The Forgotten Garden Part 29

Her insistence, her infuriating confidence. "Evidence of your naivety, my Rose, and your youth."

"I am not too young to know my mind, Mamma. I am eighteen now. Did you not bring me to New York so that I might meet My Fate?"

Adeline's voice was thin. "This man is not Your Fate."

"How do you know that?"

"I am your mother." How feeble it sounded. "You are beautiful, from an important family, and yet you would settle for so little?"

Rose sighed softly, in a way that seemed to signal a close to the conversation. "I love him, Mamma."

Adeline closed her eyes. Youth! What chance had the most reasonable arguments against the arrogant power of those three words? That her daughter, her precious prize, should utter them so easily, and about such a one as he!

"And he loves me, Mamma, he told me so."

Adeline's heart tightened with fear. Darling girl, blinded by foolish thoughts of love. How to tell her that the hearts of men were not so easily won. If won, rarely kept.

"You'll see," Rose said. "I shall live happily ever after, just like in Eliza's story. She wrote this, you know, almost as if she knew what would happen."

Eliza! Adeline seethed. Even here, at this distance, the girl continued her menace. Her influence extended across the oceans, her ill whisperings sabotaged Rose's future, goaded her into making the biggest mistake of her life.

Adeline pressed her lips together tightly. She hadn't overseen Rose's recovery from countless ailments and illnesses in order to watch her throw herself away on a poor marriage. "You must break it off. He will understand. He must have known it would never be allowed."

"We are engaged, Mamma. He has asked and I have accepted him."

"Break it off."

"I will not."

Adeline felt her back against the wall. "You will be shunned from society, unwelcome in your father's home."

"Then I will stay here where I am am welcome. In Nathaniel's home." welcome. In Nathaniel's home."

How had it come to this? Her Rose, saying such things. Things she must have known would break her mamma's heart. Adeline's head was spinning, she needed to lie down.

"I'm sorry, Mamma," Rose said quietly, "but I won't change my mind, I can't. Don't ask me to."

They didn't speak for days after, excepting, of course, such ba.n.a.l social pleasantries as would have been unthinkable for either of them to ignore. Rose thought Adeline was sulking, but she was not. She was deep in thought. Adeline had always been able to bend pa.s.sion towards logic.

The current equation was impossible, thus some factor must be changed. If it wasn't going to be Rose's mind, it would have to be the fiance himself. He must become a man deserving of her daughter's hand, the sort of man people spoke about with awe and, yes, with envy. And Adeline had a feeling she knew just how such a change might be effected.

In each man's heart there lies a hole. A dark abyss of need, the filling of which takes precedence over all else. Adeline suspected that Nathaniel Walker's hole was pride, the most dangerous pride, that of the poor man. A hunger to prove himself, to rise above his birth and make of himself a better man than his father. Even without the biography so greedily supplied by Mrs. Hastings, the more Adeline saw of Nathaniel Walker the more she knew this to be true. She could see it in the way he walked, the careful s.h.i.+ne of his shoes, the keenness of his smile and the volume of his laugh. These were the traits of a man who had come from little and glimpsed the gleaming world swirling far above his own. A man whose finery was hung upon a poor man's skin.

Adeline knew his weakness well, for it was her own. She also knew exactly what she had to do. She must ensure that he received every advantage; she must become his greatest champion, promote his art to the best in society, ensure that his name became synonymous with portraiture of the elite. With her ringing endors.e.m.e.nt, with his good looks and charm, not to mention Rose for a wife, he couldn't fail to impress.

And Adeline would make sure that he never forgot who was responsible for his good fortune.

ELIZA DROPPED the letter beside her on the bed. Rose was engaged, was going to be married. The news shouldn't have come as such a surprise. Rose had spoken often of her hopes for the future, her desire for a husband and family, a grand house and a carriage of her own. And yet Eliza felt odd. the letter beside her on the bed. Rose was engaged, was going to be married. The news shouldn't have come as such a surprise. Rose had spoken often of her hopes for the future, her desire for a husband and family, a grand house and a carriage of her own. And yet Eliza felt odd.

She opened her new notebook and ran her fingers lightly over the first page, blistered by raindrops. She drew a line with her pencil, watched absently as it switched from dark to light according to whether its base was damp or dry. She began a story, scribbled and scratched out for a time before pus.h.i.+ng the book aside.

Finally, Eliza leaned back against her pillow. There was no denying it, she felt unusual: something sat deep within her stomach, round and heavy, sharp and bitter. She wondered whether she had taken ill. Perhaps it was the rain? Mary had often warned against staying outdoors too long.

Eliza turned her head to look at the wall, at nothing. Rose, her cousin, hers to entertain, willing coconspirator, was to be married. With whom would Eliza share the hidden garden? Her stories? Her life? How was it that a future so vividly imagined-years stretching ahead, filled with travel and adventure and writing-could prove so suddenly, so emphatically, a chimera?

Her gaze slipped sideways to rest on the cold gla.s.s of the mirror. Eliza didn't often glance at the looking gla.s.s and in the time that had elapsed since last she met her echo, something had gone missing. She sat up and moved closer. Appraised herself.

Realization came fully formed. She knew just what it was she'd lost. This reflection belonged to an adult, there was no place in its angles for Sammy's face to hide. He was gone.

And now Rose was going, too. Who was this man who had stolen her dearest friend in the blink of an eyelid?

Eliza could not have felt so ill had she swallowed one of the Christmas decorations Mary made, one of the oranges spiked with cloves.

Envy, that's what this lump was called. She envied the man who had made Rose well, who had done so easily what Eliza sought to do, who had caused her cousin's affections to s.h.i.+ft so swiftly and completely. Envy. Envy. Eliza whispered the sharp word and felt its poisoned barbs p.r.i.c.k the inside of her mouth. Eliza whispered the sharp word and felt its poisoned barbs p.r.i.c.k the inside of her mouth.

She turned away from the mirror and closed her eyes, willed herself to forget the letter and its awful news. She didn't want to feel envious, to harbor this barbed lump. For Eliza knew from her fairy tales the fate awaiting wicked sisters bewitched by envy.

THIRTY-FIVE.

THE B BLACKHURST H HOTEL, 2005.

JULIA'S apartment was at the very top of the house, accessed by an incredibly narrow set of stairs at the end of the second-floor hallway. When Ca.s.sandra left her room the sun had already begun to melt into the horizon, and the hall was now almost completely dark. She knocked and waited, tightening her grip on the neck of the bottle of wine she'd brought with her. A last-minute decision as she'd walked home with Christian through the village. apartment was at the very top of the house, accessed by an incredibly narrow set of stairs at the end of the second-floor hallway. When Ca.s.sandra left her room the sun had already begun to melt into the horizon, and the hall was now almost completely dark. She knocked and waited, tightening her grip on the neck of the bottle of wine she'd brought with her. A last-minute decision as she'd walked home with Christian through the village.

The door opened and Julia was there, wrapped in a s.h.i.+ny pink kimono. "Come, come," she said, gesturing for Ca.s.sandra to follow as she swept across the room. "I'm just t.i.tivating our dinner. Hope you like Italian!"

"Love it," said Ca.s.sandra, hurrying behind.

What had once been a warren of tiny bedrooms housing an army of housemaids had been opened and reconfigured to create a large loft-style apartment. Dormer windows ran all the way along both sides and must have given incredible views across the estate during the day.

Ca.s.sandra stopped at the entrance to the kitchen. Every surface was covered with mixing bowls and measuring cups, tomato tins with their lids hanging off, gleaming pools of olive oil and lemon juice and other mysterious ingredients. For want of somewhere to put it, she held out her offering.

"Aren't you a darling?" Julia popped the cork, then plucked a lone goblet from the rack above the bench, gurgled wine into it from a theatrical height. She licked a drop of s.h.i.+raz from her finger. "Personally, I never drink anything but gin," she said with a wink. "Keeps you youthful; it's pure, you know." She handed the goblet of sinful red liquid to Ca.s.sandra and swept from the kitchen. "Now, come on in and make yourself comfortable."

She indicated an armchair in the center of the room and Ca.s.sandra sat down. Before her was a wooden chest, doubling as a coffee table, and at its center sat a stack of old sc.r.a.pbooks, each wearing a faded brown leather jacket.

A shot of excitement spread quickly through Ca.s.sandra's body and her fingertips tingled with desire.

"You sit and have a little flick through while I put the finis.h.i.+ng touches to our dinner."

Ca.s.sandra didn't need to be told twice. She reached for the top sc.r.a.pbook and ran her palm ever so lightly over its surface. The leather had lost all hint of its grain and was smooth and soft as velvet.

Inhaling her antic.i.p.ation, Ca.s.sandra opened the cover and read, in a pretty and precise script: Rose Elizabeth Mountrachet Walker, 1909. Rose Elizabeth Mountrachet Walker, 1909. She traced the words with a fingertip and felt the faint marks in the paper. Imagined the nibbed pen which had made them. Carefully, she turned the pages until she arrived at the first entry. She traced the words with a fingertip and felt the faint marks in the paper. Imagined the nibbed pen which had made them. Carefully, she turned the pages until she arrived at the first entry.

A new year. And one in which such tremendous events are promised. I have barely been able to concentrate since Dr. Matthews arrived and gave me his verdict. I confess, the fainting spells of late had me gravely worried, and I was not the only one. I only needed glance at Mamma's face to see anxiety writ large across her features. While Dr. Matthews was examining me I lay still, eyes focused on the ceiling, forcing my mind away from fear by recalling the happiest moments of my life so far. My wedding day, of course; my trip to New York; the summer Eliza first came to Blackhurst...How bright such memories seem when the life they catalogue is threatened!Afterwards, when Mamma and I sat side by side on the sofa awaiting Dr. Matthews's diagnosis, her hand reached for mine. It was cold. I glanced at her but she would not meet my eyes. It was then that I began to worry in earnest.Through all my childhood ailments, Mamma was the one to keep a positive mind. I wondered why her confidence had now deserted her, what it was she had intuited that gave her cause for such concern. When Dr. Matthews cleared his throat, I squeezed Mamma's hand and waited.What he said, though, was more shocking than anything I could have dreamed."You are with child. Two months gone, I'd say. G.o.d willing, you will deliver in August."Oh, but are there words to explain the joy those words provoked? After so long hoping, the terrible months of disappointment. A baby to love. An heir for Nathaniel, a grandchild for Mamma, a G.o.dchild for Eliza.

Ca.s.sandra's eyes stung. To think that this baby whose conception Rose celebrated was Nell, this desperately wanted baby-in-waiting was Ca.s.sandra's dear, displaced grandmother. Rose's hopeful sentiments were especially moving, written as they were in ignorance of all that would come afterwards.

She flicked quickly through the journal pages, past snippets of lace and ribbon, brief notes reporting doctor's visits, invitations to various dinners and dances around the county, until finally, in December 1909, she found what she was looking for.

She is here-I make this record a little later than expected. The past months have been more difficult than antic.i.p.ated, and I have had little time or energy for writing, but all has been worth it. After so many months of hoping, long spells of illness and worry and confinement, I hold in my arms my darling child. Everything else fades away. She is perfect. Her skin so pale and creamy, her lips so pink and plump. Her eyes are a deep blue, but the doctor says that is always so and they may darken with time. Secretly I hope he is wrong.

I wish for her the true Mountrachet coloring, like Father and Eliza: blue eyes and red hair. We have decided to name her Ivory. It is the color of her skin and, as time will doubtless prove, her soul.

"Here we are." Julia was juggling two steaming bowls of pasta and had an enormous pepper mill tucked beneath her arm. "Ravioli with pine nuts and Gorgonzola." She handed one to Ca.s.sandra. "Careful, the plate's a bit warm."

Ca.s.sandra took the proffered bowl and set the sc.r.a.pbook aside. "Smells delicious."

"If I hadn't become a writer, then a renovator, then a hotelier, I'd have been a chef. Cheers." Julia lifted her gla.s.s of gin, took a sip, then sighed. "I sometimes feel my entire life is a series of accidents and chances-not that I'm complaining. One can be very happy having relinquished all expectation of control." She speared a ravioli square. "But enough about me-how goes it at the cottage?"

"Really well," said Ca.s.sandra. "Except the more I do, the more I realize needs doing. The garden's quite wild and the house itself is a mess. I'm not even sure it's structurally sound. I suppose I should have a builder come and look at it for me, but I haven't had time yet, there's been so much else to keep me busy. It's all very..."

"Overwhelming?"

"Yeah, it's definitely overwhelming, but more than that. It's"-Ca.s.sandra paused, searched for the right word, surprised herself when she found it-"exciting. I've found something at the cottage, Julia."

"Found something?" Her brows shot up. "As in hidden treasure something?"

"If you like your treasure green and fertile." Ca.s.sandra bit her bottom lip. "It's a hidden garden, a walled garden at the back of the cottage. I don't think anyone's been inside for decades, and no wonder, the walls are really high, completely covered by brambles. You'd never guess it was there."

"How did you find it?"

"By accident, really."

Julia shook her head. "No such thing as accidents."

"I honestly had no idea it was there."

"I'm not suggesting that you did. I'm just saying, perhaps the garden only hid from those it didn't wish to see."

"Well, I'm certainly glad it showed itself to me. The garden is incredible. It's really overgrown, but underneath the brambles all kinds of plants have survived. There are paths, garden seats, bird feeders."

"Like Sleeping Beauty, fast asleep until the enchantment is broken."

"That's the thing, though; it hasn't been asleep. The trees have kept growing, bearing fruit, even though there's been no one there to appreciate it. You should see the apple tree, it looks to be a hundred years old."

"It is," said Julia suddenly, sitting upright and pus.h.i.+ng her bowl aside. "Or it very nearly is." She flicked through the sc.r.a.pbooks, running her finger down page after page, turning back and forth. "Aha," she said, tapping an entry. "Here it is. Just after Rose's eighteenth birthday, before she went to New York and met Nathaniel." Julia propped a pair of turquoise and mother-of-pearl gla.s.ses on the end of her nose and began to read: Twenty-first of May 1907. What a day it has been! And to think when it started I thought I was to suffer yet another interminable day inside. (After Dr. Matthews mentioned a few cases of sniffles in the village, Mamma has become terrified that I will fall ill and jeopardize the country weekend we are to attend next month.) Eliza, as always, had other ideas. Just as soon as Mamma had left by carriage for Lady Phillimore's luncheon, she appeared at my door, cheeks aglow (how I envy her the time she spends out of doors!), and insisted that I put aside my sc.r.a.pbook (for I was working on you, dear diary!) and come with her through the maze: there was something there that I must see.My first instinct was to demur-I feared that one of the servants might report back to Mamma and I don't fancy an argument, certainly not with the New York trip on the horizon-but then I realized that Eliza had the "look" in her eyes, the one she gets when she has concocted a plan and will suffer no hesitations, the "look" that has led me into more sc.r.a.pes than I care to remember over the past seven years.So excited was my dear cousin that it was impossible not to be swept up in her enthusiasm. I sometimes think she has enough spirit for the two of us, which is just as well seeing as I am so often dispirited. Before I knew it we were hurrying along together, arms linked, giggling. Davies was waiting for us at the maze gate, lumbering beneath the weight of an enormous potted plant, and all the way through Eliza kept doubling back with offers of help (which he always declined) before leaping back beside me, seizing my hand and pulling me further along. We continued thus through the maze (with whose routes Eliza was extremely au fait), crossing the center sitting area, pa.s.sing the bra.s.s ring that Eliza says heralds the entrance to an underground pa.s.sage, until we arrived, finally, at a metal door with a large bra.s.s lock. With a flourish, Eliza withdrew a key from the pocket of her skirt and, before I had time to ask her where on earth she'd found such a thing, it was inserted. She turned the lock and pushed so that the door swung slowly open.Inside was a garden. Similar and yet somehow different from the other gardens on the estate. For a start, it is walled completely. Tall stone walls around all four sides, broken only by two opposing metal doors, one on the northern and one on the southern wall- "So there is another door," said Ca.s.sandra. "I couldn't see it."

Julia looked over the top of her gla.s.ses. "There were renovations made, back around 1912...1913...The brick wall out front, for one, maybe they removed the door then? But wait. Listen to this: The garden itself was neat and rather under-planted. It had the look of a fallow field, waiting to be sown after the winter months have pa.s.sed. In its center, an ornate metal bench sat by a stone birdbath, and on the ground were several wooden crates loaded with small potted plants.Eliza ran inside with all the grace of a schoolboy."What is this place?" I said in wonder."It's a garden, I've been tending it. You should have seen the weeds when first I started. We've been so busy, haven't we, Davies?""We certainly have at that, Miss Eliza," he said, depositing the potted plant by the southern wall."It's going to be ours, Rose, yours and mine. A secret place where we can be together, just the two of us, just as we imagined when we were younger. Four walls, locked gates, our very own paradise. Even when you're unwell you can come here, Rose. The walls keep it protected from the rough sea winds, so you'll still be able to listen to the birds, smell the flowers, feel the sun on your face."Her enthusiasm, the intensity of her feeling, was such that I couldn't help but long for such a garden. I gazed upon the tamed garden beds, the potted flowers that were just beginning to bud, and I could imagine the paradise she described. "I heard talk when I was very small about a walled garden hidden on the property, but I thought it must be a story.""It's not," said Eliza, eyes s.h.i.+ning. "It was all true, and now we're bringing it back to life."They had certainly worked hard. If the garden had been untended all this time, ever since...I frowned, the talk I'd heard as a girl was coming back to me. Then realization struck: I knew exactly whose garden this had been-"Oh, Liza," I said quickly. "You must be careful, we we must be careful. We must leave this place and never come back. If Father were to find out-" must be careful. We must leave this place and never come back. If Father were to find out-""He already knows."I looked at her sharply, more sharply than I intended. "What do you mean?""It was Uncle Linus who instructed Davies that I should have the garden. He had Davies clear the last part of the maze and told him that we should give the garden new life.""But Father forbade anyone to go inside the walled garden."Eliza shrugged, that gesture of hers that comes so readily and which Mamma so despises. "He must have had a change of heart."A change of heart. How uneasily the sentiment sat with my image of Father. It was the word "heart" that did it. Except for the one time in his study, when I was hidden beneath the desk and heard him weep for his sister, his poupee, poupee, I cannot think that I have ever seen Father behave in a way that suggested a heart. Suddenly, I knew, and I felt a strange heaviness in the very base of my stomach. "It is because you are her daughter." I cannot think that I have ever seen Father behave in a way that suggested a heart. Suddenly, I knew, and I felt a strange heaviness in the very base of my stomach. "It is because you are her daughter."But Eliza did not hear me. She had left my side and was dragging the propagating pot towards a large hole by the wall."This is our first new tree," she called. "We're going to have a ceremony. That's why it was so important that you be here today. This tree will continue to grow, no matter where our lives take us, and it will remember us always: Rose and Eliza."Davies was by my side then, holding out a small spade. "It's Miss Eliza's wish that you should be the first to toss earth onto the roots of the tree, Miss Rose."Miss Eliza's wish. Who was I to argue with so great a force?"What sort of tree is it?" I asked."An apple tree."I should have known. Eliza has always had an eye to symbolism, and apples are, after all, the first fruit.

Julia looked up from the sc.r.a.pbook and a tear slipped from eyes that were br.i.m.m.i.n.g. She snuffled and smiled. "I just love Rose so much. Can't you feel her here with us?"

Ca.s.sandra smiled back. She had eaten an apple from a tree her great-grandmother had helped to plant, nearly a hundred years before. She blushed slightly as thoughts of the apple brought back echoes of the strange dream. All week as she'd worked close by Christian, she'd managed to block it out. She had thought she was rid of it.

"And now you're cleaning up the same garden all over again. What lovely symmetry. What would Rose say if she knew?" Julia plucked a tissue from a nearby box and blew her nose. "Sorry," she said, dabbing mascara from beneath each eye. "It's just so romantic." She laughed. "It's a shame you don't have a Davies to help you."

"He's not a Davies, but I do have someone helping me," said Ca.s.sandra. "He's been every afternoon this week. I met him and his brother, Michael, when they came to clear a fallen tree from the cottage. You know them, I think. Robyn Jameson said they do the gardens here, too."

"The Blake boys. They most certainly do, and I must say I enjoy watching them. That Michael's easy on the eye, isn't he? Quite the charmer, too. If I were still writing, it'd be Michael Blake I'd picture when I was describing my ladies' man."

"And Christian?" Despite her best attempt at nonchalance, Ca.s.sandra felt her cheeks warm up.

"Oh, he'd definitely be the smarter, younger, quieter brother who surprises everyone by saving the day and winning the heroine's heart."

Ca.s.sandra smiled. "I'm not even going to ask who I'd be."

"And I have no doubts who I'd be," Julia said with a sigh. "The ageing beauty who doesn't have a chance with the hero so channels her energy into helping the heroine realize her fate."

"Life'd be a lot easier if it were like a fairy tale," said Ca.s.sandra, "if people belonged to stock character types."

"Oh, but people do, they only think think they don't. Even the person who insists such things don't exist is a cliche: the drear pedant who insists on his own uniqueness!" they don't. Even the person who insists such things don't exist is a cliche: the drear pedant who insists on his own uniqueness!"

Ca.s.sandra took a sip of wine. "You don't think there's any such thing as uniqueness?"

"We're all unique, just never in the ways we imagine." Julia smiled, then waved her hand, bangles clattering. "Listen to me. What a dreadful absolutist I am. Of course there are variations in character. Take your Christian Blake, for instance, he's not a gardener by trade, you know. He works at a hospital in Oxford. That is, he did. Some kind of doctor, I forget the proper name-they're so long and confusing, aren't they?"

Ca.s.sandra sat up straighter. "What's a doctor doing lopping trees?"

"What's a doctor doing lopping trees?" Julia echoed meaningfully. "My point exactly. When Michael told me his brother was starting with him I didn't ask questions, but I've been curious as the proverbial ever since. What makes a young man swap vocations, just like that?"

Ca.s.sandra shook her head. "Change of heart?"

"Pretty big change, I'd say."

"Maybe he realized he didn't enjoy it."

"Possible, but you'd think he might have got the hint at some time during the interminable years of study." Julia smiled enigmatically. "I think it's likely far more interesting than that, but then, I was a writer and old habits die hard. I can't stop my imagination running away with me." She pointed a gin-clutching finger at Ca.s.sandra. "That, my dear, is what makes a character interesting, their secrets."

Ca.s.sandra thought of Nell and the secrets she'd kept. How could she have stood it, finally discovering who she really was and not telling a soul? "I wish my grandmother had seen the sc.r.a.pbooks before she died. They would have meant so much to her, the closest thing possible to hearing her mother's voice."

"I've been thinking about your grandmother all week," said Julia. "Ever since you told me what happened I've been wondering what made Eliza take her."

"And? What do you reckon?"

"Envy," said Julia. "I come back to it every time. It's a b.l.o.o.d.y powerful motivator, and Lord knows there was enough to envy about Rose: her beauty, her talented husband, her birthright. Throughout their childhoods Eliza must have seen Rose as the little girl who had everything, particularly the things she didn't have. Wealthy parents, a beautiful house, a kind nature that people admired. Then, in adulthood, to see Rose marry so quickly, and to a man who must've been quite a catch, then fall pregnant, have a beautiful baby girl...h.e.l.l, I I feel jealous of Rose! Imagine what it was like for Eliza-a bit of an odd bird by all accounts." She drained her drink, put the gla.s.s down emphatically. "I'm not excusing what she did, not at all, I'm just saying it doesn't surprise me." feel jealous of Rose! Imagine what it was like for Eliza-a bit of an odd bird by all accounts." She drained her drink, put the gla.s.s down emphatically. "I'm not excusing what she did, not at all, I'm just saying it doesn't surprise me."

"It's the most obvious answer, isn't it?"

"And the most obvious answer is usually the right one. It's all there in the sc.r.a.pbooks-well, it's all there if you know what you're looking for. From the moment Rose found out she had a baby on the way, Eliza grew more distant. There's very little mention of Eliza after Ivory was born. It must've plagued Rose-Eliza was like a sister, and suddenly, in such a special time, she withdrew. Packed up and took herself away from Blackhurst."