The Forgotten Garden Part 45

"Which brings us full circle: if she'd just reclaimed her daughter, why didn't Eliza go with her on the boat?"

Ca.s.sandra shook her head. "I don't know. It makes no sense."

They drove past the sign welcoming them to Tregenna and Christian turned off the main road. "You know what I reckon?"

"What's that?" said Ca.s.sandra.

"We should get some late lunch at the pub, talk it over some more. See if we can't figure it out. I'm sure beer will help us."

Ca.s.sandra smiled. "Yeah, I usually find beer just the thing to make my mind nimble. All right if we stop by the hotel so I can get my jacket?"

Christian took the high road through the woods and turned in to the entrance to the Blackhurst Hotel. Fog lurked still and moist in the gullies of the driveway and he went carefully.

"Back in a sec," said Ca.s.sandra, slamming the car door behind her. She ran up the stairs and into the foyer. "Hi, Sam," she called, waving at the receptionist.

"Hiya, Ca.s.s. There's someone here to see you."

Ca.s.sandra stopped midflight.

"Robyn Jameson's been waiting in the lounge for the past half-hour or so."

Ca.s.sandra glanced back outside. Christian's attention was absorbed in tuning his car radio. He wouldn't mind waiting an extra minute. Ca.s.sandra couldn't think what Robyn might have to tell her but she didn't imagine it would take much time.

"Well, h.e.l.lo," said Robyn, when she noticed Ca.s.sandra's approach. "A little birdie tells me you've spent the morning chatting with my second cousin Clara."

The network of country gossip was pretty impressive. "I have indeed."

"I trust you had a lovely time."

"I did, thanks. I hope you haven't been waiting too long."

"Not at all. I have something for you. I suppose I could have left it at the desk, but I thought it might require a little explanation."

Ca.s.sandra raised her eyebrows as Robyn continued.

"I went to visit my dad at the weekend, up at the retirement home. He likes to hear all about the comings and goings in the old village-he was postmaster once, you know-and I happened to mention that you were here, restoring the cottage that your grandma left you, up there on the cliff. Funniest look came across Dad's face. He may be old, but he's sharp as a tack, just like his own dad before him. He took my arm and told me there was a letter needed to be returned to you."

"To me?"

"To your grandma, more properly, but seeing as she's no longer with us, to you."

"What sort of letter?"

"When your grandma left Tregenna, she went to see my dad. Told him she'd be returning to take up residence at Cliff Cottage and he was to hold any mail for her. She was very clear about it, he said, so when a letter arrived he did as she asked and kept it at the post office. Every few months or so he took the letter up the hill, but the old cottage was always deserted. The brambles grew, the dust settled, and the place looked less and less inhabited. Eventually he stopped going. His knees were giving him trouble and he figured your grandma would come and see him when she got back. Ordinarily he'd have returned it to the sender, but your grandma had been very definite, so he tucked the letter away and kept it all that time.

"He told me I was to go down to the cellar, where his things are stored, and pull out the box of lost letters. That in among them I'd find one addressed to Nell Andrews, Tregenna Inn, received November 1975. And he was right. It was there waiting."

She reached into her handbag and withdrew a small grey envelope, gave it to Ca.s.sandra. The paper was cheap, so thin it was almost transparent. It was addressed in old-fas.h.i.+oned writing, rather messy, first to a hotel in London, then redirected to the Tregenna Inn. Ca.s.sandra flipped the envelope.

There, in the same hand, was written: Sender-Miss Harriet Swindell, 37 Battersea Church Road, London SW11 Sender-Miss Harriet Swindell, 37 Battersea Church Road, London SW11.

Ca.s.sandra remembered Nell's notebook entry. Harriet Swindell was the woman she had visited in London, the old woman who had been born and grown up in the same house as Eliza. Why had she written to Nell?

Fingers trembling, Ca.s.sandra opened the envelope. The thin paper tore softly. She unfolded the letter and began to read.

3rd November 1975Dear Mrs. Andrews,Well, I don't mind saying that ever since you made your visit, asking about the fairy-tale lady, I've been hard-pressed to think of much else. You'll find it yourself when you get to my age-the past turns into something of an old friend. The sort who arrives uninvited and refuses to leave! I do remember her, you see, I remember her well, only you caught me unawares with your visit, turning up on the doorstep right as it was on teatime. I weren't sure whether I felt like talking over the old days with a stranger. My niece Nancy tells me that I ought, though, that it all happened so long ago it hardly matters now, so I've decided to write to you as you asked. For Eliza Makepeace did return to visit with my ma. Only the once, mind you, but I recall it well enough. I were sixteen at the time, and that's how I know it must of been 1913.I remember thinking there was something strange about her from the first. She might of had the clean clothes of a lady, but there was something about her that didn't quite fit. More rightly, there was something about her that did did fit with us at 35 Battersea Church Road. Something that set her apart from the other fancy ladies what might be seen in the streets back then. She came through the door and into the shop, a bit agitated it seemed to me, as if she was in a hurry and didn't want to be seen. Suspicious like. She nodded at my ma as if they was known, one to the other, and Ma, for her part, gave her a smile, a sight the likes of which I never seen too often. Whoever this lady was, I thought to myself, my ma must have known she could make a quid off her acquaintance. fit with us at 35 Battersea Church Road. Something that set her apart from the other fancy ladies what might be seen in the streets back then. She came through the door and into the shop, a bit agitated it seemed to me, as if she was in a hurry and didn't want to be seen. Suspicious like. She nodded at my ma as if they was known, one to the other, and Ma, for her part, gave her a smile, a sight the likes of which I never seen too often. Whoever this lady was, I thought to myself, my ma must have known she could make a quid off her acquaintance.Her voice, when she spoke, was clear and musical-that was the first sign to me that I might of met her before. It was familiar somehow. That voice was the sort what children like to listen to, what speaks of fairies and sprites and leaves no doubt in the mind as to their truth.She thanked my ma for seeing her and said she was leaving England and wouldn't be back for some years. I remember she were awful keen to go upstairs and visit the room she used to live in, horrid little room at the top of the house. Cold, it was, with a fireplace what never worked, and dark, not a window to be spoke of. But she said it was for old times' sake.It so happened that Ma didn't have a tenant at the time-nasty dispute about rent owing-so she were glad enough to let the lady make a visit. Ma told her to go upstairs and take her time, even put the kettle on to boil. As unlike my ma as you could find.Ma watched as she climbed those stairs, then she beckoned me quick. Get upstairs after her, Ma said, and make sure she don't come down too soon. I was used to Ma's instructions, and her punishments if I refused, so I did what she said and followed the lady upstairs.By the time I got to the landing, she'd pulled the door to the room closed behind her. I could of just sat where I was and made sure she didn't decide to return downstairs too fast, but I were curious. I couldn't for the life of me figure out why she'd of closed the door. Like I said, there was no windows in that room and the door was the only way to let light in.There were a hole in the bottom of that door, eaten by rats, so I lay down on my stomach, flat as can be, and I watched her. I watched her as she stood in the middle of the room, turning around to take it all in, and I watched as she went to the old, broken fireplace. Sat herself down on the ledge, she did, and reached her arm up inside, then sat like that for what seemed an age. Finally, she withdrew her arm, and in her hand was a small clay pot. I must of made a sound then-I was that surprised-for she looked up, eyes wide. I held my breath and after a time she returned her attention to the pot, held it to her ear and gave it a little shake. I could tell by her face she were pleased with what she heard. Then she tucked it inside a special pocket what were sewn into her dress somehow and started towards the door.I hurried down then and told my ma that she were coming. I was surprised to see that Tom, my brother, was standing at the door, heaving great sighs as if he'd run some distance, but I didn't have time to ask where he'd been. Ma was watching the stairs, so I did the same. Down the lady started, thanking my ma for letting her visit and saying that she couldn't stay for tea, as time was pressing.Then she reached the bottom and I saw there was a man standing in the shadows at the side of the stairs. A man with funny little spectacles-the type that don't have arms, just a little bridging piece what pinches the nose. He was holding a sponge in his hand, and when she got to the bottom step he clamped it under her nose and she collapsed. Instant like, crumpled into his arms. I must of hollered out then, because I earned a slap across the face from my ma.The man ignored me and dragged the lady to the door. With Pa's help he lifted her into the carriage, then he nodded at my ma, handed her an envelope from his breast pocket and away they went.I got a clip around the ears later, when I told my ma all what I'd seen. Why didn't you tell me, you stupid girl? said my ma. It could of been valuable. We might of had it for our troubles. It wouldn't of done to remind her that the man with the black horses had already paid her handsome for the lady. As far as my ma were concerned, there was never enough money to be had.I never saw the lady again and I don't know what became of her after she left us. There were always things happening on our bend of the river, things that didn't bear remembering.I don't know that this letter will help you with your research, but Nancy said it was as well to talk to you as not. So that is what I've done. I hope you find what it is you're looking for.Yours,Miss Harriet Swindell

FORTY-SEVEN.

BRISBANE, 1976.

THE "Fairyland" l.u.s.ter vase had always been her favorite. Nell had found it at a trash-and-treasure stall decades before. Any antiques dealer worth her salt would have known its worth, but the "Fairyland" l.u.s.ter vase was different. It wasn't the material value, though that was high enough, but what it represented: the first time Nell had struck gold in unlikely surroundings. And like a gold miner who keeps his first nugget, whatever its value, Nell had been unwilling to part with the vase. "Fairyland" l.u.s.ter vase had always been her favorite. Nell had found it at a trash-and-treasure stall decades before. Any antiques dealer worth her salt would have known its worth, but the "Fairyland" l.u.s.ter vase was different. It wasn't the material value, though that was high enough, but what it represented: the first time Nell had struck gold in unlikely surroundings. And like a gold miner who keeps his first nugget, whatever its value, Nell had been unwilling to part with the vase.

She kept it wrapped in a towel, stowed safely in the dark corner at the very top of her linen cupboard, and every so often she would pull it out and unwrap it, just to take a peek. Its beauty, the deep green leaves painted on the side, the gold threads running through the design, the art nouveau fairies hidden among the foliage, had the power to cool her skin.

Nonetheless Nell was resolute: she had reached a point where she could live without her vase. Could live without all her precious things. She'd made a choice and that was that. She wrapped the vase in another layer of newspaper and placed it gently in the box with the others. Up to the shop on Monday and priced to sell. And if she had twinges or regrets, she just had to focus on the end result: having sufficient funds to start afresh in Tregenna.

She was itching to return. Her mystery grew ever more perplexing. She had heard, finally, from the detective, Ned Morrish. He'd conducted his investigation and sent her a report. Nell had been in the shop when it arrived; a new customer, Ben something-or-other, had brought the letter in with him when he came. When Nell saw the foreign stamps, the handwriting on the front, neat and flat at the bottom, as if written along a ruler's edge, she'd felt a flush beneath her skin. It was all she could do not to tear it open with her teeth then and there. She'd retained her composure, though, made her excuses when it seemed polite and taken the letter into the little back kitchenette.

The report was brief, had only taken Nell a couple of minutes to read, and its contents left her more confused than ever. According to Mr. Morrish's investigations, Eliza Makepeace had gone nowhere in 1909 or 1910. She had been at the cottage the whole time. He'd included various doc.u.ments to support this a.s.sertion-an interview conducted with someone who claimed to have worked at Blackhurst, various correspondence she'd had with a publisher in London, all sent and received via Cliff Cottage-but Nell hadn't read those, not until later. She'd been too surprised by the news that Eliza hadn't gone away. That she'd been there all along, in the cottage the entire time. William had been so certain. She'd slipped from public sight, he said, for twelve months or so. When she returned she'd been different, some spark had been missing. Nell couldn't understand how William's memories could be made to tally with Mr. Morrish's discovery. As soon as she got back to Cornwall she would speak with William again. See whether he had any ideas.

Nell wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. A stinker of a day, but that was Brisbane in January. The skies might be glistening blue like a dome of fine, flawless gla.s.s, but there'd be a storm later tonight, there was no doubting that. Nell had lived long enough to know when angry clouds were thickening in the wings.

Down in the street, Nell heard a car slow. She didn't recognize it as one of her neighbors' vehicles: too loud for Howard's Mini, too high-pitched for the Hogans' big Ford. There was a dreadful din as the car mounted the curb too sharply. Nell shook her head, glad she'd never learned to drive, never had need of a car. They seemed to bring out the worst in people.

Whiskers sat upright and arched her back. Now, the cats Nell would would miss. She'd have happily taken them with her, but feeding other people's cats was one thing, abducting them quite another. miss. She'd have happily taken them with her, but feeding other people's cats was one thing, abducting them quite another.

"Hey there, nosy," said Nell, tickling the cat beneath her chin. "Don't you go worrying about that noisy old car."

Whiskers miaowed and leaped from the table, glanced at Nell.

"What? You think there's someone here to see us? Can't think who, m'dear. We're not exactly social central, in case the fact escaped your notice."

The cat slunk across the floor and out of the back door. Nell dropped the pile of newspaper. "Oh, all right, madam," she said, "you win. I'll have a gander." She scratched Whiskers's back as they went along the narrow concrete path. "Think you're clever, don't you, bending me to your will-"

Nell stopped at the back corner of the house. The car, a station wagon, had indeed pulled up outside her place. Coming up the cement path was a woman wearing large bronze sungla.s.ses and tiny shorts. Lagging behind was a skinny child with slumped shoulders.

They stood, all three, regarding one another for a time.

Finally Nell found her voice, if not the words she wished to speak. "I thought you agreed to call first in future."

"Good to see you, too, Mum," Lesley said, and then she rolled her eyes the way she had as a fifteen-year-old. It had been an infuriating habit then, as was it now.

Nell felt the old grievances resurfacing. She'd been a poor mother to Lesley, she knew that, but it was too late now to make amends. What was done was done and Lesley had turned out all right. Had turned out, at any rate. "I'm in the middle of sorting boxes for auction," said Nell, swallowing the lump in her throat. This wasn't the time to mention the move to England. "I've things everywhere, there's no room to sit."

"We'll manage." Lesley flicked her fingers in the girl's direction. "Your granddaughter's thirsty, it's b.l.o.o.d.y hot out here."

Nell looked at the girl, her granddaughter. Long limbs, k.n.o.bbly knees, head bowed to avoid notice. There was no doubt about it, some children were sent into the world with more than their fair share of difficulties.

Of all things, her mind tossed up an image then of Christian, the little boy she'd discovered in her Cornish garden. The motherless boy with the earnest brown eyes. Does your granddaughter like gardens, he'd asked, and she, Nell, had not known how to answer.

"All right, then," she said, "you'd better come inside."

FORTY-EIGHT.

BLACKHURST M MANOR, 1913.

HORSES' hooves thundered against the cold, dry earth, charging west towards Blackhurst, but Eliza didn't hear them. Mr. Mansell's sponge had done its work and she was lost in a fog of chloroform, her body slumped in the dark corner of the carriage... hooves thundered against the cold, dry earth, charging west towards Blackhurst, but Eliza didn't hear them. Mr. Mansell's sponge had done its work and she was lost in a fog of chloroform, her body slumped in the dark corner of the carriage...

ROSE'S VOICE, soft and broken: "There is something I need, something only you can do. My body fails me as it has always done, but yours, Cousin, is strong. I need you to have a child for me, Nathaniel's child." soft and broken: "There is something I need, something only you can do. My body fails me as it has always done, but yours, Cousin, is strong. I need you to have a child for me, Nathaniel's child."

And Eliza, who had waited so long, who wanted so desperately to be needed, who had always known herself a half in search of a double, didn't have to think. "Of course," she'd said. "Of course I'll help you, Rose."

He came every night for a week. Aunt Adeline, with Dr. Matthews's counsel, calculated the dates and Nathaniel did as he was bidden. Made his way through the maze, around the side of the cottage and up to Eliza's front door.

On the first night, Eliza waited inside, pacing the kitchen floor, wondering whether he would arrive, whether she should have prepared something. Wondering how people behaved at such a time. She had agreed to Rose's request without hesitation, and in the weeks that followed had thought little about what the commitment would involve. She had been too full of grat.i.tude that Rose finally needed her. It was only as the day drew nearer that she began to contemplate the hypothetical becoming actual.

And yet, there was nothing she would not do for Rose. She told herself over and over that her actions would cement their bond forever, no matter how hideous the unknown act might be. It became a mantra of sorts, an incantation. She and Rose would be tied like never before. Rose would love her more than she ever had, would not dispense with her so easily again. It was all for Rose.

When the knock came that first night, Eliza repeated the mantra, opened the door and let Nathaniel inside.

He stood for a time in the hallway, larger than she remembered, darker, until Eliza indicated the coat hook. He removed his outer layer, then he smiled at her, almost gratefully. It was then that she realized he was as disquieted as she.

He followed her to the kitchen, gravitated towards the security, the solidity, of the table, leaned on the back of a chair.

Eliza stood on the other side, wiped clean hands against her skirts, wondered what to say, how to proceed. It was best, surely, to do what was necessary and be done with it. There was no point in drawing out the discomfort. She opened her mouth to say as much but Nathaniel was already speaking- "-thought you might like to see. I've been working on them all month."

She noticed then that he carried with him a leather satchel.

He laid it on the table and slid a stack of papers from within. Sketches, Eliza realized.

"I started with 'The Fairy Hunt.'" He thrust a sheet of paper before Eliza, and when she took it from him, she saw that his hands were quivering.

Eliza's gaze fell to the ill.u.s.tration: black strokes, crosshatched shadows. A pale, thin woman reclined on a low bed in a cold, dark turret. The woman's face had been spun from lean, long lines. She was beautiful, magical, elusive, just as Eliza's fairy tale described her. And yet it was something else in Nathaniel's rendering of the hunted fairy's face that struck Eliza. The woman in the picture looked like Mother. Not literally, it was something more and less than the curve of her lips, the cool almond eyes, the high cheekbones. In some indescribable way, by some form of magic, Nathaniel had captured Georgiana in his depiction of the fairy's lifeless limbs, her weariness, the uncharacteristic resignation in her features. Strangest of all, it was the first time Eliza had realized that in her story of the hunted fairy she had been describing her own mother.

She glanced up at him, scanned the dark eyes that had looked somehow inside her soul. As he held her gaze, the firelight was suddenly warmer between them.

CIRc.u.mSTANCE HEIGHTENED everything. Their voices were too loud, their movements too sudden, the air too cool. The act was not hideous as she had feared, nor was it ordinary. And there was something unexpected in its performance which she couldn't help but savor. A closeness, an intimacy of which she had been deprived for so long. She felt part of a pair. everything. Their voices were too loud, their movements too sudden, the air too cool. The act was not hideous as she had feared, nor was it ordinary. And there was something unexpected in its performance which she couldn't help but savor. A closeness, an intimacy of which she had been deprived for so long. She felt part of a pair.

She wasn't, of course, and it was a betrayal of Rose even to entertain such a notion, however briefly, and yet...His fingertips on her back, her side, her thigh. The warmth where their bare bodies met. His breath on her neck...

She opened her eyes at one point and watched his face, the expressions and stories arranging themselves on his features. And when his own eyes opened, his gaze locked with hers, she sensed herself suddenly, unexpectedly, as a physical being. Anch.o.r.ed, solid, real.

And then it was over and they moved apart, the bond of physical connectedness evaporated. They dressed and she walked him downstairs. Stood beside him by the front door, making conversation about the recent high tide, the likelihood of bad weather in the coming weeks. Polite chatter, as if he had no more than stopped by to borrow a book.

Eventually his hand reached out to unlatch the door and heavy silence sagged between them. The weight of what they had done. He pulled open the door, pushed it closed again. Turned back to face her. "Thank you," he said.

She nodded.

"Rose wants...Her need is..."

She nodded again, and he smiled slightly. Opened the door and disappeared into the night.

AS THE week wore on, the unusual became usual and they settled into a routine. Nathaniel would arrive with his most recent sketches, and together they would discuss the stories, the ill.u.s.trations. He brought his pencils, too, made alterations as they spoke. Often, when the sketches were complete, their conversation moved to other topics. week wore on, the unusual became usual and they settled into a routine. Nathaniel would arrive with his most recent sketches, and together they would discuss the stories, the ill.u.s.trations. He brought his pencils, too, made alterations as they spoke. Often, when the sketches were complete, their conversation moved to other topics.

They spoke, too, as they lay together in Eliza's narrow bed. Nathaniel told stories of the family Eliza had believed dead, the hards.h.i.+p of his youth, his father on the wharf and his mother's hands, chapped from laundry. And Eliza found herself telling him things of which she had never spoken, secret things from before: about Mother, and the father she'd never known, her dreams of following him across the high seas. Such was the strange and unexpected intimacy of their connection, she even spoke of Sammy.

Thus the week pa.s.sed, and on the final night Nathaniel arrived earlier. He seemed reluctant to do what they must. They sat on opposite sides of the table as they had the first night, but no words were exchanged. Then suddenly, without warning, Nathaniel reached out and lifted a strand of her long hair, red turned to gold by the glow of candlelight. His face as he looked at the threads between his fingers was focused. Dark hair fell to shadow his cheek and his black eyes widened with unspoken thoughts. Eliza suffered a sudden warm tightness in her chest.

"I don't want it to end," he said finally, softly. "It's foolish, I know, but I feel-"

He paused as Eliza lifted her finger and pressed it to his lips. Silenced him.

Her own heart hammered beneath her dress and she prayed he could not tell. He must not be allowed to finish his sentence-dearly though some disloyal part of her longed it-for words have power; Eliza knew that better than most. Already they had allowed themselves to feel too much, and there was no room in their arrangement for feeling.

She shook her head lightly and finally he nodded. Refused to look at her for a time, said no more. And as he set about sketching in silence, Eliza suppressed the burning urge to tell him she had changed her mind.

When he left that night and Eliza went inside, the cottage walls seemed unusually silent and lifeless. She found a piece of card on the table where Nathaniel had been sitting, turned it over and saw her own face. A sketch. And for once she didn't mind having been captured on paper.

ELIZA KNEW they had succeeded even before the first month pa.s.sed. An inexplicable sense of having company, even when she knew herself to be alone. Then her bleeding stayed away and she knew for certain. Mary, who had lost her own baby, had been reinstated at Blackhurst on a provisional basis and instructed to liaise between the house and the cottage. When Eliza told her, yes, that she believed a small life clung within her body, Mary sighed and shook her head, then took the message back to Aunt Adeline. they had succeeded even before the first month pa.s.sed. An inexplicable sense of having company, even when she knew herself to be alone. Then her bleeding stayed away and she knew for certain. Mary, who had lost her own baby, had been reinstated at Blackhurst on a provisional basis and instructed to liaise between the house and the cottage. When Eliza told her, yes, that she believed a small life clung within her body, Mary sighed and shook her head, then took the message back to Aunt Adeline.