The Forgotten Garden Part 48

THE FOLLOWING morning, Adeline had Davies show her through the maze. Ghastly, damp place. The smell of musty undergrowth that never saw the sun pressed in on Adeline from all sides. Her black mourning skirts swished along the raked ground, fallen leaves catching like burrs in the hem. She resembled a great black bird, her feathers gathered around her to ward off the chill winter of Rose's death. morning, Adeline had Davies show her through the maze. Ghastly, damp place. The smell of musty undergrowth that never saw the sun pressed in on Adeline from all sides. Her black mourning skirts swished along the raked ground, fallen leaves catching like burrs in the hem. She resembled a great black bird, her feathers gathered around her to ward off the chill winter of Rose's death.

When they finally arrived at the hidden garden, Adeline brushed Davies aside and swept along the narrow path. Cl.u.s.ters of tiny birds took flight when she pa.s.sed, twittering madly as they fled their hidden branches. She went as quickly as was properly permitted, anxious to be free of this bewitched place and the heady, fecund fragrance that made her head swoon.

At the far end of the garden Adeline stopped.

A sharp smile thinned her lips. It was just as she had hoped.

A cool s.h.i.+ver and she turned suddenly on her heels. "I have seen enough," she said. "My granddaughter is gravely ill and I must return to the house."

Davies held her gaze a fraction of a second too long and a s.h.i.+ver of trepidation slipped down her spine. Adeline quashed it. What could he possibly know of the deception she planned? "Take me back now."

As she followed his large, lumbering form through the maze, Adeline kept her distance. She had one hand in the pocket of her dress, fingertips emerging at regular intervals to drop tiny white pebbles from Ivory's collection, the little jar in the nursery.

THE AFTERNOON dragged, the night-stretched hours pa.s.sed and finally it was midnight. Adeline rose from her bed, pulled on her dress and laced up her boots. Tiptoed along the hall, down the stairs and out into the night. dragged, the night-stretched hours pa.s.sed and finally it was midnight. Adeline rose from her bed, pulled on her dress and laced up her boots. Tiptoed along the hall, down the stairs and out into the night.

The moon was full and she went quickly across the open lawn, keeping to the shadowy cool patches by the trees and bushes. The maze gate was closed, but Adeline soon had the clasp undone. She slipped inside and smiled to herself when she saw the first little stone, glistening like silver.

From pebble to pebble she went, until finally she reached the second gate, entrance to the hidden garden.

The garden hummed within its tall stone walls. Moonlight turned the leaves to silver and whispering breezes made them jangle lightly, like pieces of fine metal. A quivering harp string.

Adeline had the odd sense that she was being watched by a silent observer. She gazed about the moon-whitened landscape, drew breath when she noticed a pair of wide eyes in the fork of a nearby tree. An instant and her mind filled in the blanks, the feathers of the owl, his round body and head, sharp beak.

And yet she felt little better. There was something strange in the bird's stare. A worldliness. Those eyes, watching, judging.

She looked away, refused to grant a mere bird the power to unsettle her.

Noise then, coming from the direction of the cottage. Adeline crouched by the garden seat and watched as two night-draped figures came into view. Mansell she expected, but who was it he brought with him?

The figures walked slowly, something large strung between them. They laid it down on the other side of the wall, then one of the men stepped across the hole and into the hidden garden.

A sizzle as Mansell struck a match, then a flash of warm light: an orange heart haloed by blue. He held it to the lantern wick and turned the dial so the light expanded.

Adeline stood tall and made her approach.

"Good evening, Lady Mountrachet," said Mansell.

She pointed at the second man and spoke with a chill voice. "Who is this?"

"Slocombe," said Mansell. "My coachman."

"Why is he here?"

"The cliff is steep, the parcel heavy." He blinked at Adeline, the lantern flame reflected in the gla.s.s of his pince-nez. "He can be trusted not to speak." He swung the lantern sideways and the bottom of Slocombe's face came into view. The lower jaw, horribly disfigured, nodules and pocked skin where a mouth should be.

As they started digging, deepening the hole that the workmen had already made, Adeline's attention drifted to the dark shroud on the ground beneath the apple tree. Finally, the girl was to be relegated to the earth. She would disappear and be forgotten: it would be as if she'd never existed. And in time people would forget that she had.

Adeline closed her eyes, blocked out the noise of the wretched birds who had started to twitter eagerly, the leaves that were rustling urgently now. She listened instead for the blessed sound of loose earth falling on to the solid surface beneath. It would soon be over. The girl was gone and Adeline could breathe- The air moved, cool on her face. Adeline's eyelids flew open.

A dark shape coming towards her, right by her head.

A bird? A bat?

Dark wings beating the night sky.

Adeline stepped back.

A sudden sting and her blood was cold. Hot. Cold again.

As the owl coasted away, over the wall, Adeline's palm began to throb.

She must have exclaimed, for Mansell paused his shoveling to swing the lantern near. In the dancing yellow light, Adeline saw that a long th.o.r.n.y rose tendril had wrested its way free from the flower bed to clutch at her. Its thick thorn was lodged in her palm.

With her free hand she plucked it from her skin. A bead of blood rose to the surface, a perfect, glistening droplet.

Adeline withdrew a handkerchief from her sleeve. She pressed it to the wound and watched as the red stain seeped through.

It was only a rose thorn. Never mind that her blood was ice beneath her skin, the wound would heal and all would be well.

But that rosebush would be the first item removed when Adeline ordered the garden razed.

What business had a rose now in the Blackhurst gardens?

FIFTY-ONE.

CLIFF C COTTAGE, 2005.

AS Ca.s.sandra stared into the deep hole, into Eliza's grave, she felt surrounded by a strange calm. It was as if with the discovery the garden had breathed a great sigh of relief: the birds were quieter, the leaves had stopped rustling, the curious restlessness had gone. The long-forgotten secret the garden had been forced to keep had now been told. Ca.s.sandra stared into the deep hole, into Eliza's grave, she felt surrounded by a strange calm. It was as if with the discovery the garden had breathed a great sigh of relief: the birds were quieter, the leaves had stopped rustling, the curious restlessness had gone. The long-forgotten secret the garden had been forced to keep had now been told.

Christian's gentle voice, as if from somewhere distant: "Well, aren't you going to open it?"

The clay pot, heavy now in her hands. Ca.s.sandra ran her fingers along the old wax that sealed the rim. She glanced at Christian, who nodded encouragement, then she pressed and twisted, snapped the seal so that the lid could be prised open.

There were three items inside: a leather pouch, a swatch of red-gold hair and a brooch.

The leather pouch contained two old coins, a pale yellow color, stamped with the familiar jowly profile of Queen Victoria. The dates were 1897 and 1900.

The hair was tied with a piece of twine and coiled like a snail's sh.e.l.l to fit inside the pot. Years of containment had left it smooth and soft, very fine. Ca.s.sandra wondered whose it was, then remembered the entry in Rose's early notebook, written when Eliza first came to Blackhurst. A litany of complaint about the little girl whom Rose described as "little better than a savage." The little girl whose hair had been cut off as short and jagged as a boy's.

The brooch Ca.s.sandra turned to last. It was round and sat neatly in the palm of her hand. The border was ornate, decorated with gems, while the center contained a pattern, a little like tapestry. But it wasn't tapestry. Ca.s.sandra had worked long enough among antiques to know what this brooch was. She turned it over and ran her fingertip over the engraving on the back. For Georgiana Mountrachet, For Georgiana Mountrachet, read the tiny print, read the tiny print, on the occasion of her sixteenth birthday. Past. Future. Family. on the occasion of her sixteenth birthday. Past. Future. Family.

This was it. The treasure for which Eliza had returned to the Swindells' house, whose price had been an encounter with a strange man. An encounter responsible for the separation of Eliza and Ivory, for all that had come afterwards, for Ivory becoming Nell.

"What is it?"

Ca.s.sandra looked at him. "A mourning brooch."

He frowned.

"The Victorians used to have them made from the hair of family members. This one belonged to Georgiana Mountrachet, Eliza's mother."

Christian nodded slowly. "Explains why it was so important to her. Why she went to retrieve it."

"And why she didn't make it back to the boat." Ca.s.sandra studied Eliza's precious items in her lap. "I just wish Nell had seen them. She always felt abandoned, never knew that Eliza was her mother, that she was loved. It was the one thing she longed to learn: who she was."

"But she did know who she was," Christian said. "She was Nell, whose granddaughter Ca.s.sandra loved her enough to cross the ocean to solve her mystery for her."

"She doesn't know that I came here."

"How do you know what she does and doesn't know? She might be watching you right now." He raised his brows. "Anyway, of course she knew you'd come. Why else would she have left you the cottage? And that note on the will, what did it say?"

How odd the note had seemed, how little she had understood when Ben had first given it to her. For Ca.s.sandra, who will understand why. For Ca.s.sandra, who will understand why.

"And? Do you?"

Of course she did. Nell, who had needed so desperately to confront her own past in order to move beyond it, had seen in Ca.s.sandra a kindred spirit. A fellow victim of circ.u.mstance. "She knew I'd come."

Christian was nodding. "She knew you loved her enough to finish what she'd started. It's like in 'The Crone's Eyes,' when the fawn tells the princess that the crone didn't need her sight, that she knew who she was by the princess's love for her."

Ca.s.sandra's eyes stung. "That fawn was very wise."

"Not to mention handsome and brave."

She couldn't help smiling. "So now we know. Who Nell's mother was. Why she was left alone on the boat. What happened to Eliza." She also knew why the garden was so important to her, why she felt her own roots connecting to its soil, deeper and deeper with each moment she spent within its walls. She was at home in the garden, for in some way she couldn't explain Nell was here, too. As was Eliza. And she, Ca.s.sandra, was the guardian of both their secrets.

Christian seemed to read her mind. "So," he said, "still planning on selling it?"

Ca.s.sandra watched as the breeze tossed down a shower of yellow leaves. "Actually, I thought I might stay around a bit longer."

"At the hotel?"

"No, here in the cottage."

"You won't be lonely?"

It was so unlike her, but in that moment Ca.s.sandra opened her mouth and said exactly what she was feeling. Gave no pause for second-guessing and worry. "I don't think I'll be alone. Not all the time." She felt the hot-cold sensation of an impending blush and hurried on. "I want to finish what we've started."

He raised his eyebrows.

The blush found her. "Here. In the garden, I mean."

"I know what you mean." His gaze held hers. As Ca.s.sandra's heart began to hammer against her ribs, he let his shovel drop, reached out to cup her cheek. He leaned nearer and she closed her eyes. A sigh, heavy with years of weariness, escaped her. And then he was kissing her, and she was struck by his nearness, his solidity, his smell. It was of the garden and the earth and the sun.

When Ca.s.sandra opened her eyes, she realized she was crying. She wasn't sad, though, these were the tears of being found, of having come home after a long time away. She tightened her grip on the brooch. Past. Future. Family. Past. Future. Family. Her own past was filled with memories, a lifetime of beautiful, precious, sad memories. For a decade she had moved among them, slept with them, walked with them. But something had changed, she had changed. She had come to Cornwall to uncover Nell's past, her family, and somehow she had found her own future. Here, in this beautiful garden that Eliza had made and Nell had reclaimed, Ca.s.sandra had found herself. Her own past was filled with memories, a lifetime of beautiful, precious, sad memories. For a decade she had moved among them, slept with them, walked with them. But something had changed, she had changed. She had come to Cornwall to uncover Nell's past, her family, and somehow she had found her own future. Here, in this beautiful garden that Eliza had made and Nell had reclaimed, Ca.s.sandra had found herself.

Christian smoothed her hair and looked at her face with a certainty that made her s.h.i.+ver. "I've been waiting for you," he said finally.

Ca.s.sandra took his hand in hers. She had been waiting for him, too.

EPILOGUE.

GREENSLOPES P PRIVATE H HOSPITAL, BRISBANE, 2005 2005.

COOL against her eyelids; tingles like tiny feet, those of ants, walking back and forth. against her eyelids; tingles like tiny feet, those of ants, walking back and forth.

A voice, blessedly familiar. "I'll get a nurse-"

"No!" Nell reached out, still couldn't see, grasped for anything she could find. "Don't leave me!" Her face was wet, recycled air cold against it.

"It's all right, Grandma. I'm getting help. I'll be back soon. I promise."

Grandma. That's who she was, now she remembered. She'd had many names in her lifetime, so many she'd forgotten a few, but it wasn't until she acquired her last, Grandma, that she'd known who she really was.

A second chance, a blessing, a savior. Her granddaughter.

And now Ca.s.sandra was getting help.

Nell's eyes closed. She was on the s.h.i.+p again. Could feel the water beneath her, the deck swaying this way and that. Barrels, sunlight, dust. Laughter, faraway laughter.

It was fading. The lights were being turned down. Dimming, like the lights in the Plaza Theatre, before the feature presentation. Patrons s.h.i.+fting in their seats, whispering, waiting...

Black.

Silence.

And then she was somewhere else, somewhere cold and dark. Alone. Sharp things, branches, either side of her. A sense that walls were pus.h.i.+ng in on both sides, tall and dark. The light was returning; not much, but sufficient that she could crane her neck and see the distant sky.

Her legs were moving. She was walking, hands out to the sides brus.h.i.+ng against the leaves and branch ends.

A corner. She turned. More leafy walls. The smell of earth, rich and moist.