The Forgotten Garden (25 page)

‘You’re late. The mistress expected the girl at half two.’ A man was standing in the doorway, dressed a little like a toff. He spoke like one too, and yet Eliza knew that he wasn’t. His rigidity gave him away, the vehemence of his superiority. No one born to quality ever needed try so hard.

‘Couldn’t be helped, Mr Thomas,’ said Newton. ‘Wretched weather the whole way. Lucky we made it at all, what with the Tamar rising like it is.’

Mr Thomas was unmoved. He snapped closed his pocket watch.

‘The mistress is greatly displeased. Little doubt she’ll request an audience on the morrow.’

The coachman’s voice turned lemon sour: ‘Yes, Mr Thomas. Little doubt. Sir.’

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Mr Thomas turned to take in Eliza, swallowed a barbed kernel of displeasure. ‘What is this?’

‘The girl, sir. Just like I was told to fetch.’

‘That isn’t any girl.’

‘Yes sir, she’s the one.’

‘But its hair . . . its clothes . . .’

‘I only do what I’m instructed, Mr Thomas. If you have any queries, I suggest you take them up with Mr Mansell. He was with me when I fetched her.’

This news seemed to mollify Mr Thomas somewhat. He forced a sigh through tight lips. ‘I suppose if Mr Mansell was satisfied . . .’

The coachman nodded. ‘If that’s all, I’ll be getting the horses stabled.’

Eliza considered running after Mr Newton and his horses, seeking refuge in the stables, hiding in a carriage and finding her way, somehow, back to London, but when she looked after him he’d already been enveloped by the fog and she was stranded.

‘Come,’ said Mr Thomas, and Eliza did as she was bade.

Inside was cool and dank, though warmer and drier than outside.

Eliza followed Mr Thomas along a short hallway, trying to keep her feet from clipping on the grey flagstones. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat and Eliza felt her stomach flip over. When had she last eaten? A bowl of Mrs Swindell’s broth two days before, a piece of bread and cheese that the coachman had given her many hours ago . . . Her lips grew dry with sudden hunger.

The smell was stronger as they walked through a huge steamy kitchen. A cluster of maids and a fat cook stopped their conversation to observe. As soon as Eliza and Mr Thomas had passed, they erupted in a rush of excited whispering. Eliza could’ve wept for having been so close to food. Her mouth watered as if she’d swallowed a handful of salt.

At the end of the hall, a skinny woman with a face made stiff by exactitude stepped from a doorway. ‘This is the niece, Mr Thomas?’

Her direct gaze travelled slowly down Eliza’s person.

‘It is, Mrs Hopkins.’

‘There has been no mistake?’

‘Regrettably not, Mrs Hopkins.’

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‘I see.’ She drew in a slow breath. ‘She certainly has the look of London about her.’

This, Eliza could tell, was not to her advantage.

‘Indeed, Mrs Hopkins,’ said Mr Thomas. ‘I was of a mind to have her bathed before presenting her.’

Mrs Hopkins’s lips tightened. A sharp, decisive sigh. ‘Though I agree with your sentiment, Mr Thomas, I’m afraid there isn’t time. She has already let us know of her displeasure at being kept waiting.’

She. Eliza wondered who she was.

A certain agitation crept into Mrs Hopkins’s manner when the word was spoken. She brushed quickly at her already smooth skirts.

‘The girl is to be taken to the drawing room. She will be along presently.

Meanwhile, I’ll draw a bath, see if we can’t remove some of that horrid London filth before dinner.’

So there was to be dinner. And soon. Eliza was light-headed with relief.

A giggle from behind and Eliza turned just in time to see a curly-haired maid disappear back towards the kitchen.

‘Mary!’ said Mrs Hopkins, stalking after the maid. ‘You’ll wake one morning and trip over your own ears if you don’t learn to stop them flapping . . .’

At the very end of the hall a set of narrow stairs ran up, then turned towards a wooden door at the top. Mr Thomas went briskly and Eliza followed, through the door and into a large room.

The floors were covered with pale rectangular flagstones, and a magnificent staircase swept up from the centre of the room. A chandelier was suspended from the high ceiling, its candles tossing tissues of soft light onto all below.

Mr Thomas crossed the entrance foyer and moved towards a door, thick with glistening red paint. He inclined his head and Eliza realised he meant for her to come.

His pale lips quivered as he looked down at her. Little lines puckered.

‘The mistress, your aunt, will be down to see you in a minute. Mind your ps and qs and call her “my Lady” unless she bids you do otherwise.’

Eliza nodded. She was her aunt.

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Mr Thomas was still looking at her. He shook his head slightly without removing his gaze. ‘Yes,’ he said in a quick, quiet voice.

‘I can see your mother in you. You’re a tatty little wench, no mistake about it, but she’s in there somewhere.’ Before Eliza could try on for size the pleasant notion that she was somehow like Mother, there was a noise at the top of the grand staircase. Mr Thomas stopped, straightened. He gave Eliza a little prod and she stumbled alone across the threshold into a large room with burgundy wallpaper and a fire raging in the hearth.

Gas lamps flickered on the tops of tables but despite their best efforts they couldn’t hope to light the enormous room. Darkness whispered in the corners, shadows breathed along the walls. Back and forth, back and forth . . .

A noise behind and the door opened again. A gust of cold air set the fire to spitting in the grate, hurled jagged shadows against the walls.

With a shiver of anticipation, Eliza turned.

c

A tall, thin woman stood in the doorway, her body an elongated hourglass. Her long dress, blue silk as deep as the midnight sky, clung to her figure.

A huge dog—no, not a dog, a hound—stood by her, long legs prancing as he worried close, stalking about the hem of her dress. He lifted his knobbled head every so often to rub against her hand.

‘Miss Eliza,’ announced Mr Thomas, who had hurried in behind the woman and now stood to attention.

The woman did not respond but studied Eliza’s face. She was silent for a minute before her lips parted and a flinty voice emerged. ‘I must speak with Newton tomorrow. She comes later than expected.’ She spoke so slowly, so surely, that Eliza could feel the sharp corners of her words.

‘Yes, my Lady,’ said Thomas, cheeks flaming. ‘Shall I bring the tea, my Lady? Mrs Hopkins has—’

‘Not now, Thomas.’ Without turning, she gave a vague flutter of her pale, fine hand. ‘You should know better than that, it’s far too late for tea.’

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‘Yes, my Lady.’

‘If word should travel that tea had been taken at Blackhurst Manor after dark—’ A tight crystal-breaking laugh. ‘No, we’ll wait for dinner now.’

‘In the dining room, my Lady?’

‘Where else?’

‘Set for two, my Lady?’

‘I will dine alone.’

‘And Miss Eliza, ma’am?’

The aunt inhaled sharply. ‘A light supper.’

Eliza’s stomach groaned. Please God that her meal would contain some warm meat.

‘Very good, my Lady,’ said Mr Thomas, bowing as he left the room.

The door sealed glumly behind him.

The aunt drew a long slow breath and blinked at Eliza. ‘Come closer then, child. Let me look at you.’

Eliza obeyed, walked towards her aunt and stood, trying to silence breaths that had grown unaccountably quick.

Close up, the aunt was beautiful. It was the type of beauty exemplified in each feature but diminished somehow by the whole.

Her face was like that in a painting. Skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, eyes of palest blue. Looking into her eyes was like staring at a mirror with a light shone upon it. Her dark hair was smooth and shiny, swept back from her face and gathered richly at the crown of her head.

The aunt’s gaze picked over Eliza’s face and her eyelids seemed to flicker slightly. Cold fingers lifted Eliza’s chin, all the better to observe her. Eliza, unsure where to look, blinked at those impassable eyes.

The giant dog stood by his mistress, breathing warm damp air onto Eliza’s arms.

‘Yes,’ the aunt said, the ‘s’ sound lingering on her lips and a nerve twitching at the side of her mouth. It was as if she answered a question that had not been asked. ‘You are her daughter. Reduced in all ways, but hers nonetheless.’ She shivered slightly as a scud of rain hit the windows. The foul weather had finally found them. ‘We must only hope your nature is not the same. That with timely intervention we can arrest any similar tendencies.’

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Eliza wondered what these tendencies might be. ‘My mother—’

‘No.’ The aunt raised her hand. ‘No.’ She steepled her fingers before her mouth, strangled her lips into a thin smile. ‘Your mother brought shame upon her family’s name. Offended against all who live in this house. We do not speak of her here. Ever. This is the first and most important condition of your accommodation at Blackhurst Manor. Do you understand?’

Eliza bit her lip.

‘Do you understand?’ An unexpected tremor had entered the aunt’s voice.

Eliza nodded slightly, more from surprise than agreement.

‘Your uncle is a gentleman. He understands his responsibilities.’

The aunt’s eyes flickered in the direction of a portrait by the door. A man of middle years with ginger hair and a foxlike expression. But for his red hair, he was nothing like Eliza’s mother. ‘You must remember always how fortunate you are. Work hard that you might some day deserve your uncle’s generosity.’

‘Yes, my Lady,’ said Eliza, remembering what Mr Thomas had said.

The aunt turned and pulled a small lever on the wall.

Eliza swallowed. Dared to speak. ‘Excuse me, my Lady,’ she said softly. ‘Am I to meet my uncle?’

Her aunt’s left eyebrow arched. Thin pleats appeared briefly on her forehead before smoothing once more to give the appearance of alabaster. ‘My husband has been in Scotland taking photographs of Brechin Cathedral and is not due back until tomorrow.’ She came close and Eliza was aware of tension emanating from her body. ‘Although he has offered you accommodation your uncle is a busy man, an important man, a man not given to the interruptions of children.’ She pressed her lips so tightly that their colour was briefly bleached. ‘You must stay out of his way always. It is kindness enough that he has brought you here, do not be seeking more. Do you understand?’ The lips quivered. ‘Do you understand?’

Eliza nodded quickly.

Then, blessedly the door was open and Mr Thomas was there again.

‘You rang, my Lady?’

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The aunt’s eyes were still focused on Eliza. ‘The child needs cleaning.’

‘Yes, my Lady, Mrs Hopkins has already fetched the water.’

The aunt shivered. ‘Have her put some carbolic in it. Something strong. Sufficient to remove that London grime.’ She spoke under her breath. ‘Would that it removed all else with which I fear she’s been tainted.’

c

Still raw from the scrubbing she’d received, Eliza followed the flickering of Mrs Hopkins’s lantern up a flight of cold wooden stairs and into another hallway. Long-dead men leered at them from heavy gilt frames and Eliza thought how ghastly it must be to have one’s portrait painted, to sit still for so long, all so that a layer of oneself could be left forever on a canvas, hung lonely in a darkened corridor.

She slowed. The final painting’s subject she recognised. It was different from that in the room downstairs: in this one he was younger.

His face was fuller and there was little hint of the fox that would later gnaw its way to the surface. In this portrait, in this young man’s face, Eliza saw her mother.

‘That there’s your uncle,’ said Mrs Hopkins without turning. ‘You’ll meet him in the flesh soon enough.’ The word flesh made Eliza aware of the flecks of pink and cream paint that lingered on the portrait in the grooves of the artist’s final strokes. She shivered, remembering Mr Mansell’s pale, moist fingers.

Mrs Hopkins stopped before a door at the dim end of the hallway and Eliza hurried after, still clutching Sammy’s clothing to her chest.

The housekeeper withdrew a large key from a fold in her dress and inserted it into the lock. Pushed open the door and started through, lantern held aloft.

The room was dark; the lantern cast only the dimmest light across its threshold. In the centre Eliza could make out a bed of shiny black wood, four posts that looked to have upon them engraved figures climbing towards the ceiling.

On the bedside table was a tray with a piece of bread and a bowl of soup from which steam no longer rose. No meat to be seen, but beggars 178

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couldn’t be choosers as Mother used to say. Eliza fell upon the bowl and spooned the soup into her mouth so fast she swallowed a set of hiccups.

She ran the bread around the bowl so as not to waste a smear.

Mrs Hopkins, who had been watching with a somewhat stunned expression, made no comment. She continued stiffly, set down the lantern on a wooden box at the foot of the bed and pulled back the heavy blanket. ‘There you are then, climb in. I haven’t all night.’

Eliza did as she was told. The sheets were cold and damp beneath her legs, sensitive after their fierce scouring.

Mrs Hopkins took the lantern and Eliza heard the door close behind her. And then she was alone in the pitch-dark room, listening as the house’s tired old bones creaked beneath its shiny skin.