The Forgotten Garden

by Kate Morton

  When she’d left, she’d taken with her the frail sense of solidarity that he had nursed. The sense that, though Father and Mother judged him a foolish boy with neither worth nor function, he had something to offer. Without Georgiana he was useless again, purposeless. Thus had he determined she must be returned.

  Linus had hired a man. Henry Mansell, a dark and shadowy character whose name was whispered in the inns of Cornwall and passed on to Linus by the valet of a local earl. It was said he knew how to take care of matters.

  Linus told Mansell of Georgiana and the harm done to him by the fellow who stole her, told him also that the man worked on the ships in and out of London.

  The next Linus knew, the sailor was dead. An accident, Mansell said, face registering no emotion, a most unfortunate accident.

  It was a strange sensation that animated Linus that afternoon. A man’s life had been extinguished at his will. He was powerful, able to inflict his inclination on others; it made him want to sing.

  He’d given Mansell a generous payment, then the man had taken his leave, headed off in search of Georgiana. Linus had been filled with hope, for surely there were no limits to what Mansell could achieve. His poupee would be home presently, grateful for her rescue. Things would be as they had been before . . .

  The black rock looked angry today. Linus felt his heart lurch as he remembered Georgiana sitting on its top. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph, smoothed it gently with his thumb.

  ‘Poupee.’ Half thought, half whisper. No matter how Mansell had hunted, he’d never found her. He’d scoured the Continent, followed leads across London, all to no avail. Linus had heard nothing until late in 1900, when word had come that a child had been found in London. A child with red hair and her mother’s eyes.

  Linus’s gaze lifted from the sea, swept sideways to the top of the cliff that bound the left-hand side of the cove. From where he stood he could just make out the corner of the new stone wall.

  How he had rejoiced at news of the child. He’d been too late to recover Georgiana, but through this girl would she be returned.

  But things had not played out as he’d expected. Eliza had resisted him, had never understood that he had sent for her, brought her here so that she might know she belonged to him.

  And now her presence tormented him, locked away in that accursed cottage. So close, and yet . . . Four years, it had been. Four years since she had set foot on this side of the maze. Why was she so cruel? Why did she deny him over and again?

  A sudden gust of wind and Linus felt his hat lift at the sides. He reached, from instinct, to stop it and, as he did, his grip loosened on his photograph.

  On the current of the hilltop breeze, while Linus stood helplessly, his poupee was blown from his reach. Down and up, fluttering on the wind, shining white beneath the glare of the clouds, hovering, teasing him, before being swept further away. Landing finally on the water and being carried out to sea.

  Away from Linus, slipping through his fingers once more.

  Ever since Eliza’s visit, Rose had been worrying. Tying her mind in knots as she sought a path through this dilemma. When Eliza had made her appearance through the maze gates, Rose had suffered the peculiar shock of a person who comes suddenly to understand that they are in danger. Worse, that they have been in danger for some time without realising it. She’d felt a sudden onset of light-headedness and panic. Relief that so far nothing had happened, and dread certainty that such luck could not hold. For all Rose had weighed up the options, there was only one thing she knew for sure: Mamma was right, they needed to put a distance between themselves and Eliza.

  Rose pulled the thread gently through her needlepoint and schooled her voice into a tone of perfect nonchalance: ‘I have been thinking again of the visit from the Authoress.’

  Nathaniel looked up from the letter he was penning. Chased quickly the concern from his gaze. ‘As I said before, my dear, think no more upon it. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘You can’t be sure of that, for who among us predicted this most recent visit?’

  Sterner now. ‘She will not come again.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Nathaniel’s cheeks flushed. The change was only slight, but Rose noticed. ‘Nate? What is it?’

  ‘I have spoken with her.’

  Rose’s heart tapped faster. ‘You saw her?’

  ‘I had to. For you, dearest. You were so upset by her visit, I did what was needed to ensure it won’t happen again.’

  ‘But I didn’t mean for you to see her.’ This was worse than Rose had imagined. A surge of heat beneath her skin and she was filled with an even stronger certainty that they must get away. All of them. That Eliza must be extricated forever from their lives. Rose slowed her breath, schooled her face to relax. It wouldn’t do to have Nathaniel think she was unwell, was making decisions without reason. ‘Speaking with her is not enough, Nate. Not any more.’

  ‘What else can be done? Surely you don’t suggest we lock her in the cottage?’ He’d been trying to make her laugh but she didn’t flinch.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about New York.’

  Nathaniel’s brows raised.

  ‘We have spoken before of spending time across the Atlantic. I think we should bring forward our plans.’

  ‘Leave England?’

  Rose nodded, slightly but certainly.

  ‘But I have commissions. We spoke of engaging a governess for Ivory.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Rose said impatiently. ‘But it is no longer safe.’

  Nathaniel said nothing in return but he didn’t need to, his expression spoke volumes. The little ice chip inside Rose hardened. He would come around to her way of thinking, he always did. Especially when he feared that she teetered atop the slide to despair. It was regrettable, using Nathaniel’s devotion against him, but Rose had little other choice. Motherhood and family life were all Rose had dreamed of; she didn’t intend to lose them now. When Ivory was born, placed in Rose’s arms, it was as if they had all been granted a fresh start. She and Nathaniel were happy again, they never spoke of the time before. It didn’t exist any longer. Not so long as Eliza stayed away.

  ‘I have the engagement in Carlisle,’ said Nathaniel. ‘I’ve already started.’ In his voice, Rose perceived the cracks that she would widen until his resistance crumbled.

  ‘And of course you must be able to complete it,’ she said. ‘We will bring forward the Carlisle engagement, sail directly after we return. I have three tickets for the Carmania.’

  ‘You’ve booked already.’ A statement rather than a question.

  Rose softened her voice. ‘It is best, Nate. You must see that. It’s the only way we will ever be safe. And think what such a trip will do for your career. Why, the New York Times may even report it. A triumphant homecoming for one of the city’s most accomplished sons.’

  Pressed beneath Grandmamma’s favourite sprung chair, Ivory whispered the words to herself. ‘New York.’ Ivory knew where York was. Once, when they were travelling north to Scotland, she and Mamma and Papa had stopped for a time in York, at the house of one of Grandmamma’s friends. A very old lady with wiry spectacles and eyes that looked always to be weeping. But Mamma wasn’t speaking of York, Ivory had heard her clearly. New York, she’d said, they must go soon to New York. And Ivory knew where that city was. It was far across the sea, the place in which Papa had been born, about which he had told her stories full of skyscrapers and music and motor cars. A city where everything gleamed.

  A clump of dog hairs tickled Ivory’s nose and she fought to hold in a sneeze. It was one of her most impressive skills, the ability to halt sneezes in their track, and part of what made her such an excellent hider. Ivory so enjoyed hiding that sometimes she did so for no other reason than to please herself. Alone in a room she would conceal herself for the pure pleasure of knowing that even the room itself had forgotten she was there.

  Today, though, Ivory had hidden with purpose. Grandpapa
had been in odd spirits. Usually he could be counted upon to keep himself to himself, but lately he’d appeared wherever Ivory was, calling her his own. Always with his little brown camera, trying to take photos of her with that broken dolly of his. Ivory didn’t like the broken dolly with her horrid blinking eyes. So although Mamma said she should do as Grandpapa asked, that it was a great honour to have one’s photograph taken, Ivory preferred to hide.

  Thoughts of the dolly made her skin prickle, so she tried to think of something else. Something that made her happy, like the adventure she’d been on with Papa, through the maze. Ivory had been outside playing when she’d seen Papa emerge from the side door of the house. He’d walked quickly and at first she had thought he might be taking a carriage to paint somebody’s portrait. Only he didn’t have any of his equipment with him, nor was he dressed in quite the same way he usually was when he had an important meeting. Ivory had watched him stride across the lawn, drawing closer to the maze gate, and then she’d known exactly what he was doing, he wasn’t good at pretending.

  Ivory hadn’t thought twice. She’d hurried after Papa, followed him through the maze gates and into the dark, narrow tunnels. For Ivory knew that the lady with the red hair, the one who had brought the parcel for her, lived on the other side.

  And now, after her visit with Papa, she knew who the lady was. Her name was the Authoress, and though Papa said she was a person, Ivory knew better. She’d suspected it the day the Authoress had come through the maze, but after looking into her eyes in the cottage garden, Ivory had known for certain.

  The Authoress was magical. Witch or fairy, she wasn’t sure, but Ivory knew the Authoress wasn’t a person like any other she’d seen before.

  43

  Cliff Cottage, 2005

  Outside, the wind worried the treetops and the ocean breathed heavily in the cove. Moonlight streamed through the windowpane, casting four silvery squares across the wooden floor, and the warm tomato smell of soup and toast had impregnated the walls, the floor, the very air. Cassandra, Christian and Ruby sat around the table in the kitchen, the range glowing on one side, a kerosene heater on the other. Candles were lined along the table and at various points about the room, but there were still spaces in the dark, lonely corners where candlelight failed to reach.

  ‘I still don’t understand,’ said Ruby. ‘How do you know Rose was infertile from that journal article?’

  Christian spooned a mouthful of soup. ‘The X-ray exposure. There’s no way her eggs would have survived.’

  ‘Wouldn’t she have known though? I mean, surely there’d have been a sign that something was wrong.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, did she still . . . you know . . . get her periods?’

  Christian shrugged his shoulders. ‘I guess so. The function of her reproductive system would have been unaffected, she still would have released an egg each month, it’s just the eggs themselves that would have been damaged.’

  ‘So damaged she couldn’t conceive?’

  ‘Or if she did, there’d have been so much wrong with the baby that she would most likely have miscarried. Or given birth to a child with massive deformities.’

  Cassandra pushed the last of her soup aside. ‘That’s terrible. Why did he do it?’

  ‘He probably just wanted to be amongst the first to make use of the shiny new technology, enjoy the glory of publication. There was certainly no medical reason to take an X-ray, the kid had only swallowed a thimble.’

  ‘Who hasn’t?’ said Ruby, wiping a crust of bread around her already smeared-clean bowl.

  ‘But why a one hour exposure? Surely that wasn’t necessary?’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t,’ said Christian. ‘But people didn’t know that then, those sorts of exposure times were common.’

  ‘I suppose they figured if you got a good image in fifteen minutes, you’d get an even better one in an hour,’ said Ruby.

  ‘And it was before they knew the dangers. X-rays were only discovered in 1895, so Dr Matthews was being pretty cutting edge using them. People actually thought they were good for you in the beginning, that they could cure cancer and skin lesions and other disorders. The burns were obvious enough, but it was years before the full extent of the negative effects was realised.’

  ‘That’s what Rose’s marks were,’ said Cassandra. ‘Burn scars.’

  Christian nodded. ‘Along with frying her ovaries, the X-ray exposure would certainly have burned her skin.’

  A gust of wind set thin branches to tracing noisy patterns on the windowpanes, and candlelight flickered as a cool ribbon of air slipped beneath the skirting board. Ruby placed her bowl inside Cassandra’s, swiped a napkin across her mouth. ‘So if Rose was infertile, who was Nell’s mother?’

  ‘I know the answer to that,’ said Cassandra.

  ‘You do?’

  She nodded. ‘It’s all there in the scrapbooks. In fact, I reckon that’s what Clara wants to tell me.’

  ‘Who’s Clara?’ said Christian.

  Ruby inhaled. ‘You think Nell was Mary’s baby.’

  ‘Who’s Mary?’ Christian looked between them.

  ‘Eliza’s friend,’ said Cassandra. ‘Clara’s mum. A domestic at Blackhurst who was dismissed in early 1909 when Rose discovered she was pregnant.’

  ‘Rose dismissed her?’

  Cassandra nodded. ‘In the scrapbook she writes that she can’t bear to think that someone so undeserving should have a child when she has been continually denied.’

  Ruby swallowed a slurp of wine. ‘But why would Mary have given her child to Rose?’

  ‘I doubt she just gave her the child.’

  ‘You think Rose bought the baby?’

  ‘It’s possible, right? People have done worse to secure a child.’

  ‘Do you think Eliza knew?’ said Ruby.

  ‘Worse than that,’ said Cassandra. ‘I think she helped. I think that’s why she went away.’

  ‘Guilt?’

  ‘Exactly. She helped Rose use her position of power to wrangle a child from someone who needed money, Eliza can’t have been comfortable with that. She and Mary were close, Rose says so.’

  ‘You’re presuming that Mary wanted the child,’ said Ruby. ‘Didn’t want to give her up.’

  ‘I’m presuming the decision to give up a baby is never clean. Mary may have needed money, a baby may have been inconvenient, she may even have thought her child was going to a better home, but I still reckon it must’ve been devastating.’

  Ruby lifted her eyebrows. ‘And Eliza helped her.’

  ‘Then she went away. That’s what makes me think the baby wasn’t given up happily. I think Eliza went away because she couldn’t bear to stay and watch Rose with Mary’s baby. I think that when it came to separating mother and child it was traumatic and it played on Eliza’s conscience.’

  Ruby nodded slowly. ‘That would explain why Rose refused to see much of Eliza after Ivory was born, why the two of them drifted apart. Rose must’ve known how Eliza felt and worried that she’d do something to upset her newfound happiness.’

  ‘Like take Ivory back,’ said Christian.

  ‘Which she did in the end.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ruby, ‘which she did in the end.’ She raised her eyebrows at Cassandra. ‘So when do you see Clara?’

  ‘She invited me to visit tomorrow, eleven o’clock.’

  ‘Bugger. I’m leaving around nine. Bloody work. I would’ve loved to come, I could’ve given you a lift.’

  ‘I’ll take you.’ This was Christian. He’d been playing with the knobs on the heater, turning the flame up, and the smell of kerosene was strong.

  Cassandra avoided Ruby’s grin. ‘Really? Are you sure?’

  He smiled as he met her gaze, held it for a moment before looking away. ‘You know me. Always happy to help.’

  Cassandra smiled in reply, turned her attention to the table surface as her cheeks warmed. Something about Christian made her feel thirteen again. And
it was such a youthful, nostalgic feeling—displacement to a time and place when life was yet to happen to her—that she longed to cling to it. To push aside the guilty sense that by enjoying Christian’s company she was somehow being disloyal to Nick and Leo.

  ‘So why do you think Eliza waited until 1913?’ Christian looked from Ruby to Cassandra. ‘To take Nell back, I mean. Why not do it earlier?’

  Cassandra ran her hand lightly along the top of the table. Watched the candlelight dapple across her skin. ‘I think she did it because Rose and Nathaniel died in the train crash. My guess is that despite her mixed feelings she was willing to stand back while Rose was made happy.’

  ‘But once Rose was dead . . .’

  ‘Exactly.’ Her eyes met his. Something in the seriousness of his expression brought a shiver to her spine. ‘Once Rose was dead, she could no longer bear for Ivory to remain at Blackhurst. I think she took the little girl and intended to give her back to Mary.’

  ‘Then why didn’t she? Why did she put her on the boat to Australia?’

  Cassandra exhaled and the nearby candle’s flame wavered. ‘I haven’t quite worked that bit out.’

  Neither had she worked out how much, if anything, William Martin had known when he met with Nell in 1975. Mary was his sister, wouldn’t he have known if she’d been pregnant? If she’d given birth to a baby she didn’t then raise? And surely if he’d known she was pregnant, had known the part Eliza played in the unofficial adoption, he’d have said as much to Nell? After all, if Mary was Nell’s mother, then William was her uncle. Cassandra couldn’t imagine that he’d have remained silent if a long-lost niece turned up on his doorstep.

  Yet there was no mention in Nell’s notebook of any such recognition from William. Cassandra had pored over the pages, looking for hints she might have missed. William had neither said nor done anything to suggest that Nell was family to him.