The Forgotten Garden (47 page)

Eliza had never forgotten Mother’s brooch, tucked away inside the Swindells’ fireplace. One day, somehow, she intended to retrieve it.

She thought of the advertisement she’d seen in the newspaper the week before. People wanted to travel to Queensland, it had said. Come and begin a new life. Mary had often spun tales of her brother’s adventures in the town of Maryborough. To hear her tell it, Australia was a land of open spaces and blinding sun, where the rules of society were flouted by most and opportunity abounded for all to start afresh.

Eliza had always imagined that she and Rose might travel together, they had spoken of it many times. Or had they? Looking back, she realised Rose’s voice had been quiet when conversation touched upon such imagined adventures.

Eliza stayed at the cottage every night. She bought her own produce from the market in the village; her young fisherman friend, William, made sure she was well supplied with fresh whiting; and Mary dropped by most afternoons on her way home from work at Blackhurst, always bringing a bowl of Cook’s soup, some cold meat from the luncheon roast, and news from the house.

Apart from such visits, for the first time in her life Eliza was truly alone. In the beginning, unfamiliar sounds, nocturnal sounds, disturbed her, but as the days passed she came to know them: soft-pawed animals in the eaves, the ticking of the warming range, floorboards shivering in the cooling nights. And there were unexpected benefits to her solitary life: alone in the cottage, Eliza discovered that the characters from her fairytales became bolder. She found fairies playing in the spider’s webs, insects whispering incantations on the windowsills, fire sprites spitting 334

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and hissing in the range. Sometimes in the afternoons, Eliza would sit in the rocking chair listening to them. And late at night, when they were all asleep, she would spin their stories into her own tales.

One morning in the fourth week, Eliza took her writing pad into the garden and sat in her favourite spot, the tuft of soft grass beneath the apple tree. A story idea had gripped her and she began to scribble it down: a brave princess who forsook her birthright and accompanied her maid on a long journey, a dangerous voyage to a wild and wicked land where danger thrived. Eliza was just about to send her heroine into the webbed cave of a particularly spiteful piskie, when a bird flew to perch in the branch above her and began to sing.

‘Is that so?’ said Eliza, laying down her pen.

The bird sang again.

‘I agree, I’m rather peckish myself.’ She plucked one of the few remaining apples from a low branch, polished it on her dress and took a bite. ‘It really is delicious,’ she said as the bird flew away. ‘You’re most welcome to try one.’

‘I might take you up on that.’

Eliza paused mid-crunch and sat very still, staring at the place where the bird had been.

‘I should have brought my own, only I didn’t think I’d be here so long.’

She scanned the garden, and blinked when she saw a man sitting on the iron garden seat. He was so utterly out of context that, though they’d met before, it took her a moment to place him. The dark hair and eyes, the easy smile . . . Eliza inhaled sharply. It was Nathaniel Walker, who had married Rose. Sitting in her garden.

‘You certainly look to be enjoying your apple,’ he said. ‘Watching you is almost as satisfying as having one myself.’

‘I don’t like to be watched.’

He smiled. ‘Then I shall avert my eyes.’

‘What are you doing here?’

Nathaniel held up a pristine novel. ‘Little Lord Fauntleroy. Ever read it?’

She shook her head.

‘Neither have I, despite hours of trying. And I hold you partly to blame, Cousin Eliza. Your garden is too distracting. I’ve been 335

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sitting here all morning and still I haven’t ventured much beyond the first chapter.’

‘I thought you were in Italy.’

‘And so we were. We returned a week early.’

A chill shadow fell instantly across Eliza’s skin. ‘Rose is home?’

‘Of course.’ He smiled openly. ‘I hope you don’t suggest I might have lost my wife to the Italians!’

‘But when did she—’ Eliza swiped loose strands of hair from her forehead, tried to understand. ‘When did you arrive back?’

‘Monday afternoon. A mightily choppy sea voyage.’

Three days. They had been back three days and Rose had not sent word. Eliza’s stomach tightened. ‘Rose. Is Rose all right?’

‘Never better. The Mediterranean climate agreed with her. We’d have stayed the full week, only she wanted to be involved with the garden party.’ He raised his brows with affectionate theatricality. ‘To hear Rose and her mother speak, I fear it’s going to be something of an extravaganza.’

Eliza hid her confusion behind another bite of apple, then tossed the core away. She’d heard mention of a garden party but had presumed it was one of Adeline’s society things: nothing to do with Rose.

Nathaniel lifted the book again. ‘Hence my choice of reading matter.

Mrs Hodgson Burnett will be in attendance.’ His eyes widened. ‘Why, you must be looking forward to meeting her. I imagine there’d be great pleasure gained from speaking with another authoress.’

Eliza rolled the corner of her piece of writing paper between her thumb and forefinger, didn’t meet his eyes. ‘Yes . . . I expect so.’

A note of apology curled the edges of his voice. ‘You are coming, of course? I’m certain Rose spoke of you attending. The party is to be held on the oval lawn, Saturday afternoon at two.’

Eliza scribbled a vine around the margin of her page. Rose knew she did not care for parties, that’s all it was. Thoughtful Rose, sparing Eliza the agony of Aunt Adeline’s society.

Nathaniel’s voice was gentle. ‘Rose speaks often of you, Cousin Eliza. I feel that I know you myself.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘She told me of your garden, that’s why I came today. I had to see for myself whether it was really as beautiful as she painted it with words.’

Eliza met his eyes briefly. ‘And?’

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‘It is everything she said and more. As I say, I blame the garden for distracting me from my reading. There is something in the way the light falls that makes me want to render it on paper. I have scribbled all over my book’s frontispiece.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t tell Mrs Hodgson Burnett.’

‘I planted the garden for Rose and myself.’ Eliza’s voice was odd to her own ears, she had become used to being alone. She felt ashamed, too, of the transparent sentiments she was expressing, and yet had no power to stop herself speaking them. ‘So that we might have a secret place, a place where no one else could find us. Where Rose might have an outside place to sit even when she was unwell.’

‘Rose is fortunate indeed to have a cousin who cares for her as you do. I must extend my eternal gratitude that you kept her so well for me. We are something of a team, you and I, are we not?’

No, Eliza thought, we are not. Rose and I are a pair, a team. You are additional. Temporary.

He stood, brushed off his trousers and held the book before his heart. ‘And now I must bid you fond farewell. Rose’s mother is one for rules and I suspect will not gladly tolerate my tardy appearance at the dinner table.’

Eliza, who had followed him to the gate, watched him go. She closed it behind him, then sat on the edge of the seat. Shifted along so as not to sit where he had left the metal warm. There was nothing to dislike in Nathaniel and for that she disliked him. Their encounter left a cold weight on her chest. It was his mention of the garden party and Rose, his confidence in the quality of her affection. The gratitude he had extended to Eliza, though perfectly kindly expressed, left her in little doubt that he considered her an adjunct. And now, to have penetrated her garden, found his way so easily through her maze—

Eliza shook such thoughts from her mind. She would return to her fairytale. The princess was just about to follow her faithful maid down into the piskie’s cave. By such means would this unsettling meeting be forgotten.

But try as she might, Eliza’s enthusiasm had fled and taken her inspiration with it. A plot that had filled her with glee when she began was now revealed as flimsy and transparent. Eliza scratched out what she’d written. It would not do. And yet, whichever way she twisted the 337

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plot, she couldn’t make it work, for which fairytale princess ever chose her maid over her prince?

c

The sun shone just as brilliantly as if Adeline had put in an order with the Lord. The extra lilies arrived on time and Davies raided the gardens for more exotic species with which to gild the arrangements. The nocturnal shower that had kept Adeline awake and anxious had succeeded only in adding sparkle to the garden, so that each leaf looked to have been polished specially, and across the spill of new-pressed lawn, cushioned chairs were artfully perched. Hired waiters stood in lines by the stairs, models of calm and control, while in the kitchen, far from sight and mind, Cook and her team worked apace.

The guests had been arriving in the turning circle for the past quarter hour, and Adeline had been on hand to greet them and usher them in the direction of the lawn. How grand they looked in their fine hats—though none so fine as Rose’s, brought back specially from Milan.

From where she now stood, concealed by the giant rhododendron, Adeline surveyed the guests. Lord and Lady Ashfield sitting with Lord Irving-Brown; Sir Arthur Mornington sipping tea by the croquet set while the young Churchills laughed and played; Lady Susan Heuser involved in a tête-à-tête with Lady Caroline Aspley.

Adeline smiled to herself. She had done well. Not only was the garden party a fitting way to welcome home the newlyweds, Adeline’s careful selection of connoisseurs, gossips and social climbers ensured the best opportunity for disseminating word of Nathaniel’s portraiture.

Along the walls of the entrance hall she’d had Thomas hang the works she deemed finest, and later, when tea had been served, she planned to usher select guests through. In this way would her new son-in-law be introduced as subject matter for the ready pens of art’s critics and the quick tongues of society’s fashion makers.

All Nathaniel had to do was charm the guests half as comprehensively as he had charmed Rose. Adeline scanned the group and spotted her daughter sitting with Nathaniel and the American, Mrs Hodgson Burnett. Adeline had debated inviting Mrs Hodgson Burnett, for where one divorce was unfortunate, two seemed terribly close to godlessness.

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But the writer was indubitably well connected on the Continent, and therefore, Adeline had decided, her potential assistance outweighed her infamy.

Rose laughed at something the woman said and warm waves of satisfaction welled inside Adeline. Rose was looking spectacularly beautiful today, as radiant as the wall of roses that provided her a glorious backdrop. She looked joyous, Adeline thought, as a young woman ought when marriage sat newly upon her, and the vows of commitment had only shortly crossed her lips.

Her daughter laughed again and Nathaniel pointed in the direction of the maze. Adeline hoped they weren’t wasting precious time discussing the walled garden or some other of Eliza’s nonsense when they should be speaking of Nathaniel’s portraiture. For, oh, what an unexpected gift from providence, the removal of Eliza!

During the weeks of party preparation, Adeline had lain awake night after night wondering how best to prevent the girl upsetting the day. What blessed surprise the morning she had appeared by Adeline’s writing desk requesting relocation to the distant cottage. To her credit, Adeline had managed to keep veiled the joy she felt. Eliza safely ensconced in the cottage was an eminently more desirable arrangement than anything Adeline had managed to contrive, and the removal had been complete. Adeline had seen neither hide nor hair of the girl since she’d left; the entire house was lighter and more spacious. Finally, after eight long years, she was freed from the suffocating gravity of that girl’s orbit.

The greatest sticking point had been determining how to convince Rose that Eliza’s exclusion was for the best. Poor Rose had always been blind where Eliza was concerned, had never perceived in her the threat Adeline knew was there. Indeed, one of the first things the dear girl did upon returning from her honeymoon was to enquire about her cousin’s absence. When Adeline provided a judicious explanation as to why Eliza was now living in the cottage, Rose had frowned—it seemed so sudden, she said—and resolved to call on Eliza first thing the following day.

Such a visit was unthinkable, of course, if Adeline’s small deception was to play out as planned. So it was, immediately after breakfast the following morning, that Adeline sought out Rose in her new room, 339

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where she was busy assembling a delicate arrangement of flowers.

While Rose plucked a cream clematis from amongst the others, Adeline asked, casually and calmly: ‘Do you think Eliza should be invited to attend the garden party?’

Rose turned, the clematis dripping water from the end of its stalk.

‘But of course she must come, Mamma. Eliza is my dearest friend.’

Adeline pressed her lips together: it was the response she had anticipated and thus she was prepared. The appearance of capitulation is always a calculated risk, and Adeline deployed it knowingly. A sequence of lines she’d prepared earlier, repeated over and over beneath her breath so that they fell naturally from her lips. ‘Of course, my dear.

And if you desire her presence, so it shall be. We will have no further discussion on the matter.’ Only after such generous and sweeping concession did she allow herself a wistful little sigh.