by Kate Morton
‘Oh my dear,’ said Julia, ‘I hate to be the one to break it to you but I’m afraid you must be mistaken. Rose couldn’t be your great-grandmother. She couldn’t be anyone’s great-grandmother. Her only child died when she was practically still a baby.’
‘Of scarlet fever.’
‘Poor little cherub, four years old—’ She looked sideways at Cassandra. ‘If you know about the scarlet fever, you must know that Rose’s daughter died.’
‘I know people think that, but I also know it’s not what really happened. It can’t be.’
‘I’ve seen the headstone in the estate cemetery,’ said Julia gently. ‘Sweetest lines of poetry, so sad. I can show it to you if you’d like.’
Cassandra could feel her cheeks flushing as they always did when she sensed the outskirts of disagreement. ‘There may be a headstone, but there’s no little girl buried there. Not Ivory Walker at any rate.’
Julia’s expression vacillated between interest and concern. ‘Go on.’
‘When my grandmother was twenty-one, she found out her parents weren’t really her parents.’
‘She was adopted?’
‘Sort of. She was found on a wharf in Australia when she was four years old, with nothing but a child’s suitcase. It wasn’t until she was sixty-five that her dad finally gave her the case and she was able to start searching for information about her past. She came to England and spoke with people and researched, and all the while she kept a journal.’
Julia smiled knowingly. ‘Which you have now.’
‘Exactly. That’s how I know she found out that Rose’s daughter didn’t die. She was kidnapped.’
Julia’s blue eyes searched Cassandra’s face. Her cheeks had taken on a sudden flush. ‘But if that were the case, wouldn’t there have been a search? Wouldn’t it have been all over the newspapers? Like what happened with the Lindbergh boy?’
‘Not if the family kept it quiet.’
‘Why would they have done that? They’d have wanted everyone to know, surely?’
Cassandra was shaking her head. ‘Not if they wanted to avoid scandal. The woman who took her was the ward of Lord and Lady Mountrachet, Rose’s cousin.’
Julia gasped. ‘Eliza took Rose’s daughter?’
It was Cassandra’s turn to look surprised. ‘You know of Eliza?’
‘Of course, she’s quite famous in these parts.’ Julia swallowed. ‘Let me get this straight. You think Eliza took Rose’s daughter to Australia?’
‘Put her on the boat to Australia but didn’t go herself. Eliza went missing somewhere between London and Maryborough. When my great-grandfather found Nell, she was all by herself on the wharf. That’s why he took her home, he couldn’t leave a child that age alone.’
Julia was clicking her tongue. ‘To think of a little girl abandoned like that. Your poor grandmother, terrible not to know one’s origins. Certainly explains her eagerness to take a look at this place.’
‘That’s why Nell bought the cottage,’ said Cassandra. ‘Once she discovered who she was, she wanted to own a piece of her past.’
‘Of course.’ Julia lifted her hands then dropped them again. ‘That part makes perfect sense, I just don’t know about the rest.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, even if what you say is correct, if Rose’s daughter survived, was kidnapped, wound up in Australia, I just can’t believe Eliza had anything to do with it. Rose and Eliza were so close. More like sisters than cousins, the very best of friends.’ She paused, seemed to run the equation once more through her mind, then exhaled decisively. ‘No, I just can’t believe Eliza capable of such betrayal.’
Julia’s faith in Eliza’s innocence didn’t seem that of a dispassionate observer discussing a historical hypothetical. ‘What makes you so certain?’
Julia indicated a pair of wicker chairs arranged in the bay window. ‘Come, sit for a moment. I’ll have Samantha organise some tea.’
Cassandra glanced at her watch. Her appointment with the gardener was drawing near but she was curious about Julia’s strength of conviction, the way she spoke of Eliza and Rose as one might of dear friends. She sat in the proffered chair while Julia mouthed ‘Tea?’ in Samantha’s glazed direction.
As Samantha disappeared, Julia continued: ‘When we bought Blackhurst it was in a complete mess. We’d always dreamed of running a place like this but the reality resembled something out of a nightmare. You have no idea how much can go wrong in a house this size. It took us three years to make any headway at all. We worked solidly, nearly lost our marriage in the process. Nothing like rising damp and endless holes in the roof to drive a couple apart.’
Cassandra smiled. ‘I can imagine.’
‘It’s sad really. The house was lived in and loved by the one family for so long, but in the twentieth century, particularly after the first war, it was virtually abandoned. Rooms were boarded up, fireplaces sealed, not to mention the damage done by the army when they were here in the forties.
‘We sank every penny we had into the house. I was a writer way back when, a series of romantic novels in the sixties. Not exactly Jackie Collins, but I did all right. My husband was in banking and we were confident we had enough to get this place up and running.’ She laughed. ‘Huge underestimation. Huge. By our third Christmas, we’d almost run out of money and had little to show for it other than a marriage hanging by a few threads. We’d already sold most of the smaller parts of the estate and by Christmas Eve 1974 we were just about ready to throw in the towel, head back to London with our tails between our legs.’
Samantha appeared with a heavily loaded tray, jolted it onto the table then hesitated before reaching for the teapot handle.
‘I can pour it myself, Sam,’ said Julia, waving her away with a laugh. ‘I’m not the Queen. Well not yet.’ She winked at Cassandra. ‘Sugar?’
‘Please.’
Julia handed a cup of tea to Cassandra, took a sip of her own, then resumed her story. ‘It was freezing cold that Christmas Eve. A storm had blown in off the sea and was terrorising the headland. We’d lost power, our turkey was going off in a warm fridge, and we couldn’t remember where we’d put the new batch of candles. We were hunting in one of the upstairs rooms when a flash of lightning bathed the room in light and the two of us noticed the wall.’ She rubbed her lips together in anticipation of her own punchline. ‘In the wall, there was a hole.’
‘Like a mouse hole?’
‘No, a square hole.’
Cassandra frowned uncertainly.
‘A little cavity in the stone,’ said Julia. ‘The sort of thing I dreamed of as a kid whenever my brother found my diaries. It had been hidden behind a tapestry that the painter pulled down earlier in the week.’ She took a large slurp of tea before continuing. ‘I know it sounds silly, but finding that hidey-hole was like a good-luck charm. Almost like the house itself was saying, “All right, you’ve been here long enough with your banging and clanging. You’ve proved your intentions are true, so you can stay.” And I tell you, from that night onwards things seemed easier somehow. Started to go right more often than they went wrong. Your grandmother turned up for one thing, eager to buy Cliff Cottage, a fellow named Bobby Blake began bringing the garden back to life and a couple of coach companies started bussing tourists in for afternoon teas.’
She was smiling at the memory and Cassandra almost felt bad for interrupting. ‘But what was it you found? What was in the hidey-hole?’
Julia blinked at her.
‘Was it something belonging to Rose?’
‘Yes,’ said Julia, swallowing an excited smile. ‘Yes it was. Tied up with a ribbon was a collection of scrapbooks. One for each year from 1900 up until 1913.’
‘Scrapbooks?’
‘Plenty of young ladies used to keep them back then. It was a hobby wholeheartedly approved of by the powers that were—one of the few! A form of self-expression in which a young lady might be permitted indulgence without fears that she’d lost her so
ul to the devil.’ She smiled fondly. ‘Oh, Rose’s scrapbooks are no different from any other you might find in museums or attics all across the country—they’re full of pieces of fabric, sketches, pictures, invitations, little anecdotes—but when I found them I so identified with this young woman from almost a century before, her hopes and dreams and disappointments, that I’ve had a soft spot for her ever since. I think of her as an angel, watching over us.’
‘Are the scrapbooks still here?’
A guilty nod. ‘I know I should donate them to a museum or to one of those local history mobs, but I’m rather superstitious and can’t bear to part with them. For a little while I put them on display in the lounge, in one of the glass cabinets, but every time I caught a glimpse I felt a wave of shame, as if I’d taken something private and made it public. I have them stored in a box in my room now, for want of somewhere better.’
‘I’d love to see them.’
‘Of course you would, my dear. And so you shall.’ Julia smiled brilliantly at Cassandra. ‘I’m expecting a group booking in the next half-hour and Robyn’s got the rest of my week stitched up with festival arrangements. Can we say dinner, Friday night, up in my apartment? Rick will be away in London so we’ll have a real girls’ night. Pore over Rose’s scrapbooks and have ourselves a good old weep. How does that sound?’
‘Great,’ said Cassandra, smiling a little uncertainly. It was the first time anyone had ever invited her anywhere for a cry.
30
Blackhurst Manor, 1907
Careful not to alter her position on the sofa and incur the portrait artist’s wrath, Rose allowed her gaze to drop so she could look upon the most recent page of her scrapbook. She’d been working on it all week, whenever Mr Sargent had allowed them a rest from posing. There was a piece of the pale pink satin from which her birthday dress had been sewn, a ribbon from her hair, and at the bottom, in her best hand, she’d written out the lines from a poem by Lord Tennyson: But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott?
How Rose identified with the Lady of Shalott! Cursed to spend eternity in her chamber, forced always to experience the world at one remove. For hadn’t she, Rose, spent most of her life similarly interred?
But not any more. Rose had made a decision: no longer would she be shackled by the morbid prognoses of Dr Matthews, the hovering concern of Mamma. Though still delicate, Rose had learned that frailty begot frailty, that nothing caused lightheadedness so surely as day after day of stifling confinement. She was going to open windows when she was hot—she might catch a chill, but then again she might not. She was going to live with every expectation of marrying, having children, growing old. And at long last, on the occasion of her eighteenth birthday, Rose was to look down on Camelot. Better than that, walk through Camelot. For after years of pleading, Mamma had finally consented: today, for the first time, Rose was to accompany Eliza to the Blackhurst cove.
Ever since she’d arrived seven years before, Eliza had been bringing back tales from the cove. When Rose was lying in her warm dark room, breathing the stale air of her latest illness, Eliza would burst through the door so that Rose could almost smell the sea on her skin. She would climb in beside Rose and put a shell, or a powdery cuttlefish, or a little piece of shingle in her hand, and then she would begin her story. And in her mind, Rose would see the blue sea, feel the warm breeze in her hair, the hot sand beneath her feet.
Some of the tales Eliza invented, some she learned elsewhere. Mary, the maid, had brothers who were fishermen, and Rose suspected she enjoyed chatting when she should be working. Not to Rose, of course, but Eliza was different. All the servants treated Eliza differently. Quite improperly, almost as if they fancied themselves her friends.
Just lately Rose had begun to suspect that Eliza was venturing beyond the estate, had maybe even spoken with a villager or two, for her tales had taken on a new edge. They were rich with the specifics of boats and sailing, mermaids and treasures, adventures across the sea, told in colourful language that Rose secretly savoured; and there was a more expansive look in their teller’s eyes, as if she’d tasted the wicked things of which she spoke.
One thing was certain, Mamma would be livid to learn that Eliza had been into the village, mixed with common folk. It riled Mamma enough that Eliza spoke with the servants—for that fact alone Rose was able to bear Eliza’s friendship with Mary. If Mamma were to ask Eliza where she went, certainly Eliza wouldn’t lie, though what Mamma could do Rose wasn’t sure. In all the years of trying, Mamma had been unable to find a punishment that deterred Eliza.
The threat of being considered improper meant nothing to Eliza. Being sent to the cupboard beneath the stairs only gave her time and quiet to invent more stories. Denying her new dresses—punishment indeed for Rose—garnered nary a sigh: Eliza was more than happy to wear Rose’s cast-offs. When it came to punishments, she was like the heroine from one of her own stories, protected by a fairy charm.
Watching Mamma’s thwarted attempts to discipline Eliza gave Rose illicit pleasure. Each bid was met with a blank blue-eyed blink, a carefree shrug and an unaffected, ‘Yes, Aunt’. As if Eliza genuinely hadn’t realised her behaviour might cause offence. The shrug in particular drove Mamma to fury. She had long ago released Rose from any expectation that she might shape Eliza into a proper young lady, was pleased enough that Rose had succeeded in convincing Eliza to dress appropriately. (Rose had accepted Mamma’s praise and silenced the little voice whispering that Eliza had shed the tatty breeches only when she no longer fitted them.) There was something broken inside Eliza, Mamma said, like a piece of mirror in a telescope that prevented it from functioning properly. Prevented her from feeling proper shame.
As if she read Rose’s thoughts, Eliza shifted beside her on the sofa. They had been sitting still for almost an hour and resistance was emanating from Eliza’s body. Numerous times Mr Sargent had needed to remind her to stop frowning, to hold a position, while he amended part of his painting. Rose had heard him telling Mamma the day before that he’d have been finished already, only the girl with hair afire refused to sit still long enough for him to capture her expression.
Mamma had shivered distastefully when he said that. She would have preferred that Rose were Mr Sargent’s sole subject, but Rose had put her foot down. Eliza was her cousin, her only friend, of course she must be in the portrait. And then Rose had coughed a little, eyeing Mamma from beneath her lashes, and the matter had been closed.
And although the small icy part of Rose savoured Mamma’s displeasure, her insistence on Eliza’s inclusion had been heartfelt. Rose had never had a friend before Eliza. The opportunity had never presented itself, and even if it had, what use did a girl not long for life have for friends? Like most children whom circumstance has accustomed to suffering, Rose had found she shared little in common with other girls her age. She had no interest in rolling hoops or tidying dolls’ houses, and became quickly bored when faced with wearying conversations as to her favourite colour, number or song.
But Eliza was not like other little girls. Rose had known that on the first day they met. Eliza had a way of seeing the world that was frequently surprising, of doing things that were completely unexpected. Things that Mamma couldn’t bear.
The best thing about Eliza, though, even better than her ability to rile Mamma, was her storytelling. She knew so many wonderful tales the likes of which Rose had never heard. Frightening stories that made Rose’s skin prickle and her feet perspire. About the Other Cousin, and the London river, and a wicked Bad Man with a glinting knife. And of course her tale about the black ship that haunted the Blackhurst cove. Even though Rose knew it to be another of Eliza’s fictions, she loved to hear the story told. The phantom ship that appeared on the horizon, the ship that Eliza claimed to have seen and had spent many a summer’s day in the cove hoping to see again.
The one thing Rose had never been able to get Eliza to tell tales ab
out was her brother, Sammy. She’d let slip his name only once but had clammed up immediately when Rose probed further. It was Mamma who informed Rose that Eliza had been a twin, had once had a brother cut from the same cloth, a boy who had died in a tragic way.
Over the years, when she was lying alone in bed, Rose had liked to imagine his death, this little boy whose loss had done the impossible: robbed Eliza the storyteller of words. ‘Sammy’s Death’ had replaced ‘Georgiana’s Escape’ as Rose’s daydream of choice. She’d imagined him drowning, she’d imagined him falling, and she’d imagined him wasting away, the poor little boy who had come before her in Eliza’s affections.
‘Sit still,’ said Mr Sargent, pointing his paintbrush in Eliza’s direction. ‘Stop wriggling. You’re worse than Lady Asquith’s corgi.’
Rose blinked, was careful not to let her expression change when she realised that Father had entered the room. He was standing behind Mr Sargent’s easel, watching intently as the artist worked. Frowning and tilting his head, the better to follow the brushstrokes. Rose was surprised, she had never imagined her father had an interest in the fine arts. The only thing for which she knew him to bear fondness was photography, but even that he managed to make dull. Never photographing people, only bugs and plants and bricks. Yet here he was, transfixed by his daughter’s portrait. Rose sat a little taller.
Only twice in her childhood had Rose been granted opportunity to observe her father at close quarters. The first instance was when she swallowed the thimble and Father had been called upon to take the photograph for Dr Matthews. The second had not been so felicitous.
She’d been hiding. Dr Matthews was expected and the nine-year-old Rose had taken it into her head she didn’t feel like seeing him. She’d found the one place Mamma would never think to seek her: Father’s darkroom.
There was a cavity beneath the big desk and Rose had taken a pillow to keep herself comfortable. And for the most part she was: if only the room hadn’t had such a ghastly smell, like the cleaning lotions the servants used during the spring clean.
