The Forgotten Garden by Kate Morton
Cassandra smiled apologetically. ‘It seems she never managed to solve that part of the mystery. Not for sure.’
‘What do you mean? How do you know?’
‘I read the end of her notebook. Nell didn’t find out.’
‘She must have found something though, formed a theory?’ Ruby’s desperation was palpable. ‘Tell me she formed a theory! Left us something to go on?’
‘There’s a name,’ said Cassandra. ‘Eliza Makepeace. Nell wound up with a suitcase containing a book of fairytales that sparked some memories. But if Eliza put Nell on the boat she didn’t make it to Australia herself.’
‘What happened to her?’
Cassandra shrugged. ‘There’s no official record. It’s like she disappeared into thin air right around the time Nell was being spirited to Australia. Whatever Eliza’s plans, they must’ve gone wrong somehow.’
The waiter topped up their glasses and asked whether they were ready to order their main course.
‘I suppose we should,’ said Ruby. ‘Could you give us five minutes though?’ She opened her menu with purpose and sighed. ‘It’s all tremendously exciting. To think: tomorrow you’re off to Cornwall to see your secret cottage! How can you bear it?’
‘Are you staying in the cottage itself?’ said Grey.
Cassandra shook her head. ‘The solicitor who’s been holding the key said it’s not really habitable. I’ve made a reservation at a nearby hotel, the Blackhurst Hotel. It’s the house where the Mountrachet family used to live, Nell’s family.’
‘Your family,’ said Ruby.
‘Yes.’ Cassandra hadn’t thought of that. Now her lips were at it again, acting against her wishes to form a trembling smile.
Ruby shivered theatrically. ‘I’m completely envious. I’d give anything for a mystery like that in my family’s past, something exciting to unravel.’
‘I do feel quite excited. It’s started to haunt me, I think. I keep seeing that little girl, little Nell, plucked from her family, sitting alone on the wharf. I can’t get her out of my head. I’d love to know what really happened, how she wound up on the other side of the world all alone.’ Cassandra felt self-conscious suddenly, realised she’d been doing a lot of talking. ‘It’s silly, I suppose.’
‘Not at all. I think it’s completely understandable.’
And something in the sympathetic quality of Ruby’s tone made Cassandra’s skin cool. She knew what was coming. Her stomach tightened and her mind grasped for words to change the subject.
But she wasn’t fast enough.
‘There can’t be much worse than losing a child,’ came Ruby’s kind voice, her words cracking the thin protective shell of Cassandra’s grief so that Leo’s face, his smell, his two-year-old laugh, slipped free.
Somehow she managed to nod, to smile weakly, to hold back the memories as Ruby reached to take her hand.
‘After what happened to your little boy, it’s no wonder you’re so intent on discovering your grandmother’s past.’ Ruby gave a little squeeze. ‘Makes perfect sense to me: you lost a child and now you hope to find one.’
20
London, 1900
Eliza knew who they were as soon as she saw them turn the corner into Battersea Church Road. She’d glimpsed them in the streets before, the old one and the young one, dressed to the nines, doing their Good Works with all the violent certainty as if God himself had come down from on high and bid them do so.
Mr Swindell had been threatening to call the Do-Gooders ever since Sammy left them, had let no opportunity pass to remind Eliza that if she didn’t find a way to earn the coins of two, she’d find herself in the workhouse. And though Eliza did her best to meet the rent and still leave a little spare for the leather pouch, her gift for rat-catching seemed to have deserted her, and week by week she slipped further behind.
Downstairs, a knock at the door. Eliza froze. She surveyed the room, cursing the tiny crack in the mortar, the blocked chimney. Being windowless and unobserved was all well and good when one wanted to spy upon the street, but not much use when gripped by an urgent need to escape.
The knock came again. A short sharp rap, urgent, and then a high trilling voice that pierced the brick wall. ‘Parish calling.’
Eliza heard the door opening, the bell atop tinkling.
‘I’m Miss Rhoda Sturgeon, and this is my niece, Miss Margaret Sturgeon.’
Then Mrs Swindell: ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’
‘My, what a lot of funny old things, and barely space to swing a cat.’
Mrs Swindell again, her tone soured: ‘Follow me, the girl’s upstairs. And watch yourselves. Breakages must be paid for.’
Footsteps, coming closer. The squeaky fourth step, then again, and again. Eliza waited, heart beating as fast as one of Mr Rodin’s captured rats. She could picture it, flickering away in her chest, like a flame in a light breeze.
Then the traitorous door was open, the two Do-Gooders framed by the jamb.
The older one smiled, eyes receding into folds of skin. ‘Ladies of the Parish calling,’ she said. ‘I’m Miss Sturgeon, and this is my niece, Miss Sturgeon.’ She bent forward so that Eliza had to inch backwards. ‘And you must be little Eliza Makepeace.’
Eliza didn’t respond. She tugged slightly at Sammy’s cap, which she was still wearing.
The old lady’s gaze lifted to take in the dark and dingy room behind. ‘Oh my,’ she said, and made a clicking sound with her tongue, ‘your plight was not exaggerated.’ She raised an open hand and fanned her full chest. ‘No, it certainly was not exaggerated.’ She brushed past Eliza. ‘Is it any wonder ill health flourished here? No window to speak of.’
Mrs Swindell, offended by the scandalous affront to her room, scowled at Eliza.
The older Miss Sturgeon turned to the younger, who had not moved from the doorway. ‘I advise you afix your handkerchief, Margaret, what with your delicate constitution.’
The young woman nodded and plucked a lacy square from her sleeve. Folded it in half to form a triangle then clamped it over her mouth and nose while she ventured a step across the threshold.
Filled with the certainty of her own righteousness, the old Miss Sturgeon proceeded undeterred. ‘I’m delighted to announce that we’ve been able to find somewhere for you, Eliza. As soon as we heard of your situation, we immediately set about trying to help. You’re a mite too young for service—and, I suspect, of the wrong character—but we’ve managed to do very well. With God’s good grace we’ve found you a place at the local workhouse.’
Eliza’s breath shortened, caught in her throat.
‘So if you’ll gather your things,’ Miss Sturgeon’s gaze flickered sideways beneath her blunt lashes, ‘such as they are, we’ll be on our way.’
Eliza didn’t move.
‘Come now, don’t tarry.’
‘No!’ said Eliza.
Mrs Swindell landed a slap on the back of Eliza’s head and the older Miss Sturgeon’s eyes widened.
‘You’re a fortunate girl to be given a place, Eliza. I can assure you, there are worse things than the workhouse awaiting young girls left to their own devices.’ She sniffed knowingly and her nose went begging skyward. ‘Come along now.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Maybe she’s dense,’ the young Miss Sturgeon said through her handkerchief.
‘She ain’t dense,’ said Mrs Swindell, ‘just wicked.’
‘The lord claims all his lambs, even the wicked ones,’ said old Miss Sturgeon. ‘Now try to find some more suitable clothing for the girl, Margaret dear. And be careful not to breathe the foulness.’
Eliza shook her head. She wasn’t going to the workhouse and neither was she changing out of Sammy’s clothing. It was part of her now.
This was when she needed her father to appear, heroic at the door. To scoop her up and take her with him, sailing across the seas in search of adventure.
‘This’ll do,’ said Mrs Swindell, holding Eliza’s tatty pinafore high. ‘She won
Eliza thought suddenly of Mother’s words. Her insistence that a person need rescue themselves, that with a strong enough will even the weak could wield great power. Suddenly she knew what must be done. Without another thought she leapt towards the door.
The old Miss Sturgeon, with advantageous heft and surprisingly fast reactions, blocked her way. Mrs Swindell moved to form a second line of defence.
Eliza bucked her head and her face hit fulsome Sturgeon flesh. She bit with all her might. Old Miss Sturgeon let out a scream, clutched at her thigh. ‘Why, you little wildcat!’
‘Aunt! She’ll have given you the rabies!’
‘I told you she were a menace,’ said Mrs Swindell. ‘Here, forget about the clothes. Let’s get her downstairs.’
They each took an arm and the young Miss Sturgeon hovered nearby offering useless advice as to the presence of stairs and doorways, while Eliza thrashed this way and that.
‘Be still, girl!’ Old Miss Sturgeon.
‘Help!’ yelled Eliza, almost breaking free. ‘Someone help me.’
‘You’ll get a walloping,’ Mrs Swindell hissed as they reached the bottom of the stairs.
Then suddenly, an unexpected ally.
‘A rat! I saw a rat!’
‘There’s no rats in my house!’
The young Miss Sturgeon screamed, leapt atop a chair and sent an assortment of green bottles scuttling.
‘Clumsy girl! Breakages must be paid for.’
‘But it was your own fault. If you hadn’t been harbouring rats—’
‘I never did! There ain’t a rat within a hair’s breadth—’
‘Auntie, I saw it. A horrid thing, large as a dog, with beady black eyes and long sharp claws . . .’ Her voice tapered off and she slumped against the chair back. ‘I’ve come over all faint. I’m not made for such horrors.’
‘There now, Margaret, courage to the sticking place. Think of Christ’s forty days and forty nights.’
The old Miss Sturgeon proved her own impressive constitution by keeping a tight grip on Eliza’s arm while leaning in to bolster her collapsing niece who was now snivelling: ‘But its beady little eyes, the horrible twitchy nose—’ She gasped. ‘Arggghhh! There it is!’
All eyes turned in the direction of Margaret’s pointing finger. Crouched behind the coal scuttle, a quivering rat. Eliza willed him freedom.
‘Come here you little blighter!’ Mrs Swindell seized a cloth rag and started chasing the rodent about the room, swiping in all directions.
Margaret was squealing, Miss Sturgeon shushing, Mrs Swindell cursing, glass shattering, and then, from nowhere, a new voice. Loud and low.
‘Stop immediately.’
All sound evaporated as Eliza, Mrs Swindell and the two Misses Sturgeon turned to see whence the words came. Standing in the open doorway was a man dressed all in black. Behind him, a shiny carriage. Children were gathered around it, touching the wheels and marvelling at the glowing lanterns up front. The man allowed his gaze to pass over the tableau before him.
‘Miss Eliza Makepeace?’
Eliza nodded in a jerky fashion, unable to find words. Too dismayed that her point of escape was now blocked to wonder at the identity of this stranger who knew her name.
‘Daughter of Georgiana Mountrachet?’ He handed a photograph to Eliza. It was Mother, much younger, dressed in the fine clothing of a lady. Eliza’s eyes widened. She nodded, confused.
‘I am Phineas Newton. On behalf of Lord Linus Mountrachet of Blackhurst Manor, I have come to collect you. To bring you home to the family estate.’
Eliza’s jaw dropped, though not so low as those belonging to the Misses Sturgeon. Mrs Swindell collapsed onto a chair, victim of a sudden bout of apoplexy. Her mouth opened and closed like a mudflat fish as she bleated confusedly: ‘Lord Mountrachet . . . ? Blackhurst Manor . . . ? Family estate . . . ?’
Old Miss Sturgeon straightened. ‘Mr Newton, I’m afraid I cannot let you walk in here and take this girl without seeing some sort of order. We at the Parish take our responsibilities—’
‘All should be contained herein.’ The man presented a piece of paper. ‘My employer has applied for and been granted wardship of this minor.’ He turned to Eliza, barely flinched at her unusual outfitting. ‘Come then, miss. There’s a storm approaching and we’ve a way to go.’
It took but a split second for Eliza to decide. Never mind that she had never heard of Linus Mountrachet or Blackhurst estate. Never mind that she had no idea whether this Mr Newton spoke the truth. Never mind that Mother had remained resolutely tight-lipped about her family, that a dark shadow had fallen across her face whenever Eliza pressed her for further mention. Anything was better than the workhouse. And in going along with this man’s story, escaping the clutches of the Misses Sturgeon, waving goodbye to the Swindells and their cold, lonely rooftop room, it seemed to Eliza that she was helping to rescue herself just as surely as if she’d managed to break free and sprint out of the door.
She hurried towards Mr Newton, stood behind his cloaked arm and sneaked a glance at his face. At such close range, he was not so large as he had seemed when silhouetted in the doorway. He was barrel-shaped and of medium height. His skin was ruddy and beneath his tall black hat Eliza could see a small amount of hair that the years were bleaching from brown to silver.
While the Misses Sturgeon were scrutinising the wardship order, Mrs Swindell finally regained her composure. She pushed forward, thrusting a thin, ropy finger in the direction of Mr Newton’s chest, punctuating every third word. ‘This is nothing but a trick and you, sir, are a trickster.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what it is you want with the girl, though I can imagine well enough, but you won’t steal her from me by your wicked tricks.’
‘I assure you, madam,’ said Mr Newton, swallowing a lump of rather apparent distaste, ‘there is no trick afoot.’
‘Oh no?’ Her brows leapt and her lips stretched around a salivary smile. ‘Oh no?’ She turned triumphantly towards the Misses Sturgeon. ‘It’s lies, all lies, and he a nasty liar. This girl ain’t got no family, she’s an orphan, she is. An orphan. And she’s mine, mine to do with as I please.’ Her lip took on a victorious curl as she reached a position she thought unassailable. ‘She were left me when the girl’s mother died because there were nowhere else for her to go.’ She paused triumphantly. ‘That’s right, the girl’s own ma told me herself: she had no family to speak of. Not one mention of no family in the thirteen years I knowed her. This man’s a shyster.’
Eliza glanced upwards at Mr Newton who emitted a short sigh and raised his eyebrows. ‘Though it surprises me little that Miss Eliza’s mother failed to divulge the details of her family’s existence, it does not alter the fact that it is so.’ He nodded at the old Miss Sturgeon. ‘It’s all in those papers.’ He stepped outside and held the carriage door wide. ‘Miss Eliza?’ he said, indicating that she should climb inside.
‘I’ll call my husband,’ said Mrs Swindell.
Eliza hesitated, hands opening and closing.
‘Miss Eliza?’
‘My husband’ll set you right.’
Whatever the truth about her family, Eliza realised the choice was simple: carriage or workhouse. She had no further control over her own destiny, not at this point. Her only option was to throw herself upon the mercy of one of the people gathered here. With a deep breath, she took a step towards Mr Newton. ‘I have nothing packed . . .’
‘Someone fetch Mr Swindell!’
Mr Newton smiled grimly. ‘I can think of nothing here that could possibly have a place at Blackhurst Manor.’
A small crowd of neighbours had gathered now. Mrs Barker stood to one side, mouth agape, basket of wet laundry nursed across her middle; little Hatty leaned her snotty cheek against Sarah’s dress.
‘If you would be so kind, Miss Eliza.’ Mr Newton stood to the side of the door and swept his hand before the open space.
With
It wasn’t until the door was closed behind her that Eliza realised she wasn’t alone. Sitting across from her, in the dark fabric folds of the other side, was a man she recognised. A man wearing pince-nez and a neat suit. Her stomach clenched. She knew instantly that this was the Bad Man that Mother had warned them about, and she knew she had to escape. But as she turned desperately towards the closed door, the Bad Man hit the wall behind him and the carriage lurched forward.
PART•TWO
21
The road to Cornwall, 1900
As they hurtled along Battersea Church Road, Eliza studied the carriage door. Perhaps if she turned one of the knobs, pressed one of the grooves, it would spring open and she could tumble to safety. The quality of that safety was dubious; if she survived the fall, she’d then have to find a way to avoid the workhouse, but it was better, surely, than being spirited away by the man who’d terrified Mother.
Heart fluttering like a trapped sparrow within her rib cage, she reached out carefully, closed her fingers around the lever and—
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’
She looked up sharply.
The man was watching her, eyes magnified behind the lenses of his pince-nez. ‘You’ll fall beneath the carriage and the wheels will slice you through.’ He smiled thinly, revealing a gold tooth. ‘And how would I explain that to your uncle? Thirteen years of hunting only to deliver you in halves?’ He made a noise then, rapid sucking sounds that Eliza took for laughter only by the upturned corners of his mouth.
As quickly as it started, the noise stopped and the man’s mouth rearranged itself along sour lines. He brushed his bushy moustache, which sat like the tails of two small squirrels above his lips. ‘Mansell is my name.’ He leaned back and closed his eyes. Folded together his pale, damp-looking hands on the polished top of a dark cane. ‘I work for your uncle, and I sleep very lightly.’