The Forgotten Garden

by Kate Morton

  For with Rose’s letter, the colour of Eliza’s world had changed. Like the kaleidoscope in the nursery that had so delighted her when she first came to Blackhurst, one twist and the same pieces had rearranged to create a vastly different picture. Where a week ago she had felt secure, enveloped in the certainty that she and Rose were irrevocably tied, now she feared herself alone again.

  By the time she entered the hidden garden, early light was sifting through the autumn-sparse canopy. Eliza took a deep breath. She’d come to the garden because it was the place in which she always felt settled, and today more than ever she needed it to work its magic.

  She ran her hand along the little iron seat, beaded with rain, and perched on its damp edge. The apple tree was fruiting, shiny globes of orange and pink. She could pick some for Cook, or perhaps she should tidy the borders, or trim the honeysuckle. Apply herself in some way that would take her mind from Rose’s arrival, the resistant fear that her cousin would be somehow changed when she returned.

  For in the days since Rose’s letter, as Eliza had grappled with her envy, she had realised that it wasn’t the man, Nathaniel Walker, whom she feared; it was Rose’s love for him. The marriage she could bear, but not a shift in Rose’s affection. Eliza’s greatest worry was that Rose, who had always loved her best, had found a replacement and would no longer need her cousin most of all.

  She forced herself to stroll casually and appraise her plants. The wisteria was shedding its final leaves, the jasmine had long lost its flowers, but the autumn had been mild and the pink roses were still in bloom. Eliza went closer, took a half-opened bud between her fingers and smiled at the perfect raindrop caught within its inner petals.

  The thought was sudden and complete. She must make a bouquet, a welcome-home gift for Rose. Her cousin was fond of flowers, but more than that, Eliza would select plants that were a symbol of their bond. There must be ivy for friendship, pink rose for happiness, and some of the exotic oak-leaved geranium for memories . . .

  Eliza chose each sprig carefully, making sure to pick only the finest stems, the most perfect blooms, then she gathered the little bouquet together with a pink satin ribbon torn from her hem. She was tightening the bow when she heard the familiar sound of metal wheels jangling on the distant driveway stones.

  They were back. Rose was home.

  With her heart in her throat, Eliza hitched up her damp-hemmed skirts, clutched the bouquet, and began to run. Zigzagging back and forth through the maze. She splashed through puddles in her haste, pulse hammering apace with the horses’ hooves.

  She emerged from the gates just in time to see the carriage draw to a stop in the turning circle. Paused a moment to catch her breath. Uncle Linus was sitting, as always, on the garden seat by the maze gate, his little brown camera beside him. But when he called to her, Eliza pretended not to hear.

  She arrived at the turning circle as Newton was opening the carriage door. He winked and Eliza waved back. Pressed her lips together as she waited.

  Since receiving Rose’s letter, long days had bled into longer nights, and now the moment was finally upon her. Time seemed to slow: she was aware of her hurried breaths, her pulse still racing in her ears.

  Did she imagine the change in Rose’s facial expression, the shift in her bearing?

  The bouquet slipped from Eliza’s fingers and she picked it up from the wet lawn.

  The motion must have caught in their peripheral vision, for both Rose and Aunt Adeline turned; one smiled, the other did not.

  Eliza raised her hand slowly and waved. Lowered it again.

  Rose’s eyebrows lifted with amusement. ‘Well, aren’t you going to welcome me home, Cousin?’

  Relief spread instantly beneath Eliza’s skin. Her Rose was back and all would surely be well. She started forward, began to run, arms outstretched. Wrapped Rose in an embrace.

  ‘Stand back, girl,’ said Aunt Adeline. ‘You’re covered in mud splatter. You’ll mark Rose’s dress.’

  Rose smiled and Eliza felt the sharp edges of her worry retract. Of course Rose was unaltered. She had been away only two and a half months. Eliza had allowed fear to conspire with absence and effect an impression of change where there was none.

  ‘Cousin Eliza, how wonderful it is to see you!’

  ‘And you, Rose.’ Eliza presented the bouquet.

  ‘How delightful!’ Rose lifted it to her nose. ‘From your garden?’

  ‘It’s ivy for friendship, oak-leaved geranium for memories—’

  ‘Yes, yes, and rose, I see. How darling of you, Eliza.’ Rose held the bouquet out towards Newton. ‘Have Mrs Hopkins find a vase, won’t you, Newton?’

  ‘I’ve so much to tell you, Rose,’ said Eliza. ‘You’ll never guess what’s happened. One of my stories—’

  ‘Goodness me!’ Rose laughed. ‘I haven’t even reached the front door and my Eliza is telling me fairytales.’

  ‘Stop tiring your cousin,’ said Aunt Adeline sharply. ‘Rose needs to rest.’ She glanced towards her daughter and a quaver of hesitation entered her voice. ‘You should consider lying down.’

  ‘Of course, Mamma. I intend to retire directly.’

  The change was subtle, but Eliza noted it nonetheless. There was something unusually tentative in Aunt Adeline’s suggestion, something less pliant in Rose’s response.

  Eliza was still pondering this slight shift when Aunt Adeline started into the house and Rose leaned close, whispered in Eliza’s ear: ‘Now come upstairs, dearest. There’s so much I have to tell you.’

  And tell Rose did. She recounted every moment spent in Nathaniel Walker’s company and, more tediously, the anguish of each moment spent away from him. The epic tale began that afternoon and continued through night and day. In the beginning Eliza was able to feign interest—indeed, at the very first she had been interested, for the feelings Rose described were like none she’d ever felt herself—but as the days wore on, grouped themselves into weeks, Eliza began to flag. She tried to interest Rose in other things—a visit to the garden, the newest story she had written, even a trip to the cove—but Rose had ears only for tales of love and forbearance. Specifically, her own . . .

  So it was, as the weeks cooled towards midwinter Eliza sought more frequently the cove, the hidden garden, the cottage. Places into which she could disappear, where servants would think twice before bothering her with their dreaded messages, always the same: Miss Rose requires Miss Eliza’s presence immediately on a matter of dire import. For it seemed that no matter how spectacularly Eliza failed to grasp the virtues of one wedding dress over another, Rose never tired of tormenting her.

  Eliza told herself that all would settle down, that Rose was just excited: she had always loved fashions and decorations, and here was her chance to play the fairy princess. Eliza just needed to be patient and all would return to normal between them.

  Then it was spring again. The birds returned from the bright beyond, Nathaniel arrived from New York, the wedding was upon them, and next Eliza knew she was waving at the rear of Newton’s carriage as it drew the happy couple towards London and a ship to the Continent.

  Later that night, as she lay in her own bed in the bleak house, Eliza felt Rose’s absence sharply. The knowledge formed clearly and simply: Rose would never again come to her room at night, neither would Eliza go to Rose. They would no longer lie together and giggle and tell stories while the rest of the house slept. A special room was being prepared for the newlyweds in a distant wing of the house. A larger room, with a view of the cove, far more befitting a married couple. Eliza turned onto her side. In the darkness she glimpsed finally how unbearable it would be to know herself beneath the same roof as Rose and yet be unable to seek her out.

  Next day, Eliza sought her aunt. Found her in the morning room, writing at the narrow desk. Aunt Adeline made no acknowledgement of Eliza’s presence, but Eliza spoke regardless.

  ‘I wondered, Aunt, whether certain items might not be spared from the attic.’

&
nbsp; ‘Items?’ said Aunt Adeline, without shifting her attention from the letter she was penning.

  ‘It is only a desk and chair that I require, and a bed—’

  ‘A bed?’ Cold eyes narrowed as her gaze swept sideways to meet Eliza’s.

  In the clarity of night, Eliza had realised that it was better to make changes for oneself than try to mend holes torn by the decisions of others. ‘Now that Rose is married, it occurs to me that my presence might be less required in the house. That I might take up residence in the cottage.’

  Eliza’s expectations were low: Aunt Adeline drew particular pleasure from the issuing of denials. She watched as her aunt signed her letter with a careful signature, then scratched sharp fingernails on her hound’s head. Her lips stretched into what Eliza took to be a smile, albeit slight, then she stood and rang the bell.

  The first night in her new abode Eliza sat by the upstairs window, watching the ocean swelling and subsiding like a great drop of mercury beneath the moon’s lambent light. Rose was across that sea, somewhere on the other side. Once more her cousin had travelled by ship and Eliza had been left behind. Some day, though, Eliza would set sail on her own journey. The magazine didn’t pay much for her fairytales, but if she kept writing and saved for a year, then surely she would be able to afford the voyage. And there was the brooch, of course, with its coloured gems. Eliza had never forgotten Mother’s brooch, tucked away inside the Swindells’ fireplace. One day, somehow, she intended to retrieve it.

  She thought of the advertisement she’d seen in the newspaper the week before. People wanted to travel to Queensland, it had said. Come and begin a new life. Mary had often spun tales of her brother’s adventures in the town of Maryborough. To hear her tell it, Australia was a land of open spaces and blinding sun, where the rules of society were flouted by most and opportunity abounded for all to start afresh. Eliza had always imagined that she and Rose might travel together, they had spoken of it many times. Or had they? Looking back, she realised Rose’s voice had been quiet when conversation touched upon such imagined adventures.

  Eliza stayed at the cottage every night. She bought her own produce from the market in the village; her young fisherman friend, William, made sure she was well supplied with fresh whiting; and Mary dropped by most afternoons on her way home from work at Blackhurst, always bringing a bowl of Cook’s soup, some cold meat from the luncheon roast, and news from the house.

  Apart from such visits, for the first time in her life Eliza was truly alone. In the beginning, unfamiliar sounds, nocturnal sounds, disturbed her, but as the days passed she came to know them: soft-pawed animals in the eaves, the ticking of the warming range, floorboards shivering in the cooling nights. And there were unexpected benefits to her solitary life: alone in the cottage, Eliza discovered that the characters from her fairytales became bolder. She found fairies playing in the spider’s webs, insects whispering incantations on the windowsills, fire sprites spitting and hissing in the range. Sometimes in the afternoons, Eliza would sit in the rocking chair listening to them. And late at night, when they were all asleep, she would spin their stories into her own tales.

  One morning in the fourth week, Eliza took her writing pad into the garden and sat in her favourite spot, the tuft of soft grass beneath the apple tree. A story idea had gripped her and she began to scribble it down: a brave princess who forsook her birthright and accompanied her maid on a long journey, a dangerous voyage to a wild and wicked land where danger thrived. Eliza was just about to send her heroine into the webbed cave of a particularly spiteful piskie, when a bird flew to perch in the branch above her and began to sing.

  ‘Is that so?’ said Eliza, laying down her pen.

  The bird sang again.

  ‘I agree, I’m rather peckish myself.’ She plucked one of the few remaining apples from a low branch, polished it on her dress and took a bite. ‘It really is delicious,’ she said as the bird flew away. ‘You’re most welcome to try one.’

  ‘I might take you up on that.’

  Eliza paused mid-crunch and sat very still, staring at the place where the bird had been.

  ‘I should have brought my own, only I didn’t think I’d be here so long.’

  She scanned the garden, and blinked when she saw a man sitting on the iron garden seat. He was so utterly out of context that, though they’d met before, it took her a moment to place him. The dark hair and eyes, the easy smile . . . Eliza inhaled sharply. It was Nathaniel Walker, who had married Rose. Sitting in her garden.

  ‘You certainly look to be enjoying your apple,’ he said. ‘Watching you is almost as satisfying as having one myself.’

  ‘I don’t like to be watched.’

  He smiled. ‘Then I shall avert my eyes.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Nathaniel held up a pristine novel. ‘Little Lord Fauntleroy. Ever read it?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Neither have I, despite hours of trying. And I hold you partly to blame, Cousin Eliza. Your garden is too distracting.

  I’ve been sitting here all morning and still I haven’t ventured much beyond the first chapter.’

  ‘I thought you were in Italy.’

  ‘And so we were. We returned a week early.’

  A chill shadow fell instantly across Eliza’s skin. ‘Rose is home?’

  ‘Of course.’ He smiled openly. ‘I hope you don’t suggest I might have lost my wife to the Italians!’

  ‘But when did she—’ Eliza swiped loose strands of hair from her forehead, tried to understand. ‘When did you arrive back?’

  ‘Monday afternoon. A mightily choppy sea voyage.’

  Three days. They had been back three days and Rose had not sent word. Eliza’s stomach tightened. ‘Rose. Is Rose all right?’

  ‘Never better. The Mediterranean climate agreed with her. We’d have stayed the full week, only she wanted to be involved with the garden party.’ He raised his brows with affectionate theatricality. ‘To hear Rose and her mother speak, I fear it’s going to be something of an extravaganza.’

  Eliza hid her confusion behind another bite of apple, then tossed the core away. She’d heard mention of a garden party but had presumed it was one of Adeline’s society things: nothing to do with Rose.

  Nathaniel lifted the book again. ‘Hence my choice of reading matter. Mrs Hodgson Burnett will be in attendance.’ His eyes widened. ‘Why, you must be looking forward to meeting her. I imagine there’d be great pleasure gained from speaking with another authoress.’

  Eliza rolled the corner of her piece of writing paper between her thumb and forefinger, didn’t meet his eyes. ‘Yes . . . I expect so.’

  A note of apology curled the edges of his voice. ‘You are coming, of course? I’m certain Rose spoke of you attending. The party is to be held on the oval lawn, Saturday afternoon at two.’

  Eliza scribbled a vine around the margin of her page. Rose knew she did not care for parties, that’s all it was. Thoughtful Rose, sparing Eliza the agony of Aunt Adeline’s society.

  Nathaniel’s voice was gentle. ‘Rose speaks often of you, Cousin Eliza. I feel that I know you myself.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘She told me of your garden, that’s why I came today. I had to see for myself whether it was really as beautiful as she painted it with words.’

  Eliza met his eyes briefly. ‘And?’

  ‘It is everything she said and more. As I say, I blame the garden for distracting me from my reading. There is something in the way the light falls that makes me want to render it on paper. I have scribbled all over my book’s frontispiece.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t tell Mrs Hodgson Burnett.’

  ‘I planted the garden for Rose and myself.’ Eliza’s voice was odd to her own ears, she had become used to being alone. She felt ashamed, too, of the transparent sentiments she was expressing, and yet had no power to stop herself speaking them. ‘So that we might have a secret place, a place where no one else could find us. Where Rose might have an outside place to si
t even when she was unwell.’

  ‘Rose is fortunate indeed to have a cousin who cares for her as you do. I must extend my eternal gratitude that you kept her so well for me. We are something of a team, you and I, are we not?’

  No, Eliza thought, we are not. Rose and I are a pair, a team. You are additional. Temporary.

  He stood, brushed off his trousers and held the book before his heart. ‘And now I must bid you fond farewell. Rose’s mother is one for rules and I suspect will not gladly tolerate my tardy appearance at the dinner table.’

  Eliza, who had followed him to the gate, watched him go. She closed it behind him, then sat on the edge of the seat. Shifted along so as not to sit where he had left the metal warm. There was nothing to dislike in Nathaniel and for that she disliked him. Their encounter left a cold weight on her chest. It was his mention of the garden party and Rose, his confidence in the quality of her affection. The gratitude he had extended to Eliza, though perfectly kindly expressed, left her in little doubt that he considered her an adjunct. And now, to have penetrated her garden, found his way so easily through her maze—

  Eliza shook such thoughts from her mind. She would return to her fairytale. The princess was just about to follow her faithful maid down into the piskie’s cave. By such means would this unsettling meeting be forgotten.

  But try as she might, Eliza’s enthusiasm had fled and taken her inspiration with it. A plot that had filled her with glee when she began was now revealed as flimsy and transparent. Eliza scratched out what she’d written. It would not do. And yet, whichever way she twisted the plot, she couldn’t make it work, for which fairytale princess ever chose her maid over her prince?

  The sun shone just as brilliantly as if Adeline had put in an order with the Lord. The extra lilies arrived on time and Davies raided the gardens for more exotic species with which to gild the arrangements. The nocturnal shower that had kept Adeline awake and anxious had succeeded only in adding sparkle to the garden, so that each leaf looked to have been polished specially, and across the spill of new-pressed lawn, cushioned chairs were artfully perched. Hired waiters stood in lines by the stairs, models of calm and control, while in the kitchen, far from sight and mind, Cook and her team worked apace.