by Kate Morton
PRAISE FOR THE FORGOTTEN GARDEN
‘. . . a dark, suspenseful feast for history-lovers.’—Sunday Telegraph
‘. . . immediately captivating and atmospheric . . .’—Bookseller & Publisher
‘. . . a sense of mystery and adventure that generations of childhood Enid Blyton readers will identify with.’—The Courier Mail
‘. . . a delicious book to get lost in.’—Sunday Telegraph
‘A foundling, a book of dark fairytales, a secret garden, an aristocratic family, a love denied—are all elements pulled together to build a tale that is compulsively readable.’—Good Reading
‘. . . a magical book.’—Newcastle Herald
‘A tale of gentle mystery and quiet adventure . . . It is the stuff of fairytales mixed with the reality of the present day.’—SA Life
‘. . . a captivating tale of century-old secrets, family and memory . . . Beautifully written and plotted.’—Weekend Gold Coast Bulletin
‘Wonderfully written, this is one of the best reads this year.’—Woman’s Day
‘. . . [an] addictive blend of mystery, romance and suspense.’—Illawarra Mercury
‘A compelling, richly layered mystery . . .’—Australian Women’s Weekly
‘. . . once in a while [a] book comes along that you can’t put down, you even put off going to work so you can finish it. You also know that at least once in your life, you will pick it up to reread. This is such a book . . .’—Armidale Express
‘The story is full of twists and turns that kept hold of me all the way through—and kept me guessing until the final chapters.’—Evening Gazette (UK)
‘Morton gracefully weaves three narratives . . . The resolution to the mystery tantalizes throughout . . . a long, lush, perfectly escapist read.’ —New York Daily News
PRAISE FOR THE SHIFTING FOG
‘. . . an extraordinary debut . . . a sweeping saga, a period piece, a romance, and a mystery . . . written with a lovely turn of phrase by someone who knows how to eke out tantalising secrets and drama . . .’—Sunday Telegraph
‘Full of lovely writing, grand houses, snobbery, cruelty and passion, this compelling mystery-cum-love story . . . is utterly addictive . . . A brilliant Australian debut.’—Australian Women’s Weekly
‘. . . captures the atmosphere and ambience of the time and place, the melancholy and wistfulness as well as the glittering moments . . . [A] haunting and enthralling book, exquisite not only in the writing but also in the structure.’—Good Reading
‘. . . you get a sense of stepping back in time, and feeling the heartache and thrills of love. A beautifully-told, engrossing tale.’—New Idea
‘. . . one of those rare books you can immerse yourself in, sharing the joys and heartaches of the characters and willing them to find happiness.’ —Sunshine Coast Daily
‘. . . a thoroughly engrossing read, beautifully written with the occasional flash of humour. It is some time since I found a novel so satisfying.’—SA Life
‘. . . both an atmospheric murder mystery and a family saga that beautifully evokes a past era . . . This is an enthralling tale about the extremes people go to in the name of love and duty.’—Next
‘. . . the most enjoyable novel I have read for many years . . . If you don’t read any other book this year, don’t miss this one.’—South Coast Register
‘A stunning must-read story that’s set for stardom.’—Time Out
‘. . . compulsively readable . . . a rich engrossing story of love, passion, secrets and lies.’—Northern Daily Leader
‘ . . . one of those novels which act on the reader somewhat like Pringles crisps. You may not intend to stay up until 3 am, but there you are, turning the pages faster and faster, pretending the alarm clock isn’t set for 7 am.’ —Irish Times
PRAISE FOR THE DISTANT HOURS
‘The Distant Hours demonstrates a new leap in Morton’s authorial choreography . . . [She] sustains an atmosphere of quiet dread rivaling that developed by Sarah Waters in The Little Stranger . . . A rich treat for fans of historical fiction.’—Washington Post
‘The Distant Hours draws readers into a fantastical world that will feel like home to those who grew up with Enid Blyton and Lewis Carroll, and later progressed to the Brontës and Ian McEwan . . . The Distant Hours is an engrossing tale full of secrets waiting to be told.’—Bookseller & Publisher, 4 stars
‘Kate Morton’s clever and compelling new novel is yet more evidence of her place in both the bestseller charts and the hearts of her readers. In this atmospheric and evocative tale of a daughter’s journey into her mother’s past, a long-lost letter leads Edie Burchill to Milderhurst Castle in Kent and a forgotten world . . . An intriguing and beautifully observed story.’—Lancashire Evening Post
‘Morton skilfully creates such a strong sense of place, you will feel everything that the castle walls have seen. The atmosphere that she conjures up is so strong that it’s hard to believe these rooms don’t live and breathe . . . The suspense will have you turning the pages long into the night.’—Good Reading, 4 stars
‘Morton deploys all the devices in the Gothic arsenal to peer deep into the legacy of World War II, its enduring shadow of grief and loss and beyond into the nature of dark domestic secrets, love and betrayal, jealousy and possession. Layered like a Chinese puzzle and with the lavish details and leisurely pace of a Victorian novel, The Distant Hours takes you by stealth. Morton’s instinctive feel for the deep emotional well of the past, her sensitive portrayal of her elderly characters and of those preceding generations of spinsters minted by war, lend an added poignancy to this beguiling and surprisingly dark mystery.’—Courier Mail
‘Kate Morton weaves a mesmerising tale of great loves and the power of the imagination, drawing readers into the castle’s veins as the mystery unravels.’—Notebook, Book of the Month
‘Don’t miss this imaginative and romantic story. Its subtle surprising twists are superb.’—Woman’s Day
‘. . . enthralling romantic thriller . . . will stun readers.’—Publishers Weekly, starred review (US)
‘Expertly plotted and paced, The Distant Hours moves between past and present and emerges as further confirmation Kate Morton is a special talent.’—Weekend Gold Coast Bulletin
‘It’s a bewitching brew, encompassing illicit affairs, madness and concealed crime, that builds in intensity as the story twists and turns to a satisfying conclusion. If you like Mary Stewart’s gently old-fashioned but perfectly plotted confections, you’ll love this.’—Who Weekly, 4 stars
‘Rewarding, bittersweet . . . the author’s most gothic tale yet.’—Kirkus Reviews (US)
‘A cleverly crafted and beautifully descriptive novel.’—Choice Magazine
‘Morton’s writing has enough atmosphere, intrigue and intelligence for The Distant Hours to wheedle its way into the most cynical of hearts.’ —Metro, 4 stars (UK)
‘An absorbing and haunting read’—Woman & Home (UK)
‘A bewitching tale of family secrets and betrayal’—Good Housekeeping (UK)
‘Featuring a fresh and thrilling gothic mystery, cinematic storytelling, and fully developed characters who possess layers of deliciously surprising secrets, this complex story is developed at a leisurely but compelling pace that keeps readers hooked’—Library Journal, starred review (US)
‘In this, her third book, Morton writes in her usual engaging style, taking the reader to the heart of the Blythe family, so that from wartime evacuations through to the machinations of modern-day publishing, you live through every twist and turn.’—Waterstones Books Quarterly (UK)
‘Kate Morton’s stunning new novel will not disappoint . . .’—Best Magazine (UK)
‘A nuanced exploration
of family secrets and betrayal, Morton’s latest is captivating.’—People Magazine (US)
The
FORGOTTEN
GARDEN
Kate Morton grew up in the mountains of south-east Queensland and lives now with her husband and young sons in Brisbane. She has degrees in dramatic art and English literature, specialising in nineteenth-century tragedy and contemporary gothic novels.
With just three novels published, Kate Morton has sold over 7 million copies in 26 languages, across 38 countries. The Shifting Fog, published internationally as The House at Riverton, The Forgotten Garden and The Distant Hours have all been number one bestsellers around the world. Each novel won the Australian Book Industry award for General Fiction Book of the Year.
You can find more information about Kate Morton and her books at www.katemorton.com or www.facebook.com/KateMortonAuthor
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published in 2012
First published in 2008
Copyright © Kate Morton 2008
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
Sydney, Melbourne, Auckland, London
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia
www.trove.nla.gov.au
ISBN 978 1 74237 969 2
Map by Ian Faulkner
Internal design by Nada Backovic Designs
Set in 10.5/12.7 pt Minion Pro by Bookhouse, Sydney
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FOR OLIVER AND LOUIS
More precious than all the spun gold
in Fairyland
‘But why must I bring back three strands of the Fairy Queen’s hair?’ spoke the young prince to the crone. ‘Why no other number, why not two or four?’
The crone leaned forward but did not halt her spinning. ‘There is no other number, my child. Three is the number of time, for do we not speak of past, present and future? Three is the number of family, for do we not speak of mother, father and child? Three is the number of fairy, for do we not seek them between oak, ash and thorn?’
The young prince nodded, for the wise crone spoke the truth.
‘Thus must I have three strands, to weave my magic plait.’
—FROM ‘THE FAIRY PLAIT’ BY ELIZA MAKEPEACE
Contents
Part•One
1 London, 1913
2 Brisbane, 1930
3 Brisbane, 2005
4 Brisbane, 2005
5 Brisbane, 1976
6 Maryborough, 1913
7 Brisbane, 2005
8 Brisbane, 1975
9 Maryborough, 1914
10 Brisbane, 2005
11 The Indian Ocean, nine hundred miles beyond the Cape of Good Hope, 1913
12 Over the Indian Ocean, 2005
The Crone’s Eyes
13 London, 1975
14 London, 1900
15 London, 2005
16 London, 1900
17 London, 2005
18 London, 1975
19 London, 2005
20 London, 1900
Part•Two
21 The road to Cornwall, 1900
22 Cornwall, 2005
23 Blackhurst Manor, 1900
24 Cliff Cottage, 2005
25 Tregenna, 1975
26 Blackhurst Manor, 1900
27 Tregenna, 1975
28 Blackhurst Manor, 1900
29 The Blackhurst Hotel, 2005
30 Blackhurst Manor, 1907
The Changeling
31 Blackhurst Manor, 1907
32 Cliff Cottage, 2005
33 Tregenna, 1975
34 New York and Tregenna, 1907
35 The Blackhurst Hotel, 2005
36 Pilchard Cottage, 1975
Part•Three
37 Blackhurst Manor, 1907
38 Cliff Cottage, 2005
39 Blackhurst Manor, 1909
40 Tregenna, 2005
41 Cliff Cottage, 1975
42 Blackhurst Manor, 1913
43 Cliff Cottage, 2005
44 Tregenna, 1975
The Golden Egg
45 Cliff Cottage, 1913
46 Polperro, 2005
47 Brisbane, 1976
48 Blackhurst Manor, 1913
49 Cliff Cottage, 2005
50 Blackhurst Manor, 1913
51 Tregenna, 2005
Epilogue Greenslopes Hospital, Brisbane, 2005
Acknowledgements
Preview Chapter: The Distant Hours
PART•ONE
1
London, 1913
It was dark where she was crouched but the little girl did as she’d been told. The lady had said to wait, it wasn’t safe yet, they had to be as quiet as larder mice. It was a game, the little girl knew, just like hide and seek.
From behind the wooden barrels the little girl listened. Made a picture in her mind the way Papa had taught her. Men, near and far, sailors she supposed, shouted to one another. Rough, loud voices, full of the sea and its salt. In the distance: bloated ships’ horns, tin whistles, splashing oars; and far above, grey gulls cawing, wings flattened to absorb the ripening sunlight.
The lady would be back, she’d said so, but the little girl hoped it would be soon. She’d been waiting a long time, so long that the sun had drifted across the sky and was now warming her knees through her new dress. She listened for the lady’s skirts, swishing against the wooden deck. Her heels clipping, hurrying, always hurrying, in a way the girl’s own mamma never did. The little girl wondered, in the vague, unconcerned manner of much-loved children, where Mamma was. When she would be coming. And she wondered about the lady. She knew who she was, she’d heard Grandmamma talking about her. The lady was called the Authoress and she lived in the little cottage on the far side of the estate, beyond the maze. The little girl wasn’t supposed to know. She had been forbidden from playing in the bramble maze. Mamma and Grandmamma had told her it was dangerous to go near the cliff. But sometimes, when no one was looking, the little girl liked to do forbidden things.
Dust motes, hundreds of them, danced in the sliver of sunlight that had appeared between two barrels. The little girl smiled and the lady, the cliff, the maze, Mamma, left her thoughts. She held out a finger, tried to catch a speck upon it. Laughed at the way the motes came so close before skirting away.
The noises beyond her hiding spot were changing now. The little girl could hear the hubbub of movement, voices laced with excitement. She leaned into the veil of light and pressed her face against the cool wood of the barrels. With one eye she looked upon the decks.
Legs and shoes and petticoat hems. The tails of coloured paper streamers flicking this way and that. Wily gulls hunting the decks for crumbs.
A lurch and the huge boat groaned, long and low from deep within its belly. Vibrations passed through the deck boards and into the little girl’s fingertips. A moment of suspension and she found herself holding h
er breath, palms flat beside her, then the boat heaved and pushed itself away from the dock. The horn bellowed and there was a wave of cheering, cries of ‘Bon voyage’. They were on their way. To America, a place called New York where Papa had been born. She’d heard them whispering about it for some time, Mamma telling Papa they should go as soon as possible, that they could afford to wait no longer.
The little girl laughed again; the boat was gliding through the water like a giant whale, like Moby Dick in the story her father often read to her. Mamma didn’t like it when he read such stories. She said they were too frightening and would put ideas in her head that couldn’t be got out. Papa always gave Mamma a kiss on the forehead when she said that sort of thing, told her she was right and that he’d be more careful in future. But he still told the little girl stories of the great whale. And others—the ones that were the little girl’s favourite, from the fairytale book, about eyeless crones, and orphaned maidens, and long journeys across the sea. He just made sure that Mamma didn’t know, that it remained their secret.
The little girl understood they had to have secrets from Mamma. Mamma wasn’t well, had been sickly since before the little girl was born. Grandmamma was always bidding her be good, minding her that if Mamma were to get upset something terrible might happen and it would be all her fault. The little girl loved her mother and didn’t want to make her sad, didn’t want something terrible to happen, so she kept things secret. Like the fairy stories, and playing near the maze, and the times Papa had taken her to visit the Authoress in the cottage on the far side of the estate.
‘A-ha!’ A voice by her ear. ‘Found you!’ The barrel was heaved aside and the little girl squinted up into the sun. Blinked until the owner of the voice moved to block the light. It was a big boy, eight or nine, she guessed. ‘You’re not Sally,’ he said.
The little girl shook her head.
‘Who are you?’
She wasn’t meant to tell anybody her name. It was a game they were playing, she and the lady.
‘Well?’
-->
