The Forgotten Garden by Kate Morton
The carriage wheels danced metallic down one cobblestone laneway after another, brick buildings fled by, grey and grey as far as the eye could see, and Eliza sat stiffly, desperate not to wake the sleeping Bad Man. She tried to match her own breathing to the thuds of the galloping horses. Willed her spinning thoughts to straighten. Concentrated on the seat’s cold leather beneath her. It was all she could do to stop her legs from shaking. She felt transported, like a character who’d been cut from the pages of one story, where rhythm and context were known, and glued rather carelessly into another.
When they reached the speckled outskirts of London and emerged finally from the forest of buildings, Eliza was able to see the angry sky. The horses were doing their best to outrun the dark grey clouds, but what chance horses against God’s own wrath? The first drops of rain spat spitefully on the carriage roof and the world outside was soon blanketed in white. It lashed against the windows and dripped through the thin gaps at the top of the carriage doors.
They drove on thus for hours and Eliza sought refuge in her thoughts, until suddenly they rounded a bend in the road and a trickle of icy water landed on her head. She blinked through waterlogged lashes, looked down at the drenched patch on her shirt. Felt a strong urge to cry. Strange that in a day of tumult, it should be something so innocuous as a dribble of water that prompted a person to tears. But she wouldn’t let herself cry, not here, not with the Bad Man sitting just across the way. She swallowed the hard lump from her throat.
Without seeming to open his eyes, Mr Mansell plucked a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it towards Eliza. Motioned for her to take it.
She patted her face dry.
‘Such a fuss,’ he said, in a voice so thin his lips were barely parted. ‘Such a lot of fuss.’
Eliza thought at first that he referred to her. It seemed unfair as she had made very little fuss, but she didn’t dare say as much. ‘So many years devoted,’ he continued, ‘so little reward.’ His eyes opened, cool and appraising; her skin tightened. ‘To such lengths will a broken man go.’
Eliza wondered who the broken man was, waited for Mr Mansell to make his meaning clear. But he did not speak again. Merely took back his handkerchief and held it between two pallid fingers before discarding it on the seat beside him.
The carriage jerked suddenly and Eliza gripped the seat to steady herself. The horses had changed their gait and the carriage was slowing. Finally, it stopped.
Had they arrived? Eliza looked out of the window but she could see no house. Only a vast, sodden field, and beside it a small stone building with a rain-battered sign above the door. MacCleary’s Inn, Guildford.
‘I have other business,’ said Mr Mansell, as he disembarked. ‘Newton will take you further.’ Rain almost obscured his next command, but as the door slammed shut, Eliza heard him shout: ‘Deliver the girl to Blackhurst’.
A sharp turn and Eliza was thrown against the hard, cold door. Shocked from sleep, it took her some moments to remember where she was, why she was alone in a darkened carriage being spirited towards an unknown destiny. Patchily, heavily, it all came back to her. The summons of her mysterious uncle, escape from the clutches of Mrs Swindell’s Do-Gooders, Mr Mansell . . . She wiped condensation from the window and peered outside. Since she’d boarded the carriage they’d sped through day and night, stopping only occasionally to change the horses, and now it was almost dark again. Evidently she had been asleep for some time; just how long, she couldn’t tell.
It was no longer raining and a smattering of early stars were visible beyond the low cloud. The carriage lights were no match for the thick dusk of the countryside, quivering as the coachman navigated the bumpy road. In the dim, damp light Eliza saw the shapes of large trees, black branches scribbled along the horizon, and a set of tall iron gates. They entered a tunnel of huge brambles and the wheels bumped along the ditches, tossing sprays of muddy water against the window.
All was dark within the tunnel, the tendrils so dense that none of the dusk light was permitted entry. Eliza held her breath, waiting to be delivered. Waiting for her first glimpse of what must surely lie ahead. Blackhurst. She could hear her heart, a sparrow no longer but a raven with large, powerful wings, beating within her chest.
Suddenly, they emerged.
A stone building, the biggest Eliza had ever seen. Bigger even than the hotels in London where the toffs came and went. It was shrouded in dark mist, with tall trees and branches laced together behind it. Lamplight flickered yellow in some of the lower windows. Surely this could not be the house?
Movement and her gaze was drawn to a window near the top. A distant face, bleached by candlelight, was watching. Eliza moved closer to the window to get a better look, but when she did the face was gone.
And then the carriage passed the building, metal wheels continuing to clack along the driveway. They went beneath a stone arch and the carriage jerked to a halt.
Eliza sat alert, waiting, watching, wondering whether she was supposed to climb out of the carriage, find her own way inside.
Suddenly the door opened and Mr Newton, drenched despite his raincoat, held out his hand. ‘Come then, miss, we’re late enough already. No time for dithering.’
Eliza took the proffered hand and scrambled down the carriage steps. They’d outrun the rain while she was sleeping, but the sky promised it would catch them up. Dark grey clouds drooped towards the earth, heavy with intention, and the air beneath was thick with fog, a different fog from that in London. Colder, less greasy; it smelled like salt and leaves and water. There was a noise, too, which she couldn’t place. Like a train rushing repeatedly by. Whoosha . . . whoosha . . . whoosha . . .
‘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.’
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 ex
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.’
‘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.
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.
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.’
‘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.’
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
Eliza nodded quickly.
Then, blessedly the door was open and Mr Thomas was there again.
‘You rang, my Lady?’
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.’
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.