by Kate Morton
Adeline had worried at first that Rose might not understand, that the innocent girl might imagine all could continue as before. But on that count she had been pleasantly surprised. The moment Ivory was placed in Rose’s arms, a change had come over her: she was seized by a fierce maternal desire to protect her child. Rose had agreed with Adeline that certainly Mary and Eliza must stay away: sufficient distance to preclude a daily presence, yet close enough to remain within the sphere of Adeline’s influence. Only in that way could it be ensured that neither divulged what they knew about the child at Blackhurst Manor. Adeline had assisted Mary in the purchase of a little house in Polperro, and Eliza had been permitted tenure at the cottage. Although a part of Adeline lamented the permanent proximity to Eliza, it was the lesser of two evils, and Rose’s happiness was paramount.
Dear Rose. She’d looked so pale, sitting alone on the garden seat. Had barely touched her luncheon afterwards, merely moved it about the plate, this way and that. She was resting now, warding off the return of a migraine that had haunted her all week.
Adeline opened the fist which had clenched itself in her lap, and flexed her fingers thoughtfully. She had made conditions perfectly clear when all was arranged: neither girl was to set foot again on the Blackhurst estate. The stipulation was simple, and to this date each had complied. The wings of security had closed over the secret and life at Blackhurst had adopted a peaceful rhythm.
What then was Eliza thinking, breaking her word now?
In the end, Nathaniel waited until Rose was in bed resting her nerves and Adeline was out visiting. That way, he reasoned, neither need ever learn the method by which he ensured Eliza’s continued absence. Ever since he’d heard what had happened, Nathaniel had been mulling over how best to set things right. To see his wife in such a state was a chilling reminder that despite the distance they had travelled, the blessed reversal after Ivory was born, the other Rose, worry-worn, tense, erratic, was never far beneath the surface. He had known instantly that he must speak with Eliza. Find a way to make her understand that she could never come again.
Some time had passed since his last venture through, and he’d forgotten how dark it was within the bramble walls, how briefly the sun’s rays were permitted entry. He went carefully, trying to remember which turns to make. A far cry from the time, four years ago, when he had torn hotly through the maze in pursuit of his sketches. He’d arrived at the cottage, blood pulsing, shoulders heaving from the unusual exertion, and had demanded the sketches’ return. They were his, he’d said, they were important to him, he needed them. And then, when he’d run out of things to say, he’d stood, catching his breath, waiting for Eliza to respond. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected—a confession, an apology, a handover of the sketches, all of these things perhaps—but she had given none. Rather she’d surprised him. After a moment spent regarding him in the way one might a minor curiosity, she’d blinked those pale, changeable eyes that he itched to draw, and asked whether he would care to contribute illustrations for a book of fairytales—
A noise and the memory fled. Nathaniel’s heart stepped up its beat. He turned and glanced through the dim space behind him. A lone robin blinked at him before flying away.
Why was he so jumpy? He had the frayed nerves of a guilty man, a ridiculous state as there was nothing inappropriate in his actions. He intended only to speak with Eliza, request that she resist breaching the maze gates. And his mission, after all, was for Rose’s sake; it was his wife’s health and wellbeing that were uppermost in his mind.
He went faster, reassuring himself that he was manufacturing danger where there was none. His mission might be secret but it was not illicit. There was a difference.
He had agreed to illustrate the book. How could he resist, and why should he have? To sketch was his dearest wish, and to illustrate her fairytales allowed him to slip inside a world that didn’t recognise the particular regrets in his own life. It had been a lifeline, a secret pursuit that made the long days of portraiture tolerable. At meetings with wealthy, titled dullards, when Adeline pressed him forward yet again and he was required to smile and perform convivially like a trained hound, he had nursed to himself the secret knowledge that he was also bringing to life the magical world of Eliza’s tales.
He’d never had a finished copy of his own. Publication had been delayed, for one reason or another, and by the time the book was finally printed it was clear to him how unwelcome such would be at Blackhurst. Once, in the early days of the project, he’d committed the grave error of mentioning the book to Rose. He had thought she might be glad, might appreciate the union of her husband and her dearest cousin, but he had been mistaken. Her expression was one he would never forget, shock and anger mixed together with bereavement. He had betrayed her, she said, he didn’t love her, he wanted to leave her. Nathaniel had been at a loss as to how to understand. He had done what he always did on such occasions, reassured Rose and asked whether he might sketch her portrait for his collection. And he kept the project to himself from that day forward. But he didn’t give it up. He couldn’t.
After Ivory was born and Rose was restored, the trailing threads of his life had plaited slowly back together. Strange the power of a tiny baby to bring life to a dead place, to lift the black pall that had covered everything—Rose, their marriage, Nathaniel’s own soul. It hadn’t been instant, of course. To begin with where the child was concerned, Nathaniel had trodden cautiously, taken his lead from Rose, mindful always of the possibility that the baby’s origins might prove insurmountable. Only when he saw that she loved the girl as a daughter, never a cuckoo, did he allow the walls of his own heart to weaken. He permitted the baby’s divine innocence to permeate his tired and wounded spirit, and he embraced the completion of his little family, the strength it gained as its membership grew from two to three.
And by and by, he forgot about the book and the joy its illustrations had given him. He devoted himself to toeing the Mountrachet family line—ignored Eliza’s existence and, when Adeline asked him to alter John Singer Sargent’s portrait thus, bore willingly, if not happily, the dishonour at having tampered with the great man’s work. It seemed to Nathaniel that by then he’d crossed so many lines of principle once presumed inviolable, that one more wouldn’t hurt . . .
Nathaniel reached the clearing at the centre of the maze and a pair of peacocks appraised him briefly before continuing on their way. He went carefully to avoid the metal ring that threatened to trip a man up, then entered the narrow straight that began the way towards the hidden garden.
Nathaniel froze. Branches breaking, light footfalls. Heavier than those belonging to the peacocks.
He stopped, turned quickly. There—a flash of white. There was someone following him.
‘Who is it?’ His voice was raspier than he’d expected. He forced some steel into it. ‘I insist that you come out from hiding.’
A moment’s pause, then his pursuer was revealed.
‘Ivory!’ Relief was followed quickly by consternation. ‘What are you doing here? You know you’re not permitted beyond the maze gates.’
‘Please Papa,’ said the little girl. ‘Take me with you. Davies says there’s a garden at maze end where all the world’s rainbows begin.’
Nathaniel couldn’t help but admire the image. ‘Does he now?’
Ivory nodded with the sort of childlike earnestness that captivated Nathaniel. He consulted his pocket watch. Adeline would be back within the hour, eager to check his progress on Lord Haymarket’s commission. There wasn’t time to take Ivory home and then return, and who knew when opportunity would present itself again. He scratched his ear and sighed. ‘Come then, little one.’
She followed closely, humming a tune that Nathaniel recognised as ‘Oranges and Lemons’. Lord knew from whom she’d learned it. Not from Rose, who had a terrible memory for lyrics and melody; nor Adeline, for whom music had little meaning. One of the servants no doubt. For want of a proper governess, his daughter was passing
much of her time with the Blackhurst staff. Who could guess what other questionable skills she was acquiring as a consequence.
‘Papa?’
‘Yes.’
‘I made another picture in my mind.’
‘Oh?’ Nathaniel pushed a thorny bramble aside so that Ivory could pass.
‘It was the ship with Captain Ahab on it. And the whale swimming just by.’
‘What colour was the sail?’
‘White of course.’
‘And the whale?’
‘Grey like a storm cloud.’
‘And what did your ship smell like?’
‘Salty water and Davies’s dirty boots.’
Amused, Nathaniel raised his eyebrows. ‘I imagine it did.’ It was one of their favourite games, played often on the afternoons Ivory had taken to spending in his studio. It had surprised Nathaniel to discover that he so enjoyed the child’s company. She made him see things differently, more simply, in a way that brought new life to his portraits. Her frequent questions as to what he was doing and why he was doing it required him to explain things he had long ago forgotten to appreciate: that one must draw what one sees, not what one imagines is there; that every image is comprised merely of lines and shapes; that colour should both reveal and conceal.
‘Why are we going through the maze, Papa?’
‘There is someone on the other side whom I must see.’
Ivory digested this. ‘Is it a person, Papa?’
‘Of course it’s a person. Do you think your Papa might be meeting with a beast?’
They turned a corner, then another in quick succession, and Nathaniel was put in mind of a marble slipping through the twists and turns of the run Ivory had constructed in the nursery. Following the bends and straights with little control over its own destiny. A silly notion, of course, for what were his actions today if not those of a man taking charge of his own fate?
They made a final turn and arrived at the door to the hidden garden. Nathaniel stopped, knelt down and cupped his daughter’s bony shoulders gently in his hands. ‘Now Ivory,’ he said carefully, ‘I have brought you through the maze today.’
‘Yes, Papa.’
‘But you must never come again, and certainly not alone.’ Nathaniel pressed his lips together. ‘And I believe it would be best if . . . if this trip of ours today . . .’
‘Don’t worry, Papa. I won’t tell Mamma.’
Within the pit of Nathaniel’s stomach, relief mixed with the uncomfortable sensation of having colluded with his child against his wife.
‘Nor Grandmamma neither, Papa.’
Nathaniel nodded, smiled weakly. ‘It’s best that way.’
‘A secret.’
‘Yes, a secret.’
Nathaniel pushed open the door to the hidden garden and ushered Ivory through. He had half expected to see Eliza, sitting like the Queen of the Fairies on the tuft of grass beneath the apple tree, but the garden was still and silent. The only movement came from a robin—the same one?—who cocked his head and watched almost proprietorially as Nathaniel made his way along the zigzag path.
‘Oh, Papa,’ said Ivory, staring in wonder at the garden. She gazed upward, taking in the creepers that snaked their way back and forth, from the top of one wall to the top of the other. ‘It’s a magical garden.’
How odd that a child should perceive such a thing. Nathaniel wondered what it was about Eliza’s garden that made one feel such splendour could not have come naturally. That some bargain had been struck with spirits on the other side of the veil to procure such wild abundance.
He guided Ivory through the southern door and down the path that hugged the side of the cottage. Despite the hour, it was cool and dark in the front garden, courtesy of the stone wall that Adeline had had built. Nathaniel laid a hand between Ivory’s shoulder blades, her fairy wings. ‘Now listen,’ he said. ‘Papa is going inside but you must wait here in the garden.’
‘Yes, Papa.’
He hesitated. ‘Don’t go wandering now.’
‘Oh no, Papa.’ Said so innocently, as if to wander where she shouldn’t was the furthest thing from her mind.
With a nod, Nathaniel went to the door. He knocked and waited for Eliza to come, straightened the cuff of his sleeve.
The door opened and there she was. As if he’d last seen her yesterday. As if the four years hadn’t passed between.
While Nathaniel sat on a chair by the table, Eliza stood on the other side, fingers resting lightly on its rim. She was looking at him in that singular way she had. Empty of the usual social nicety that suggested she was pleased to see him. Was it vanity that had made him think she might be pleased to see him? Something within the cottage light conspired to turn her hair brighter red than usual. Flints of sunlight played within its tangles, made it look as if it really had been spun from fairies’ gold. Nathaniel chided himself—he was allowing his knowledge of her stories to permeate his vision of the woman herself. He knew better than that.
A strangeness sat between them. There was much to be said yet nothing he could think to say. It was the first time he’d seen her since the arrangements had been made. He cleared his throat, reached out as if to take her hand. Couldn’t seem to help himself. She lifted her fingers suddenly, and turned her attention to the range.
Nathaniel leaned back against his chair. He wondered how to begin, what words to wrap his message in. ‘You know why I have come,’ he said finally.
Without turning. ‘Of course.’
He watched her fingers, such narrow fingers, as she put the kettle on the stove. ‘You know then what I have to say.’
‘Yes.’
From outside, riding lightly on the breeze that swept through the window, came a voice, the sweetest voice: ‘Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement’s . . .’
Eliza’s back stiffened so that Nathaniel could see the small knots at her nape. Like a child’s spine. She turned sharply. ‘The girl is here?’
Nathaniel was perversely pleased by the expression on Eliza’s face, that of an animal on the unexpected brink of capture. He longed to put it on paper, the widened eyes, paled cheeks, tightened mouth. Knew he would attempt to do so as soon as he returned to his studio.
‘You brought the child here?’
‘She followed me. I didn’t realise until it was too late.’
The sick look left Eliza’s face, transmuted into a weak smile. ‘She has stealth.’
‘Some would say mischief.’
Eliza sat lightly on the chair. ‘It pleases me to think the girl likes games.’
‘I don’t know that her mother is so pleased by Ivory’s adventurous streak.’
Her smile was impossible to read.
‘And certainly her grandmamma is not.’
The smile broadened. Nathaniel met it briefly, then looked away. He sighed her name—‘Eliza’—and shook his head. Started what he had come to say: ‘The other day—’
‘I was glad, the other day, to see that the child is well.’ She spoke quickly, anxious, it seemed, to prevent his line of conversation.
‘Of course she is well, she wants for nothing.’
‘The appearance of plenty can be deceptive, it doesn’t always mean a person is well. Ask your wife.’
‘That’s needlessly cruel.’
A sharp nod. Simple agreement, not a shred of regret. Nathaniel found himself wondering whether perhaps she had no morality, but he knew that wasn’t so. She gazed unblinkingly at him. ‘You have come about my gift.’
Nathaniel lowered his voice. ‘It was foolish of you to bring it. You know how Rose feels.’
‘I do. Only I thought, what harm could the delivery of such an item cause?’
‘You know what sort of harm, and I know you, as a friend to Rose, would not wish to cause her anguish. As a friend to me . . .’ He felt suddenly foolish, looked towards the ground, the floorboards, as if for support. ‘I must beg you not to come again, Eliza. Rose suffered dreadfully after your visit.
She doesn’t like to be reminded.’
‘Memory is a cruel mistress with whom we all must learn to dance.’
Before Nathaniel could sculpt a reply, Eliza turned her attention back to the range. ‘Would you like tea?’
‘No,’ he said, feeling somewhat bested, though he wasn’t sure how. ‘I must get back.’
‘Rose doesn’t know you’re here.’
‘I must get back.’ He returned his hat to his head and started for the kitchen door.
‘Did you see it? It turned out well I think.’
Nathaniel paused but did not turn. ‘Goodbye, Eliza. I will not see you again.’ He thrust his arms into his coat and pushed aside the niggling, unnameable doubts.
He was almost at the door when he heard Eliza in the hall behind him. ‘Wait,’ she said, some of her composure shed. ‘Allow me a closer look at the girl, at Rose’s daughter.’
Nathaniel pressed his fingers against the cool of the metal doorknob. Clenched his back teeth together as he pondered her request.
‘It will be my last.’
How could he refuse such a simple appeal? ‘A look. Then I must take her back, take her home.’
Together they went through the front door into the garden. Ivory was sitting by the edge of the small pond, bare toes curled over the bank so that they kissed the water, singing to herself as she pushed a leaf along the surface.
As the child looked up, Nathaniel placed his hand gently on Eliza’s arm and pushed her forward.
The wind had picked up and Linus had to lean against his cane to avoid losing his footing. Down in the cove, the usually mild sea had been agitated so that small waves with white tips rushed towards the shore. The sun was hiding behind a blanket of clouds—a far cry from the perfect summer’s days he had once spent in the cove with his poupee.
The little wooden boat had been Georgiana’s, a gift from Father, but she had been glad to share it with him. Hadn’t thought for a moment that his weak leg made him any less of a man, never mind what Father said. On afternoons when the air was warm and sweet, they had paddled out together to the centre of the cove. Sat, while waves lapped gently against the base of the boat, neither of them caring for anything but the other. Or so Linus had thought.
