The Forgotten Garden by Kate Morton
It was a small cove with a deep curve and it didn’t take long for Eliza to travel the entire length of its shore. When she reached the end, proximity gave a third dimension to what had seemed, at a distance, a mere dark patch. A huge black crag emerged from the bluff and charged into the sea. It was shaped like a mighty puff of angry black smoke that had been frozen in time, cursed to an eternal solidity. Properly part of neither land nor sea nor air.
The black rock was slippery but Eliza found a ledge at its rim, just deep enough to stand on. She hunted out jagged footholds and scrambled up the rock’s side, didn’t stop until she’d made it to the very top. She was so high, she couldn’t look down without feeling that her head was filled with bubbles. On hands and knees, she inched forward. It became narrower and narrower until finally she was at the furthest point. She sat on the rock’s raised fist and laughed, breathlessly.
It was like being at the top of a great ship. Beneath her, the white froth of duelling waves; before her, the open sea. The sun had set hundreds of lights to shimmering on its surface, rising and rippling with the breeze, all the way towards the clear unbroken horizon. Directly in front, she knew, was France. Beyond Europe was the East—India, Egypt, Persia and the other exotic places she’d heard humming on the lips of the Thames river men. Beyond even that was the Far East, the other side of the earth. Watching the vast ocean, the flickering sunlight, thinking of the distant lands, Eliza was enveloped by a feeling quite unlike any she’d experienced before. A warmth, a glimpse of possibility, an absence of wariness—
She leaned forward and squinted. The horizon was unbroken no more. Something had appeared: a big black ship with full sails, balanced on the line where sea met sky, as if about to slip over the rim of the world. Eliza blinked and when her eyes opened again the ship was gone. It had disappeared; into the distance, she supposed. How swiftly ships must move in the open sea, how strong their wide, white sails. That was the sort of ship her father would have sailed upon, she thought.
Eliza allowed her attention to drift skywards. A gull was circling above, calling out, camouflaged against the white sky. She followed its path until something on the cliff top caught her eye. There was a cottage, almost hidden by trees. She could just make out its roof and a funny little window that stuck out on top. She wondered what it would be like to live in such a place, right on the edge of the world like that. Would it always feel as if you were about to topple over and slide into the ocean?
Eliza started as cold water sprayed her face. She looked down at the swirling sea. The tide was coming in, the water rising quickly. The ledge she had first stepped upon was under water now.
She crawled back along the ridge of the rock and went carefully down, keeping to the deepest edge so she could wrap her fingers around the craggy side.
When she was almost at water level she paused. From this angle she could see that the rock wasn’t solid. It was as if someone had carved out a great hole.
A cave, that’s what it was. Eliza thought of Mary’s Tregenna pirates, their tunnels. That’s what this cave was, she was sure of it. Hadn’t Mary said the pirates used to traffic their loot through a series of caves that ran beneath the cliffs?
Eliza shimmied around the front of the rock and scrambled onto the flattish platform. She took a few steps inside: it was dark and moist. ‘Hello-o-o-o-o?’ she called out. Her voice echoed pleasingly, lapped against the walls before fading away to nothing.
She couldn’t see far beyond but felt a thrill of excitement. Her very own cave. She would come back here one day, she determined, with a lantern so that she could see what lay inside—
A thudding sound, distant but drawing near. Kerthud, ker-thud, ker-thud . . .
Eliza’s first thought was that it issued from within the cave. Fear glued her feet to the spot, as she wondered what sort of sea monster was coming for her.
Ker-thud, ker-thud, ker-thud . . . Louder now.
She backed away slowly, started picking her way to the side of the rock.
Then, tearing along the ridge of the cliff, she saw a pair of shiny black horses dragging a carriage behind them. Not a sea monster after all, but Newton and his carriage on the cliff road, the sound amplified as it bounced between the rock walls of the cove.
She remembered Mary’s warning. The aunt had gone out for the morning but was expected back for luncheon; Eliza was not to be late.
She clambered along the rock and jumped clear onto the pebbly shore. Ran through the shallow water then back up the beach. Eliza laced her boots and bounded up the steps. The bottom of her breeches were wet, and the hems slapped heavily against her ankles as she wound her way back along the track between the trees. The sun had shifted since she’d come down to the cove, and now the path was dim and cool. It was like being in a burrow, a secret bramble burrow, home to fairies and goblins and elves. They were hiding, watching her as she tiptoed through their world. She scrutinised the undergrowth as she went, tried not to blink, in the hopes she might catch one unawares. For everybody knew, a fairy glimpsed was bound to grant her finder’s wishes.
A noise and Eliza froze. Held her breath. In the clearing before her was a man, a real live man. The one with the black beard whom she’d seen from her bedroom window that morning. He was sitting on a log, unwrapping a checked piece of cloth. Inside was a meaty wedge of pastry.
Eliza drew herself to the side of the path and watched him. The tips of tiny naked branches caught the ends of her short hair as she climbed cautiously onto a low bough, all the better to observe. The man had a barrow beside him, full of dirt. Or so it seemed. Eliza knew that was a mere ruse, that beneath the dirt he had his treasures stored. For he was a pirate king, of course. One of the Tregenna pirates, or the ghost of a Tregenna pirate. An undead seafarer, waiting to take revenge for the deaths of his comrades. A ghost with unfinished business, waiting in his lair to capture little girls to take home for his wife to bake into pies. That was the ship she’d seen out at sea, the big black ship that had disappeared in the blink of an eye. It was a ghost ship, and he—
The branch she was perched upon snapped and Eliza tumbled to the ground, landed in a mound of moist leaves.
The bearded man barely moved a muscle. His right eyeball seemed to swivel slightly in Eliza’s direction as he continued to chew his pasty.
Eliza stood, rubbed at her knee, then straightened. Pulled a dry leaf from her hair.
‘You’re the new little lady,’ he said slowly, masticated pastry turning to glue inside his mouth. ‘I heard talk you’d come. Though if you don’t mind me saying, you don’t look much of a lady. What with those lad’s clothes and your hair all torn up like that.’
‘I came last night. I brought the storm with me.’
‘That’s quite a power you’ve got for such a small thing.’
‘With a strong enough will, even the weak can wield great power.’
A furry-caterpillar eyebrow twitched. ‘Who told you that?’
‘My mother.’
Eliza remembered too late that she wasn’t supposed to mention her mother. Heart flickering, she waited to see what the man would say.
He stared at her, chewing slowly. ‘I dare say she knew what she were talking about. Mothers tend towards right on most things.’
The warm pins and needles of relief. ‘My mother died.’
‘So did mine.’
‘I’m living here now.’
He nodded. ‘I’d say you are.’
‘My name is Eliza.’
‘And mine is Davies.’
‘You’re very old.’
‘As old as me little finger and a bit older than me teeth.’
Eliza took a deep breath. ‘Are you a pirate?’
He laughed, a deep chuffing sound like smoke from a dirty chimney. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, my girl, I’m a gardener, just like my daddy afore me. Maze keeper to be particular about it.’
Eliza wrinkled her nose. ‘Maze keeper?’
‘I keep the maze ten
A puzzle that could fit a person inside? Eliza had never heard of such a thing. ‘Where does it lead?’
‘Oh, it weaves back and forth. If you’re lucky enough to follow it right the way through you’ll find yourself on the other side of the estate. If you’re not so lucky—’ his eyes widened ominously—‘you’ll likely perish of starvation before anyone knows you’re missing.’ He leaned towards her, lowered his voice. ‘I oft times come across the bones of such unlucky souls.’
Thrill squeezed Eliza’s voice to a whisper. ‘And if I made it through? What would I find at the other end?’
‘Another garden, a special garden, and a little cottage. Right on the edge of the cliff.’
‘I saw the cottage. From the beach.’
He nodded. ‘I’d say you probably did.’
‘Whose house is it? Who lives there?’
‘No one now. Lord Archibald Mountrachet—your great-grandfather, he’d have been—he had it built when he were in charge. There’s some what says it were built as a lookout, a signalling post.’
‘For the smugglers, the Tregenna pirates?’
He smiled. ‘I can tell young Mary Martin’s had your ear.’
‘Can I go and see it?’
‘You’ll never find it.’
‘I will.’
His eyes twinkled as he teased. ‘Never, you’ll never find your way through the maze. Even if you do, you’ll never work out how to get through the secret gate and into the cottage garden.’
‘I will! Let me try, please Davies.’
‘I’m afraid it ain’t possible, Miss Eliza,’ Davies said, sobering somewhat. ‘There’s no one been right the way through the maze in quite a time. I keep it maintained to a point, but I only go so far as I’m allowed. It’s bound to be grown over in parts beyond.’
‘Why has no one been through?’
‘Your uncle had it closed some time past. No one’s been through since.’ He leaned towards her. ‘Your mother, now there’s someone who knew the maze like the back of her hand. Almost as well as I.’
A bell sounded in the distance.
Davies took his hat off and wiped his sweaty forehead. ‘You’d better be off like star-shot then, miss. That’s the luncheon bell.’
‘Are you coming to have your luncheon too?’
He laughed. ‘The staff don’t eat luncheon, Miss Eliza, that’s not proper. They have their dinner now.’
‘Are you coming up to have your dinner, then?’
‘I don’t eat inside the house. Haven’t done for a long time.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s not a place I like to be.’
Eliza didn’t understand. ‘Why not?’
Davies stroked his beard. ‘I’m happier when I stick to my plants, Miss Eliza. There’s some that are made for the society of men, others that ain’t. I’m one of the latter: happy on me own dungheap.’
‘But why?’
He exhaled slowly, like a great weary giant. ‘Certain places make a man’s hairs stand on end, disagree with a man’s way of being. Do you see what I’m saying?’
Eliza thought of her aunt in the burgundy room the night before, the hound and the shadows and the candlelight lashing angrily at the walls. She nodded.
‘Young Mary, now, she’s a good lass. She’ll look out for you up at the house.’ He frowned a little as he stared down at her. ‘It doesn’t do to trust too easily, Miss Eliza. Doesn’t do at all, you hear?’
Eliza nodded solemnly because solemnity seemed to be called for.
‘Now be off with you, young miss. You’ll be late for luncheon and the mistress will have your heart on a supper tray. She don’t like her rules broken, and that’s a fact.’
Eliza smiled, though Davies did not. She turned to go, stopped when she saw something in the upper window, something she’d seen the day before. A face, small and watchful.
‘Who’s that?’ she said.
Davies turned and squinted up towards the house. Nodded slightly in the direction of the upper window. ‘I reckon that’s Miss Rose.’
‘Miss Rose?’
‘Your cousin. Your aunt and uncle’s girl.’
Eliza’s eyes widened. Her cousin?
‘We used to see quite a lot of her about the estate, bright young thing she was, but some years ago she took ill and that was the end of that. The mistress spends all her time and a fair bit of money trying to fix whatever’s wrong, and the young doctor from town’s always coming and going.’
Eliza was still staring up at the window. Slowly she raised her hand, fingers wide like the starfish from the beach. She waved back and forth, watched as the face disappeared quickly into the dark.
A slight smile pulled at Eliza’s face. ‘Rose,’ she said, tasting the sweetness of the word. It was just like the name of a princess in a fairytale.
24
Cliff Cottage, 2005
The wind whipped through Cassandra’s hair, twirling her ponytail inside out, outside in, like streamers on a windsock. She pulled her cardigan tight around her shoulders and paused a moment to catch her breath, looked back down the narrow coastal road to the village below. Tiny white cottages clung like barnacles to the rocky cove, and red and blue fishing boats dotted the denim harbour, bobbing on the swell as gulls swooped and spiralled above their hauls. The air, even at this height, was laden with salt licked from the sea’s surface.
The road was so narrow and so close to the cliff’s edge that Cassandra wondered how anyone ever worked up the courage to drive along it. Tall, pale sea grasses grew each side, shivering as the wind rushed through. The higher she went, the more mizzle seemed to hang in the air.
Cassandra glanced at her watch. She’d underestimated how long it would take to reach the top, not to mention the weariness that would turn her legs to jelly midway up. Jetlag and good old-fashioned lack of sleep.
She’d slept terribly the night before. The room, the bed, were both comfortable enough, but she’d been plagued with strange dreams, the sort that lingered upon waking but slithered away from memory as she tried to grasp them. Only the tendrils of discomfort remained.
At some point during the night she’d been woken by a more material cause. A noise, like the sound of a key in her bedroom door. She’d been sure that’s what it was, the insertion and jiggling as the person on the other side tried to make it turn, but when she’d mentioned it at the front desk this morning, the girl had looked at her strangely before saying, in a rather chilly voice, that the hotel used key cards, not metal keys. What she’d heard was only the wind toying with the old brass fitting.
Cassandra started up the hill again. It couldn’t be much further, the woman in the village grocery shop had said it was only a twenty minute walk and she’d been climbing now for thirty.
She rounded a corner and saw a red car pulled over by the side of the road. A man and woman stood watching her: he was tall and thin while she was short and stout. For a moment Cassandra thought they might be sightseers enjoying the view, but when each lifted a hand in unison and waved, she knew who they must be.
‘Hello there!’ called the man, coming towards her. He was middle-aged, though his hair and beard, white as icing sugar, gave the initial impression of a much older face. ‘You must be Cassandra. I’m Henry Jameson and this—’ he indicated the beaming woman—‘is my wife, Robyn.’
‘Lovely to meet you,’ said Robyn, hot on her husband’s heels. Her greying hair was cut in a neat bob that grazed cheeks pink and polished and plump as apples.
Cassandra smiled. ‘Thanks for meeting me on a Saturday, I really appreciate it.’
‘Nonsense.’ Henry ran a hand across his head to tidy fine windblown hairs. ‘No trouble at all. I only hope you don’t mind Robyn coming along—’
‘
Cassandra shook her head.
‘What did I tell you? She doesn’t mind a bit.’ Robyn clutched Cassandra’s wrist. ‘Not that he had any chance of stopping me. He’d have been risking the divorce courts if he’d so much as tried.’
‘My wife is the secretary of the local historical society,’ Henry said, a hint of apology threading through his voice.
‘I’ve published a number of little booklets on the area. Histories mainly, about local families, important landmarks, great houses. My most recent is about the smuggling trade. We’re actually in the middle of putting all of the articles onto a website—’
‘It’s her sworn aim to take tea in every stately home in the county.’
‘But I’ve lived in this village all my life and I’ve never so much as set foot inside the old place.’ Robyn smiled so that her cheeks shone. ‘I don’t mind telling you, I’m about as curious as a cat.’
‘We would never have guessed, my love,’ said Henry wearily, indicating the hill. ‘We have to go on foot from here, the road goes no further.’
Robyn led the way, striding purposefully along the narrow path of windswept grass. As they climbed higher, Cassandra began to notice the birds. Masses of tiny brown swallows calling to one another as they scuttled from one spindly branch to another. She had the oddest sensation of being watched, as if the birds were jostling to keep an eye on the human interlopers. She shivered a little, then admonished herself for being childish, inventing mystery where only atmosphere existed.
‘It was my father who handled the sale to your grandmother,’ said Henry, shortening his long strides to walk just behind Cassandra. ‘Back in seventy-five. I’d just started with the firm as a junior conveyancer, but I remember the sale.’
‘Everyone remembers the sale,’ called Robyn. ‘It was the last part of the old estate to go. There were folk in the village who swore the cottage’d never be sold.’
Cassandra looked out to sea. ‘Why is that? The house must have beautiful views . . .’