The Garden of Lost and Found

by Harriet Evans

  The remains of the letter sparkled and spat in the grate, as if coated in dynamite. Liddy crawled on to the bed, where the mattress still showed the indentation of her father’s heavy frame. She curled into a ball, thinking, listening to her heart pounding. Of course she would not go. The betrayal to Miss Bryant, who truly understood how bad she was, who was the only one, as she frequently reminded Liddy, who could make sure she was cured.

  The sound of the fire now seemed like knives jabbing inside her skull, so she buried her head further under the bolster and began to sing the only song she could remember, its very familiarity giving her comfort.

  I am bad, I am bad, I am truly very bad,

  I’m the worst little girl that you’ll see,

  I think vile thoughts and I do evil things,

  I bring shame on my fam’ly.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘My good fellow . . .’ Lucius Dalbeattie plucked at his friend’s sleeve. ‘I say – what about if we were to wait inside, as you said?’ Ned ignored him. ‘You told her you’d wait inside the church. She knows that.’ He gazed anxiously about the Marylebone Road, as though expecting the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse to appear.

  Ned twitched his arm away, and carried on staring in front of him, out from under the vast portico of the church, towards York Gate and the entrance to Regent’s Park. The Marylebone Road in front of them was thronged with hackney carriages, buses, horses and riders, even a Daimler motor car. There were men in bowler hats striding towards the City and children tugging on the arms of their nursemaids. Below them, a boy was roasting cob nuts, the acrid burning smell catching in their nostrils. Ned said quietly, ‘I want her to see me as soon as possible, if she comes.’

  ‘If she comes . . . Horner . . .’ Dalbeattie trailed off, and his kindly face creased into a concerned smile. ‘She’s an hour late. Let’s wait inside, eh? It’s chilly here. I don’t want you taking ill again. You know I’m no good as nursemaid.’

  He led Ned back inside the church and they stared about them at the great white-and-green stucco decoration and the tall, glittering stained-glass windows below the huge curve of the ceiling, the two of them as specks in its vast empty finery. Dalbeattie clapped his friend on the shoulder.

  ‘Do look at the stucco work on the ceiling, Ned. Most fine—’ Dalbeattie broke off, at a sound, and they both looked over towards the door.

  But it was only a sparrow, fluttering about in the upper reaches of the portico. Ned took a deep, heavy breath, and closed his eyes, holding on to the edge of a pew. Dalbeattie looked at him in alarm and said, gently, ‘She’s taking her time, isn’t she? But she’ll be here . . .’

  ‘Dear Dalbeattie.’ Ned clutched his friend’s hand. ‘What a friend you are.’

  Dalbeattie looked bashful. ‘My dear man. I’m so very glad to be able to help you.’

  ‘Why did you go away for so long? Don’t do it again, will you?’

  Dalbeattie’s long, kind face twisted. ‘I won’t. I wish that I had not, you know.’

  Ned said quietly, ‘How is she?’

  ‘Please,’ Dalbeattie replied. ‘Don’t ask me that.’

  ‘You concern yourself most intensely with my affairs, my dear fellow. You must let me help you with yours!’

  ‘Not this,’ said Dalbeattie. ‘I agreed to the engagement, and I alone must see it through.’

  The vicar hurried towards them. ‘Mr Horner? Ah, good morning.’ He put the tips of his fingers together and smiled mirthlessly. ‘I am needed most urgently by a parishioner who is gravely ill. Might I ask when you expect the bride?’

  Ned shrugged helplessly; Dalbeattie could feel the desperation rolling off him like steam from a bath. ‘I don’t know, sir – we hope at any moment! She has a letter, with the address—’

  Footsteps thundered outside; a voice called his name, a familiar voice – both Ned and Dalbeattie started, with joy. ‘I’m here!’

  The door creaked open, and they sank back in bitter disappointment.

  ‘Ah, Dysart,’ said Ned, quietly, smiling at him. ‘Hello, my dear friend.’

  ‘I’ve not missed it?’ cried Pertwee, shedding his gloves, looking about him eagerly, and clasping Ned by the hand. ‘Where is my sister, Mrs Horner, my dear fellow? Well, Father has been well and truly baited, I confessed all my sins, including an ever so lively one about a lovely bit who worked in the cheese shop in Pigalle – he went quite pink, the dirty feller— But she’s not here yet? Really?’ His expression changed. ‘Oh, I say. I met Father at his club at eleven, she’d have had ample time to leave and get here . . . Ned – old boy. Has she changed her mind? Could you not persuade her?’ He noticed the vicar, for the first time. ‘Good morning, Padre. Ready to join two people, and all that?’

  The vicar cleared his throat.

  ‘Forgive me, gentlemen, for voicing my concerns. But I was told by you that the grounds for the licence were owing to the lady’s most delicate family situation and a recent bereavement therein.’ Ned glowered at Pertwee. ‘I must be entirely happy on that point if we are to proceed with this marriage. If there is any suggestion of coercion—’

  ‘No!’ Ned said, hurriedly. ‘None, sir, of that you may be certain!’

  ‘My sister is very much in love with Mr Horner, sir,’ said Pertwee, at his most sincere and charming. ‘I regret having given you any other impression. She walks slowly, however, always did dawdle. Most likely something in the park caught her eye—’

  ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ said Ned, weakly, though for the first time it felt as though he was buoying himself up with false hope, and false hope, he had come to learn, was the worst of all. ‘She’s found some ducks or some gentleman selling birds in a cage – yes, that’s it.’ For a second he almost might believe it was true, for Liddy could spend hours wandering in the park or in a garden, finding something new to exclaim over; as a child, rescuing an upturned ladybird from a path in the cemetery, she had fallen and grazed her hand most painfully. Pertwee had told Ned this, before he’d met his sister, Lydia: Ned had loved her perhaps a little from that moment.

  Please come. Please come. Please come. Please come.

  His stomach was hollow, leaden, empty. Liquid acid rose in his throat.

  ‘Ned,’ came a quiet, female voice. ‘Dear Ned . . .’

  They all turned at the sound, and Dalbeattie muttered under his breath, ‘She’s here – dear God, thank heaven for that. Oh – oh no.’

  A small figure peered anxiously around the door, her face lighting up as she caught sight of her brother; Ned’s heart sank again, and he wondered if he would actually be sick.

  ‘Mary, dearest,’ Rupert exclaimed, folding his hands around his sister’s. She kissed his cheek, tears trembling in her eyes, clinging to him. ‘My dear sister, you have come! This is more than I dared hope.’

  ‘I told Aunt Charlotte that Father was unwell and I came back on the train this morning. May God forgive me. But I could not tell her the truth and I was driving myself quite mad for wondering,’ she said. She clutched at Ned’s hand, her brown eyes fixed on him. ‘Dear Ned. Where is she? Oh Pertwee—’ Her voice broke into a sob. ‘I do miss you, you terrible boy.’

  ‘And I you, dearest sister.’ He gripped her again. ‘My, but you’re in fine looks, now those scars have faded. When did they go?’

  She stared at him, and clutched his hands as they rested on her shoulders. ‘Do not jest with me, Pertwee!’

  ‘I do not jest. You are a great beauty, my dear. Dalbeattie, ain’t it so?’

  Dalbeattie was watching Mary. ‘Anyone can see that you are, and always have been,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘But her smallpox scars,’ Pertwee said, a little too loudly. ‘They were chronic when she was little, weren’t they, Mary? What a miracle. You may marry now! I tell you, anyone would have you!’

  Mary frowned, closing her eyes at her brother’s words. Dalbeattie stepped forward. ‘I say – Pertwee.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Pertwee. The vicar
stared at him, at his glazed expression, his scruffy appearance, and took out his pocket watch.

  ‘Where is Liddy?’ said Mary, looking around. ‘Has she not arrived by now?’

  Ned shook his head, and her face fell.

  ‘Are you sure you threw the note to the right room?’ Dalbeattie demanded sharply.

  Pertwee laughed. ‘On this alone you may be sure of me. I’ve had enough practice over the years. We used to throw notes to each other when we were in purdah for something. I hid behind the railings of the Flask, till I saw her reach down and take the letter. I saw her hold it with her own hands.’ He turned to Ned. ‘Pon my honour, old chap.’

  ‘Something must have happened,’ Mary said, in a small voice, and Ned saw that she was very pale, and trembling.

  ‘Is there a chair for Miss Dysart?’ he said, to the vicar.

  ‘She can sit on one of the pews while you wait.’ The vicar flung his fobwatch up into his palm with a small neat flick. ‘Twelve eighteen I have the time, gentlemen. You have until twelve-thirty, and then I must ask you to let me take my leave of you. And this wedding, it seems to me, has some appearance of irregularity to it, about which I surmise I should be better off not knowing.’

  He bustled away, casting a look back at their small group, and once again Ned felt the vastness of the empty church.

  ‘Should we post people out in the park, go and look for her?’

  ‘No!’ hissed Mary, turning pale. ‘For if she should turn up and one of us is missing, you’ll have no witnesses and have to go into the street and she’s so late there’s no time for that now, not if Miss Bryant or Father discovers where we are and comes here, which they may do, oh they may do!’

  ‘They can’t,’ said Ned, queasily. ‘You said nothing, and Dysart, you did not reveal it to your father, did you?’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘Rupert?’ said Mary, quietly. ‘Dearest, you did not say anything to Father about our plan, did you?’

  ‘Well, so what if I did?’ exclaimed her brother, angrily. ‘He was damned unpleasant. He as good as told me he’d overturned Mother’s will and he’d arranged it all so we’d never marry. Imagine that, Mary! He sat there and laughed at me when I asked for a raise on my allowance, which is the one expenditure he makes on our behalf and a tiny portion of what is owed us! Said there wasn’t a penny for any of us, not any more. Said he had all his plans in place. I couldn’t stand it. There at his club twirling his glass of Madeira in his new silk waistcoats, surrounded by grinning servants standing guard as though I were a dangerous footpad instead of his son, and it’s Mother’s money, not his! I saw red, Mary. I told him his plan hadn’t worked and even if there was no money left one of us would marry anyway. I’m sorry.’

  Dalbeattie swore, and turned aside; Mary clutched his arm.

  ‘Oh how wicked. . . oh, Pertwee,’ she whispered, sinking into a chair. Dalbeattie turned back and dropped to her side, gently lifting her so she was standing again.

  ‘He’s a monster, Mary.’ Tears were in Pertwee’s eyes. ‘I couldn’t let him think he’d won! I told him he’d failed. I said – oh, darling Mary, don’t cry, you’ll come and live in Paris with me, you can’t go back to them, that’s for certain. I didn’t say where they were marrying, don’t worry. Then he said – oh.’

  He stopped.

  ‘What?’ Ned demanded, furiously.

  ‘Well, he said she’d never come. He said, “You haven’t seen your sister for a great many months, have you? You’ll find her very changed. Very changed indeed.”’ Pertwee took a handkerchief from his waistcoat and pressed it to his mouth, then his face.

  From the choir at the other end of the church the vicar cleared his throat again. The sound was like gunfire in the echoing cavern. Ned pressed his hands to his ears, and then let them drop to his sides. He said weakly, ‘I – I thought she might not come, you know. I had a premonition, just before you arrived, Mary. She can’t. It’s been too long, now.’

  Mary was crying against Dalbeattie’s sleeve. She said, ‘Perhaps. I think you’re right. I shouldn’t have left her. I don’t think it’s possible for her. Not now.’

  Ned leaned forward, to Mary. ‘You must go back to Paris with your brother, Mary. They will not blame Liddy. Indeed, perhaps they will be kind to her, and shut these two out. It may be for the best for you to cut ties with her altogether now, though I will never give her up . . .’ He choked. ‘I regret most heartily causing you any pain, any of you – I only desired to free her, to make her happy, to—’ He broke off. ‘Dalbeattie, you must comfort Mary. Speak to her.’

  Dalbeattie said brokenly, ‘Oh my dear fellow . . .’ He turned to Mary. ‘Miss Dysart – dear Mary.’ His usually gentle eyes burned fiercely. ‘The very great pleasure of seeing you is tempered by the prospect of failure.’ He had one arm around her shoulder, still supporting her. Her head was turned towards him, her eyes looking up at his

  ‘Miss Mary,’ he said softly, as Pertwee went to Ned, to comfort him. ‘Dearest –’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not now, please, dear Mr Dalbeattie.’

  ‘I wish you would call me Lucius,’ he said, smiling gently at her.

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t do that. To me you are and always will be Dalbeattie,’ she said, trying to smile, but her face crumpled again, like a child’s.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, softly. ‘I can’t stand to see you in pain, that’s all. I am a great fool.’

  ‘You are anything but that!’ She gave a watery smile. ‘It’s only that she is all I think of.’

  ‘It cannot always be this way,’ he said, and she looked up at him, two small lines between her brows. ‘You must have your own life, and concerns, your own home.’

  ‘I have never considered it, you see,’ she said.

  ‘Mary, when they are married, they will not need you.’ His deep voice was still quiet, and she leaned against him without meaning to, then pulled away.

  ‘I know, I know. I will find another cause, you may be sure.’ She glanced at the door again, in an agony of suspense. ‘Dear God. What freedom do we have? On one point I am sure,’ she said, almost viciously. ‘I will never marry. Never.’

  Beside her, Dalbeattie did not move, but he shifted his hand so it was under her elbow, supporting her should she sway, or fall.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said the vicar, his voice sounding loud in the empty church. ‘I am very much afraid that I cannot stay longer. I have waited past the hour at which I said I would depart—’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Mary, with a sob. She pressed her hand to her mouth, and they were all silent, the enormity of the failure washing over them.

  ‘It is over,’ said Pertwee, quietly.

  ‘Hello?’

  Ned froze, as a small voice came from the other end of the church, near the vicar. ‘Hello? Are you there? Yes, it is you. I dared not enter at the front; I came through the garden at the side.’

  And there she was, a small posy of jewel-like berries and daisies in her hand – he never remembered afterwards where she found them. She was walking towards him, her feet sounding loudly on the echoing tiled floor and at one point she stopped, looking down at them for the sound they made, blinking, as though unused to it all. Which she was, of course.

  Ned found he was unable to move.

  ‘Liddy!’ Pertwee cried, with a shout. ‘You’re here! All will be well! Capital! Capital!’

  Mary was weeping and smiling, clutching Dalbeattie’s arm – Dalbeattie himself, quite undone, was murmuring, ‘Dear God. A near thing. Dear God!’

  ‘I presume this young woman is Miss Dysart?’ said the vicar and Liddy clasped his hand, smiling into his eyes with such charm that he was instantly mollified.

  ‘I am here,’ she said, and Ned ran towards her now, down the long nave of the church, the longest journey of his life until he could reach her, hold her hand, claim her for himself, for fear she might be whisked away from him again.

  ‘Forgive me, my love,’ she said, smiling at
him, tears falling from her eyes. ‘It took me a while to be able to come. I was very afraid . . . everything is rather overwhelming.’

  ‘I asked so much of you—’ He was shaking his head. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘It had to be this way,’ Liddy said.

  He held her face in his hands. She was pale, dull through lack of sunshine, her hair scraped back against her head, but her eyes shone as she smoothed down the skirts of her pale-blue dress. ‘My father persuaded Bryant to bring one of my old dresses up to my room last night,’ she said, her smile fixed. ‘Her last act.’

  They were married then, that day, no bells, no organ music, no orange blossom, but the five of them, dear family and friends and, at the centre of it, Ned and Liddy. At one point, he stared at her thin, waxy face, the bright dancing blue eyes fixed happily on him, her hand clutching his arm, and he felt the most powerful sensation of transformation. As they walked out of the church, Liddy leaned heavily on his arm, the exertion of the day catching up with her and at one point, she stumbled. He was afraid that it had all been too much for her, but then she looked up at him, and whispered in his ear:

  ‘Now, my love. It all begins now.’

  Mary had brought rose petals from Aunt Charlotte’s garden, and she threw them over the newly-weds, the faint scent rising up to Ned’s nostrils. The boy roasting cob nuts and a passing gentleman on horseback smiled, raising their hats to them. Even the vicar unbent as he hurried past them on the way to his next appointment, waving his tasselled hat at them. ‘God bless you, my dears. A lifetime of happiness to you both.’

  ‘I should think so,’ Liddy said, seriously, to Ned. ‘It’s the very least we deserve, wouldn’t you say?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  September

  There’s a fig tree growing next to the Dovecote. Your great-grandfather Ned planted it after they came here. He loved figs and the tree symbolised new beginnings. They are usually ripe in September. They are delicious with honey and sharp cheese.