouthed the word ‘Goodbye.’

  I thought I heard the words ‘Come back’ as well, but whether it was Oliver or Daniel who had spoken them I couldn’t tell. My face by then was turning to the warm light of the open doorway and the man who stood within it, waiting for me.

  Gaining substance by the second.

  Wordlessly he stretched his hand towards me, and I saw his smile.

  And with a smile, I went to him.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Polgelly is the Cornwall of my memory. But it bears a strong resemblance to the village of Polperro, as it was when I first saw it in the summer that remains the brightest bead in all my string of childhood memories. And Trelowarth owes its heritage to Landaviddy Manor, on the hill above Polperro, where my sister and I shared a room that looked towards the sea.

  I’ve changed the names, in part because it is a work of memory, and in part because I’ve changed the landscape and the house to suit my story’s needs: I’ve left The Hill exactly where it should be, but I’ve moved the cottage and the beach, and added in the Beacon and the Wild Wood and the gardens.

  In my building of the latter, I’m indebted to the kind and generous help of Stewart and Rebecca Pocock, award-winning owners of both Pocock’s Roses of Hampshire and The Cornish Rose Company of Mitchell, near Truro, who were constantly encouraging and patient with their guidance, as was Lara Crisp, my editor, who helped me prune the deadwood from my manuscript to let it take the shape that it was meant to be.

  I’m thankful as well for the help of my friend, fellow writer Liz Fenwick, who from her Cornish home took time to help me get my details right.

  The years stand still for no one, but I’ve always felt a magic in the crossing of the Tamar, and I like to think perhaps some future traveller to Polperro, having climbed The Hill, may hear a burst of laughter from the lawn of Landaviddy Manor, high above the sea, and glimpse the shadows of two sisters still at play there, in another time.

  By Susanna Kearsley

  Mariana

  The Shadowy Horses

  Season of Storms

  Every Secret Thing

  (previously published under the name Emma Cole)

  Sophia’s Secret

  (also published as The Winter Sea)

  The Rose Garden

  Copyright

  Allison & Busby Limited

  13 Charlotte Mews

  London W1T 4EJ

  www.allisonandbusby.com

  Copyright © 2011 by SUSANNA KEARSLEY

  First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2011.

  This ebook edition first published in 2011.

  The moral
right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978–0–7490–1094–2

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE