The Forgotten Garden Part 18

"I came last night. I brought the storm with me."

"That's quite a power you've got for such a small thing."

"With a strong enough will, even the weak can wield great power."

A furry-caterpillar eyebrow twitched. "Who told you that?"

"My mother."

Eliza remembered too late that she wasn't supposed to mention her mother. Heart flickering, she waited to see what the man would say.

He stared at her, chewing slowly. "I dare say she knew what she were talking about. Mothers tend towards right on most things."

The warm pins and needles of relief. "My mother died."

"So did mine."

"I'm living here now."

He nodded. "I'd say you are."

"My name is Eliza."

"And mine is Davies."

"You're very old."

"As old as me little finger and a bit older than me teeth."

Eliza took a deep breath. "Are you a pirate?"

He laughed, a deep chuffing sound like smoke from a dirty chimney. "Sorry to disappoint you, my girl, I'm a gardener, just like my daddy afore me. Maze keeper to be particular about it."

Eliza wrinkled her nose. "Maze keeper?"

"I keep the maze tended." When Eliza's face showed no dawn of clarity, Davies pointed at the tall twin hedges behind him, bridged by an iron gate. "'Tis a puzzle made from hedges. The object, to find a way through without winding up lost."

A puzzle that could fit a person inside? Eliza had never heard of such a thing. "Where does it lead?"

"Oh, it weaves back and forth. If you're lucky enough to follow it right the way through you'll find yourself on the other side of the estate. If you're not so lucky"-his eyes widened ominously-"you'll likely perish of starvation before anyone knows you're missing." He leaned towards her, lowered his voice. "I ofttimes come across the bones of such unlucky souls."

Thrill squeezed Eliza's voice to a whisper. "And if I made it through? What would I find at the other end?"

"Another garden, a special garden, and a little cottage. Right on the edge of the cliff."

"I saw the cottage. From the beach."

He nodded. "I'd say you probably did."

"Whose house is it? Who lives there?"

"No one now. Lord Archibald Mountrachet-your great-grandfather, he'd have been-he had it built when he were in charge. There's some what says it were built as a lookout, a signaling post."

"For the smugglers, the Tregenna pirates?"

He smiled. "I can tell young Mary Martin's had your ear."

"Can I go and see it?"

"You'll never find it."

"I will."

His eyes twinkled as he teased. "Never, you'll never find your way through the maze. Even if you do, you'll never work out how to get through the secret gate and into the cottage garden."

"I will! Let me try, please, Davies."

"I'm afraid it ain't possible, Miss Eliza," Davies said, sobering somewhat. "There's no one been right the way through the maze in quite a time. I keep it maintained to a point, but I only go so far as I'm allowed. It's bound to be grown over in parts beyond."

"Why has no one been through?

"Your uncle had it closed some time past. No one's been through since." He leaned towards her. "Your mother, now there's someone who knew the maze like the back of her hand. Almost as well as I."

A bell sounded in the distance.

Davies took his hat off and wiped his sweaty forehead. "You'd better be off like star-shot, then, miss. That's the luncheon bell."

"Are you coming to have your luncheon, too?"

He laughed. "The staff don't eat luncheon, Miss Eliza, that's not proper. They have their dinner now."

"Are you coming up to have your dinner, then?"

"I don't eat inside the house. Haven't done for a long time."

"Why not?"

"It's not a place I like to be."

Eliza didn't understand. "Why not?"

Davies stroked his beard. "I'm happier when I stick to my plants, Miss Eliza. There's some that are made for the society of men, others that ain't. I'm one of the latter: happy on me own dungheap."

"But why?"

He exhaled slowly, like a great weary giant. "Certain places make a man's hairs stand on end, disagree with a man's way of being. Do you see what I'm saying?"

Eliza thought of her aunt in the burgundy room the night before, the hound and the shadows and the candlelight las.h.i.+ng angrily at the walls. She nodded.

"Young Mary, now, she's a good la.s.s. She'll look out for you up at the house." He frowned a little as he stared down at her. "It doesn't do to trust too easily, Miss Eliza. Doesn't do at all, you hear?"

Eliza nodded solemnly because solemnity seemed to be called for.

"Now be off with you, young miss. You'll be late for luncheon and the mistress will have your heart on a supper tray. She don't like her rules broken, and that's a fact."

Eliza smiled, though Davies did not. She turned to go, stopped when she saw something in the upper window, something she'd seen the day before. A face, small and watchful.

"Who's that?" she said.

Davies turned and squinted up towards the house. Nodded slightly in the direction of the upper window. "I reckon that's Miss Rose."

"Miss Rose?"

"Your cousin. Your aunt and uncle's girl."

Eliza's eyes widened. Her cousin?

"We used to see quite a lot of her about the estate, bright young thing she was, but some years ago she took ill and that was the end of that. The mistress spends all her time and a fair bit of money trying to fix whatever's wrong, and the young doctor from town's always coming and going."

Eliza was still staring up at the window. Slowly she raised her hand, fingers wide like the starfish from the beach. She waved back and forth, watched as the face disappeared quickly into the dark.

A slight smile pulled at Eliza's face. "Rose," she said, tasting the sweetness of the word. It was just like the name of a princess in a fairy tale.

TWENTY-FOUR.

CLIFF C COTTAGE, 2005.

THE wind whipped through Ca.s.sandra's hair, twirling her ponytail inside out, outside in, like streamers on a wind sock. She pulled her cardigan tight around her shoulders and paused a moment to catch her breath, looked back down the narrow coastal road to the village below. Tiny white cottages clung like barnacles to the rocky cove, and red and blue fis.h.i.+ng boats dotted the denim harbor, bobbing on the swell as gulls swooped and spiraled above their hauls. The air, even at this height, was laden with salt licked from the sea's surface. wind whipped through Ca.s.sandra's hair, twirling her ponytail inside out, outside in, like streamers on a wind sock. She pulled her cardigan tight around her shoulders and paused a moment to catch her breath, looked back down the narrow coastal road to the village below. Tiny white cottages clung like barnacles to the rocky cove, and red and blue fis.h.i.+ng boats dotted the denim harbor, bobbing on the swell as gulls swooped and spiraled above their hauls. The air, even at this height, was laden with salt licked from the sea's surface.

The road was so narrow and so close to the cliff's edge that Ca.s.sandra wondered how anyone ever worked up the courage to drive along it. Tall, pale sea gra.s.ses grew on each side, s.h.i.+vering as the wind rushed through. The higher she went, the more mist seemed to hang in the air.

Ca.s.sandra glanced at her watch. She'd underestimated how long it would take to reach the top, not to mention the weariness that would turn her legs to jelly midway up. Jetlag and good old-fas.h.i.+oned lack of sleep.

She'd slept terribly the night before. The room, the bed, were both comfortable enough, but she'd been plagued with strange dreams, the sort that lingered upon waking but slithered away from memory as she tried to grasp them. Only the tendrils of discomfort remained.

At some point during the night she'd been woken by a more material cause. A noise, like the sound of a key in her bedroom door. She'd been sure that's what it was, the insertion and jiggling as the person on the other side tried to make it turn, but when she'd mentioned it at the front desk this morning, the girl had looked at her strangely before saying, in a rather chilly voice, that the hotel used key cards, not metal keys. What she'd heard was only the wind toying with the old bra.s.s fitting.

Ca.s.sandra started up the hill again. It couldn't be much further, the woman in the village grocery shop had said it was only a twenty-minute walk and she'd been climbing now for thirty.

She rounded a corner and saw a red car pulled over by the side of the road. A man and woman stood watching her: he was tall and thin while she was short and stout. For a moment Ca.s.sandra thought they might be sightseers enjoying the view, but when each lifted a hand in unison and waved, she knew who they must be.

"h.e.l.lo there!" called the man, coming towards her. He was middle-aged, though his hair and beard, white as icing sugar, gave the initial impression of a much older face. "You must be Ca.s.sandra. I'm Henry Jameson and this"-he indicated the beaming woman-"is my wife, Robyn."

"Lovely to meet you," said Robyn, hot on her husband's heels. Her greying hair was cut in a neat bob that grazed cheeks pink and polished and plump as apples.

Ca.s.sandra smiled. "Thanks for meeting me on a Sat.u.r.day, I really appreciate it."

"Nonsense." Henry ran a hand across his head to tidy fine wind-blown hairs. "No trouble at all. I only hope you don't mind Robyn coming along-"

"Of course she doesn't, why would she mind?" said Robyn. "You don't mind, do you?"

Ca.s.sandra shook her head.

"What did I tell you? She doesn't mind a bit." Robyn clutched Ca.s.sandra's wrist. "Not that he had any chance of stopping me. He'd have been risking the divorce courts if he'd so much as tried."

"My wife is the secretary of the local historical society," Henry said, a hint of apology threading through his voice.

"I've published a number of little booklets on the area. Histories mainly, about local families, important landmarks, great houses. My most recent is about the smuggling trade. We're actually in the middle of putting all of the articles onto a website-"

"It's her sworn aim to take tea in every stately home in the county."

"But I've lived in this village all my life and I've never so much as set foot inside the old place." Robyn smiled so that her cheeks shone. "I don't mind telling you, I'm about as curious as a cat."

"We would never have guessed, my love," said Henry wearily, indicating the hill. "We have to go on foot from here, the road goes no further."

Robyn led the way, striding purposefully along the narrow path of windswept gra.s.s. As they climbed higher, Ca.s.sandra began to notice the birds. Ma.s.ses of tiny brown swallows calling to one another as they scuttled from one spindly branch to another. She had the oddest sensation of being watched, as if the birds were jostling to keep an eye on the human interlopers. She s.h.i.+vered a little, then admonished herself for being childish, inventing mystery where only atmosphere existed.

"It was my father who handled the sale to your grandmother," said Henry, shortening his long strides to walk just behind Ca.s.sandra. "Back in '75. I'd just started with the firm as a junior conveyancer, but I remember the sale."

"Everyone remembers the sale," called Robyn. "It was the last part of the old estate to go. There were folk in the village who swore the cottage'd never be sold."

Ca.s.sandra looked out to sea. "Why is that? The house must have beautiful views..."

Henry glanced at Robyn, who had stopped walking and was catching her breath, hand on the middle of her chest. "Well, now, that's true enough," he said, "but-"

"There were bad stories about town," said Robyn, between pants. "Rumors and the like...about the past."

"What sort of things?"

"Silly rumors," said Henry firmly, "lots of nonsense, the sort you'd find in any English village."

"There was talk that it was haunted," Robyn continued, sotto voce.

Henry laughed. "Find me a house in Cornwall that isn't."

Robyn rolled her pale blue eyes. "My husband is a pragmatist."

"And my wife is a romantic," said Henry. "Cliff Cottage is stone and mortar, just like all the other houses in Tregenna. It's no more haunted than I am."

"And you call yourself a Cornishman." Robyn tucked a strand of wayward hair behind her ear and squinted up at Ca.s.sandra. "Do you believe in ghosts, Ca.s.sandra?"

"I don't think so." Ca.s.sandra thought of the strange feeling the birds had given her. "Not the sort that go b.u.mp in the night."