The Forgotten Garden Part 47

She gasped. Where was Sammy? He should be with her, he was hers to protect- Horses' hooves, thudding on the ground outside. The sound made her frightened, ill, though she knew not why. The dark cloud began to swirl. It was coming closer.

Eliza's gaze dropped to her skirt, her hands folded on her lap. Her hands, and yet surely not hers at all.

Bright light broke through a hole in the cloud: she wasn't twelve at all, she was a grown woman- But what had happened? Where was she? Why was she with Mansell?

A cottage on a cliff, a garden, the sea...

Her breaths were louder now, sharp in her throat.

A woman, a man, a baby...

Free-floating panic plucked at her skin.

More light...the cloud was fading, coming apart...

Words, s.n.a.t.c.hes of meaning: Maryborough...a s.h.i.+p...a child, not Sammy, a little girl...

Eliza's throat was raw. A hole opened up inside her, filled quickly with black fear.

The little girl was hers.

Clarity, so bright it burned: her daughter was alone on a departing s.h.i.+p.

Panic infused her every pore. Her pulse hammered in her temples. She needed to get away, get back.

Eliza glanced sideways at the door.

The carriage traveled quickly but she didn't care. The s.h.i.+p left dock today and the little girl was on it. The child, her child, all alone.

Chest aching, head thumping, Eliza reached out.

Mansell stirred. His bleary eyes opened, focused quickly on Eliza's arm, the handle beneath her fingers.

A cruel smile began to form on his lips.

She gripped the lever: he lunged to stop her, but Eliza was faster. Her need was greater, after all.

AND SHE was falling, the cage door had opened and she fell, fell, fell towards the cold dark earth. Time folded over on itself: all moments were one, past was present was future. Eliza didn't close her eyes, she watched the earth coming closer, the smell of mud, gra.s.s, hope- was falling, the cage door had opened and she fell, fell, fell towards the cold dark earth. Time folded over on itself: all moments were one, past was present was future. Eliza didn't close her eyes, she watched the earth coming closer, the smell of mud, gra.s.s, hope- -and she was flying, wings outstretched across the surface of the ground, and higher now, on the current of the breeze, her face cool, her mind clear. And Eliza knew where she was going. Flying towards her daughter, towards Ivory. The person she had spent a lifetime seeking, her other half. She was whole at last, heading towards home.

FORTY-NINE.

CLIFF C COTTAGE, 2005.

FINALLY, she was in the garden again. Between the bad weather, Ruby's arrival and the visit to Clara's house, it had been days since Ca.s.sandra had been able to slip beneath the wall. She'd been subject to an odd restlessness that had only now dissipated. It was strange, she thought, easing a glove onto her right hand: she'd never considered herself much of a gardener, but this place was different. She felt compelled to return, to plunge her hands into the earth and bring the garden back to life. Ca.s.sandra paused as she straightened the fingers of the other glove, noticed again the band of white skin around her finger, second from the left. she was in the garden again. Between the bad weather, Ruby's arrival and the visit to Clara's house, it had been days since Ca.s.sandra had been able to slip beneath the wall. She'd been subject to an odd restlessness that had only now dissipated. It was strange, she thought, easing a glove onto her right hand: she'd never considered herself much of a gardener, but this place was different. She felt compelled to return, to plunge her hands into the earth and bring the garden back to life. Ca.s.sandra paused as she straightened the fingers of the other glove, noticed again the band of white skin around her finger, second from the left.

She ran her thumb over the strip of skin. It was very smooth, more elastic than that on either side, as if it had been soaking in warm water. That white band was the youngest part of her, fifteen years younger than the rest. Hidden from the moment Nick had slipped the ring onto her finger, it was the only part that hadn't changed, aged, moved on. Until now.

"Cold enough for you?" Christian, who had just appeared from beneath the wall, thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans.

Ca.s.sandra pushed the glove on and smiled at him. "I didn't think it got cold in Cornwall. All the brochures I read talked about a temperate climate."

"Temperate compared to Yorks.h.i.+re." He returned a lopsided smile. "It's a taste of the winter ahead. At least you won't have to suffer that."

Silence drew out between them. As Christian turned to inspect the hole he'd been digging the week before, Ca.s.sandra pretended to be engrossed in her weeding fork. Her return to Australia was a subject they'd avoided discussing. Over the last few days, whenever conversation threatened to skirt the topic, one of them had been quick to set it on a new course.

"I was thinking some more," said Christian, "about that letter from Harriet Swindell."

"Yeah?" Ca.s.sandra pushed aside unsettling thoughts of past and future.

"Whatever it was in the clay pot, the one Eliza pulled out of the chimney, it must've been important. Nell was already on the boat, so Eliza took a huge risk going back for it."

They had covered this yesterday. In a warm booth at the pub, with the fire crackling in the corner, they'd gone over and over the details as they knew them. Seeking a conclusion they both sensed was staring them in the face.

"I guess she didn't count on the man being there to abduct her, whoever he was." Ca.s.sandra plunged her fork into the flower bed. "I wish Harriet had given us his name."

"He must've been someone sent by Rose's family."

"You reckon?"

"Who else would have been so desperate to get them back?"

"Get Eliza back."

"Huh?"

Ca.s.sandra glanced over her shoulder at him. "They didn't get Nell back. Only Eliza."

Christian paused in his digging. "Yeah, that's odd. I guess she didn't tell them where Nell was."

That was the part that didn't make sense to Ca.s.sandra. She'd lain awake half the night running the threads through her mind, coming always to the same conclusion. Eliza might not have wanted Nell to remain at Blackhurst, but surely when she learned that the s.h.i.+p had sailed without her she'd have been desperate to stop it. She was Nell's mother, she'd loved her enough to take her in the first place. Wouldn't she have done everything she could to alert people to the fact that Nell was on a s.h.i.+p alone? She wouldn't just have said nothing and left a treasured daughter to travel by herself to Australia. Ca.s.sandra's fork hit a particularly stubborn root. "I don't think she could tell them."

"How do you mean?"

"Only that if she could have, she would have. Wouldn't she?"

Christian nodded slowly, raised his eyebrows as the implications of this theory sank in. He heaved his shovel into the hole.

The root was thick. Ca.s.sandra pulled the other weeds aside and traced it a little higher. She smiled to herself. Though it was worse for wear, devoid, for the most part, of leaves, she recognized this plant; she'd seen similar specimens in Nell's garden back in Brisbane. It was a wiry old rosebush, had likely been here for decades. The stem was as thick as her forearm, covered in angry thorns. But it was still alive and with some tending would live to flower again.

"Oh, my G.o.d."

Ca.s.sandra looked up from her rose. Christian was crouched down, leaning into the pit. "What? What is it?" she said.

"I've found something." The tone of his voice was odd, difficult to read.

Electricity fired hot beneath Ca.s.sandra's skin. "Something scary or something exciting?"

"Exciting, I think."

Ca.s.sandra went to kneel by him and peered into the hole. She followed the direction he was pointing.

Deep down amid the moist soil, something had emerged from the muddy base. Something small, brown and smooth.

Christian reached down and eased the object free, withdrew a clay pot, the sort once used to store mustard and other preserves. He wiped the mud from its sides and pa.s.sed it to Ca.s.sandra. "I think your garden just gave up its secret."

The clay was cool on her fingers, the pot surprisingly heavy. Ca.s.sandra's heart thumped in her chest.

"She must have buried it here," said Christian. "After the man abducted her in London, he must have brought her back to Blackhurst."

But why would Eliza have buried the clay pot after taking such a risk to reclaim it? Why would she risk losing it again? And if she had time to bury the pot, why hadn't she made contact with the s.h.i.+p? Retrieved little Ivory?

The realization was sudden. Something that had been there all along became clear. Ca.s.sandra inhaled sharply.

"What?"

"I don't think she buried the pot," Ca.s.sandra whispered.

"What do you mean? Who did?"

"No one. I mean, I think the pot was buried with with her." And for over ninety years she had lain here, waiting for someone to find her. For Ca.s.sandra to find her and unravel her secret. her." And for over ninety years she had lain here, waiting for someone to find her. For Ca.s.sandra to find her and unravel her secret.

Christian stared into the hole, eyes wide. He nodded slowly. "That would explain why she didn't go back for Ivory, for Nell."

"She couldn't. She was here all along."

"But who buried her? The man who abducted her? Her aunt or uncle?"

Ca.s.sandra shook her head. "I don't know. One thing's for sure, though, whoever it was didn't intend anyone to know about it. There's no gravestone, nothing at all to mark the spot. They wanted Eliza to disappear, the truth about her death to remain hidden forever. Forgotten, just like her garden."

FIFTY.

BLACKHURST M MANOR, 1913.

ADELINE turned from the fireplace, inhaled suddenly so that her waist gathered tightly. "What do you mean, things didn't go to plan?" turned from the fireplace, inhaled suddenly so that her waist gathered tightly. "What do you mean, things didn't go to plan?"

Night had fallen and the surrounding woods were converging upon the house. Shadows hung in the corners of the room, candlelight teasing their cold edges.

Mr. Mansell straightened his pince-nez. "There was a fall. She threw herself from the carriage. The horses lost control."

"A physician," said Linus. "We must telephone a physician."

"A physician will be of no a.s.sistance." Mansell's steady voice. "She is already dead."

Adeline gasped. "What?"

"Dead," he said again. "The woman, your niece, is dead."

Adeline closed her eyes and her knees buckled. The world was spinning; she was weightless, painless, free. How was it that such burden, such weight, could lift away so swiftly? That one fell swoop could rid her of the old and constant foe, Georgiana's legacy?

Adeline cared not. Her prayers had been answered, the world had righted itself. The girl was dead. Gone. That was all that mattered. For the first time since Rose's death she could breathe. Warm tendrils of gladness infused her every vein. "Where?" she heard herself say. "Where is she?"

"In the carriage-"

"You brought her here?"

"The girl..." Linus's voice drifted from the armchair in which he was enfolded. His breath was quick and light. "Where is the little girl with the flame-red hair?"

"The woman uttered a few words before she fell. She was groggy and the words soft, but she spoke about a boat, a s.h.i.+p. She was agitated, concerned to get back in time for its departure."

"Go," said Adeline sharply. "Wait by the carriage. I shall make arrangements, then call for you."

Mansell nodded swiftly and left, taking the room's little warmth with him.

"What of the child?" Linus bleated.

Adeline ignored him, her mind busy racing towards solutions. Naturally, none of the servants could know. So far as they were concerned, Eliza had left Blackhurst when she learned that Rose and Nathaniel were relocating to New York. It was a blessing that the girl had spoken often of her desire to travel.

"What of the child?" said Linus again. His fingers quivered about his collar. "Mansell must find her, find the s.h.i.+p. We must have her back. The little girl must be found."

Adeline swallowed a lump of thick distaste as she ran her gaze over his crumpled form. "Why?" she said, skin turning cold. "Why must she be found? What is she to either of us?" Her voice was low as she leaned close. "Don't you see? We have been freed."

"She is our granddaughter."

"But she is not of us."

"She is of me."

Adeline ignored the pale utterance. There was no need to comment upon such sentimentality. Not now that they were finally safe. She turned on her heel and paced the rug. "We will tell people that the child was found on the estate, only to be stricken with scarlet fever. It will not be questioned; they already believe her ill in bed. We will instruct the servants that I alone shall tend her, that Rose would have wished it that way. Then after a time, when every appearance of a proper struggle against the illness has been made, we will hold a funeral service."

And while Ivory was receiving the burial befitting a beloved granddaughter, Adeline would ensure that Eliza was disposed of quickly and invisibly. She would not be buried in the family cemetery, that much was certain. The blessed soil that surrounded Rose would not be so polluted. She must be buried where no one would ever find her. Where no one would ever think to look.