The Forgotten Garden

Praise for The Shifting Fog ‘A brilliant Australian debut . . . a r ich hist orical s etting with a p owerful emotional...

Author: Kate Morton

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Praise for The Shifting Fog ‘A brilliant Australian debut . . . a r ich hist orical s etting with a p owerful emotional drama—and a gripping mystery . . . Full of lovely writing, grand houses, snobbery, cruelty and passion . . . utterly addictive.’ The Australian Women’s Weekly ‘This compelling debut is b oth an atmospheric murder mystery and an absorbing family saga that beautifully evokes another era…The Shifting Fog is a n enthralling t ale about t he extremes p eople will g o to for love and in t he name of duty.’ Notebook Magazine ‘First time author Kate Morton . . . has skilfully and intelligently created a novel that is, indeed , as t he publicity has i t, “compulsively readable”.’ Australian Book Review ‘A stunning must read story that’s set for stardom.’

Woman’s Day

‘This is one of those rare books you can immerse yourself in, sharing the joys a nd he artaches o f t he c haracters a nd willin g t hem t o f ind happiness.’ Sunshine Coast Daily ‘. . . full of secrets, mystery and suspense . . . [the past is recalled] with such alluring detail you get a s ense of stepping back in time , and feeling the heartache and thrills of love.’ New Idea ‘. . . a real page turner . . . the story has it all. Romance and tragedy, fidelity and devotion, heartbreak and crime.’ Wairarapa Times Age ‘. . . rich historical fiction with plenty of period charm.’ Bookseller and Publisher ‘Morton’s feel for her s etting and the period is hig hly accomplished: it’s a warm and lovely place to escape to.’ Sunday Telegraph

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Kate Morton grew up in the mountains of south-east Queensland. She has degr ees in dra matic a rt a nd En glish li terature a nd is currently a do ctoral ca ndidate at t he University o f Queen sland. Kate lives with her husband and young sons in Brisbane. Her first novel, The Shifting Fog, published internationally as The House at Riverton, was a n umber one bestseller in 2007. You can find more information about Kate and her b ooks at www.katemorton.com.

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First published in 2008 Copyright © Kate Morton 2008 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act. Allen & Unwin 83 Alexander Street Crows Nest NSW 2065 Australia Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100 Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218 Email: inf [email protected] Web: w ww.allenandunwin.com National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry: Morton, Kate, 1976The forgotten garden ISBN 978 1 74114 998 2 (pbk.) A823.4 Map by Ian Faulkner Internal design by Nada Backovic Designs Set in 11.5/14.25 pt Minion Pro by Bookhouse, Sydney Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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For Oliver and Louis

More precious than all the spun gold in Fairyland

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‘But why must I bring back three strands of the Fairy Queen’s hair?’ spoke the young prince to the crone. ‘Why no other number, why not two o r four?’ The crone leaned forward but did not halt her spinning. ‘There is no other number, my child. Three is t he number of time, for do we not speak of past, present and future? Three is t he number of family, for do we n ot speak of mother, father and child? Three is the number of fairy, for do we not seek them between oak, ash and thorn?’ The young prince nodded, f or the w ise crone spoke the tr uth. ‘Thus must I h ave three strands, to weave my magic plait.’ — f r o m ‘ T h e Fa i r y P l a i t ’ b y E l i z a M a k e p e a c e

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PA RT • O N E

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1 London, 1913 London, England, 1913

I

t was dark where she was crouched but the little girl did as she’d been told. The lad y had s aid to wait, it wasn’t safe yet, they had t o be as quiet as la rder mice. It was a ga me, the little girl kne w, just like hide and seek. From b ehind t he w ooden ba rrels t he li ttle girl list ened. M ade a picture in her mind t he way Papa had t aught her. Men, near and far, sailors she supposed, shouted to one another. Rough, loud voices, full of the sea and its salt. In the distance: bloated ships’ horns, tin whistles, splashing oa rs; a nd fa r a bove, gr ey gulls ca wing, win gs f lattened t o absorb the ripening sunlight. The lad y w ould b e bac k, she’d s aid s o, but t he little girl ho ped it would b e s oon. S he’d b een wa iting a lo ng time , s o lo ng t hat t he sun had dr ifted across t he sky a nd was now wa rming her knees t hrough her ne w dr ess. S he list ened f or t he lad y’s skir ts, swishin g aga inst t he wooden deck. Her heels clipping, hurrying, always hurrying, in a wa y the girl’s own mamma never did. The little girl wondered, in the vague, unconcerned ma nner o f m uch-loved c hildren, w here M amma was. When she w ould b e co ming. And she w ondered a bout t he lad y. S he knew who she was, she ’d heard Grandmamma talking about her. The lady was called t he Authoress and she lived in the little cottage on the far side of the estate, beyond the maze. The little girl wasn’t supposed to know. She had b een forbidden f rom playing in t he bramble maze. Mamma and Grandmamma had t old her i t was da ngerous to go near the cliff. But sometimes, when no one was looking, the little girl liked to do f orbidden things.

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Dust motes, hundreds of them, danced in the sliver of sunlight that had appeared between two barrels. The li ttle girl smiled a nd the lady, the c liff, t he maze , Mamma, lef t her t houghts. S he held o ut a f inger, tried to catch a s peck upon it. Laughed at the way the motes came so close before skirting away. The noises beyond her hidin g spot were changing now. The li ttle girl could hear the hubbub of movement, voices laced with excitement. She leaned into the veil of light and pressed her face aga inst the cool wood of the barrels. With one eye she lo oked upon the decks. Legs a nd sho es a nd p etticoat hem s. The t ails o f co loured pa per streamers f licking t his wa y a nd t hat. W ily gulls h unting t he dec ks for crumbs. A l urch a nd t he h uge b oat gr oaned, lo ng a nd lo w f rom deep within its belly. Vibrations passed through the deck boards and into the li ttle girl ’s f ingertips. A mo ment o f susp ension a nd she f ound herself holding her breath, palms flat beside her, then the boat heaved and pushed itself away from the dock. The ho rn bellowed and there was a wave of cheering, cries of ‘Bon voyage’. They were on their way. To Amer ica, a p lace called N ew York w here P apa had b een b orn. She’d heard them whispering about it for some time, Mamma telling Papa t hey sho uld g o as s oon as p ossible, t hat t hey co uld a fford t o wait no lo nger. The little girl laughed again; the boat was gliding through the water like a giant whale, like Moby Dick in the story her father often read to her. Mamma didn’t like it when he read such stories. She said they were too f rightening and would put ide as in her he ad t hat couldn’t b e got out. Papa always gave Mamma a kiss o n t he forehead w hen she s aid that sort of thing, told her she was r ight and that he’d be more careful in future. But he still told the little girl stories of the great whale. And others—the ones that were the little girl’s favourite, from the fairytale book, about eyeless crones, and orphaned maidens, and long journeys across t he s ea. H e j ust made sur e t hat M amma didn’t kno w, t hat i t remained their secret. The little girl under stood they had t o have secrets from Mamma. Mamma wasn’t w ell, had b een sic kly since b efore t he li ttle girl was born. Grandmamma was always bidding her be good, minding her that 4


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The Forgotten Garden

if Mamma were to get upset s omething terrible mig ht happen and it would be all her fault. The little girl loved her mother and didn’t want to make her sad, didn’t want something terrible to happen, so she kept things secret. Like the fairy stories, and playing near the maze, and the times Papa had t aken her t o visit the Authoress in t he cottage on the far side o f the estate. ‘A-ha!’ A voice by her ear. ‘Found you!’ The barrel was heaved aside and the little girl s quinted up into the sun. Blinked until the owner of the voice moved to block the light. It was a b ig boy, eight or nine, she guessed. ‘You’re not Sally,’ he s aid. The little girl sho ok her he ad. ‘Who are you?’ She wasn’t meant to tell anybody her name. It was a game they were playing, she a nd the lady. ‘Well?’ ‘It’s a s ecret.’ His nose wrinkled, freckles drew together. ‘What for?’ She shrugged. She wasn’t supposed to speak of the lady, Papa was always minding her s o. ‘Where’s Sall y t hen? ’ The b oy was gr owing impatient. He lo oked left and right. ‘She ran this way, I’m sure of it.’ A whoop of laughter from further down the deck and the scramble of fleeing footsteps. The boy’s face lit up. ‘Quick!’ he said as he st arted to run. ‘She’s getting away.’ The little girl leaned her head around the barrel and watched him weaving in a nd out of t he crowd in k een pursuit of a f lurry of w hite petticoats. Her toes itched to join them. But the lady had s aid to wait. The b oy was g etting f urther away. Ducking around a p ortly man with a wax ed mo ustache, ca using him t o s cowl s o t hat his f eatures scurried towards the centre of his face lik e a fa mily of startled crabs. The little girl laughed. Maybe i t was all pa rt o f t he s ame ga me. The lad y r eminded her more of a child than of the other grown-ups she knew. Perhaps she was playing too. 5


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The little girl slid from behind the barrel and stood slowly. Her left foot had g one t o sleep a nd no w had p ins a nd needles. S he wa ited a moment f or f eeling t o r eturn, wa tched as t he b oy t urned t he co rner and disappeared. Then, without another thought, she set off after him. Feet pounding, heart singing in her c hest.

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2 Brisbane, 1930 Brisbane, Australia, 1930

I

n the end t hey held N ell’s birthday party in t he Foresters’ building, up on L atrobe Terrace. Hugh had sug gested the ne w dance hall in town, b ut N ell, ec hoing her mo ther, had s aid i t was sill y t o g o t o unnecessary expense, especially with times as tough as they were. Hugh conceded, but contented himself by insisting she send away to Sydney for the special lace he kne w she wa nted for her dr ess. Lil had p ut the idea in his he ad b efore she pass ed away. She’d leaned over and taken his hand, then shown him t he newspaper advertisement, with its Pitt Street address, and told him how fine the lace was, how much it would mean to Nellie, that it might seem extravagant but it could be reworked into the wedding gown when the time came. Then she’d smiled at him, and she was sixt een years old again and he was smi tten. Lil and Nell had b een working on the birthday dress for a co uple of w eeks b y t hen. I n t he e venings, w hen N ell was ho me f rom t he newspaper sho p a nd t ea was f inished, a nd t he y ounger girls w ere bickering lethargically on the verandahs, and the mosquitoes were so thick in the muggy night air you thought you’d go mad from the drone, Nell w ould t ake do wn her sti tching bask et a nd p ull u p a s eat b eside her mother’s sickbed. He would hear them sometimes, laughing about something t hat had ha ppened in t he ne wspaper sho p: a n a rgument Max Fitzsimmons had had with this customer or that, Mrs Blackwell’s latest medical complaint, the antics of Nancy Brown’s twins. He would linger by t he do or, f illing his p ipe with tobacco and listening as N ell lowered her v oice, f lushed with pleasure as she r ecounted s omething Danny had said. Some promise he’d made about the house he was going to buy her when they were wed, the car he had his eye on that his father 7


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thought he could get for a song, the latest mixmaster from McWhirter’s department store. Hugh liked Danny; he couldn’t wish more for Nell, which was just as w ell s eeing as t he pa ir had b een in separable since t hey’d met. Watching t hem t ogether r eminded Hugh o f his e arly y ears wi th L il. Happy as la rks t hey’d b een, bac k w hen t he f uture still str etched, unmarked, before them. And it had been a good marriage. They’d had their testing times, e arly on before they’d had t heir girls, b ut one way or another things had al ways worked out . . . His pipe full, his excuse to loiter ended, Hugh would move on. He’d find a p lace for himself at the quiet end o f the front verandah, a da rk spot where he could sit in peace, or as near to peace as was possible in a house f ull of rowdy daughters, e ach more ex citable t han t he other. Just him a nd his f lyswat on the window ledge should the mozzies get too close. And t hen he’d follow his t houghts as t hey turned invariably towards the secret he’d been keeping all t hese years. For the time was almost upon him, he could feel that. The pressure, long kept at bay, had r ecently begun to build. She was ne arly twentyone, a gr own woman ready to embark on her o wn life, engaged to be married no less. S he had a r ight to know the truth. He knew what Lil would say to that, which is why he didn’t tell her. The last t hing he wa nted was f or Lil to worry, to spend her f inal days trying to talk him o ut of it, as she’d done so often in t he past. Sometimes, as he w ondered a t t he w ords he’d f ind t o mak e his confession, Hugh caught himself wishing it on one of t he other girls instead. He cursed himself then for acknowledging he had a favourite, even to himself. But Nellie had al ways been special, so unlike the others. Spirited, more imagina tive. M ore lik e L il, he o ften t hought, t hough o f co urse that made no s ense.

c They’d strung ribbons along the rafters—white to match her dress and red t o ma tch her ha ir. The o ld w ooden hall mig ht no t ha ve had t he spit and polish of the newer brick buildings about town, but it scrubbed up all r ight. In the back near the stage, Nell’s four younger sisters had 8


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arranged a table for birthday gifts, and a decent pile had begun to take shape. S ome of t he ladies f rom church had g ot together to make t he supper, and Ethel Mortimer was giving the piano a workout, romantic dance tunes from the war. Young men and women clustered at first in ner vous knots around the walls, b ut as t he m usic a nd t he mo re o utgoing lads wa rmed u p, they b egan t o sp lit in to pa irs a nd t ake t o t he f loor. The li ttle sist ers looked on longingly until sequestered to help carry trays of sandwiches from the kitchen to the supper table. When time came for the speeches, cheeks were glowing and shoes were s cuffed f rom da ncing. M arcie M cDonald, t he minist er’s wif e, tapped on her glass and everybody turned to Hugh, who was unfolding a small piece of paper from his breast pocket. He cleared his throat and ran a hand over his comb-striped hair. Public speaking had never been his caper. He was the sort of man who kept himself to himself, minded his own opinions and happily let the more vocal fellows do the talking. Still, a daughter came of age but once and it was his duty to announce her. He’d always been a stic kler for duty, a r ule follower. For the most part anyway. He smiled as o ne o f his ma tes f rom t he w harf sho uted a hec kle, then he cupped the paper in his palm a nd took a deep breath. One by one, he read off the points on his list, scribbled in tiny black handwriting: how proud of Nell he a nd her mo ther had al ways b een; how blessed they’d f elt wh en s he a rrived; h ow f ond th ey w ere o f Da nny. Lil h ad been especially happy, he s aid, to learn of the engagement before she passed away. At t his men tion o f his wif e’s r ecent de ath, Hugh’s e yes b egan t o smart and he fell silent. He paused for a while and allowed his gaze t o roam t he faces o f his f riends a nd his da ughters, t o f ix a mo ment o n Nell w ho was smilin g as D anny w hispered s omething in her e ar. A s a c loud s eemed t o cr oss his b row, f olk w ondered if s ome im portant announcement was co ming, b ut t he mo ment pass ed. H is exp ression lightened and he returned the piece of paper to his pocket. It was about time he had a nother man in t he family, he s aid with a smile , it’d even things up a b it. The ladies in t he ki tchen sw ept in to ac tion t hen, administ ering cups of tea to the guests, but Hugh loitered a while, letting people brush 9


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past him, accep ting t he pats on t he shoulder, t he calls o f ‘Well done, mate’, a cup and saucer thrust into his hand. The speech had gone well, yet he co uldn’t r elax. H is he art had st epped u p i ts b eat a nd he was sweating though it wasn’t hot. He knew why, of course. The night’s duties were not yet over. When he noticed Nell slip alone through the side door, onto the little landing, he s aw his o pportunity. He cleared his t hroat and s et his t eacup in a space on the gift table, then he disappeared from the warm hum of the room into the cool night air. Nell was st anding b y t he sil ver-green tr unk o f a lo ne eucal ypt. Once, Hugh thought, the whole ridge would’ve been covered by them, and the gullies either side. Must’ve been a sight, that crowd of ghostly trunks on nights when the moon was f ull. There. He was putting things off. Even now he was tr ying to shirk his responsibility, was b eing weak. A pair of black bats coasted silently across the night sky and he made his way down the rickety wooden steps, across the dew-damp grass. She must have he ard him co ming—sensed him p erhaps—for she turned and smiled as he dr ew close. She was t hinking a bout M a, she s aid, as he r eached her side , wondering which of the stars she was wa tching from. Hugh could’ve wept when she said it. Damned if she didn’t have to bring L il in to i t r ight no w. M ake him a ware t hat she was obs erving, angry with him for what he was about to do. He could hear Lil’s voice, all the old arguments . . . But it was his decisio n to make and he’d made i t. It was he , after all, w ho’d st arted t he w hole t hing. Unwitting t hough he mig ht ha ve been, he ’d t aken t he s tep t hat s et t hem o n t his pa th a nd he was responsible f or p utting t hings r ight. S ecrets had a wa y o f makin g themselves known, and it was better, surely, that she learned the truth from him. He took Nell’s hands in his a nd placed a kiss o n the top of each. Squeezed t hem tig ht, her s oft smo oth f ingers a gainst his w orkhardened palms. His daughter. His first. She smiled at him, radia nt in her delicate lace-trimmed dress. He smiled bac k. 10


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Then he led her t o sit by him o n a fallen gum tr unk, smooth and white, and he le aned to w hisper in her e ar. Transferred t he s ecret he and her mother had kept for seventeen years. Waited for the flicker of recognition, t he minute shif t in exp ression as she r egistered w hat he was t elling her. Watched as t he b ottom fell out of her w orld and t he person she had b een vanished in a n instant.

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C

assandra hadn’t left the hospital in da ys, though the doctor held out li ttle ho pe her gra ndmother w ould r egain l ucidity. It wasn’t likely, he s aid, no t a t her ag e, no t wi th t hat a mount o f mo rphine in her system. The nig ht n urse was t here a gain, s o C assandra kne w i t was no longer day. The p recise time she co uldn’t guess. I t was ha rd to tell in here: the foyer lights were constantly on, a t elevision could always be heard t hough ne ver s een, tr olleys trac ked u p a nd do wn t he halls no matter w hat t he ho ur. An ir ony t hat a p lace r elying s o he avily o n routine should operate so resolutely outside time’s usual rhythms. Nonetheless, C assandra wa ited. Watching, co mforting, as N ell drowned in a s ea o f memo ries, ca me u p f or a ir a gain a nd aga in in earlier times of life. She couldn’t bear to think her grandmother might defy the odds and f ind her wa y back to the present, only to discover herself floating on the outer edge of life, alone. The nurse swapped the drip’s empty bag f or a fa t bladder, turned a dial on the machine behind the bed, then set about straightening the bedclothes. ‘She hasn ’t had a nything t o dr ink,’ C assandra s aid, her v oice sounding strange to her own ears. ‘Not all day.’ The nurse looked up, surprised at being spoken to. She peered over her g lasses a t t he c hair w here C assandra s at, a cr umpled b lue-green hospital blanket on her lap. ‘Gave me a fright,’ she said. ‘You been here all day, have you? Probably for the best, won’t be long now.’ Cassandra igno red t he im plication o f t his st atement. ‘ Should w e give her s omething to drink? She must be thirsty.’ 12


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The nurse folded the sheets over and tucked them matter of factly beneath Nell’s thin arms. ‘She’ll be right. The drip here takes care of all that.’ She checked something on Nell’s chart, spoke without looking up. ‘There’s tea-making facilities down the hall if y ou need t hem.’ The nurse left and Cassandra saw that Nell’s eyes were open, staring. ‘Who are you?’ came the frail voice. ‘It’s me, Cassandra.’ Confusion. ‘Do I know you?’ The doctor had predicted this but it still stung. ‘Yes, Nell.’ Nell looked at her, eyes watery grey. She blinked uncertainly. ‘I can’t remember . . .’ ‘Shhh . . . It’s all right.’ ‘Who am I?’ ‘Your na me is N ell Andr ews,’ C assandra s aid, t aking her ha nd. ‘You’re ninety-five years old. You live in a n old house in Paddington.’ Nell’s lips were trembling—she was co ncentrating, trying to make sense of the words. Cassandra plucked a tissue f rom the bedside table and reached to gently wi pe t he line o f s aliva o n N ell’s c hin. ‘ You ha ve a st all a t t he antique cen tre o n L atrobe Terrace,’ she co ntinued s oftly. ‘ You a nd I share it, we sell old things.’ ‘I do know you,’ said Nell faintly. ‘You’re Lesley’s girl.’ Cassandra blinked, surprised. They rarely spoke of her mother, not in all the time Cassandra was growing up and not in the ten years she’d been back, living in t he flat beneath Nell’s house. It was a n unspoken agreement between them not to revisit a past t hey each, for different reasons, preferred to forget. Nell started. Her panicked eyes scanned Cassandra’s face. ‘Where’s the b oy? Not here, I ho pe. Is he her e? I do n’t want him t ouching my things. Ruining them.’ Cassandra’s head grew faint. ‘My things are precious. Don’t let him ne ar them.’ Some w ords appeared, C assandra tr ipped over t hem. ‘No . . . no, I won’t. Don’t worry, Nell. He’s not here.’

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Later, when her grandmother had slipped into unconsciousness again, Cassandra wondered at the mind’s cruel ability to toss up flecks of the past. Why, as she ne ared her life’s end, her grandmother’s head should ring with the voices of people long since gone. Was it always this way? Did those with passage booked on death’s silent ship always scan the dock for faces o f the long-departed? Cassandra must have slept then, because the next t hing she kne w the hospital’s mood had changed again. They’d been drawn further into the t unnel o f nig ht. The hall lig hts w ere dimmed a nd t he s ounds o f sleep were everywhere around her. She was sl umped in t he chair, her neck stiff and her a nkle cold where it had es caped the flimsy blanket. It was late, she kne w, and she was tir ed. What had w oken her? Nell. H er b reathing was lo ud. S he was a wake. C assandra mo ved quickly t o t he b ed, p erched aga in o n i ts side . I n t he half-lig ht N ell’s eyes were glassy, pale and smudged like paint-stained water. Her voice, a f ine t hread, was almost f rayed t hrough. At f irst C assandra couldn’t hear her, t hought o nly t hat her li ps w ere mo ving a round lost w ords uttered long ago. Then she r ealised Nell was sp eaking. ‘The lady,’ she was s aying. ‘The lady said to wait . . .’ Cassandra stroked Nell’s warm forehead, brushed back soft strands of ha ir t hat had o nce g leamed lik e sp un sil ver. The lad y aga in. ‘ She won’t mind,’ she s aid. ‘The lady won’t mind if y ou go.’ Nell’s lips tightened, then quivered. ‘I’m not supposed to move. She said to wait, here on the boat.’ Her voice was a whisper. ‘The lady . . . the Authoress . . . Don’t tell anyone.’ ‘Shhh,’ s aid C assandra. ‘ I w on’t t ell a nyone, N ell, I w on’t t ell t he lady. You can go.’ ‘She s aid she’d co me f or me , b ut I mo ved. I didn ’t st ay w here I was told.’ Her grandmother’s breathing was laboured now, she was succumbing to panic. ‘Please don’t worry, Nell, please. Everything’s okay. I p romise.’ Nell’s he ad dr opped t o t he side . ‘ I ca n’t g o . . . I wasn ’t su pposed to . . . The lady . . .’ Cassandra pressed the button to call for help but no light came on above the bed. She hesitated, listened for hurried footsteps in the hall. Nell’s eyelids were fluttering, she was sli pping away. 14


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‘I’ll get a nurse—’ ‘No!’ N ell r eached o ut b lindly, tr ied t o grasp ho ld o f C assandra. ‘Don’t leave me!’ She was cr ying. Silent tears, damp and glistening on her paling skin. Cassandra’s o wn e yes g lazed. ‘ It’s all r ight, G randma. I ’m g etting help. I’ll be back soon, I promise.’

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he ho use s eemed t o kno w i ts mistr ess was g one a nd if i t didn’t exactly grieve for her, it settled into an obstinate silence. Nell had never b een one f or p eople or f or pa rties (a nd t he kitchen mice w ere louder than the granddaughter), so the house had gr own accustomed to a q uiet existence with neither f uss nor noise. It was a r ude sho ck, then, when the people arrived without word or warning, began milling about t he ho use a nd ga rden, slo pping t ea a nd dr opping cr umbs. Hunched into the hillside behind the huge antique centre on the ridge, the house suffered stoically this latest indignity. The aunts had organised it all, of course. Cassandra would’ve been just as happy to have gone without, to have honoured her grandmother privately, b ut t he aunts w ould he ar no ne o f i t. C ertainly Nell sho uld have a wak e, t hey s aid. The fa mily would want to pay t heir respects, as would Nell’s friends. And b esides, it was o nly proper. Cassandra was no match for such ingenuous certitude. Once upon a time she w ould have put up an argument, but not now. Besides, the aunts were an unstoppable force, e ach had a n energy t hat b elied her great age (even the youngest, Aunt Hettie, wasn’t a day under eig hty). So Cassandra had let her misgivings fall away, resisted the urge to point out Nell’s resolute lack of friends, and set about performing the tasks she’d been allotted: arranging teacups and saucers, finding cake forks, clearing s ome o f N ell’s b ric-a-brac s o t hat t he co usins mig ht ha ve somewhere t o si t. L etting t he a unts b ustle a round her wi th all d ue pomp and self-importance. They weren’t really Cassandra’s aunts, of course. They were Nell’s younger sisters, Cassandra’s mother’s aunts. But Lesley had ne ver had 16


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much use for them, and the aunts had promptly taken Cassandra under their wing in her st ead. Cassandra had half t hought her mo ther might attend the funeral, might a rrive a t t he cr ematorium j ust as p roceedings g ot under way, looking t hirty y ears y ounger t han she r eally was, in viting admir ing glances as she al ways had . B eautiful a nd y oung a nd im possibly insouciant. But she hadn ’t. Ther e w ould b e a ca rd, C assandra su pposed, with a p icture o n t he f ront o nly vaguel y sui ted t o i ts p urpose. L arge swirling handwriting that drew attention to itself and, at the b ottom, copious kisses. The sort that were easily dispensed, one pen line scarred by another. Cassandra dunked her hands into the sink and moved the contents about some more. ‘Well I think that went splendidly,’ said Phyllis, the eldest after Nell and the bossiest by far. ‘Nell would’ve liked it.’ Cassandra glanced sideways. ‘That is,’ Phyllis continued, pausing a jot as she dried, ‘she would’ve once she’d f inished insisting she hadn ’t wanted one in t he f irst place.’ Her mo od t urned suddenl y ma ternal. ‘And ho w a bout y ou? H ow’ve you been keeping?’ ‘I’m all right.’ ‘You look thin. Are you eating?’ ‘Three times a da y.’ ‘You could do with some fattening up. You’ll come for tea tomorrow night, I’ll invite the family, make my cottage pie.’ Cassandra didn’t argue. Phyllis g lanced warily a bout t he o ld kitchen, t ook in t he s agging range hood. ‘You’re not frightened here by yourself?’ ‘No, not frightened—’ ‘Lonely, t hough,’ s aid Ph yllis, nos e wr inkling wi th extra vagant sympathy. ‘ Course y ou a re. Onl y na tural, y ou a nd N ell w ere g ood company for each other, weren’t you?’ She didn’t wait for confirmation, rather la id a sun-sp otted ha nd o n C assandra’s f orearm a nd p ressed on with the pep talk. ‘You’re going to be all r ight though, and I’ll tell you why. It’s always sad to lose someone you care for, but it’s never so bad w hen i t’s a n o ldie. I t’s as i t sho uld b e. M uch w orse w hen i t’s a 17


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young—’ S he st opped mid-s entence, her sho ulders t ensed a nd her cheeks reddened. ‘Yes,’ said Cassandra quickly, ‘of course it is.’ She stopped washing cups and leaned to look through the kitchen window into the backyard. Suds s lipped do wn h er fin gers, o ver th e g old ba nd s he s till w ore. ‘ I should get out and do s ome weeding. The nast urtium’ll be across the path if I’m not careful.’ Phyllis c lutched gra tefully t he ne w str ing o f p urpose. ‘ I’ll s end Trevor r ound t o hel p.’ H er gna rled f ingers tig htened t heir gr ip o n Cassandra’s arm. ‘Next Saturday all r ight?’ Aunt Dot appeared then, shuffling in f rom the lounge room with another tra y o f dir ty t eacups. S he ra ttled t hem o nto t he b ench a nd pressed the back of a p lump hand to her f orehead. ‘Finally,’ she s aid, b linking a t C assandra a nd Ph yllis t hrough impossibly thick glasses. ‘That’s the last of them.’ She waddled into the kitchen proper and peered inside a circular cake container. ‘I’ve worked up quite a hunger.’ ‘Oh D ot,’ s aid Ph yllis, r elishing t he o pportunity t o c hannel discomfort into admonition, ‘you’ve just eaten.’ ‘An hour ago.’ ‘With y our gall b ladder? I t hought y ou’d b e wa tching y our weight.’ ‘I am,’ said Dot, straightening and cinching her siza ble waist with both hands. ‘I’ve lost half a s tone since Chr istmas.’ She refastened the plastic lid a nd met Phyllis’s dubious gaze. ‘I have.’ Cassandra suppressed a smile as she co ntinued to wash t he cups. Phyllis a nd D ot w ere e ach as r ound as t he o ther, all t he a unts w ere. They got it from their mum, and she f rom her m um before. Nell was the only one who’d escaped the family curse, who took after her lanky Irish dad. They’d always been a sig ht together, tall, thin Nell with her round, dumpling sisters. Phyllis a nd Do t w ere s till b ickering a nd C assandra kn ew f rom experience that if she didn’t provide a distraction the argument would escalate until one (or b oth) tossed down a t ea towel and stormed off home in high dudgeon. She’d seen it happen before yet had never quite grown accustomed to the way certain phrases, eye contact that lasted a mi te t oo lo ng, co uld r elaunch a dis agreement st arted ma ny y ears 18


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before. As an only child, Cassandra found the well-worn paths of sibling interaction fascinating and horrifying in eq ual parts. It was f ortunate the other aunts had already been shepherded away by respective family members and weren’t able to add t heir two cents’ worth. Cassandra c leared her t hroat. ‘ You kno w, t here’s s omething I ’ve been me aning t o ask.’ S he lif ted her v olume a li ttle; she’d almost g ot their attention. ‘About Nell. Something she s aid in t he hospital.’ Phyllis and Dot both turned, cheeks similarly flushed. The mention of t heir sist er s eemed t o s ettle t hem. Remind t hem w hy t hey w ere gathered here, drying teacups. ‘Something about Nell?’ said Phyllis. Cassandra no dded. ‘ In t he hosp ital, t owards t he end , she sp oke about a woman. The lady, she called her, the authoress. She seemed to think they were on some kind o f boat?’ Phyllis’s lips tightened. ‘Her mind was wandering, she didn’t know what she was s aying. P robably a c haracter f rom s ome t elevision show she’d b een wa tching. Wasn’t t here s ome s eries she us ed t o lik e, set on a b oat?’ ‘Oh Phyll,’ said Dot, shaking her he ad. ‘I’m sure I r emember her t alking about it . . .’ ‘Come o n, Ph yll,’ s aid D ot. ‘ Nellie’s g one. Ther e’s no need f or all of this.’ Phyllis folded her a rms across her chest and huffed uncertainly. ‘We sho uld t ell her ,’ s aid D ot g ently. ‘ It w on’t do a ny ha rm. Not now.’ ‘Tell me what?’ Cassandra looked between them. Her question had been ask ed t o p re-empt a nother fa mily r ow; she hadn ’t exp ected t o uncover this strange hint of secrecy. The aunts were so focused on one another, they seemed to have forgotten she was t here. ‘Tell me w hat?’ she pressed. Dot raised her eyebrows at Phyllis. ‘Better to have it come from us than for her t o find out some other way.’ Phyllis no dded almost im perceptibly, met D ot’s gaze a nd smiled grimly. Their sha red knowledge made t hem allies aga in. ‘All r ight, C ass. You’d b etter co me a nd si t do wn,’ she s aid f inally. ‘Put the kettle on, will y ou Dotty love? Make us all a nice c uppa?’ Cassandra f ollowed Phyllis into t he si tting r oom a nd t ook a s eat on N ell’s s ofa. Ph yllis e ased her wide r ear o nto t he o ther side a nd 19


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worried a t hread lo ose. ‘ Hard t o kno w w here t o st art. B een s o lo ng since I t hought about it all.’ Cassandra was p erplexed. All o f what? ‘What I’m about to tell you is our family’s big secret. Every family’s got one, you can be sure of that, some are just bigger than others.’ She frowned in t he dir ection o f t he ki tchen. ‘ Now w hat’s t aking D ot s o long? Slow as a w et week, she is.’ ‘What is i t, Phyll?’ She sighed. ‘Promised myself I’d never tell anyone else. The whole thing has ca used s o much division in o ur family already. Would that Dad had k ept i t t o him self. Tho ught he was do ing t he r ight t hing though, poor bugger.’ ‘What did he do? ’ If Phyllis heard, she made no acknowledgement. This was her story and she was g oing to tell it her wa y and in her o wn sweet time. ‘We were a ha ppy family. We hadn’t much of anything but we were happy enough. Ma and Pa and we girls. Nellie was t he eldest, as y ou know, then a gap of a decade or so on account of the Great War, then the rest of us.’ She smiled. ‘You wouldn’t credit it, but Nellie was t he life and soul of the family back then. We all ado red her—thought of her as a mother of sorts, did we younger ones, especially after Ma got sick. Nell looked after Ma so carefully.’ Cassandra co uld imagine N ell do ing t hat, b ut as f or her p rickly grandmother b eing t he lif e a nd s oul o f t he fa mily . . . ‘What ha ppened?’ ‘For a long time none of us ever knew. That’s the way Nell wanted it. Everything changed in o ur family and none of us kne w w hy. Our big sist er t urned in to s omebody els e, s eemed t o st op lo ving us. N ot overnight, i t wasn’t as dra matic as all t hat. S he j ust wi thdrew, b it b y bit, extr icated her self f rom t he lo t o f us. S uch a m ystery, i t was, s o hurtful, and Pa wouldn’t b e drawn on t he subject no ma tter how we needled him. ‘It was my husband, God rest him, who finally put us on the right path. Not intentionally, mind—it wasn’t like he set out to discover Nell’s secret. Fancied himself a bit of a history buff, that’s all. Decided to put together a fa mily tr ee o nce o ur Trevor was b orn. Sa me y ear as y our mum, 1947 t hat was.’ She paused and e yed C assandra shrewdly, as if 20


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waiting to s ee w hether she had s omehow intuited w hat was co ming. She had no t. ‘One da y he ca me in to m y ki tchen, I r emember i t c lear as da y, and said he couldn’t find any mention of Nellie’s birth in the registry. “Well o f co urse no t,” I s aid. “ Nellie was b orn u p in M aryborough, before t he fa mily p ulled u p stic ks a nd mo ved t o B risbane.” D oug nodded t hen a nd s aid t hat’s w hat he’d t hought, b ut w hen he’d s ent away f or det ails f rom M aryborough t hey t old him no ne exist ed.’ Phyllis lo oked me aningfully at C assandra. ‘ That is, N ell didn’t exist. At least not officially.’ Cassandra looked up as Dot came in from the kitchen and handed her a t eacup. ‘I don’t understand.’ ‘Of course you don’t, pet,’ said Dot, sitting herself in t he armchair beside Phyllis. ‘And for a long time, neither did we.’ She shook her head and sighed. ‘Not until we spoke to June. At Trevor’s wedding, that was, wasn’t it Phylly?’ Phyllis nodded. ‘Yes, 1975. I was that mad at Nell. We’d only recently lost Pa and here was m y eldest b oy getting married, Nellie’s nep hew, and she didn’t even bother to show. Took herself off on holiday instead. That’s w hat got me t alking t hat way with June. I do n’t mind s aying I was having a g ood old whinge about Nell.’ Cassandra was confused, she’d never been great at keeping track of the aunts’ extensive web of friends and family. ‘Who’s June?’ ‘One of our cousins,’ said Dot, ‘on Ma’s side. You’d have met her a t some point, surely? She was a y ear or so older than Nell and the two of them thick as t hieves when they were girls.’ ‘Must’ve b een c lose,’ s aid Phyllis, wi th a snif f. ‘ June was t he o nly one Nell told when it happened.’ ‘When what happened?’ said Cassandra. Dot leaned forward. ‘Pa told Nell—’ ‘Pa t old N ell s omething he ne ver sho uld’ve,’ s aid Ph yllis q uickly. ‘Thought he was doing the right thing, poor man. Regretted it the rest of his lif e, things were never the same between them.’ ‘And he was al ways partial to Nell.’ ‘He loved us all ,’ snapped Phyllis. ‘Oh Phyll,’ said Dot, rolling her eyes. ‘Can’t admit it even now. Nell was his favourite, pure and simple. Ironic, as i t turns out.’ 21


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Phyllis didn’t respond, so Dot, pleased to take the reins, continued. ‘It happened on the night of her tw enty-first birthday,’ she s aid. ‘After her party—’ ‘It wasn’t a fter t he pa rty,’ s aid Ph yllis, ‘ it was d uring.’ S he t urned towards Cassandra. ‘I expect he t hought it was t he perfect time to tell her, b eginning o f her ne w lif e a nd all t hat. S he was en gaged t o b e married, you know. Not your grandpa, another fellow.’ ‘Really?’ Cassandra was s urprised. ‘She never said anything.’ ‘Love of her lif e, you ask me . Local boy, not like Al.’ Phyllis spoke the name with a lic k of distaste. That the aunts had disapproved o f N ell’s Amer ican h usband was no s ecret. I t wasn ’t personal, rather the shared disdain of a ci tizenry resenting the influx of GI s w ho’d a rrived in W orld War Two B risbane wi th mo re mo ney and smarter uniforms, only to abscond with a fa ir whack of the city’s womenfolk. ‘So what happened? Why didn’t she ma rry him? ’ ‘She called i t off a f ew months after t he party,’ s aid Phyllis. ‘Such an upset. We were all o f us s o fond of Danny, and it broke his he art, poor fellow. He married someone else eventually, just before the second war. Not that it brought him much happiness, he never came back from fighting the Japs.’ ‘Did her father tell Nell not to marry him?’ said Cassandra. ‘Is that what he t old her t hat night? Not to marry Danny?’ ‘Hardly,’ Dot scoffed. ‘Pa thought the sun shone out of Danny. None of our husbands ever matched up.’ ‘Then why did she b reak it off?’ ‘She w ouldn’t s ay, w ouldn’t e ven t ell him. N early dr ove us r ound the bend trying to figure it out,’ said Phyllis. ‘All we knew was that Nell wouldn’t talk to Pa, and she w ouldn’t talk to Danny.’ ‘All we knew until Phylly spoke to June,’ said Dot. ‘Near on forty-five years later.’ ‘What did June say?’ said Cassandra. ‘What happened at the party?’ Phyllis took a sip of tea and raised her eyebrows at Cassandra. ‘Pa told Nell she wasn’t his a nd Ma’s.’ ‘She was ado pted?’ The aunts exchanged a g lance. ‘Not exactly,’ said Phyllis. ‘More like she was f ound,’ said Dot. 22


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‘Taken.’ ‘Kept.’ Cassandra frowned. ‘Found where?’ ‘On the Maryborough wharf,’ said Dot. ‘Where the big ships used to come in from Europe. They don’t now, of course, there’s much bigger ports, and most p eople fly these days—’ ‘Pa found her,’ Phyllis interjected. ‘When she was j ust a wee thing. It was right before the Great War started. Folks were leaving Europe in droves and we were only too happy to take them here in Australia. Pa was t he p ort master at t he time, it was his job t o s ee to it t hat t hose that were travelling were all who they said they were, had arrived where they meant to. Some of them had no En glish to speak of. ‘As I understand it, one afternoon there was something of a kerfuffle. A ship came into port after a shocking journey from England. Typhoid infections, sun stroke, t hey’d had t he lo t, a nd w hen t he shi p a rrived there were extra bags and persons unaccounted for. It was all a mighty headache. Pa managed to get it sorted, of course—he was always good at keeping things in order—but he waited around longer than usual to be sure and let the night watchman know all that had happened, explain why t here w ere extra bags in t he o ffice. It was w hile he was wa iting that he noticed there was still someone left o n the docks. A li ttle girl, barely four years old, sitting on top of a c hild’s suitcase.’ ‘No o ne els e f or miles,’ s aid D ot, shakin g her he ad. ‘ She was all alone.’ ‘Pa tried to find out who she was, o f course, but she w ouldn’t tell him. Said she didn’t know, she co uldn’t remember. And t here was no name tag attached to the suitcase, nothing inside that would help either, not as far as he could tell. It was late though, and getting dark, and the weather was t urning bad. Pa knew she m ust be hungry, so eventually he decided t here was no thing f or i t b ut t o t ake her ho me wi th him. What else could he do? Couldn’t just leave her there on the rainy docks all night, could he? ’ Cassandra shook her head, trying to reconcile the tired and lonely little girl o f Phylly’s story with the Nell she kne w. ‘As June tells it, next da y he w ent back to work exp ecting f rantic relatives, police, an investigation—’ 23


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‘But there was nothing,’ said Dot. ‘Day after day there was nothing, no one said anything.’ ‘It was as if she’d left no trace. They tried to find out who she was, of course, but with so many people arriving each day . . . There was so much paperwork. So easy for something to slip through the cracks.’ ‘Or someone.’ Phyllis sighed. ‘So they kept her.’ ‘What else could they do? ’ ‘And they let her t hink she was o ne of theirs.’ ‘One of us.’ ‘Until she t urned tw enty-one,’ s aid Ph yllis. ‘And P a decided she should know t he tr uth. That she was a f oundling with nothing more to identify her t han a c hild’s suitcase.’ Cassandra sat silently, trying to absorb this information. She wrapped her fingers around her warm teacup. ‘She must have felt so alone.’ ‘Too right,’ said Dot. ‘All that way by herself. Weeks and weeks on that big ship, winding up on an empty dock.’ ‘And all th e time after.’ ‘What do y ou mean?’ Dot said, frowning. Cassandra p ressed her li ps t ogether. W hat did she me an? It had come to her in a wa ve. The cer tainty of her gra ndmother’s loneliness. As if in t hat mo ment she had g limpsed a n im portant asp ect o f N ell that she’d never known before. Or rather, she suddenly understood an aspect of Nell she’d known very well. Her isolation, her independence, her p rickliness. ‘ She m ust ha ve f elt s o alo ne w hen she r ealised she wasn’t who she’d thought she was.’ ‘Yes,’ said Phyllis, surprised. ‘Must admit, I didn’t see that at first. When June told me, I couldn’t see that it changed things all that much. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why Nell had let it affect her so badly. Ma and Pa loved her well and we younger ones worshipped our big sister; she couldn’t have hoped for a better family.’ She leaned against the s ofa’s arm, head on hand, and r ubbed her lef t temple wearily. ‘As time’s gone on, though, I’ve come to realise—that happens, doesn’t it? I’ve come to see that the things we take for granted are important. You know, family, blood, the past . . . They’re the things that make us w ho we are and Pa took them from Nell. He didn’t mean to, but he did .’ 24


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‘Nell m ust’ve b een r elieved t hat y ou f inally kne w, t hough,’ s aid Cassandra. ‘It must’ve made i t easier in s ome way.’ Phyllis and Dot exchanged a g lance. ‘You did t ell her y ou’d found out?’ Phyllis frowned. ‘I almost did a number of times, but when it came down to it I just couldn’t find the words, I couldn’t do it to Nell. She’d gone so long without breathing a w ord of it to any of us, she’d rebuilt her entire life around the secret, worked so hard at keeping it to herself. It seemed . . . I do n’t know . . . almost cruel to tear down those walls. Like taking the wool out from under her a second time.’ She shook her head. ‘Then again, perhaps that’s all claptrap. Nell could be fierce when she wanted to, perhaps I j ust didn’t have the courage for it.’ ‘It’s nothing to do with courage or its lack,’ said Dot firmly. ‘We all agreed it was f or the best. Nell wanted it that way.’ ‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Phyllis. ‘All the same, one does wonder. It’s not like there weren’t opportunities, the day Doug took the suitcase back for one.’ ‘Just before Pa died,’ Dot explained to Cassandra, ‘he had P hylly’s husband drop the suitcase over to Nell. Not a w ord as t o what it was, mind. Tha t was P a, as bad as N ell f or k eeping s ecrets. H e’d had i t hidden a way all th ose y ears, y ou s ee. E verything s till in side, j ust a s when he f ound her.’ ‘Funny,’ said Phyllis. ‘As soon as I saw the suitcase that day I thought of June’s story. I kne w it must b e t he one Pa had f ound with Nell on the wharf all those years ago, yet in all the time it had been at the back of Pa’s st oreroom I’d ne ver gi ven it a t hought. Didn’t connect it with Nell and her origins. If I ever considered it at all, it was to wonder what Ma a nd P a had e ver wa nted wi th suc h a f unny-looking cas e. W hite leather with silver buckles. Tiny it was, c hild size . . .’ And although Phylly continued to describe the suitcase, she needn’t have bothered, for Cassandra knew exactly how it looked. What was mo re, she kne w what it contained.

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assandra kne w w here t hey w ere g oing as s oon as her mo ther wound down the window and told the petrol station attendant to ‘Fill her up’. The man said something and her mother laughed girlishly. He winked at Cassandra before letting his gaze fall to her mother’s long brown legs in t heir cut-off denim sho rts. Cassandra was us ed to men staring at her mother and thought little of it. Rather, she turned to look out her o wn windo w a nd t hought a bout N ell, her gra ndmother. F or that’s w here t hey w ere g oing. The o nly r eason her mo ther e ver p ut more than five dollars of petrol in t he car was t o make the hour-long trip up the Southeast Freeway to Brisbane. Cassandra had always been in awe of Nell. She’d only met her f ive times before (as far as she could remember), but Nell wasn’t the kind of person one easily forgot. For a start, she was the oldest person Cassandra had ever seen in r eal life. And she didn ’t smile lik e other people did, which made her s eem rather grand and more than a little frightening. Lesley didn’t speak much of Nell but once, when Cassandra was l ying in bed and her mother was fighting with the boyfriend before Len, she’d heard Nell referred to as a wi tch, and though Cassandra had st opped believing in magic b y then, the image wouldn’t leave her. Nell was lik e a wi tch. Her lo ng sil very ha ir r olled in to a b un o n the back o f her he ad, t he na rrow w ooden ho use o n t he hillside in Paddington, with its peeling lemon-yellow paint and overgrown garden, the neig hbourhood ca ts t hat f ollowed her e verywhere. The wa y she had of fixing her eyes straight on you, as if she mig ht be about to cast a spell. 26


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They sped along Logan Road wi th the windows down and Lesley singing alo ng t o t he radio—t he ne w ABBA s ong t hat was al ways o n Countdown. After crossing the Brisbane river they bypassed the centre of t own a nd dr ove t hrough P addington wi th i ts co rrugated-iron toadstools c ut into t he hills. Of f L atrobe Terrace, down a st eep slope and midway along a na rrow street was Nell’s place. Lesley jerked the car to a halt and shut off the ignition. Cassandra sat f or a mo ment, ho t sun shinin g t hrough t he winds creen o nto her legs, skin under her knees g lued to the vinyl seat. She hopped out of the ca r w hen her m um did a nd st ood b eside her o n t he pa vement, gazing upwards, involuntarily, at the tall, weatherboard house. A thin, cracked concrete path ran up one side. There was a f ront door, way up top, but someone years ago had enclosed the stairway so that the entrance was obscured, and Lesley said that no one ever used it. Nell liked it that way, she added: i t stopped people from dropping in unexp ectedly, t hinking t hey w ere w elcome. The gu tters w ere o ld and w onky, a nd in t he cen tre was a la rge r ust-rimmed ho le w hich must’ve let through buckets of water when it stormed. No sign of rain today t hough, C assandra t hought, as a wa rm b reeze s et t he wind chimes to jangling. ‘Christ, B risbane’s a stink ho le,’ s aid L esley, p eering o ver t he t op of her la rge b ronze sun glasses a nd shakin g her he ad. ‘ Thank G od I got out.’ A noise t hen f rom t he top of t he path. A sleek ca ramel cat f ixed the new arrivals with a lo ok, distinctly unwelcoming. Squeaky hinges on a ga te, t hen f ootsteps. A t all, sil ver-haired f igure appeared by t he cat. Cassandra drew breath. Nell. It was lik e coming face t o face wi th a figment of her imagination. They all st ood, observing one another. Nobody spoke. Cassandra had t he stra nge s ensation o f b eing wi tness t o a m ysterious r itual o f adulthood that she couldn’t quite understand. She was wondering why they continued to stand, who would make the next mo ve, when Nell broke the silence. ‘I thought you agreed to call f irst in f uture.’ ‘Good to see you too, Mum.’ ‘I’m in t he middle o f s orting b oxes f or a uction. I ’ve t hings everywhere, there’s no r oom to sit.’ 27


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‘We’ll manage.’ Lesley flicked her f ingers in C assandra’s direction. ‘Your granddaughter’s thirsty, it’s bloody hot out here.’ Cassandra shifted uncomfortably and looked at the ground. There was s omething o dd about her mo ther’s b ehaviour, a ner vousness she wasn’t accustomed to and couldn’t articulate. She heard her grandmother exhale slowly. ‘All right then,’ said Nell, ‘you’d better come inside.’

c Nell hadn’t been exaggerating about the mess. The f loor was co vered in scrunched newspaper, great crinkly mounds. On the table, an island amidst the sea of newsprint, were countless pieces of china and glass and cr ystal. B ric-a-brac, C assandra t hought, p leasing her self b y remembering the term. ‘I’ll put t he kettle on,’ s aid L esley, g liding to t he other side o f t he kitchen. Nell a nd C assandra w ere lef t alo ne t hen a nd t he o lder w oman trained her e yes on Cassandra in t hat uncanny way she had . ‘You’ve grown taller,’ she said eventually. ‘But you’re still too thin.’ It was tr ue, the kids at school were always telling her s o. ‘I was t hin like you,’ said Nell. ‘You know what my father used to call me?’ Cassandra shrugged. ‘Lucky legs. Lucky they don’t snap in half.’ Nell started pulling teacups off hooks attached to an old-fashioned cabinet. ‘Tea or coffee?’ Cassandra shook her head, scandalised. For though she had turned ten in May, she was still a little girl and not accustomed to grown-ups offering her grown-up drinks. ‘I don’t have fruit juice or fizzy dinks,’ warned Nell, ‘or any of those sorts of things.’ She found her t ongue. ‘I like milk.’ Nell blinked at her. ‘It’s in the fridge, I keep plenty for the cats. The bottle will b e slippery so don’t drop it on my floor.’ When the tea was poured, Cassandra’s mum told her to scoot. The day was t oo bright and sunny for a li ttle girl t o be cooped up inside. 28


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Grandma Nell added that she could play under the house but she wasn’t to dist urb a nything. And she most cer tainly was no t t o en ter t he downstairs flat.

c It was o ne of those desperate Antipodean spells where the days seem strung together with no gaps between. Fans do little else but move the hot air around, cicadas t hreaten to deafen, to breathe is t o exert, and there is nothing for it but to lie on one’s back and wait for January and February to pass, the March storms to come, and then finally the first April gusts. But Cassandra didn’t know that. She was a c hild and had a c hild’s stamina for difficult climates. She let the screen door slap closed behind her and followed the path into the back garden. Frangipani flowers had dropped and were baking in the sun, black and dry and shrunken. She smudged them with her shoe as she walked. Drew some pleasure from watching the smears scar the blond concrete. She sat on the little iron garden seat in t he clearing at the top and looked down at the strange garden of her mysterious grandmother, the patched-up ho use b eyond. S he w ondered w hat her mo ther a nd grandmother w ere sp eaking o f, w hy had t hey co me t o visi t t oday, but no ma tter ho w she twist ed t he q uestions in her mind she co uld divine no a nswers. After a time , t he distrac tion of t he ga rden proved t oo great. Her questions dropped away and she began to harvest pregnant busy lizzie pods while a black cat watched from a distance, pretending disinterest. When she had a nice collection, Cassandra climbed up onto the lowest bough of the mango tree in t he back corner of the yard, pods cupped gently in her ha nd, and began to pop them, one by one. Enjoying the cold, gooey seeds that sprayed across her fingers, the pussycat’s surprise when a p od shell dropped between her p aws, her ze al as she misto ok it for a grassho pper. When they were all dis charged, Cassandra brushed her ha nds on her shorts and let her gaze wander. On the other side of the wire fence was a huge white rectangular building. It was t he Paddington theatre, Cassandra kne w, t hough i t was c losed no w. S omewhere ne arby her 29


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grandmother had a second-hand shop. Cassandra had been there once before on another of Lesley’s impromptu visits to Brisbane. She’d been left with Nell while her mo ther went off to meet s omeone or other. Nell had let her p olish a sil ver t ea s et. C assandra had en joyed that, t he smell o f t he S ilvo, wa tching as t he c loth t urned b lack a nd the teapot shiny. Nell even explained some of the markings—lion for sterling, leopard’s head for London, a letter for the year it was made. It was like a secret code. Cassandra had hunted at home later that week, hoping to find silver that she co uld polish and decode for Lesley. But she hadn’t f ound a ny. S he had f orgotten un til no w ho w m uch she’d enjoyed the task. As the day wore on and the mango leaves began to sag with heat and the magpies’ songs got stuck in their throats, Cassandra made her way bac k do wn th e ga rden pa th. M um a nd N ell w ere s till in th e kitchen—she could see their shadowy silhouettes through the gauze of the screen—so she continued around the side. There was a huge timber sliding door on runners and when she p ulled the handle it opened to reveal the cool, dim a rea beneath the house. The dark formed such a contrast to the bright outdoors that it was like crossing the threshold into another world. Cassandra felt a jo lt of excitement as she w ent in side a nd walk ed a round t he r oom’s r im. It was a large space but Nell had done her best to fill it. Boxes of varying shapes and sizes were stacked from floor to ceiling around three sides, and along the fourth leaned odd windows and doors, some with broken glass pa nes. The o nly space lef t unco vered was a do orway, half way along t he f urthest wall, w hich led in to t he room Nell called ‘ the f lat’. Peering inside, Cassandra could see it was about the size of a bedroom. Makeshift shelves, heavy with old books, spanned two walls, and there was a fold-out bed in the corner, a red, white and blue patchwork quilt draped acr oss i t. A small windo w let in t he r oom’s o nly lig ht, b ut someone had nailed timber palings across it in places. To keep burglars out, Cassandra supposed. Though what they would want with such a room she co uldn’t imagine. She had a strong urge to lie on the bed, to feel the cool of the quilt beneath her wa rm skin, b ut N ell had b een c lear—she co uld p lay downstairs but she wasn’t allowed inside the flat—and Cassandra had a habit of obedience. Rather than enter the flat and collapse onto the 30


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bed, she t urned away. Went back to t he sp ot w here s ome child, long ago, had pa inted ho pscotch s quares o n t he cemen t f loor. S he nos ed about the edges of the room for a suitable stone, discarded a few before settling on one that was e ven in sha pe with no ja gged angles to send it off course. Cassandra r olled i t—a p erfect la nding in t he middle o f t he f irst square—and b egan t o ho p. S he was u p t o n umber s even w hen her grandmother’s voice, sharp as broken glass, cut through the floor from upstairs. ‘What kind o f a mo ther are you?’ ‘No worse than you were.’ Cassandra remained still, balancing on one leg in th e middle o f a square as she list ened. There was si lence, or at least there was silence as far as C assandra could tell. More likely they had j ust lowered their voices again, remembered that the neighbours were only a few metres away on either side. Len was always reminding Lesley when they argued that i t w ouldn’t do t o ha ve stra ngers kno wing t heir b usiness. The y didn’t seem to mind t hat Cassandra heard every word. She began to wobble, lost her balance and lowered her foot. It was only for a split second, then she had it raised again. Even Tracy Waters, who had a reputation amongst the grade five girls for being the strictest of hopscotch judges, would have allowed it, would have let her continue the r ound, b ut C assandra had los t her en thusiasm f or p laying. H er mother’s tone of voice had lef t her un settled. Her tummy had st arted to ache. She tossed her st one aside a nd stepped away from the squares. It was t oo hot to go back outside. What she r eally felt like doing was reading. Escaping into the Enchanted Wood, up the Faraway Tree, or wi th t he F amous F ive in to S muggler’s Top. S he co uld p icture her book, lying on her b ed where she’d left it that morning, right near the pillow. Stupid of her not to bring it; she heard Len’s voice, as she always did when she’d done something dumb. She t hought t hen o f N ell’s shelv es, t he old b ooks linin g t he f lat. Surely Nell wouldn’t mind if she chose one and sat down to read? She’d be careful to do no ha rm, to leave things just as she’d found them. The smell of dust and time was thick inside. Cassandra let her gaze run alo ng t he r ows o f b ook sp ines, r ed a nd gr een a nd y ellow, a nd waited for a title to arrest her. A tabby cat was stretched across the third 31


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shelf, balanced in f ront of the books in a st rip of sunlight. Cassandra hadn’t noticed it b efore and wondered where it had co me f rom, how it had en tered t he f lat wi thout her s eeing. The ca t, s eeming t o s ense that she was under s crutiny, p ushed u p o n her f ront legs a nd f ixed Cassandra wi th a lo ok o f ma jesty. Then she le apt in a sin gle f luid motion to the floor and disappeared beneath the bed. Cassandra wa tched her g o, w ondering w hat i t w ould b e lik e t o move so effortlessly, to vanish so completely. She blinked. Perhaps not so co mpletely a fter all . W here t he ca t had b rushed under t he q uilt, something was now exposed. It was small a nd white. Rectangular. Cassandra knel t o n t he f loor a nd lif ted t he q uilt edg e. P eered beneath. It was a tin y sui tcase, a n o ld sui tcase. Its lid s at ask ew a nd Cassandra co uld s ee s ome o f t he wa y in side. P apers, w hite fa bric, a blue ribbon. The cer tainty ca me o ver her suddenl y, t he f eeling t hat she m ust know exactly what it held, even if it meant breaking Nell’s rules further. Heart flickering, she slid the suitcase out and leaned the lid against the bed. Began to look over the things inside. A silver hairbrush, old and surely precious, with a li ttle leopard’s head for L ondon st amped ne ar t he bristles. A w hite dress, small a nd pretty, t he s ort o f o ld-fashioned dr ess C assandra had ne ver s een, let alone owned—the girls at school would laugh if she wore such a thing. A bundle of papers tied t ogether with a pale b lue r ibbon. C assandra let t he b ow sli p lo ose b etween her f ingertips a nd b rushed t he ends aside to see what lay beneath. A p icture, a b lack a nd w hite sk etch. The most b eautiful w oman Cassandra had e ver seen, standing beneath a ga rden arch. No, not an arch, a le afy do orway, t he en trance t o a t unnel o f tr ees. A maze , she thought suddenly. The strange word came into her mind f ully formed. Scores of little black lines combined like magic to form the picture, and Cassandra wondered what it would feel like to create such a thing. The image was o ddly familiar and at first she co uldn’t think how that could be. Then she r ealised—the woman looked like someone from a children’s b ook. L ike an illustration f rom an olden days fairytale, t he maiden w ho t urns in to a p rincess w hen t he ha ndsome p rince s ees beyond her ratty clothing. 32


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She set the sketch on the ground beside her and turned her attention to the rest of the bundle. There were some envelopes with letters inside, and a notebook full of lined pages that someone had covered with long curly handwriting. It may have been written in a different language for all that Cassandra knew, she cer tainly couldn’t read it. Brochures and torn-out pages of magazines had b een tucked in t he back with an old photograph o f a ma n a nd a w oman a nd a li ttle girl wi th lo ng p laits. Cassandra recognised none of them. Beneath the notebook she found the book of fairytales. The cover was green cardboard, the writing gold: Magical Tales for Girls and Boys, by E liza Makepeace. C assandra repeated t he author’s name, enjoying the mysterious rustle against her lips. She opened it up and inside the front cover was a p icture of a fa iry sitting in a b ird’s woven nest: lo ng flowing hair, a wreath of stars around her he ad, and large, translucent wings. W hen she lo oked mo re c losely, C assandra r ealised t hat t he fairy’s face was the same as that in the sketch. A line of spidery writing curled a round t he bas e o f t he nest p roclaiming her ‘ Your st oryteller, Miss Makepeace’. With a delicious shiver, she turned to the first fairytale sending st artled sil verfish s crambling in all dir ections. T ime had coloured the pages yellow, worked and worried at the edges. The paper felt p owdery a nd w hen she r ubbed a dog-e ared co rner i t s eemed t o disintegrate a li ttle, fall t o dust. Cassandra couldn’t help herself. She c urled up on her side in t he centre of the camp bed. It was t he perfect place for reading, cool and quiet a nd s ecret. C assandra al ways hid w hen she r ead, t hough she never quite knew why. It was as if she couldn’t shake the guilty suspicion that she was b eing lazy, t hat sur rendering her self s o co mpletely t o something so enjoyable must surely be wrong. But surrender she did. Let herself drop through the rabbit hole and into a t ale o f magic a nd m ystery, a bout a p rincess w ho li ved wi th a blind crone in a cottage on the edge of a dark wood. A brave princess, far braver than Cassandra would ever be. She was two pages from the end when footsteps on the floorboards above called bac k her attention. They were coming. She sat up quickly and swung her legs over the side of the bed, feet onto the floor. She wanted desperately to finish, to find out what would 33


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happen to the princess. But there was no thing for it. She straightened the papers, tossed everything back into the suitcase and slid i t under the bed. Removed all e vidence of her dis obedience. She sli pped f rom t he f lat, p icked u p a st one a nd he aded f or t he hopscotch squares again. By t he time her m um a nd N ell a ppeared a t t he slidin g do or, Cassandra could make a pretty convincing case that she’d been playing hopscotch all a fternoon. ‘Come here, kiddo,’ said Lesley. Cassandra d usted o ff her sho rts a nd w ent t o her mo ther’s side , wondered as L esley wrapped an arm around her sho ulders. ‘Having fun?’ ‘Yes,’ said Cassandra cautiously. Had she b een found out? But her mother wasn’t cross. Quite the opposite; she seemed almost triumphant. She looked at Nell. ‘Told you, didn’t I? Takes care of herself, this one.’ Nell didn’t answer and Cassandra’s mum continued: ‘You’re going to stop here with Grandma Nell for a b it, Cassie. Have an adventure.’ This was a surprise; her mum must have more business in Brisbane. ‘Will I have lunch here?’ ‘Every day, I reckon, until I g et back to collect you.’ Cassandra was aware suddenly of the sharp edges of the stone she was ho lding. The wa y t he co rners p ushed in to her f ingertips. S he looked from her mother to her grandmother. Was it a game? Was her mother making a jo ke? She waited to see whether Lesley would burst out laughing. She didn’t. Merely gazed at Cassandra, blue eyes wide. Cassandra could think of nothing to say. ‘I didn’t bring my pyjamas,’ was what she ma naged in t he end. Her mother smiled then, quickly, broadly, with relief, and Cassandra glimpsed s omehow t hat t he p oint o f r efusal had b een p assed. ‘ Don’t worry a bout t hat, y ou d uffer. I ’ve pac ked y ou a bag in t he ca r. You didn’t think I’d drop you off without a bag, did y ou?’ Through all t his Nell was silen t, stif f. Watching L esley with w hat Cassandra recognised as dis approval. She supposed her gra ndmother didn’t want her to stay. Little girls had a habit of getting in the way, Len was always saying so. 34


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Lesley skipped to the car and leaned through the open window at the back to pull out an overnight bag. Cassandra wondered when she’d packed it, why she hadn’t let C assandra pack it herself. ‘Here y ou a re, kiddo ,’ s aid L esley, t ossing t he bag t o C assandra. ‘There’s a sur prise in t here f or y ou, a ne w dr ess. L en hel ped me choose it.’ She straightened and said to Nell: ‘Just a w eek or two, I p romise. Just while Len and me get ourselves sorted.’ Lesley ruffled Cassandra’s hair. ‘Your Grandma Nell’s looking forward to having you stay. It’ll be a real, proper summer holiday in the big smoke. Something to tell the other kids w hen school goes back.’ Cassandra’s grandmother smiled then, only it wasn’t a happy smile. Cassandra t hought she kne w how i t f elt t o smile lik e t hat. S he o ften did s o her self w hen her mo ther p romised her s omething she r eally wanted but knew might not come off. Lesley brushed a kiss o n her c heek, gave her ha nd a s queeze and then, s omehow, she was g one. B efore C assandra co uld g ive her a hug, co uld t ell her t o dr ive s afely, co uld ask her w hen exac tly she’d be back.

c Later, Nell made dinner—fat pork sausages, mashed potato, and mushy peas f rom a ca n—and t hey a te in t he na rrow r oom b y t he ki tchen. Nell’s house didn’t have f lyscreens on t he windows like L en’s unit on Burleigh Beach, instead Nell kept a p lastic swat on the window ledge beside her. W hen f lies o r mo zzies t hreatened, she was a q uick draw. So swift, so practised were these attacks that the cat, asleep o n Nell’s lap, barely flinched. The stumpy pedestal fan on top of the fridge beat thick, moist air back and forth while they ate; Cassandra answered her grandmother’s occasional questions as politely as she could, and eventually the ordeal of dinner ended. Cassandra helped to dry the dishes, then Nell took her to the bathroom and started running lukewarm water into the tub. ‘Only t hing w orse t han a co ld ba th in win ter,’ N ell s aid ma tterof-factly, ‘ is a ho t ba th in summer .’ S he p ulled a b rown t owel f rom the cupboard and balanced it on the toilet cistern. ‘You can shut the 35


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water o ff w hen i t r eaches t his line .’ S he p ointed o ut a crac k in t he green p orcelain, t hen st ood, stra ightening her dr ess. ‘ You’ll b e all right then?’ Cassandra nodded and smiled. She hoped she’d answered correctly, adults co uld b e tr icky s ometimes. For t he most pa rt, she kne w, t hey didn’t like it when children made t heir feelings known, not their bad feelings anyway. Len was often reminding Cassandra that good children should smile and learn to keep their black thoughts to themselves. Nell was different, though; Cassandra wasn’t sure how she knew it, but she sensed N ell’s r ules w ere dif ferent. All t he s ame, i t was b est t o p lay things safe. That was w hy she hadn ’t men tioned t he t oothbrush, o r lac k o f toothbrush. Lesley was always forgetting such things when they spent time a way f rom ho me, b ut C assandra kne w a w eek o r tw o wi thout wouldn’t kill her. She looped her hair up into a bun and tied it on top of her head with an elastic band. At home she wore her mother’s shower cap, b ut she wasn ’t sur e if N ell had o ne a nd didn’t wa nt t o ask. S he climbed into the bath and sat in the tepid water, gathered her knees up close and shut her e yes. Listened to the water lapping the sides o f the tub, the buzz of the light bulb, a mos quito somewhere above. She st ayed lik e t hat f or s ome time , c limbing o ut o nly r eluctantly when she r ealised t hat if she p ut i t o ff a ny lo nger, N ell mig ht co me looking f or her. S he dr ied her self, h ung t he t owel ca refully o ver t he shower rail, lining up the edges, then got into her pyjamas. She found Nell in the sunroom, making up the day bed with sheets and a b lanket. ‘It’s no t us ually f or sleep ing o n,’ s aid N ell, pa tting a p illow in to place. ‘ The ma ttress isn’t m uch t o sp eak o f a nd t he sp rings a re a b it hard, but you’re only a wa if of a girl . You’ll be comfy enough.’ Cassandra nodded gravely. ‘It won’t be for long. Just a week or two, just while Mum and Len get things sorted.’ Nell smiled gr imly. S he lo oked a bout t he r oom t hen bac k t o Cassandra. ‘Anything else you need? A g lass of water? A la mp?’ Cassandra half wondered whether Nell had a spare toothbrush but couldn’t formulate the words required to ask. S he shook her he ad. ‘In you hop then,’ said Nell, lifting a co rner of the blanket. 36


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Cassandra slid obediently into place and Nell pulled up the sheets. They w ere sur prisingly s oft, p leasantly w orn wi th a n unfa miliar y et clean smell. Nell hesitated. ‘Well . . . goodnight.’ ‘Goodnight.’ Then the light was o ff and Cassandra alone.

c In the dark, strange noises were amplified. Traffic on a distant ridge, a television in o ne o f t he neig hbouring ho uses, N ell’s f ootsteps o n t he floorboards o f a nother r oom. Ou tside t he windo w, t he wind c himes were clattering, and Cassandra realised that the air had become charged with the smell o f eucalypt and road tar. A s torm was co ming. She curled up tight beneath the covers. Cassandra didn’t like storms, they were unpredictable. Hopefully it would blow over before it really got going. She made a little deal with herself: if she could count to ten before the next ca r droned over the nearby hill, everything would be okay. The st orm would pass q uickly and Mum would come back for her within the week. One. Two. Three . . . She didn’t cheat, didn’t rush . . . Four. Five . . . Nothing so far, halfway there . . . Six. Seven . . . Breathing quickly, still no cars, almost s afe . . . Eight— Suddenly, she s at bolt upright. There were pockets inside the bag. Her m um hadn’t f orgotten, she’d j ust t ucked t he t oothbrush in t here for safekeeping. Cassandra slipped out of bed as a vio lent gust t ossed the chimes against the windowpane. She crept across the room, bare feet cooled by a draught of wind t hat sneaked between the floorboards. The sky a bove t he ho use gr umbled o minously t hen t urned spectacularly t o lig ht. I t f elt da ngerous, r eminded C assandra o f t he storm in t he fairytale she’d read that afternoon, the angry storm that had followed the little princess to the crone’s cottage. Cassandra knelt on the floor, rummaging in one pocket after another, willing the toothbrush’s familiar shape to meet her f ingertips. 37


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Big fa t ra indrops st arted fallin g, lo ud o n t he co rrugated-iron roof. Sporadic at first, then increasing until Cassandra could hear no gaps between. It wouldn’t hurt to recheck the main part of the bag while she was at i t: a t oothbrush was o nly small , maybe i t was t ucked s o fa r do wn she’d missed it? She pushed her hands in deep and pulled out everything from inside. The t oothbrush was no t there. Cassandra blocked her e ars as a nother clap of thunder shook the house. S he p icked her self u p a nd f olded her a rms acr oss her c hest, aware vaguely of her own thinness, her inconsequence, as she h urried back to bed and climbed under t he sheet. Rain p oured o ver t he e aves, ra n do wn t he windo ws in r ivulets, spilled from the sagging gutters that had b een caught unawares. Beneath the sheet, Cassandra lay very still, hugging her own body. Despite t he wa rm m uggy a ir t here w ere g oosebumps o n her u pper arms. She knew she sho uld try to sleep, she’d be tired in t he morning if she didn’t and no o ne liked to spend time wi th a gr ump. Try as she might though, sleep wouldn’t come. She counted sheep, sang silent s ongs about yellow submarines, and oranges and lemons, and ga rdens b eneath t he s ea, t old her self fa irytales. B ut t he nig ht threatened to stretch on endlessly. As lig htning f lashed, rain p oured and t hunder tore open t he sky, Cassandra began to weep. Tears that had waited a long time for escape were finally released under t he dark veil of rain. How much time pass ed before she b ecame aware of the shadowy figure standing in t he doorway? One minute? Ten? Cassandra ca ught a s ob in her t hroat, held i t t here al though i t burned. A whisper, Nell’s voice. ‘I came to check the window was c losed.’ In the dark Cassandra held her b reath, wiped at her e yes with the corner of the sheet. Nell was c lose now; Cassandra could sense the strange electricity generated when another human stands near without touching. ‘What is i t?’ Cassandra’s throat, still frozen, refused to let w ords pass. ‘Is it the storm? Are you frightened?’ Cassandra shook her he ad. 38


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Nell sat stiffly on the edge of the day bed, tightened her dr essinggown a round her middle . Ano ther f lash o f lig htning a nd C assandra saw her gra ndmother’s face , r ecognised her mo ther’s e yes wi th t heir slightly downturned corners. The sob was f inally dislodged. ‘My toothbrush,’ she s aid, through tears. ‘I don’t have my toothbrush.’ Nell looked at her a moment, startled, then gathered Cassandra in her arms. The li ttle girl f linched at first, surprised by the suddenness, the unexpectedness of the gesture, but then she f elt herself surrender. She collapsed forward, head resting against Nell’s soft lavender-scented body, shoulders shaking as she w ept warm tears into Nell’s nightie. ‘There no w,’ N ell w hispered, ha nd smo othing C assandra’s ha ir. ‘Don’t you worry. We’ll find you another one.’ She turned her he ad to look at the rain sluicing against the window, and rested her c heek on the top of Cassandra’s head. ‘You’re a sur vivor, you hear? You’re going to be all r ight. Everything’s going to be all r ight.’ And al though C assandra co uldn’t b elieve t hat t hings w ould e ver be all r ight, she was co mforted a li ttle by Nell’s words. S omething in her grandmother’s voice suggested that Nell understood. That she knew just ho w f rightening i t was t o s pend a s tormy nig ht alo ne in a n unfamiliar place.

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6 Maryborough, 1913 Maryborough, Australia, 1913

T

hough he was late home from port, the broth was still warm. That was Lil, bless her, she wasn’t the sort to serve up cold soup to her fellow. Hugh sp ooned t he last o f i t in to his mo uth a nd le aned bac k against his c hair, gave his nec k a r ub. Outside, distant thunder rolled along the river and into town. An in visible draught set the lamplight to flickering, coaxed the room’s shadows from hiding. He let his tir ed gaze follow them across the table, around the base of the walls, alo ng the front door. Dancing dark on the skin o f the shiny white suitcase. Lost suitcases he’d had, plenty of times. B ut a li ttle girl? H ow the hell did s omeone’s c hild wind u p si tting o n his w harf, alo ne as y ou please? She was a nice li ttle thing too, as fa r as he co uld tell. Pretty to look at, strawberry hair like spun gold and real deep blue eyes. A way of looking at you that told you she was list ening, that she under stood all you were saying, and all you weren’t. The do or t o t he sleep-o ut o pened a nd L il’s s oft, fa miliar sha pe materialised. She pulled the door gently behind her and started down the hall. Brushed a b othersome curl behind her e ar, the same unruly curl that’d been jumping out of place all the time he’d known her. ‘She’s asleep no w,’ L il s aid as she r eached t he ki tchen. ‘ Frightened o f t he thunder, but she couldn’t fight it for long. Poor little lamb was as tired as the day.’ Hugh t ook his b owl t o t he b ench a nd d unked i t in t epid wa ter. ‘Little wonder, I’m tired myself.’ ‘You look it. Leave the washing-up to me.’ ‘I’m all r ight, Lil love. You go in, I w on’t be long.’ 40


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But Lil didn’t leave. He could sense her behind him, could tell, the way a man learns to, that she’d something more to say. Her next words sat pregnant between them and Hugh felt his nec k tense. Felt the tide of previous conversations draw back, suspend a moment, preparing to crash once more upon them. Lil’s voice, when it came, was lo w. ‘You needn’t pussyfoot around me, Hughie.’ He sighed. ‘I know that.’ ‘I’ll come through. Have before.’ ‘Course you will.’ ‘Last thing I need is f or you to treat me lik e an invalid.’ ‘I do n’t me an t o, L il.’ H e t urned t o face her . Sa w t hat she was standing o n t he fa r side o f t he t able, ha nds r esting o n t he bac k o f a chair. The st ance, he kne w, was su pposed t o co nvince him o f her stability, to s ay ‘all is as i t was’, but Hugh kne w her t oo well for t hat. He knew that she was h urting. Knew also there was nothing he could bloody well do to set things right. As Dr Huntley was so fond of telling them, some things just weren’t meant to be. It didn’t make it any easier though, not on Lil and not on him. She was b y his side t hen, b umping him g ently wi th her hi p. H e could smell t he sweet, sad milkiness of her skin. ‘ Go on. Get yourself to b ed,’ she s aid. ‘I’ll b e in s oon.’ The ca refully rendered cheerfulness made his b lood chill but he did as she s aid. She was tr ue to her w ord, wasn’t far behind him, a nd he wa tched as she c leaned t he day f rom her skin, p ulled her nig htdress over her head. Though her back was turned, he could see how gently she eased the clothing over her breasts, her stomach that was still swollen. She glanced up then and caught him looking. Defensiveness chased vulnerability from her face . ‘What?’ ‘Nothing.’ H e co ncentrated o n his ha nds, t he call uses a nd r ope burns earned by his years on the wharves. ‘I was just wondering about the little one out there,’ he said. ‘Wondering who she is. Didn’t give up her name, I s’pose?’ ‘Says she do esn’t know. Doesn’t matter how many times I ask, she just looks back at me, serious as can be, and says she can’t remember.’ ‘You don’t think she’s fooling, do you? Some of them stowaways do a darn good line in f ooling.’ 41


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‘Hughie,’ s colded L il. ‘ She’s no st owaway, she’s li ttle mo re t han a baby.’ ‘Easy, Lil love. I was just asking.’ He shook his head. ‘Only it’s hard to believe she co uld’ve clean forgot like that.’ ‘I’ve heard of it before, amnesia it’s called. Ruth Halfpenny’s father got i t, a fter his fall do wn t he sha ft. Tha t’s w hat ca uses i t, falls a nd the like.’ ‘You think she mig ht’ve had a fall? ’ ‘Couldn’t see any bruises on her, but it’s possible, ain’t it?’ ‘Ah well,’ said Hugh, as a f lash of lightning lit the room’s corners, ‘I’ll lo ok in to i t t omorrow.’ H e shif ted p osition, la y o n his bac k a nd stared at the ceiling. ‘She must belong somewhere,’ he s aid quietly. ‘Yes.’ L il extin guished t he la mp, castin g t hem in to da rkness. ‘Someone must be missing her like the dickens.’ She rolled over as she did each night, turning her back on Hugh and shutting him out of her grief. Her voice was muffled by the sheet: ‘I tell you, they don’t deserve her though. Bloody careless. What kind of person could lose a c hild?’

c Lil watched out the back window where the two little girls were running back and forth below the clothesline, laughing as the cool damp sheets brushed their faces. The y were singing again, another of Nell’s songs. That was o ne t hing t hat hadn’t sli pped her memo ry, t he s ongs; she knew such a lo t of them. Nell. That’s what they were calling her now, after Lil’s mum, Eleanor. Well, they had to call her something, didn’t they? The funny little thing still couldn’t tell them her name. Whenever Lil quizzed her, she widened those big blue eyes and said she didn’t remember. After the first few weeks, Lil stopped asking. Truth be told, she was just as happy not to know. Didn’t want to imagine Nell with any name other than the one they’d given her. Nell. It suited her s o well, no o ne could say it didn’t. Almost as if she ’d been born to it. They’d done their best to find out who she was, where she belonged. That’s all a nyone could ask o f them. And al though initially she’d told herself t hat t hey w ere j ust mindin g Nell f or a time , k eeping her s afe 42


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until her p eople came for her, with every day that passed Lil became more certain that there were no suc h people. They’d fallen in to a n e asy r outine, t he t hree o f t hem. B reakfast together of a morning, then Hughie would leave for work and she and Nell would get started on the house. Lil found she liked having a second shadow, en joyed sho wing N ell t hings, exp laining ho w t hey w orked, and why. Nell was a b ig one for asking why—why did t he sun hide a t night, w hy didn’t the f ire f lames leap out of the grate, w hy didn’t the river g et b ored a nd r un t he o ther wa y? —and L il lo ved su pplying answers, wa tching as under standing da wned o n Nell’s li ttle face . F or the first time in her lif e Lil felt useful, needed, whole. Things were better with Hughie, too. The sheet of tension that the past few years had str ung b etween t hem was b eginning to slip away. They’d st opped b eing s o da mned p olite, tr ipping over t heir ca refully chosen w ords lik e tw o stra ngers dra fted in to c lose q uarters. The y’d even started to laugh again sometimes, easy laughter that came unforced like it had b efore. As for Nell, she took to life with Hughie and Lil like a duck to the Mary River. It didn’t take long for the neighbourhood kids to discover there was s omeone new in t heir midst a nd Nell perked up something tremendous at the prospect of other children to play with. Young Beth Reeves was o ver the fence at some point every day now. Lil loved the sound of t he two girls r unning about together. She’d b een waiting s o long, had s o looked forward to a time w hen little voices might squeal and laugh in her o wn backyard. And N ell was a most ima ginative c hild. L il o ften he ard her describing lo ng a nd in volved ga mes o f mak e-believe. The f lat, o pen yard became a magical forest in Nell’s imagination, with brambles and mazes, even a co ttage on the edge of a c liff. Lil recognised the places Nell des cribed f rom t he b ook o f c hildren’s fa irytales t hey’d f ound in the white suitcase. Lil and Hughie had b een taking it in t urns to read the stories to Nell of a nig ht. Lil had t hought them too frightening at first, but Hughie had convinced her otherwise. Nell, for her part, didn’t seem bothered a w hit. From where she st ood, watching at the kitchen window, Lil could tell that’s what they were playing today. Beth was listening, wide-eyed, 43


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as Nell led her t hrough an imaginary maze, flitting about in her w hite dress, sun rays turning her lo ng red plaits to gold. Nell would miss B eth when they moved to Brisbane, but she’d be sure to make new friends. Children did. And the move was important. There was only so long Lil and Hughie could tell people that Nell was a niece f rom up north. S ooner or later the neig hbours were going to start w ondering w hy she hadn ’t g one ho me. H ow m uch lo nger she’d be staying. No, it was c lear to Lil. The t hree of them needed t o make a f resh start somewhere they weren’t already known. A big city where people wouldn’t ask q uestions.

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I

t was a mo rning in e arly spring and Nell had b een dead just over a week. A brisk wind wove through the bushes, twirling the leaves so that t heir pale under sides f luttered t owards t he s un. L ike c hildren thrust suddenl y in to t he sp otlight, f litting b etween ner ves a nd s elfimportance. Cassandra’s m ug o f t ea had lo ng gr own co ld. S he’d s et i t o n t he cement ledge after her last si p and forgotten it was there. A brigade of busy ants whose way had been thwarted was now forced to take evasive action, up the mug’s edge and through the handle to the other side. Cassandra didn’t notice them though. Sitting on a r ickety chair in the backyard, beside the old laundry, her attention was on the rear wall of the house. It needed a coa t of paint. Hard to believe five years had passed already. The exp erts recommended that a weatherboard house should b e r epainted e very s even, b ut N ell hadn ’t held wi th suc h convention. In all the time Cassandra had lived with her grandmother, the house had ne ver received a f ull coat. Nell was f ond of saying that she wasn ’t in t he b usiness o f s pending g ood mo ney t o gi ve t he neighbours a f resh view. The back wall, however, was a different matter—as Nell said, it was the only one t hey e ver sp ent a ny time lo oking at. S o w hile t he sides and f ront p eeled b eneath t he f ierce Queen sland sun, t he bac k was a thing of beauty. Every five years the paint charts would come out and a gr eat de al o f time a nd ener gy w ould b e sp ent deba ting t he mer its of a new colour. In the years Cassandra had b een around it had b een turquoise, lilac, v ermilion, t eal. Once i t had e ven host ed a m ural o f sorts, unsanctioned though it might have been . . . 45


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Cassandra had b een ninet een a nd lif e was sw eet. S he was in t he middle o f her s econd y ear a t t he co llege o f a rts, her b edroom had morphed in to a st udio s o t hat she had t o c limb acr oss her dra wing board to reach her b ed e ach nig ht, and she was dr eaming of a mo ve to Melbourne to study art history. Nell was no t s o k een o n t he p lan. ‘ You ca n st udy a rt hist ory a t Queensland uni,’ she s aid w henever the subject was ra ised. ‘No need to drag y ourself down south.’ ‘I can’t stay living at home forever, Nell.’ ‘Who said anything about forever? Just wait a little while, find your feet here first.’ Cassandra pointed to her D oc-clad feet. ‘Found ’em.’ Nell didn’t smile . ‘ Melbourne’s a n exp ensive ci ty t o li ve in a nd I can’t afford to pay your rent down there.’ ‘I’m not picking up glasses at the Paddo Tav for fun, you know.’ ‘Pah, with w hat t hey pay, you can put off applying to Melbourne for another decade.’ ‘You’re right.’ Nell co cked her c hin a nd ra ised a d ubious e yebrow, w ondering where such sudden capitulation was le ading. ‘I’ll ne ver s ave eno ugh mo ney m yself.’ C assandra b it her b ottom lip, a rresting a ho peful smile . ‘ If o nly t here w ere s omeone willin g t o spot me a loa n, a lo ving p erson w ho wa nted t o hel p me f ollow m y dreams . . .’ Nell p icked u p t he b ox o f c hina she was t aking t o t he a ntique centre. ‘I’m not going to stand around here and let y ou paint me in to a corner, my girl.’ Cassandra sensed a hopeful fissure in the once solid refusal. ‘We’ll talk about it later?’ Nell rolled her e yes sky ward. ‘I fear we will. And t hen again and again a nd aga in.’ S he h uffed a sig h, signallin g t hat t he sub ject was, for now at least, closed. ‘Have you got everything you need t o do t he back wall? ’ ‘Check.’ ‘You won’t forget to use the new brush on the boards? I don’t want to stare at loose bristles for the next f ive years.’ 46


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‘Yes, Nell. And j ust to get things straight, I di p the brush into the paint tin b efore putting it on the boards, right?’ ‘Cheeky girl.’ When Nell arrived home f rom the antique centre that afternoon, she rounded the corner of the house and stopped still, appraising the wall in i ts shiny new coat. Cassandra stepped back and pressed her lips together to stop from laughing. Waited. The v ermilion was str iking, b ut i t was t he b lack det ailing she’d added over in the far corner that her grandmother was staring at. The likeness was uncanny: Nell sitting on her favourite chair, holding aloft a cup of steaming tea. ‘I s eem t o ha ve pa inted y ou in to a co rner, N ell. Didn’t me an t o, I just got carried away.’ Nell’s expression was unr eadable. ‘I’m going to do me next, si tting right beside you. That way, even when I’m in Melbourne, you’ll remember that we’re still a pa ir.’ Nell’s lips had trembled a little then. She’d shaken her head and set down the box she’d brought back from the stall. Heaved a sigh. ‘You’re a c heeky girl , t here’s no do ubt a bout t hat,’ she’d s aid. And t hen she’d smiled despite herself and cupped Cassandra’s face in her ha nds. ‘But you’re my cheeky girl a nd I w ouldn’t have you any other way . . .’ A noise, and the past was chased away, dispersed into the shadows like smo ke b y t he b righter, lo uder p resent. C assandra b linked a nd wiped her e yes. Far above her a p lane droned, a w hite speck in a s ea of bright blue. Impossible to imagine there were people inside, talking and laughing and eating. Some of them looking down just as she was looking up. Another noise, nearer now. Shuffling footsteps. ‘Hello t here, young C assandra.’ A fa miliar f igure appeared at t he side o f t he ho use, st ood f or a mo ment ca tching his b reath. B en had once b een t all, b ut time had a wa y o f mo ulding p eople in to sha pes they t hemselves no lo nger r ecognised, a nd his was no w t he b ody of a ga rden gno me. H is ha ir was w hite, his b eard wir y, a nd his e ars inexplicably red. Cassandra smiled, genuinely pleased to see him. Nell was not one for friends and had ne ver hidden her dist aste for most other humans, 47


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their neurotic compulsion for the acquisition of allies. But she and Ben had seen eye to eye. He was a fellow trader at the antique centre, a onetime s olicitor w ho’d t urned his hobb y into a job w hen his wif e died , his firm suggested gently it might be time t o retire, and his p urchase of second-hand furniture threatened to squeeze him o ut of home. When Cassandra was growing up he’d been a father figure of sorts, offering wisdom she’d appreciated and disdained in equal measure, but since she’d been back living with Nell, he’d become her f riend too. Ben pulled a faded squatter’s chair from beside the concrete laundry tub and s at down carefully. His knees had b een damaged as a y oung man in the second war and gave him grief aplenty, especially when the weather was t urning. He winked over the rim of his round glasses. ‘You’ve got the right idea. Beaut spot this, nice a nd sheltered.’ ‘It was N ell’s sp ot.’ H er v oice s ounded stra nge t o her e ars a nd she w ondered va guely ho w lo ng i t had b een since she ’d sp oken aloud t o a nyone. Not since dinner a t Phyllis’s p lace a w eek b efore, she realised. ‘That’d be right. Count on her t o know just where to sit.’ Cassandra smiled. ‘Would you like a c uppa?’ ‘Love one.’ She w ent t hrough t he bac k do or in to t he ki tchen a nd s et t he kettle on the stove. The water was still warm from when she’d boiled it earlier. ‘So, how’ve you been keeping?’ She shrugged. ‘I’ve been all right.’ Came back to sit on the concrete step near his c hair. Ben pressed pale lips together, smiled slightly so that his moustache tangled with his b eard. ‘Has your mum been in t ouch?’ ‘She sent a card.’ ‘Well then . . .’ ‘Said she w ould’ve lik ed t o mak e i t do wn b ut she a nd L en w ere busy. Caleb and Marie—’ ‘Of course. Keep you busy, teenagers.’ ‘Not teenagers any more. Marie just turned twenty-one.’ Ben whistled. ‘Time flies.’ The kettle began shrilling. 48


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Cassandra went back inside and drowned t he teabag, watched as it bled the water brown. An irony that Lesley had turned out to be such a co nscientious mo ther s econd time a round. S o m uch in lif e ca me down to timing. She dribbled in some milk, wondering vaguely whether it was still okay, when she’d purchased it. Before Nell died, surely? The la bel was stamped 14 September. Had that date passed? She wasn’t sure. It didn’t smell sour. She carried the mug out and handed it to Ben. ‘I’m sorry . . . the milk . . .’ He took a si p. ‘Best tea I’ve had all da y.’ He e yed her a mo ment as she s at do wn, s eemed a bout t o s ay something b ut t hought b etter o f i t. H e c leared his t hroat. ‘Cass, I ’ve come on official business, as w ell as s ocial.’ That death should be followed by official business was no surprise, and yet she f elt dizzy, caught off guard. ‘Nell had me mak e out her will . You know how she was, s aid she didn’t like the idea of divulging her p ersonal affairs to a stra nger.’ Cassandra nodded. That was Nell. Ben pulled an envelope from the pocket inside his blazer. Age had blunted its edges and turned white to cream. ‘She made it some time ago.’ He squinted at the envelope. ‘In 1981, to be exact.’ He paused, as if wa iting for her t o fill the silence. When she didn’t, he continued: ‘Pretty straightforward for the most part.’ He withdrew the contents but didn’t look at them, leaned forward so his forearms rested on his knees. N ell’s will da ngled from his r ight hand. ‘Your grandmother left you everything, Cass.’ Cassandra was no t sur prised. Touched p erhaps, a nd suddenl y, perversely, lonely, but not surprised. For who else was there? Not Lesley, certainly. Tho ugh C assandra had st opped b laming her mo ther lo ng ago, Nell had ne ver been able to forgive. To abandon a c hild, she had once said to someone, when she thought Cassandra couldn’t hear, was an act so cold, so careless, it refused forgiveness. ‘There’s t he ho use, o f co urse, a nd s ome mo ney in her s avings account. All of her antiques.’ He hesitated, eyed Cassandra, as if gauging her p reparedness f or s omething y et t o co me. ‘And t here’s o ne t hing more.’ He glanced at the papers. ‘Last year, after your grandmother was diagnosed, she ask ed me t o come for tea one morning.’ 49


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Cassandra r emembered. N ell had t old her w hen she b rought in breakfast t hat B en was visi ting a nd t hat she needed t o s ee him in private. She’d asked Cassandra to catalogue some books for her, up at the antique centre, t hough it had b een years since N ell had t aken an active role in t he stall. ‘She gave me something that day,’ he said. ‘A sealed envelope. Told me I was t o p ut i t wi th her will a nd o pen i t o nly if . . . when . . .’ He pressed his li ps together. ‘Well, you know.’ Cassandra shivered lightly as a sudden co ol breeze brushed across her arms. Ben waved his ha nd. The papers fluttered but he didn’t speak. ‘What is i t? ’ she s aid, a fa miliar k ernel o f a nxiety he avy in her stomach. ‘You can tell me, Ben. I’ll be okay.’ Ben lo oked u p, sur prised b y her t one. C onfounded her b y laughing. ‘ No need t o lo ok s o w orried, C ass, i t’s no thing bad . Qui te the opposite really.’ He considered for a moment. ‘More a mystery than a calamity.’ Cassandra exhaled; his t alk o f m ysteries did li ttle t o r elieve her nervousness. ‘I did a s s he sa id. Pu t th e en velope a side a nd didn’t o pen i t till yesterday. Could’ve knocked me do wn with a f eather when I s aw.’ He smiled. ‘Inside were the deeds t o another house.’ ‘Whose house?’ ‘Nell’s house.’ ‘Nell doesn’t have another house.’ ‘It would appear she do es, or did. And now it’s yours.’ Cassandra didn’t like surprises, their suddenness, their randomness. Where once she’d known how to surrender herself to the unexpected, now t he v ery sug gestion heralded a sur ge o f in stant f ear, her b ody’s learned response to change. She picked up a dry leaf lying by her shoe, folded it in half a nd in half aga in as she t hought. Nell hadn’t men tioned a nother ho use, no t in all t he time t hey’d lived together, w hile C assandra was gr owing up and since she ’d b een back. W hy no t? W hy w ould she ha ve k ept suc h a t hing s ecret? And what co uld she ha ve wa nted wi th i t? An in vestment? C assandra had heard p eople in t he co ffee sho ps o n L atrobe Terrace t alking a bout rising property prices, investment portfolios, but Nell? Nell had always 50


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poked fun at the inner-city yuppies who shelled out small fortunes for the tiny timber workers’ cottages of Paddington. Besides, Nell’d reached retirement age long ago. If this house were an in vestment, w hy hadn’t she s old i t? Used t he mo ney t o li ve o n? Dealing antiques had i ts rewards but f inancial remuneration was no t chief among them, not these days. Nell and Cassandra made eno ugh to live on but not much besides. There’d been times when an investment would’ve come in p retty handy, yet Nell had ne ver breathed a w ord. ‘This house,’ Cassandra said finally, ‘where is i t? Is it nearby?’ Ben sho ok his he ad, smiled b emusedly. ‘ That’s w here t his w hole thing gets really mysterious. The o ther house is in En gland.’ ‘England?’ ‘The UK, Europe, other side o f the world.’ ‘I know where England is.’ ‘Cornwall, to be precise, a village called Tregenna. I’ve only got the deeds t o go by, but it’s list ed as “ Cliff C ottage”. From t he address, I’d guess it was pa rt of a la rger country estate originally. I co uld find out if you like.’ ‘But why would she . . . ? How could she . . . ? ’ Cassandra exhaled. ‘When did she b uy it?’ ‘The deeds a re stamped 6 D ecember 1975.’ She f olded her a rms acr oss her c hest. ‘ Nell hasn’t e ven b een t o England.’ It was Ben’s turn to look surprised. ‘Yes she has. She went on a trip to the UK, bac k in t he mid s eventies. She never mentioned it?’ Cassandra shook her he ad slowly. ‘I remember when she went. I hadn’t known her long, it was a few months before you came on the scene, when she still had the little shop near S tafford S treet. I ’d b ought a f ew p ieces f rom her a nd w e w ere acquaintances if no t y et f riends. S he was g one j ust o ver a mo nth. I remember because I’d put a cedar writing desk on lay-by right before she left, a b irthday gift for my wife—least it was s ’posed to be, didn’t turn out that way in t he end. Every time I w ent to collect it, the shop was closed. ‘Don’t have to tell you, I was ropeable. It was Janice’s fiftieth and the desk was perfect. When I paid the deposit Nell didn’t mention that she was going on holidays. In fact, she made a point of outlining her lay-by 51


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terms, made i t clear she was exp ecting weekly payments and t hat I’d need to collect the desk wi thin a mo nth. She wasn’t a s torage facility, she said, she’d have more stock coming in a nd needed t he room.’ Cassandra smiled; i t sounded just like Nell. ‘She was a bsolutely insistent, that’s what made i t so odd when she wasn’t there all that time. After I got over the initial irritation I became quite w orried. E ven t hought a bout callin g t he p olice.’ H e wa ved his hand. ‘ Didn’t ha ve t o, as i t t urned o ut. On m y f ourth o r f ifth visi t I bumped in to t he lad y next do or w ho was co llecting N ell’s ma il. S he told me Nell was in the UK but became quite indignant when I started asking questions about w hy she’d lef t s o suddenly and w hen she’d b e back. The neig hbour said she was j ust doing as she ’d been asked and knew no mo re t han t hat. S o I k ept o n c hecking, m y wif e’s b irthday came and went, then one day the shop was o pen, Nell was ho me.’ ‘And she’d bought a ho use while she was a way.’ ‘Evidently.’ Cassandra p ulled her ca rdigan c loser a round her sho ulders. I t made no sense. Why would Nell go on holiday like that, out of the blue, buy a house then never go back? ‘She didn’t tell you anything about it? Not ever?’ Ben raised his e yebrows. ‘We’re talking about Nell. She wasn’t one for volunteering confidences.’ ‘But you and she were close. Surely at some point she must have mentioned i t? ’ B en was shakin g his he ad. C assandra p ersisted: ‘ But when she got back. When you finally collected the writing desk. Didn’t you ask her w hy she’d left so suddenly?’ ‘Course I did, a number of times over the years. I kne w it must’ve been important. She was dif ferent you see, when she g ot back.’ ‘How?’ ‘More distrac ted, m ysterious. I ’m sur e i t’s no t j ust hindsig ht t hat makes me s ay so. A co uple of months later was t he closest I ca me to finding o ut. I was visi ting her in her sho p a nd a let ter a rrived, postmarked Truro. I a rrived at the same time as t he postie, so I t ook the mail in for her. She tried to act casually but I was g etting to know her better by then; she was excited to receive that letter. Made an excuse to leave me as s oon as she co uld.’ ‘What was i t? Who was i t from?’ 52


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‘Must admit, curiosity got the better of me. I didn’t go as fa r as t o look at the letter itself, but I flipped the envelope over later, when I saw it on her desk, just to see who’d sent it. I memorised the address on the back and had an old colleague in the UK look it up for me. The address was for an investigator.’ ‘You mean like a det ective?’ He nodded. ‘They really exist? ’ ‘Sure.’ ‘But what would Nell have wanted with an English detective?’ Ben shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I guess she had some mystery she was trying to get to the bottom of. I dropped hints for a while, tried to draw her o ut, b ut all t o no a vail. I let i t g o a fter t hat, I f igured e veryone’s entitled t o t heir s ecrets a nd Nell’d t ell me if she wa nted t o. Truth b e told, I still felt guilty for the bit of snooping I’d already done.’ He shook his head. ‘Got to admit, I’d love to know. It’s played on my mind a long time, and this—’ he waved the deed, ‘—this just caps it off. Even now your grandmother has t he strangest ability to confound me.’ Cassandra no dded a bsently. H er mind was els ewhere, makin g connections. It was Ben’s talk of mysteries that had done it, his suggestion that N ell m ust’ve b een tr ying t o s olve o ne. All t he s ecrets t hat had materialised in her grandmother’s wake were beginning to knit together: Nell’s unknown parentage, her a rrival as a c hild at an ocean port, the suitcase, the mysterious trip to England, this secret house . . . ‘Ah w ell.’ B en t ossed t he dr egs o f his t ea in to a p ot o f N ell’s r ed geraniums. ‘I’d b etter he ad off. I’ve a ma n coming to s ee me a bout a mahogany sideboard in f ifteen minutes. It’s been a b ugger of a s ale to make; I’ll be that glad to see the end o f it. Anything you’d like me t o do when I’m up at the centre?’ Cassandra shook her he ad. ‘I’ll come up myself on Monday.’ ‘No rush, Cass. I told you the other day, I’m happy to keep an eye on y our space as lo ng as y ou need . I ’ll b ring y ou a ny mo ney t hey’re holding when I’m finished this afternoon.’ ‘Thanks Ben,’ she s aid. ‘For everything.’ He stood and tucked the squatter’s chair back where it had co me from, lef t t he deed b eneath his t eacup. H e was a bout t o dis appear around the corner and down the side of the house, when he hesitated 53


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and t urned bac k. ‘ You lo ok a fter y ourself no w, y ou he ar? Tha t wind gets much stronger you’ll blow away.’ Kindly concern lined his f orehead and Cassandra found it hard to meet his gaze . It offered t oo c lear a windo w t o his t houghts and she couldn’t bear to see him r emembering the way she us ed to be. ‘Cass?’ ‘Yep, will do.’ She waved as he lef t, listened as his ca r engine faded down the street. His sympathy, though well intentioned, always seemed to ca rry wi th i t a n indic tment. Dis appointment, ho wever fa int, t hat she’d been unable—or unwilling—to recover her old self. It didn’t occur to him t hat she mig ht have chosen to remain this way. That where he saw r eserve a nd lo neliness, C assandra s aw s elf-preservation a nd t he knowledge that it was s afer when one had less t o lose. She scuffed the toe of her sneaker against the cement path and shook away sad old thoughts. Then she p icked up the deed. Noticed, for the first time, the little note stapled to its front. Nell’s aged scrawl, near on impossible to read. She held i t close, then further away, slowly picked out the words. For Cassandra, it said, who will understand why.

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N

ell ra n q uickly t hrough t he do cuments aga in—passport, tic ket, travellers’ c heques—then zi pped u p her tra vel wallet a nd ga ve herself a st ern talking-to. Really, it was b ecoming compulsive. People flew every day, or so she was led t o believe. Strapped themselves into seats within gigantic tin ca ns and consented to b eing catapulted into the sky. She took a deep b reath. Everything would be fine. She was a survivor, wasn’t she? She made her wa y through the house, checking the window locks as she w ent. S canned t he ki tchen, made s ure she hadn ’t lef t t he gas leaking, the freezer ice melting, power points switched on. Finally, she carried her tw o sui tcases t hrough t he bac k do or a nd lo cked u p. S he knew w hy she was ner vous, o f co urse, a nd i t wasn’t o nly a f ear o f forgetting s omething, o r e ven a f ear o f t he p lane dr opping f rom t he sky. She was ner vous because she was g oing home. After all t his time, a lifetime, she was f inally going home. It had happened so suddenly in the end. Her father, Hugh, had only been dead a co uple of months and here she was o pening the door to her past. H e m ust’ve kno wn she w ould do s o. W hen he p ointed o ut the suitcase to Phyllis, told her to deliver it to Nell when he was g one, he must’ve guessed. As she waited by the road for the taxi, Nell glanced up at her pale yellow house. So tall from this angle, unlike any house she’d seen before with i ts f unny li ttle bac kward st aircase c losed in y ears b efore, str ipy awnings painted pink, blue and white, the two dormer windows at the top. Too narrow, too b oxy e ver to b e considered elegant, and yet she loved i t. I ts a wkwardness, i ts pa tched-up q uality, i ts lac k o f c lear 55


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provenance. Victim of time and a succession of owners, each intent on placing their stamp on its enduring façade. She’d bought it in 1961, a fter Al died a nd she and Lesley returned from America. The ho use had b een neglected, but its position on the Paddington slopes behind the old Plaza theatre had felt about as close to home as Nell could get. And the house had rewarded her faith, had even provided her with a ne w income. She’d stumbled upon the room of broken furniture locked up in the dark underneath and spied a table that took her fancy—barley-twist legs and a drop-leaf. It was in p retty bad nick but Nell hadn’t thought twice, she’d bought some sandpaper and shellac, and set about bringing it back to lif e. It had been Hugh who’d taught her how to restore furniture. When he came back from the war, and the baby sisters had started being born, Nell had t aken t o f ollowing him a round o n w eekends. S he’d b ecome his helper, learned her dovetail joints from her box combing, her shellac from her varnish, the joy of taking a broken object and putting it back together. It had been a long time since she’d done so, though, and she’d forgotten, until she saw that table, that she knew how to perform such surgery, forgotten that she lo ved it so much. She could’ve wept as she massaged t he shel lac into t he b arley-twist legs, b reathed t he fa miliar fumes, only she hadn’t been the weeping kind. A wil ting ga rdenia ne ar her sui tcase ca ught N ell’s a ttention, a nd she remembered that she’d neglected to arrange for someone to water her garden. The girl w ho lived behind had agr eed to put milk o ut for the visi ting ca ts, a nd she’d o rganised a w oman t o co llect ma il a t t he shop, b ut t he p lants had sli pped her mind . Just w ent t o sho w w here her head was a t, to forget her p ride and joy like that. She would have to ask one of her sisters, phone from the airport, or even the other side of t he world. Give t hem a r eal sho ck, t he s ort t hey’d come t o exp ect from their big sister Nell. Hard to believe they’d all b een so close once. Of t he many things her fa ther’s co nfession had st olen f rom her , t heir loss had lef t t he deepest wound. She’d already been eleven when the first of them came along but the instant bond had almost knocked her over. She’d known, even before Ma told her, that it was her responsibility to look after these little sisters, to make sure they were safe. Her reward was their devotion, their insistence that Nell cradle t hem when they were hurt, their firm 56


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little bodies pressing against hers after they’d suffered a nightmare and crept into bed beside her t o pass t he long night. But Pa’s secret had c hanged everything. His words had t ossed the book that was her lif e into the air and the pages had b een blown into disarray, could ne ver b e put back together to tell the same story. She found she co uldn’t lo ok a t her li ttle sist ers wi thout s eeing her o wn foreignness, and yet she co uldn’t tell them the truth. To have done so would’ve destroyed something in w hich they believed implicitly. Nell had figured it was better they thought her strange than knew her to be a stranger. A black and white taxi turned into the street and she held o ut her arm to wave it over. The dr iver loaded her sui tcase while she c limbed into the back seat. ‘Where to, love?’ he s aid, slamming his do or closed. ‘The airport.’ He no dded a nd t hey s et o ff, w eaving t hrough t he maze o f Paddington streets. Her father had told her when she turned twenty-one, the whispered confession that robbed her o f her s elf. ‘But who am I? ’ she’d said. ‘You’re you. Same as al ways. You’re Nell, my Nellie.’ She could hear how much he wa nted it to be so, but she’d known better than that. Reality had shif ted by a f ew degrees and left her o ut of sync wi th everyone else. This p erson she was, o r thought she was, did not really exist. Ther e was no N ell O’Connor. ‘Who am I r eally?’ she’d said again, days later. ‘Please tell me, Pa.’ He’d shaken his head. ‘I don’t know that, Nellie. Your mum and me, we never knew that. And i t never mattered to us.’ She’d tried not to let it matter to her either, but the truth was it did. Things had changed and she could no longer meet her father’s eyes. It wasn’t that she loved him any less, only that the easiness had disappeared. The affection she had for him, invisible, unquestioned in the past, had gained a weight, a voice. It whispered when she looked at him: ‘you’re not r eally his.’ S he co uldn’t b elieve, no ma tter ho w v ehemently he insisted, that he loved her as he s aid, as much as he lo ved her sist ers. 57


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‘Course I do,’ he’d said when she asked him. His eyes revealed his astonishment, his h urt. H e t ook o ut his ha ndkerchief a nd wi ped i t across his mo uth. ‘I knew you first, Nellie, I’ve loved you longest.’ But it wasn’t enough. She was a lie , had b een living a lie , and she refused to do s o any longer. Over the course of a f ew months, a lif e that had b een twenty-one years in the making was systematically dismantled. She gave away her job a t M r F itzsimmons’s ne wsagency a nd f ound a ne w o ne as a n usherette a t t he ne w Plaza t heatre. S he pac ked her c lothes in to tw o small cases and arranged to share a flat with the girlfriend of a girlfriend. And she b roke o ff her en gagement t o D anny. N ot r ight a way; she’d lacked the courage then to make a clean break. She’d let it fall apart for months, r efused t o s ee him m uch o f t he time , b ehaved un pleasantly when she did consent to meet. Her cowardice had made her hate herself more, a r eassuring s elf-hatred t hat co nfirmed her susp icion t hat she deserved all t hat was happening. It took a long time to get over, splitting up with Danny. His knockabout face, the honest eyes and easy smile. He’d wanted to know why, of course, but she co uldn’t bring herself to s ay. There were no w ords to t ell him t hat t he w oman he lo ved, w hom he ho ped t o ma rry, no longer exi sted. H ow co uld s he exp ect him t o val ue h er, s till t o wa nt her, once he r ealised she was s omeone disposable? That her o wn true family had dis carded her? The t axi t urned in to Alb ion a nd sp ed e ast t owards t he a irport. ‘Where you headed then?’ the driver asked, eyes meeting Nell’s in t he rear-view mirror. ‘London.’ ‘Family there?’ Nell lo oked o ut o f t he sme ary ca r windo w. ‘ Yes,’ she s aid. Hopefully. She hadn’t told Lesley she was going either. She’d thought about it, imagined herself picking up the telephone and dialling her daughter’s number—the most recent in a line that snaked down her index file and curled into the margin—but each time she’d dismissed the idea. In all likelihood she’d be home before Lesley even realised she was go ne. Nell didn’t need t o w onder w here t he p roblems wi th L esley had started, she kne w well enough. They’d got off on the wrong foot and 58


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never f ound t he r ight o ne. The b irth had b een a sho ck, t he vio lent arrival of the screaming, bawling parcel of life, all limbs and gums and panicked fingers. Night a fter nig ht N ell had la in a wake in t he Amer ican hosp ital, waiting to feel the connection people spoke of. To know that she was powerfully and absolutely tied t o this little person she’d grown inside her. B ut t he f eeling had ne ver co me. N o ma tter ho w ha rd she tr ied, how m uch she willed i t, Nell r emained is olated f rom t he f ierce li ttle wildcat w ho suc ked a nd t ore a nd s cratched a t her b reasts, al ways wanting more than she co uld give. Al, on the other hand, had been smitten. Smote. He hadn’t seemed to no tice t hat t he ba by was a ho ly t error. U nlike most men o f his generation, he was delig hted to hold his daughter, to nestle her in t he crook of his arm and take her walking with him down the wide Chicago streets. Sometimes Nell would watch, bland smile plastered on her face, as he gazed, love-stung, at his baby girl. He’d look up and in his misted eyes, Nell would see reflected her own emptiness. Lesley had been born with a vein of wildness running through her, but Al’s death in 1961 r uptured it. Even as N ell broke the news, she’d seen t he f ilm o f jaded diss olution s ettle in her da ughter’s e yes. O ver the next f ew mo nths, L esley, al ways s omething o f a m ystery t o Nell, withdrew f urther in to her co coon o f ado lescent cer tainty t hat she despised her mo ther and wanted nothing more to do wi th her. Understandable of course, if not acceptable—she was fourteen, an impressionable age, and her father had b een the apple of her e ye. The move back to Australia hadn’t helped, but that was retrospect talking. Nell knew better than to allow exhibits of hindsight into the court of self-blame. S he’d do ne w hat s eemed b est a t t he time: she wasn ’t a n American, Al’s ma had died a f ew years earlier, and to all in tents and purposes they were alone. Strangers in a s trange land. When Lesley left home at seventeen, hitched her way over Australia’s east hip and down its thigh to Sydney, Nell’d been happy enough to let her go. With Lesley out of the house, she figured she might finally get shot of the black dog that’d sat on her back for the past seventeen years, whispering t hat o f co urse she was a t errible mo ther, o f co urse her daughter couldn’t st and her, it was in t he blood, she hadn ’t des erved children in t he f irst p lace. N o ma tter ho w wa rm L il had b een, N ell 59


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came f rom a tradi tion o f bad mo thers, t he s ort w ho co uld a bandon their children with ease. And i t hadn’t t urned o ut s o badl y. Twelve y ears la ter a nd L esley was closer to home now, living on the Gold Coast with her latest fellow and her own daughter, Cassandra. Nell’d only met t he girl a co uple of times. L ord kne w w ho t he fa ther was; N ell r efrained f rom askin g. Whatever t he cas e, he m ust’ve had s ome s ense a bout him, f or t he granddaughter sho wed li ttle o f t he mo ther’s wildness. Qui te t he opposite. C assandra was a c hild w hose s oul s eemed ag ed b efore her time. Quiet, patient, thoughtful, loyal to Lesley—a beautiful child really. There was a n underl ying s eriousness, s ombre b lue e yes w hose edg es turned down, and a pretty mouth that Nell suspected might be glorious if she e ver smiled with unwary joy. The black and white taxi came to a halt outside the Qantas doors, and as Nell handed the driver his fare she pushed all thought of Lesley and Cassandra aside. She’d sp ent eno ugh o f her lif e wa ylaid b y r egret, dr owning in untruths and uncer tainty. Now was t he time f or answers, to f ind out who she was. She hopped out and glanced skyward as a rumbling plane flew low overhead. ‘Have a good trip, love,’ said the taxi driver, carrying Nell’s suitcases to a wa iting trolley. ‘Yes. I will .’ And she would; answers were finally within reach. After a lifetime of being a shadow she was t o become flesh and blood.

c The little w hite suitcase had b een t he key, or rather its contents had. The book of fairytales published in L ondon in 1913, t he picture as its frontispiece. N ell had r ecognised t he st oryteller’s face immedia tely. Some deep a nd a ncient pa rt o f her b rain provided t he na mes b efore her conscious mind caught up, names she had t hought belonged only to a c hildhood game. The lad y. The Authoress. Not only did she no w know the lady was r eal, she als o knew her na me. Eliza Makepeace. Her first thought, naturally enough, was that this Eliza Makepeace was her mo ther. W hen she’d made enq uiries a t t he lib rary she had 60


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clenched her f ists as she wa ited, hoping t he librarian would dis cover that E liza M akepeace had lost a c hild, s pent her lif e s earching f or a missing daughter. But it was, of course, too simple an explanation. The librarian had found very little on Eliza, but enough to know the writer going by that name had b een childless. The pass enger lists had o ffered li ttle mo re el ucidation. N ell had checked every ship that left London for Maryborough in late 1913 but the na me E liza M akepeace a ppeared o n no ne o f t hem. Ther e was a chance E liza had wr itten under a no m de p lume, of course, and had booked pass age under her r eal na me, o r e ven a n in vented o ne, b ut Hugh hadn’t t old Nell w hich shi p she’d a rrived o n, a nd wi thout t hat knowledge there was no wa y of narrowing the list o f possibilities. Nonetheless, Nell was undeterred. Eliza Makepeace was important, had played s ome role in her past. S he remembered E liza. Not clearly, they were old memories and long repressed, but they were real. Being on a b oat. Waiting. Hiding. Playing. And she was b eginning to recall other t hings, t oo. It was as if r emembering t he Authoress had lif ted some s ort o f lid . J agged memo ries b egan t o a ppear: a maze , a n o ld woman who frightened her, a long journey across the water. Through Eliza, she kne w, she w ould f ind herself, and to f ind Eliza she needed to go to London. Thank G od she’d had t he mo ney t o a fford t he f light. Tha nk her father, really, for he’d had more to do with it than God. Inside the white suitcase, alongside the book of fairytales, the hairbrush, the little girl’s dress, Nell had f ound a let ter f rom Hugh, tied u p with a p hotograph and a c heque. N ot a f ortune—he hadn’t b een a w ealthy ma n—but enough to make a dif ference. In his let ter he’d s aid he wa nted her t o have a li ttle s omething extra, hadn ’t wa nted t he o ther girls t o kno w. He’d hel ped t hem o ut f inancially d uring his lif e b ut N ell had al ways refused assistance. This way, he f igured, she co uldn’t say no. Then he’d apologised, wr itten t hat he ho ped s ome day she mig ht forgive him, e ven if he ’d ne ver b een a ble t o f orgive him self. It mig ht please her t o know he’d ne ver g ot over his guil t, t hat i t had cr ippled him. He’d spent his lif e wishing he’d never told her a nd if he ’d been a braver man he’d have wished he hadn’t kept her. To wish that would be to wish N ell out of his lif e, though, and he p referred to keep his guil t than give her up. 61


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The photograph was o ne she’d seen before, though not for a lo ng time. It was b lack a nd w hite—more r ightly brown a nd w hite—taken decades ag o. H ugh, L il a nd N ell, b efore t he sist ers ca me alo ng a nd stretched their family with laughter and loud voices and girlish shrieks. It was o ne of t hose studio shots w here t he f rame’s inhabitants lo ok a little startled. Like they’ve been plucked from real life, made miniature, then repositioned inside a doll’s house full of unfamiliar props. Looking at it, Nell had the surest feeling that she could remember it being taken. She co uldn’t r ecall m uch f rom her c hildhood, b ut she sur e as hell remembered the instant dislike she’d taken to that studio, the chemical smell o f t he de veloping f luids. S he’d p ut t he p hoto aside t hen a nd picked up her father’s letter again. No matter how many times she read it, she found herself wondering at his choice of words: his guilt. She supposed he me ant he was guil ty for ha ving t hrown her lif e in to dis array wi th his co nfession, a nd y et the word sat uneasily. S orry, p erhaps, regretful, but guilty? It s eemed an odd choice. For no matter how much Nell wished it hadn’t happened, no ma tter t hat she’d f ound i t im possible t o co ntinue o n in a lif e she knew was fals e, she had ne ver thought her pa rents culpable. After all, they’d only done what they thought best, what was best. They’d given her a ho me a nd lo ve w hen she’d b een wi thout. Tha t her fa ther had thought himself guilty, had imagined that she might think him so, was disquieting. And y et it was t oo late now to ask him w hat he me ant.

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9 Maryborough, 1914 Maryborough, Australia

N

ell had b een wi th t hem six mo nths w hen t he let ter a rrived a t the p ort o ffice. A ma n in L ondon was lo oking f or a li ttle girl , four y ears o f ag e. H air: r ed. E yes: b lue. S he’d b een missin g ne ar o n eight mo nths a nd t he f ellow—Henry M ansell, s aid t he let ter—had reason t o b elieve she’d b een b oarded o n a shi p, p ossibly a tra nsport headed for Australia. He was seeking her o n behalf of his c lients, the child’s family. Standing b y his desk, H ugh f elt his knees b uckle, his m uscles liquefy. The mo ment he’d b een dr eading—had sur ely al ways kno wn was coming—was upon him. F or despite w hat L il b elieved, children, especially children like Nell, didn’t go missing without someone raising the alarm. He sat in his chair, concentrated on breathing, looked quickly at t he windo ws. H e f elt suddenl y co nspicuous, as if he w ere b eing watched by an unseen foe. He ran a ha nd over his face t hen rested it across his nec k. What the hell was he g oing t o do? I t was o nly a ma tter o f time b efore t he other fellows arrived on the job and saw the letter. And although it was true he was t he only one who’d seen Nell waiting alone on the wharf, that w ouldn’t k eep t hem s afe f or lo ng. Word w ould g et o ut in t he town—it always did—and someone would put two and two together. Would realise that the little girl staying with the O’Connors on Queen Street, the one with the unusual way of speaking, sounded an awful lot like the little English girl w ho was missin g. No, he co uldn’t risk anyone reading the contents. Hugh observed himself, his ha nd shakin g a li ttle. He f olded t he let ter ne atly in half , 63


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then in half again, and put it inside his coat pocket. That’d take care of it for now. He sat down. There, he felt better already. He just needed time and space to think, to work out how he was g oing to convince Lil that the time had come to give Nell back. Plans for the move to Brisbane were already well underway. Lil had gi ven word to the landlord that they’d be vacating, she’d started packing their possessions, such as they were, had put word around town that there were opportunities for Hugh in Brisbane that they’d be fools to pass up. But plans could be cancelled, would have to be cancelled. For now they kne w t here was s omeone lo oking f or N ell, w ell, t hat c hanged things, didn’t it? He knew what Lil would say to that: they didn’t deserve Nell, these people, t his ma n, H enry M ansell, w ho had lost her . S he’d b eg him, plead with him, insist they couldn’t possibly hand Nell over to someone who could be so careless. But Hugh would make her s ee that it wasn’t a question of choice, that Nell wasn’t theirs, had never been theirs, that she belonged to someone else. She wasn’t even Nell any more, her own name was lo oking for her. When he c limbed the front stairs that afternoon, Hugh stood for a mo ment co llecting his t houghts. A s he b reathed t he acr id smo ke drifting from the chimney, pleasant for having come from the fire that warmed his hearth, some unseen force seemed to lock him into place. He had t he vague s ense o f st anding o n a t hreshold, t he cr ossing o f which would change everything. He breathed deeply, pushed open the door and his two girls turned to face him. They were sitting by the fire, Nell on Lil’s lap, her long red hair hanging in w et strands as L il combed it. ‘Pa!’ s aid N ell, ex citement a nimating a face alr eady p ink wi th warmth. Lil smiled a t him o ver t he t op o f t he li ttle o ne’s he ad. The smile that had always been his undoing. Ever since he’d first set eyes on her, coiling the ropes down at her father’s boatshed. When was the last time he’d seen that smile? I t was b efore the babies, he kne w. The ba bies of theirs that refused to be born right. Hugh met L il’s smile t hen s et do wn his bag, r eached in side his pocket where the letter was burning its hole, felt its smoothness beneath 64


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his fingertips. He turned towards the range where the biggest pot was steaming. ‘Dinner smells g ood.’ Blasted frog in his t hroat. ‘My ma’s morgy broth,’ said Lil, picking at the tangles in Nell’s hair. ‘You coming down with something?’ ‘What’s that?’ ‘I’ll make you up some lemon and barley.’ ‘Only a tic kle,’ said Hugh. ‘No need f or bother.’ ‘No bother. Not for you.’ She smiled at him again and patted Nell’s shoulders. ‘There now, little one, Ma’s got to jump up now and check on the tea. You sit here until your hair dries. Don’t want you catching a chill like your pa here.’ She glanced at Hugh as she spoke, eyes loaded with a co ntentment that p oked at his he art so that he had t o turn away.

c All t hrough dinner t he let ter s at he avy in H ugh’s p ocket, r efusing t o be forgotten. Like metal to a magnet, his hand was drawn. He couldn’t put his knif e do wn t o r est wi thout his f ingers sli pping in to his coa t, rubbing against the smooth paper, death sentence to their happiness. The letter from a man who knew Nell’s family. Well, at least that’s what he said— Hugh straightened suddenly, wondering at the way he’d immediately accepted this stranger’s claims. He thought again of the letter’s contents, pulled t he lines f rom his memo ry a nd s canned t hem t hrough f or evidence. The f lood o f co ol r elief was in stant. Ther e was no thing, nothing in the letter that suggested for certain it was truth. There were any n umber o f q ueer p eople o ut t here en gaged in all kinds o f complicated s chemes. Ther e was a ma rket f or li ttle girls in s ome countries, he kne w that, white slavers were always on the lookout for little girls t o sell— But i t was r idiculous. E ven as he c lutched desp erately a t suc h possibilities he kne w how unlikely they were. ‘Hughie?’ He looked up quickly. Lil was watching him in a f unny way. ‘You were away with the fairies.’ She laid a wa rm palm aga inst his forehead. ‘Hope you’re not coming down with a f ever.’ 65


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‘I’m fine.’ Sharper than he intended. ‘I’m fine, Lil love.’ She pressed her li ps together. ‘I was j ust saying. I’m going to take this little lady in t o bed. She’s had a b ig day, all t uckered out.’ As if o n cue, Nell surrendered to a huge yawn. ‘Goodnight, P a,’ she s aid co ntentedly w hen t he ya wn was do ne with. Before he knew it she was in his lap, curled into him like a warm kitten, arms snaked around his neck. He was aware as ne ver before of the r oughness o f his skin, t he w hiskers o n his c heeks. He f olded his arms around her b irdlike back, and closed his e yes. ‘Goodnight, Nellie love,’ he w hispered into her ha ir. He watched them disappear then, into the other room. His family. For in s ome way that he co uldn’t explain, even to himself, this child, their Nell with her two long plaits, lent a solidity to him and Lil. They were a fa mily no w, a n un breakable uni t o f t hree, no t j ust tw o s ouls who’d decided t o put their lot in t ogether. And here he was, co nsidering breaking it apart— A s ound in t he hall a nd he lo oked u p. L il, f ramed b eneath t he wooden fretwork, watching him. Some trick of the light drew red from her dark hair and planted a g low deep wi thin her e yes, black mo ons beneath t heir lo ng lashes. A t hread o f f eeling t ugged a t t he co rner where her li ps met, p ulling her mo uth in to t he s ort o f smile t hat described an emotion too powerful to be expressed verbally. Hugh smiled bac k t entatively a nd his f ingers sli pped o nce mo re into his p ocket, ra n silen tly acr oss t he sur face o f t he let ter. H is li ps parted with a soft click, tingled with the words he didn’t want to speak but wasn’t sure he co uld stop. Lil was b y his side , then. Her fingers on his wr ist sent hot shocks to his nec k, her wa rm hand on his c heek. ‘Come to bed.’ Ah, were there ever words as sw eet as t hose? Her voice contained a promise and—like that—his mind was made . He slipped his hand into hers, held it firm and followed as she led . As he passed the fireplace he tossed the paper on top. It sizzled as it ca ught, b urned a b rief r eproach o n his p eripheral visio n. B ut he didn’t stop, he j ust kept walking and never looked back.

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L

ong before it was an antique centre, it had been a theatre. The Plaza theatre, a gra nd experiment in t he 1930s. P lain from the outside, a h uge w hite b ox c ut in to t he P addington hillside , i ts in terior was another story. The vaulted ceiling, midnight blue with cut-out clouds, had been back-lit originally to create the illusion of moonlight, while hundreds of tiny lights twinkled like stars. It had done a roaring trade for decades, back in the days when trams had rattled along the terrace and Chinese gardens had f lourished in t he valleys, but though it had prevailed against such fierce adversaries as fire and flood, it had fallen victim softly and swiftly to television in t he sixties. Nell and Cassandra’s stall was directly below the proscenium arch, stage lef t. A ra bbit-warren of shelves obs cured by countless pieces of bric-a-brac, o dds a nd ends, o ld b ooks a nd a n ec lectic ass ortment o f memorabilia. Long ago the other dealers had started calling it Aladdin’s as a jo ke a nd t he na me had st uck. A small w ooden sign wi th g old lettering now proclaimed the area Aladdin’s Den. Sitting o n a t hree-legged st ool, deep wi thin t he maze o f shel ves, Cassandra was f inding it difficult to concentrate. It was t he first time she’d been inside the centre since N ell’s death and it felt strange to sit amongst t he tr easures t hey’d ass embled t ogether. O dd t hat t he st ock should s till b e her e w hen N ell wa s g one. Dislo yal o f i t, s omehow. Spoons t hat N ell had p olished, p rice tic kets wi th her indeci pherable spider’s-web scrawl across them, books and more books. They’d been Nell’s weakness, e very de aler had o ne. In particular, she lo ved b ooks written a t t he end o f t he ninet eenth cen tury. L ate V ictorian wi th glorious printed texts and black and white illustrations. If a book bore 67


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a message from giver to recipient, so much the better. A r ecord of its past, a hint as to the hands it had passed through in order to make its way to her. ‘Morning.’ Cassandra looked up to see Ben holding out a t akeaway coffee. ‘Sorting stock?’ he s aid. She b rushed a f ew f ine s trands o f ha ir f rom her e yes a nd t ook the p roffered dr ink. ‘ Moving t hings f rom her e t o t here. B ack aga in most times.’ Ben took a si p of his o wn coffee, e yed her o ver his c up. ‘I’ve got something for you.’ He reached beneath his knitted vest to withdraw a folded piece of paper from his shir t pocket. Cassandra o pened t he pag e a nd f lattened o ut i ts cr eases. P rinter paper, w hite A4, a pa tchy b lack a nd w hite p icture o f a ho use a t t he centre. A co ttage r eally, st one f rom w hat she co uld mak e o ut, wi th blotches—creepers p erhaps? —across t he walls. The r oof was tiled , a stone chimney visible behind the peak. Two pots balanced precariously at its top. She knew what this house was, o f course, didn’t need t o ask. ‘Been ha ving a b it o f a dig, ’ s aid B en. ‘ Couldn’t hel p m yself. M y daughter in L ondon ma naged t o mak e co ntact wi th s omeone in Cornwall and sent me t his photo over the email.’ So t his was w hat it lo oked like, Nell’s big s ecret. The ho use she’d bought on a whim and kept to herself all this time. Strange, the picture’s effect o n her. C assandra had lef t t he deed o n t he ki tchen t able all weekend, had lo oked at it each time she walk ed past, t hought of little else, but seeing this picture was the first time it had felt real. Everything came into sharp focus: Nell, who went to her grave not knowing who she really was, had bought a house in England and left it to Cassandra, had thought she’d understand why. ‘Ruby’s always had a knac k for f inding t hings out, s o I s et her t o chasing up information about past owners. I t hought if w e knew who your gra ndma b ought t he ho use f rom, i t mig ht shed a li ttle lig ht o n why.’ B en p ulled a small sp iral no tebook f rom his b reast p ocket a nd angled his glasses to best observe the page. ‘Do the names Richard and Julia Bennett mean anything to you?’ Cassandra shook her head, still looking at the picture. 68


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‘According t o R uby, N ell b ought t he p roperty f rom M r a nd M rs Bennett, w ho t hemselves b ought it in 1971. The y b ought t he ne arby manor ho use t oo; t urned i t in to a ho tel. The B lackhurst H otel.’ H e looked at Cassandra hopefully. Again she sho ok her he ad. ‘You sure?’ ‘Never heard of it.’ ‘Ah,’ s aid B en, sho ulders s eeming t o def late. ‘Ah w ell t hen.’ H e flicked the notebook shut and leaned his arm on the nearest bookcase. ‘I’m afraid that’s the extent of my sleuthing. Long shot, I su ppose.’ He scratched his beard. ‘Typical of Nell to leave a mystery like this. It’s the darnedest thing, isn’t it, a s ecret house in En gland?’ Cassandra smiled. ‘Thanks for the picture, and thank your daughter for me.’ ‘You can thank her yourself when you’re over that side of the pond.’ He shook his takeaway cup then eyed the sipping hole to check that it was empty. ‘When do y ou think you’ll go?’ Cassandra’s eyes widened. ‘You mean to England?’ ‘A picture’s all w ell and good, but it’s not the same as really seeing a place, is i t?’ ‘You think I sho uld go to England?’ ‘Why not? Twenty-first century, you could be there and back inside a week, and you’ll have a much better idea of what you want to do with the cottage.’ Despite the deed l ying plain on her t able, Cassandra had b een so preoccupied wi th t he t heoretical fac t o f N ell’s co ttage, she ’d fa iled completely t o co nsider i t in p ractical t erms: t here was a co ttage in England wa iting f or her. S he s cuffed a t t he d ull tim ber f loor t hen peered through her f ringe at Ben. ‘I guess I sho uld sell it?’ ‘Big decision t o make without s etting foot inside.’ B en t ossed his cup into the overflowing rubbish bin by the cedar desk. ‘Wouldn’t hurt to take a lo ok, eh? I t obviously meant a lo t to Nell, to have kept it all this time.’ Cassandra co nsidered t his. Fl y t o En gland, b y her self, o ut o f t he blue. ‘But the stall . . .’ ‘Pah! C entre st aff ’ll t ake ca re o f y our s ales, a nd I ’ll b e her e.’ H e indicated t he laden shel ves. ‘You’ve got enough st ock t o last t hrough 69


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the next decade .’ H is v oice s oftened. ‘ Why no t g o, C ass? It w ouldn’t hurt to get away for a bit. Ruby’s living in a shoebox in South Kensington, working at the V&A. S he’ll show you around, look after you.’ Look after her: people were always offering to look after Cassandra. Once, a lifetime ago, she’d been a grown-up with her own responsibilities, had looked after others. ‘And what have you got to lose?’ Nothing, she had no thing to los e, no o ne to los e. C assandra was suddenly w eary o f t he t opic. S he ho isted a slig ht, yieldin g smile a nd added an ‘I’ll think about it’ for good measure. ‘There’s a girl .’ H e pa tted her sho ulder a nd made t o le ave. ‘ Oh, almost forgot, I did t urn up another interesting little titbit. Sheds no light on Nell and her ho use, but it’s a f unny coincidence all t he same, what with your art background, all t hose drawings you used to do.’ To hear years of one’s life, one’s passion, described so casually, relegated so absolutely to the past, was breathtaking. Cassandra managed to keep a w eak smile a float. ‘The estate that Nell’s house is on used to be owned by the Mountrachet family.’ The name meant nothing and Cassandra shook her he ad. He ra ised a n e yebrow. ‘ The da ughter, Ros e, ma rried a cer tain Nathaniel Walker.’ Cassandra frowned. ‘An artist . . . an American?’ ‘That’s the one, portraits mostly, you know the sort of thing. Lady So-and-So a nd her six fa vourite p oodles. According t o my daughter, he even did one of King Edward in 1910, just before he died. Pinnacle of Walker’s career, I’d say, though Ruby seemed unimpressed. She said his portraits weren’t his b est work, that they were a b it lifeless.’ ‘It’s been a w hile since I . . .’ ‘She p referred his sk etches. Tha t’s R uby, t hough, al ways ha ppiest when she’s swimming against the current of popular opinion.’ ‘Sketches?’ ‘Illustrations, magazine p ictures, black and white.’ Cassandra inhaled sha rply. ‘The Maze and Fox drawings.’ Ben lifted his sho ulders and shook his he ad. 70


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‘Oh, Ben, they were incredible, are incredible, amazingly detailed.’ It had b een so long since she’d thought about art history; it surprised her, this surge of ownership. ‘Nathaniel Walker ca me u p b riefly in a c lass I t ook o n A ubrey Beardsley a nd his co ntemporaries,’ she s aid. ‘ He was co ntroversial, from what I remember, but I ca n’t recall why.’ ‘That’s what Ruby said. You’re going to get on well with her. When I men tioned him she was v ery ex cited. S he s aid t hey ha ve a f ew o f his ill ustrations in t he ne w exhib ition a t t he V&A; e vidently t hey’re very rare.’ ‘He didn’t do many,’ said Cassandra, remembering now. ‘I suppose he was t oo b usy wi th t he p ortraits, t he ill ustrations w ere mo re o f a hobby. All the same, those he did were very well regarded.’ She started. ‘I think we might have one here, in o ne of Nell’s books.’ She climbed onto a n u pturned milk cra te a nd ra n her index f inger alo ng t he t op shelf, sto pped w hen she r eached a b urgundy sp ine wi th fade d g old lettering. She o pened i t, s till s tanding o n th e cra te, a nd f licked ca refully through the colour plates in t he front. ‘Here it is.’ Without taking her eyes from the page, she st epped down. ‘The Fox’s Lament.’ Ben came to stand by her, adjusted his glasses away from the light. ‘Intricate, isn’t it? Not my c up of t ea, but t hat’s art for you. I ca n s ee what you admire about it.’ ‘It’s beautiful, and somehow sad.’ He leaned closer. ‘Sad?’ ‘Full o f mela ncholy, y earning. I ca n’t exp lain b etter t han t hat, something in the fox’s face, some sort of absence.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t explain.’ Ben gave her arm a squeeze, murmured something about bringing her a s andwich at lunchtime, and t hen he was g one. Shuffling in t he direction of his st all, more particularly t he c ustomer in his s tall w ho was juggling the pieces of a Waterford chandelier. Cassandra continued to study t he picture, wondering how it was she f elt s o sur e a bout t he f ox’s s orrow. Tha t was t he a rtist’s skill , o f course, t he a bility t hrough p recise p ositioning o f t hin b lack lines t o evoke so clearly such complex emotions . . . 71


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Her lips tightened. The sketch reminded her of the day she’d found the book of fairytales, when she’d been filling time beneath Nell’s house as upstairs her mother prepared to leave her. Looking back, Cassandra realised she co uld trace her lo ve of art to that book. She’d opened the front co ver a nd fallen in side t he w onderful, f rightening, magical illustrations. She’d wondered what it must feel like to escape the rigid boundaries of words and speak instead with such a f luid language. And for a time , as she gr ew older, she had kno wn: the alchemical pull o f t he p en, t he b lissful s ensation o f time losin g me aning as she conjured at her drawing board. Her love of art had led her t o study in Melbourne, had led her to marry Nicholas, and to everything else that had f ollowed. S trange t o t hink t hat lif e mig ht ha ve b een co mpletely different had she ne ver seen the suitcase, had she no t felt the curious compulsion to open it and look inside— Cassandra gasped. Why hadn’t she t hought of it before? Suddenly she kne w exac tly w hat she had t o do , w here she had t o lo ok. The one p lace w here she mig ht unco ver t he necess ary c lues t o N ell’s mysterious origins.

c That Nell might have rid herself of the suitcase occurred to Cassandra, but she p ushed t he no tion aside wi th s ome cer tainty. F or o ne t hing, her gra ndmother was a n a ntiques de aler, a co llector, a b owerbird o f the human species. It would have been completely out of character for her to destroy or discard something old and rare. More importantly, if what the aunts had said was true, the suitcase wasn’t a mer e historical artefact: it was a n anchor. It was all N ell had that linked her t o her past. C assandra understood t he importance of anchors, knew all t oo well what happened to a p erson when the rope that tied them to their life was cut. She had lost her own anchor twice. The first time as a t en year old when Lesley had left her, the second as a young woman (was i t really a decade a go?) when, in a s plit second, life as she kne w it had c hanged and she’d been cast adr ift once more. Later, when she lo oked back upon events, Cassandra knew it was the suitcase that found her, just as i t had do ne the first time. 72


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After a nig ht spent combing through Nell’s cluttered spare rooms, becoming distracted, despite her b est intentions, by this memento or that, she’d grown incredibly weary. Not just bone tired, but brain tired. The weekend had taken its toll. It came over her quickly and profoundly, the w eariness o f fa irytales, a magical desir e t o sur render her self t o sleep. Rather than go downstairs to her own room, she curled up beneath Nell’s b edspread, s till in h er c lothes, a nd let h er h ead sink in to th e downy pillow. The smell was breathtakingly familiar—lavender talcum powder, silver polish, Palmolive laundry flakes—and she f elt as if she were resting her he ad on Nell’s chest. She slep t lik e t he de ad, da rk a nd dr eamless. And next mo rning, when she woke, she had the sense of having been asleep far longer than one night. The sun was str eaming in to t he r oom, t hrough t he ga p b etween the curtains—like the light from a lighthouse—and she watched, as she lay there, the pieces of dust, hovering. She could have reached out and caught them on her fingertips, but she didn’t. Instead, she allowed her gaze to follow the beam, turning her he ad towards the spot at which it p ointed. The sp ot hig h u p o n t he wa rdrobe, w here t he do ors had come apart in t he nig ht, to r eveal, on t he top shelf, b eneath a cl ump of plastic bags f ull of clothes for St Vinnie’s, an old white suitcase.

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11 The Indian Ocean, nine hundred miles beyond the Cape of Good Hope, 1913 The Indian Ocean, four hundred miles b eyond the Cape of Good Hope, 1913

I

t took a long time to get to America. In the tales Papa had told her, he’d said it was f urther than Arabia, and the little girl kne w it took a hundred days and nights to get there. The little girl had lost count of the days but it had been quite some time since she’d boarded the boat. So long, in fact, that she’d grown used to the sensation of never ceasing to move. Getting sea legs, it was called; she had le arned all about it in tales of Moby Dick. Thinking of Moby Dick made t he little girl v ery sad. It reminded her of Papa, the stories he r ead to her o f the great whale, the pictures he let her look at in his studio, pictures he’d drawn of dark oceans and great ships. They were called illustrations, the little girl knew, enjoying the len gth o f t he w ord as she s aid i t in her mind , a nd o ne da y t hey might b e p ut in a b ook, a r eal b ook t hat o ther c hildren w ould r ead. For t hat’s w hat her pa pa did , he p ut p ictures into st orybooks. Or he had on one o ccasion. He drew paintings of p eople, too, but t he little girl didn’t like those, the eyes that followed a p erson across the room. The little girl’s bottom lip began to tremble the way it sometimes did w hen she t hought of Papa and Mamma, and she b it down on it. In t he b eginning she had cr ied a lo t. She hadn’t b een able to help it; she’d missed her parents. But she didn’t cry much any more, and never in f ront of the other children. The y might think she was t oo little to play with t hem and t hen w here would she b e? B esides, Mamma and Papa w ould b e wi th her s oon. The y w ould b e wa iting f or her, she 74


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knew, w hen t he b oat a rrived in Amer ica. Would t he A uthoress b e there too? The little girl f rowned. In all t he time i t had t aken to find her s ea legs, the Authoress had not returned. This puzzled the little girl for the Authoress had gi ven many stern instructions as t o how t hey were to stay together always, avoid separation no matter what. Perhaps she was hiding. Perhaps it was all pa rt of the game. The little girl wasn’t sure. She was just thankful that she’d met Will and Sally on the deck that first morning, otherwise she wasn’t sure she’d have known where to sleep, how to get food. Will and Sally and their brothers and sisters—they had s o many the little girl had a ha rd time keeping co unt—knew all a bout f inding f ood. The y’d sho wn her all kinds of places on the boat where an extra s erving of salt beef might be found. (She didn’t much like the taste, but the little boy only laughed and s aid i t mig ht no t b e w hat she was us ed t o b ut i t did f or a dog ’s life.) The y w ere kind t o her, f or t he most pa rt. The o nly time t hey became cross was when she refused to tell them her name. But the little girl knew how to play games, how to follow the rules, and the Authoress had told her t hat was t he most important rule of all. Will’s family had a set of bunks down on the lower decks, with lots of other men, women and children, more people than the little girl had ever seen gathered together in one place. They had a mother travelling with t hem, too, t hough t hey called her ‘ Ma’. She wasn’t at all lik e t he little girl’s own mother, she didn’t have Mamma’s pretty face and lovely dark hair set up on the top of her he ad by Poppy each morning. ‘Ma’ was more like the women the little girl had s ometimes seen when the carriage passed through the village, with tattered skirts and boots that needed mendin g, a nd lined ha nds lik e t he pa ir o f o ld g loves D avies wore in t he garden. When Will had f irst taken the little girl do wnstairs, Ma had b een sitting on the bottom bunk, nursing one baby while another lay crying beside her. ‘Who’s this then?’ she’d said. ‘She won’t say ’er name. Says she’s waiting for someone, that she’s meant to be hiding.’ ‘Hiding, eh?’ The woman beckoned the little girl closer. ‘What you hiding from then, child?’ 75


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But the little girl w ouldn’t say, just shook her he ad. ‘Where are her f olks?’ ‘I don’t think she’s got none,’ said Will. ‘Not so as I ca n figure. She was hiding when I f ound her.’ ‘That right, child? You alone?’ The little girl considered this question and decided it was better to agree than to speak of the Authoress. She nodded. ‘Well, w ell, t hen. L ittle t hing lik e y ou, all alo ne o n t he s eas.’ M a shook her he ad and jostled the cr ying baby. ‘That your case? Bring it here then and let Ma take a li ttle look-see.’ The little girl wa tched as M a unhooked the latches and lifted the top. Pushed aside t he book of fairytales and the second new dress to reveal t he en velope b elow. M a slid her f inger b eneath t he s eal a nd opened it. Plucked a small p ile of paper from within. Will’s eyes widened. ‘Banknotes.’ He glanced towards the little girl. ‘What should we do wi th her, Ma? Tell the porter?’ Ma stuffed the banknotes back inside the envelope, folded it into thirds, a nd t ucked i t do wn t he f ront o f her dr ess. ‘ Not m uch p oint telling anyone on board,’ she said finally, ‘not that I can see. She’ll stay with u s till w e get t o th e other side o f th e world, th en we’ll f ind out who’s waiting for her. See how they’d like to thank us for our troubles.’ She’d smiled t hen, and dark spaces had a ppeared between her t eeth. The little girl didn’t have much to do with Ma, and for that she was glad. Ma was k ept busy with the babies, one of whom seemed always to be attached to her front. They were suckling, or so Will said, though the little girl had ne ver heard of such a t hing. Not in p eople, anyway; she’d seen the baby animals suckling on the estate farms. Those babies were lik e a pa ir o f li ttle p iglets, do ing li ttle els e b ut s quealing a nd drinking and fattening. And w hile the babies kept their ma b usy, the others looked out for themselves. They were used to it, Will told her, for they had t o do s o at home. They came from a p lace called B olton and when there were no babies to tend their mother worked in a cotton factory, all t he day long. That’s w hy she co ughed s o much. The li ttle girl understood: her mother was also unwell, though she didn’t cough the way Ma did. In the evenings there was a spot where the little girl and the others would si t, list ening t o t he m usic co ming f rom a bove a nd t he s ound 76


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of f eet slidin g acr oss shin y f loors. Tha t’s w hat t hey w ere do ing no w, sitting in a da rkened no ok list ening. I n t he b eginning, t he li ttle girl had wa nted t o g o a nd s ee, b ut t he o ther c hildren had o nly la ughed and said the upper decks weren’t for the likes of them. That this space at the bottom of the crew ladder was as c lose as they were likely to get to the toffs’ deck. The li ttle girl had b een silen t, she’d ne ver co me acr oss r ules lik e those b efore. A t ho me, wi th o ne ex ception, she was allo wed t o g o where she p leased. The o nly p lace she was f orbidden was t he maze that led t o the Authoress’s cottage. But this wasn’t the same and she’d found it difficult to understand what the boy meant. The likes of them? Children? P erhaps t he u pper dec k was a p lace w here c hildren w ere not allowed. Not that she wa nted to go up there tonight. She felt tired, had f elt that wa y f or da ys. The s ort o f w eariness t hat made her legs s eem as heavy as forest logs and doubled the height of the stairs. She was dizzy, too, and her b reath was ho t when it passed her li ps. ‘Come on,’ said Will, tiring of the music. ‘Let’s go look for land.’ A s cramble a nd t hey w ere all o n t heir f eet. The li ttle girl p ulled herself up and tried to catch her balance. Will and Sally and the others were t alking, la ughing, t heir v oices swirlin g a round her . S he tr ied to mak e s ense o f w hat t hey w ere s aying, f elt her legs shi vering, her ears ringing. Will’s face was suddenl y close to hers, his v oice loud. ‘What’s the matter? Are you all r ight?’ She o pened her mo uth t o a nswer, a nd as she did s o her knees buckled and she b egan to fall. The last t hing she s aw before her he ad hit t he w ooden st ep was t he b right, f ull mo on, shimmer ing in t he sky above.

c The little girl opened her eyes. A man was standing above her, seriouslooking, with bumpy c heeks a nd grey e yes. His expression remained unchanged as he mo ved closer and plucked a small f lat paddle f rom his shirt pocket. ‘Open.’ 77


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Before she knew what was happening, the paddle was on her tongue and he was in specting her mo uth. ‘Yes,’ he s aid, ‘Fine.’ He withdrew the paddle a nd straightened his waistcoat. ‘Breathe.’ She did s o and he no dded. ‘She’s fine,’ he s aid again. He signalled to a younger man with straw-coloured hair who the little girl recognised from when she’d woken earlier. ‘There’s a live one here. For God’s sake get her o ut of the sickbay before that changes.’ ‘But sir,’ said the other man, puffing, ‘this is t he one what hit her head when she fa inted. Surely she sho uld rest a b it—’ ‘We don’t have sufficient beds for resting, she ca n rest when she’s back in her ca bin.’ ‘I’m not sure where she b elongs—’ The doctor rolled his e yes. ‘Then ask her, man.’ The straw-haired fellow lowered his v oice. ‘Sir, she’s the one I was telling you about. Seems to have lost her memo ry. Must’ve happened when she f ell.’ The doctor peered down at the little girl. ‘What’s your name?’ The little girl thought about this. She heard his words, understood what he was askin g of her, but found she co uldn’t answer. ‘Well?’ said the man. The little girl sho ok her he ad. ‘I don’t know.’ The do ctor sig hed, exasp erated. ‘I don’t have the time o r the b ed space f or t his. H er f ever’s g one. B y t he smell o f her she ’s f rom steerage.’ ‘Aye sir.’ ‘Well? There must be someone there who’ll claim her.’ ‘Aye sir, there’s a lad outside, the one what brought her in the other day. Come to check on her j ust this minute, a b rother I sho uld say.’ The doctor peered around the door to look down at the boy. ‘Where are the parents?’ ‘The lad s ays his father’s in Australia, sir.’ ‘And the mother?’ The o ther ma n c leared his t hroat, le aned c loser t o t he do ctor. ‘Giving the fishes a feed somewhere near the Cape of Good Hope, most likely, sir. Lost her le aving port three days ago.’ ‘Fever?’ 78


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‘Aye.’ The doctor furrowed his brow and sighed shortly. ‘Well, bring him in then.’ A young boy, skinny as a sapling, eyes as black as coal, was hoisted before him. ‘ This girl b elongs to you?’ said the doctor. ‘Yes sir,’ said the boy. ‘That is, she—’ ‘Enough, I do n’t need lif e stories. Her fever’s gone and t he bump on her head’s healed. She’s not saying much at this point but no doubt she’ll pipe up soon enough. It’s most likely attention-seeking, knowing what happened to your mother. That’s how it is s ometimes, especially with children.’ ‘But, sir—’ ‘That’s eno ugh. Take her a way.’ He t urned t o t he crewman. ‘Give the bed to someone else.’

c The little girl was sitting by the rails, watching the water. White-tipped peaks of blue, rippling beneath the wind’s touch. The way was choppier than usual a nd she sur rendered her b ody t o t he r olling mo tion. S he felt odd, not ill exac tly, just strange. As if a f ine white mist had f illed her head and settled, refusing to drift away. It had been that way since she’d woken up in the sickbay, since the strange men had lo oked her o ver and s ent her o ff with the b oy. He’d taken her downstairs to a dark place full of bunks and mattresses and more people than she’d ever seen before. ‘’Ere.’ A v oice a t her sho ulder. It was t he b oy. ‘ Don’t f orget y our case, then.’ ‘My cas e? ’ The li ttle girl g lanced a t t he p roffered p iece o f w hite leather luggage. ‘Cor!’ said the boy, looking at her stra ngely. ‘You really have gone bonkers, I thought you was just pretending for that doctor fellow’s sake. Don’t t ell me y ou do n’t e ven r emember y our o wn cas e? You’ve b een guarding it with your life the whole trip, just about tore us apart if any of us s o m uch as lo oked a t i t. Didn’t wa nt t o u pset y our p recious Authoress.’ 79


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The strange word r ustled b etween t hem and t he little girl f elt an odd prickling beneath her skin. ‘Authoress?’ she s aid. But t he b oy didn’t a nswer. ‘ Land!’ he called o ut, r unning t o le an against t he ra ils t hat ra n a round t he dec k. ‘ There’s la nd! C an y ou see it?’ The little gir l came to s tand by him, s till clutching th e h andle of the small w hite suitcase. She glanced warily at his f reckled nose, then turned to look in the direction of his pointed finger. Far in the distance she saw a str ip of land, trees of palest green all t he way along it. ‘That’s Australia,’ s aid t he b oy, e yes tra ined o n t he dist ant sho re. ‘My pa’s there waiting for us.’ Australia, t he li ttle girl t hought. Ano ther w ord she didn ’t r ecognise. ‘We’re g oing t o ha ve a ne w lif e t here, wi th o ur o wn ho use a nd everything, even a b it of land. That’s what my pa s ays in his let ters. He says we’re going to work the land, build a ne w life for ourselves. And we will, too, even if M a ain’t with us no mo re.’ The last he s aid in a q uieter voice. He fell silent for a mo ment before turning to the little girl a nd co cking his he ad t owards t he sho re. ‘ Is t hat w here your pa is? ’ The little girl t hought about this. ‘My pa? ’ The b oy rolled his e yes. ‘Your dad,’ he s aid. ‘Fellow w hat b elongs with your ma. You know, your pa.’ ‘My pa,’ the little girl ec hoed, but the boy was no lo nger listening. He’d ca ught sig ht o f o ne o f his sist ers a nd was r unning o ff sho uting about land being sighted. The little girl nodded as he left, th ough she still wasn’t sure what he meant. ‘My pa,’ she s aid uncertainly. ‘That’s where my pa is.’ The cr y o f ‘ Land!’ w ent a round t he dec k a nd as p eople b ecame busy around her the little girl took the white suitcase to a spot by a pile of barrels, a nook to which she was unaccountably drawn. She sat down and o pened t he cas e, ho ping t o f ind s ome f ood. Ther e was no ne, s o she settled instead for the book of fairytales lying on top of the other contents. As t he b oat dr ew ne arer t o sho re, a nd tiny do ts in t he dist ance became s eagulls, she o pened t he b ook acr oss her la p a nd gazed a t the beautiful black and white sketch of a w oman and a deer, side b y 80


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side in t he cle aring o f a t horny f orest. And s omehow, t hough she could no t r ead t he w ords, t he li ttle girl r ealised t hat she kne w t his picture’s t ale. Of a y oung p rincess w ho tra velled a gr eat dist ance across the sea to find a precious, hidden item belonging to someone she dearly loved.

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12 Over the Indian Ocean, 2005 Over the Indian Ocean, 2005

C

assandra le aned aga inst t he co ld, rough p lastic of t he ca bin a nd looked t hrough t he windo w, do wn t o t he vas t b lue o cean t hat covered the globe for as far as the eye could see. The very same ocean little Nell had traversed all t hose years before. It was t he f irst time C assandra had b een o verseas. Tha t is, she ’d been to New Zealand once, and had visited Nick’s family in Tasmania before they were married, but never further afield. She and Nick had talked a bout t aking o ff t o t he UK f or a f ew y ears: N ick w ould wr ite music f or B ritish T V, a nd t here had t o b e p lenty o f w ork f or a rt historians in E urope. B ut t hey hadn’t made i t a nd she’d b uried t he dream long ago, beneath the pile of others. And now here she was, aboard a plane, by herself, flying to Europe. After she’d spoken with Ben at the antique centre, after he’d given her the p icture o f t he ho use, a fter she’d f ound t he sui tcase, i t t urned o ut there was r oom f or li ttle els e in her mind . The m ystery s eemed t o attach itself to her and she couldn’t shake it off, even if she tried. Truth be t old she didn ’t want t o, she lik ed t he constancy of preoccupation. She enjoyed wondering about Nell, this other Nell, the little girl whom she hadn’t known. It was tr ue t hat e ven a fter she ’d f ound t he sui tcase she hadn ’t intended to travel directly to the UK. It had s eemed far more sensible to wa it, t o s ee ho w she f elt in a mo nth’s time , ma ybe p lan a tr ip f or later. She couldn’t just be jetting off to Cornwall on a w him. But then she’d had the dream, same as she’d been having on and off for a decade. She was standing in the middle of a field with nothing on the horizon in a ny dir ection. The dr eam had no s ense o f male volence, j ust 82


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unendingness. Ordinary vegetation, nothing t hat excited t he imagination, pale r eedy grass, lo ng enough to brush the ends o f her f ingers, and a lig ht and constant breeze that kept it rustling. In the beginning, years ago when the dream was new, she’d known she was looking for someone, that if she were only to walk in the right direction she w ould f ind t hem. But no ma tter how many times she ’d dreamed the scene, she’d never seemed to manage it. One und ulating hill would be replaced by another; she’d look away at the wrong moment; she’d suddenly wake up. Gradually, over time, the dream had changed. So subtly, so slowly, she didn ’t no tice i t ha ppening. I t wasn ’t t hat t he s etting c hanged: physically all r emained as e ver. It was t he f eeling o f t he dr eam. The certainty that she would find what it was she sought just slipped away, until o ne nig ht she kne w t here was no thing, no o ne wa iting f or her. That no ma tter how far she walk ed, how carefully she s earched, how much she wa nted t o f ind t he p erson she was lo oking f or, she was alone . . . Next mo rning, t he des olation had lin gered, b ut C assandra was used to its dull hangover and went about her lif e as usual . There was no sign t hat the day was to be anything other than ordinary, until she went to the nearby shopping centre to buy bread for lunch and wound up paused by the travel agency. Funny, she’d never really noticed it was there. Without quite knowing how or why, she f ound herself pushing open the door, standing on the seagrass matting, a wall o f consultants waiting for her t o speak. Cassandra remembered later feeling dull surprise at that point. It seemed she was a r eal p erson after all, a s olid human b eing, moving in and out of the orbits of others. No matter that she so often felt herself to be living half a lif e, to be a half-lig ht. At ho me a fterwards, she ’d st ood f or a mo ment, r eplaying t he morning’s e vents, tr ying t o is olate t he in stant in w hich her decisio n had been made. How she’d gone to the shops for bread and come back with an airline ticket. And t hen she w ent into Nell’s room, pulled the suitcase bac k do wn f rom i ts hidin g s pot, a nd t ook e verything f rom inside. The book of fairytales, the sketch with Eliza Makepeace written on its back, t he lined ex ercise b ook with Nell’s handwriting s crawled across each page. 83


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She made herself a milky coffee and sat up in Nell’s bed, doing her best to decipher the god-awful handwriting, transcribing it onto a clean pad of paper. Cassandra was reasonably good at unravelling handwritten notes from previous centuries—it went with the territory for a secondhand dealer—but old-fashioned writing was one thing, it had a pattern to it. Nell’s hand was just messy. Purposely, perversely messy. To make matters worse, the notebook had suffered water damage at some point in its history. Pages were stuck together, wrinkled blotches were laced with mo uld, a nd t o r ush was t o r isk t earing t he pag es a nd f orever obscuring the entries. It was slo w g oing, b ut C assandra didn’t need t o g o fa r t o r ealise that Nell had b een trying to solve the mystery of her identity. August 1975. Today they brought me the white suitcase. As soon as I saw it, I knew what it was. I p retended casualness. Doug and Phyllis don’t know the truth and I didn’t want them to see that I was shaking. I wanted them to think only that it was a n old suitcase of D ad’s that he’d wanted me to have. After they’d g one, I s at l ooking a t it for a tim e, w illing m yself to r emember: who I a m, where I a m from. It was n o use, o f course, and so, at length, I opened it. There was a note from Dad, an apology of sorts, and beneath it other things. A c hild’s dress—mine I s uppose—a silver hairbrush, and a boo k of fairytales. I r ecognised it immediately. I t urned the cover and then I saw her, the Authoress. The words came fully formed. She is t he key to my past, I’m sure of it. If I f ind her, I w ill finally find myself. For that is what I intend to do. In this notebook I will chart my progress, and by its end, I w ill know my name and why I lo st it. Cassandra turned carefully through the mouldy pages, filled with suspense. Had Nell done what she s et out to do? F ound out who she was? I s t hat w hy she’d b ought t he ho use? The f inal en try was da ted November 1975 a nd Nell had j ust arrived home to Brisbane: I’m going back as soo n as I ’ve tied things up here. I’ll be so rry to leave my h ouse i n B risbane, a nd m y s hop, b ut wh at doe s i t c ompare w ith finally finding my truth? And I’m so close. I know it. Now that the cottage 84


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is mine, I k now the final answers will follow. It is m y past, my self, and I have nearly found it. Nell had b een p lanning t o le ave Australia f or g ood. W hy hadn’t she? What had happened? Why hadn’t she wr itten another entry? Another lo ok a t t he da te, N ovember 1975, a nd C assandra’s skin prickled. It was two months before she, Cassandra, had been deposited at N ell’s p lace. L esley’s p romised w eek o r tw o had str etched o n indefinitely until it turned into forever. Cassandra set the notebook aside as realisation hardened. Nell had taken up the parental reins without skipping a beat, had stepped in and given C assandra a ho me a nd a fa mily. A mo ther. And ne ver f or a n instant had she let C assandra kno w o f t he p lans her a rrival had interrupted.

c Cassandra t urned f rom t he a ircraft windo w a nd p ulled t he b ook o f fairytales from her carry-on, laid it across her lap. She didn’t know what had made her s o cer tain t hat she wa nted to bring t he b ook onboard with her. It was the bond with Nell, she supposed, for this was the book from the suitcase, the link with Nell’s past, one of the few possessions that had acco mpanied t he little girl acr oss t he s eas to Australia. And it was something about the book itself. It exercised the same compulsion over C assandra t hat it had w hen she was t en y ears o ld a nd had f irst discovered it downstairs in N ell’s flat. The ti tle, the illustrations, even the author’s name. Eliza Makepeace. Whispering it now, Cassandra felt the strangest shiver tiptoe along her sp ine. As the ocean continued to stretch below, Cassandra turned to the first story and b egan to read, a st ory called ‘ The Crone’s Eyes’ which she recognised from the hot summer’s day long ago.

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THE CRONE’S EYES by Eliza Makepeace by Eliza Makepeace

nce in a land that lay far across the shining sea there lived a princess who didn’t know she was a princess, for when she was but a small child her kingdom had been ransacked and her royal family slain. It so happened that the young princess had been playing that day outside the castle walls and knew nothing of the attack until night began its fall towards earth and she set aside her game to find her home in ruins. The little princess wandered alone for a time, until finally she came to a cottage on the edge of a dark wood. As she knocked upon the door, the sky, angered by the destruction it had witnessed, broke apart in rage and spat fierce rain across the land. Inside the cottage there lived a blind crone who took pity on the girl and determined to give her shelter and raise her as her own. There was much work to be done in the crone’s cottage, but the princess was never heard to complain, for she was a true princess with a pure heart. The happiest folk are those that are busy, for their minds are starved of time to seek out woe. Thus did the princess grow up contented. She came to love the changing seasons and learned the satisfaction of sowing seeds and tending crops. And although she was becoming beautiful, the princess did not know it, for the crone had neither looking

O

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glass nor vanity and thus the princess had not learned the ways of either. One night, in the princess’s sixteenth year, she and the crone sat in the kitchen eating their supper. ‘What happened to your eyes, dear crone?’ asked the princess, who had wondered for a long time. The crone turned towards the princess, skin wrinkled where her eyes should be. ‘My sight was taken from me.’ ‘By whom?’ ‘When I was but a maiden, my father loved me so much that he removed my eyes so I need never witness death and destruction in the world.’ ‘But dearest crone, you can no longer witness beauty either,’ said the princess, thinking of the pleasure she gained from watching her garden blossom. ‘No,’ said the crone. ‘And I would very much like to see you, my Beauty, grow.’ ‘Could we not seek your eyes somewhere?’ The crone smiled sadly. ‘My eyes were to be returned by messenger when I attained my sixtieth year, but on the night ordained, my Beauty arrived with a great lashing storm on her heels, and I was unable to meet him.’ ‘Might we find him now?’ The crone shook her head. ‘The messenger could not wait, and my eyes were taken instead to the deep well in the land of lost things.’ ‘Could we not journey there?’ ‘Alas,’ said the crone, ‘the way is far, and the road paved with danger and deprivation.’ By and by, the seasons changed, and the crone became weaker and paler. One day, when the princess was on her way to pick apples for the winter store, she came upon the crone, sitting in the fork of the apple tree, lamenting. The princess stopped, startled, for she had never seen the crone upset. As she listened, she realised that the crone was speaking to a solemn grey and white bird with a striped tail: ‘My eyes, my eyes,’ she said. ‘My 87


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end approaches and my sight will never be restored. Tell me, wise bird, how will I know my way in the next world if I cannot see myself?’ Quickly and quietly, the princess returned to the cottage, for she knew what she must do. The crone had sacrificed her eyes to provide the princess shelter and now must this kindness be repaid. Although she had never travelled beyond the forest rim, the princess did not hesitate. Her love for the crone was so fathomless that if all the grains of sand in the ocean should be stacked up end to end, they would not run so deep. The princess woke with the first dawn of morning and wandered forth into the forest, stopping not until she reached the shore. There she set sail, crossing the vast sea to the land of lost things. The way was long and hard, and the princess was bewildered, for the forest in the land of lost things looked vastly different from that to which she was accustomed. The trees were cruel and jagged, the beasts ghastly, even the birds’ songs made the princess tremble. The more frightened she became, the faster she ran, until finally she stopped, her heart thundering in her chest. The princess was lost and knew not where to turn. She was about to despair, when the solemn grey and white bird appeared before her. ‘I am sent by the crone,’ said the bird, ‘to lead you safely to the well of lost things where you will find your fate.’ The princess was much relieved and set off after the bird, her stomach grumbling for she had been unable to find food in this strange land. By and by, she came upon an old woman sitting on a fallen log. ‘How fare you, Beauty?’ said the old woman. ‘I am so hungry,’ said the princess, ‘yet I know not where to seek food.’ The old woman pointed to the forest and suddenly the princess saw that there were berries hanging from 88


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the trees, and nuts growing in clusters on the ends of branches. ‘Oh thank you, kind woman,’ said the princess. ‘I did nothing,’ said the old woman, ‘except to open your eyes and show you what you knew was there.’ The princess continued after the bird, more satisfied now, but as they went the weather began to change and the winds grew cold. By and by, the princess came upon a second old woman sitting on a tree stump. ‘How fare you, Beauty?’ ‘I am so cold, yet I know not where to seek warm clothes.’ The old woman pointed to the forest, and suddenly the princess saw brambles of wild roses with the softest, most delicate petals. She coated herself with them and was much warmer. ‘Oh thank you, kind woman,’ said the princess. ‘I did nothing,’ said the old woman, ‘except to open your eyes and show you what you knew was there.’ The princess continued after the grey and white bird, more satisfied now, and warmer than before, but her feet began to ache for she had walked so far. By and by, the princess came upon a third old woman sitting on a tree stump. ‘How fare you, Beauty?’ ‘I am so tired, yet I know not where to seek carriage.’ The old woman pointed to the forest, and suddenly, in a clearing, the princess saw a shiny brown fawn with a gold ring around his neck. The fawn blinked at the princess, a dark, thoughtful eye, and the princess, who was kind of heart, held out her hand. The fawn came to her and bowed his head so she might ride upon his back. ‘Oh thank you, kind woman,’ said the princess. ‘I did nothing,’ said the woman, ‘except to open your eyes and show you what you knew was there.’ The princess and the fawn followed the grey and white bird further and further into the dark forest, and as days passed the princess came to understand the fawn’s 89


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soft and gentle language. As they spoke, night after night, the princess learned that the fawn was in hiding from a treacherous hunter sent to kill him by a wicked witch. So grateful was the princess for the fawn’s kindness, that she undertook to keep him safe from his tormentors. Good intentions pave the way to ruin, however, and early next morning the princess woke to find the fawn absent from his usual place by the fire. In the tree above, the grey and white bird twittered in agitation, and the princess jumped quickly to her feet, following where the bird led. As she drew deeper into the nearby brambles, she heard the fawn weeping. The princess hurried to his side and saw there an arrow in his flank. ‘The witch hath found me,’ spoke the fawn. ‘As I collected nuts for our journey she ordered her archers to shoot me. I ran as far and as fast as I could, but when I reached this spot I could go no further.’ The princess knelt by the fawn and so great was her distress at witnessing his pain that she began to weep over his body, and the truth and light from her tears caused his wound to heal. Over the next days the princess tended the fawn, and once his health was restored they continued their journey to the edge of the vast woods. When they broke finally through the rim of trees, the coastline lay before them and the glistening sea beyond. ‘Not much further north,’ said the bird, ‘stands the well of lost things.’ Day had ended and dusk thickened into night, but the shingles of the beach shone like pieces of silver in the moonlight, marking their way. They walked north until finally, at the top of a craggy black rock, could be seen the well of lost things. The grey and white bird bid them farewell and flew away, her duty discharged. When the princess and the fawn reached the well, the princess turned to stroke her noble companion’s neck. ‘You cannot come with me down the well, dear fawn,’ she said, 90


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‘for this must I do alone.’ And summoning up the bravery she had discovered on her journey, the princess jumped into the opening, and fell and fell towards the bottom. The princess tumbled in and out of sleep and dreams until she found herself walking in a field where the sun made the grass glimmer and the trees sing. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, a beautiful fairy appeared, with long, swirling hair that glistened like spun gold and a radiant smile upon her face. The princess felt instantly at peace. ‘You have come a long way, weary traveller,’ said the fairy. ‘I have come that I might return to a dear friend her eyes. Have you seen the globes of which I speak, bright fairy?’ Without a word, the fairy opened her hand and in it were two eyes, the beautiful eyes of a maiden who had seen no ill in the world. ‘You may take them,’ said the fairy, ‘but your crone will never use them.’ And before the princess could ask what the fairy meant, she woke to discover she was lying by her dear fawn at the top of the well. In her hands was a small wrapped parcel in which lay the crone’s eyes. For three months, the travellers journeyed back across the land of lost things, and over the deep blue sea, to arrive once more in the princess’s home land. When they drew near to the crone’s cottage, on the edge of the dark, familiar wood, a huntsman stopped them and confirmed the fairy’s prediction. While the princess had been travelling in the land of lost things, the crone had passed peacefully to the next world. At this news, the princess began to weep, for her long journey had been in vain, but the fawn, who was as wise as he was good, told his Beauty to stop crying. ‘It matters not, for she did not need her eyes to tell her who she was. She knew it by your love for her.’ 91


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And the princess was so grateful for the fawn’s kindness that she reached out and stroked his warm cheek. Just then, the fawn was changed into a handsome prince, and his golden ring became a crown, and he told the princess how a wicked witch had put a spell on him, trapping him in the body of a fawn until a fair maiden might love him enough to weep over his fate. He and the princess were betrothed and lived together happily and busily evermore in the crone’s little cottage, her eyes watching over them eternally from a jar atop the fireplace.

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H

e was a scribble of a man. Frail and fine and stooped from a knot in the centre of his knobbled back. Beige slacks with grease spots clung to the marbles of his knees, twig-lik e ankles rose stoically from oversized shoes, and tufts of white floss sprouted from various fertile spots on an otherwise smooth scalp. He looked like a c haracter from a children’s story. A fa iry story. Nell p ulled her self away f rom t he window a nd st udied aga in t he address in her no tebook. Ther e i t was, p rinted in her o wn un sightly hand: Mr S nelgrove’s A ntiquarian Boo kshop, N o. 4 Ce cil Co urt, o ff Charing Cross Road—London’s foremost expert on fairytale writers and old books in general. Might know about Eliza? The librarians at the Central Reference Library had gi ven her his name and address the day before. They’d been unable to rummage up any inf ormation o n E liza M akepeace t hat N ell hadn’t alr eady f ound, but had t old her t hat if t here was a nyone who could help her f urther with her search, it was Mr Snelgrove. Not the most sociable of fellows, that much was certain, but he knew more about old books than anyone else in London. He was as old as time itself, one of the younger librarians joked, a nd had p robably read t he b ook of fa irytales w hen it was ho t off the press. A cool breeze brushed against her bare neck and Nell gathered her coat tig ht about her sho ulders. With a deep , clear breath of purpose, she pushed open the door. A b rass b ell tink led in t he do orjamb a nd t he o ld ma n t urned t o look a t her. Thic k sp ectacle len ses ca ught t he lig ht, sho ne lik e tw o

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round mirrors, and impossibly large ears balanced on the sides o f his head, white hair colonising them from within. He tilted his head and Nell’s first thought was that he was bowing— some vestige of manners from an earlier time. When pale g lassy eyes appeared o ver t he r im o f his g lasses she r ealised he was mer ely improving his vie w of her. ‘Mr Snelgrove?’ ‘Yes.’ Tone of a t etchy he admaster. ‘Yes indeed. Well come in, do , you’re letting the wretched air through.’ Nell stepped forward, aware of the door closing behind her. A little current sucking out, leaving the warm, stale air to resettle. ‘Name,’ said the man. ‘Nell. Nell Andrews.’ He blinked at her. ‘Name,’ he s aid again, enunciating carefully, ‘of the book for which you are searching.’ ‘Of course.’ Nell glanced again at her notebook. ‘Though it’s not so much a cas e of searching for a b ook.’ Mr Snelgrove blinked again slowly, a pa rody of patience. He was w eary o f her alr eady, N ell r ealised. This ca ught her o ff guard, she was us ed t o p laying t he w earied her self. Surprise brought with it a p esky stammer. ‘ Th—that is,’ she pa used, tr ying to compose herself, ‘I already have the book in q uestion.’ Mr S nelgrove snif fed sha rply a nd la rge nostr ils c lamped sh ut. ‘Might I sug gest, madam,’ he s aid, ‘that if y ou already have the book in q uestion, y ou ha ve li ttle need f or m y h umble s ervices.’ A no d. ‘Good day.’ And wi th t hat he sh uffled a way, r eturned his a ttention t o t he towering bookshelf by the stairs. She had b een dismissed. Nell opened her mo uth. Closed it again. Turned to leave. Stopped. No. She had come a long way to unravel a mystery, her mystery, and this man was her best chance of shedding some light on Eliza Makepeace, why she mig ht have been escorting Nell to Australia in 1913. Pulling her self t o her f ull heig ht, N ell cr ossed t he f loorboards to st and b y M r S nelgrove. S he c leared her t hroat, ra ther p ointedly, and waited. 94


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He didn’t turn his head, merely continued shelving his books. ‘You are still here.’ A s tatement. ‘Yes,’ said Nell firmly. ‘I have come a long way to show you something and I do n’t intend to leave until I’ve done so.’ ‘I fear, madam,’ he said through a sigh, ‘that you have wasted your time j ust as y ou a re no w wastin g mine . I do n’t s ell i tems o n commission.’ Anger p rickled N ell’s t hroat. ‘And I do n’t wish t o s ell m y b ook. I ask o nly t hat y ou t ake a lo ok a t i t s o t hat I mig ht ga in a n exp ert opinion.’ Her cheeks were warm, an unfamiliar sensation. She was not a blusher. Mr S nelgrove turned t o appraise her, t hat pale , co ol, weary gaze . A thread of emotion (which one, she could not tell) plucked neatly at his lip. Wordlessly, and with the slightest of movements, he indica ted a little office behind his sho p counter. Nell hurried through the doorway. His agreement was t he sort of tiny kindness t hat had a ha bit of poking holes in o ne’s resolve. A t ear of relief threatened to break through her def ences and she d ug inside her bag hoping to find an old tissue so she might stop the traitor in its tracks. What on earth was happening to her? She wasn’t an emotional person, she kne w how to keep control. At least, she al ways had. Until recently, un til D oug had deli vered t hat sui tcase a nd she’d f ound t he storybook inside, the picture as i ts frontispiece. Started remembering things and people, like the Authoress; fragments of her past, g limpsed through tiny holes in t he fabric of her memo ry. Mr Snelgrove closed the glass door behind him and shuffled across a Persian carpet dulled by its coat of long-settled dust. He navigated his way between motley mounds of books that were arranged, mazelike, on t he f loor, t hen dropped into t he le ather chair on t he far side of the desk. Fumbled a ciga rette from a battered packet and lit it. ‘Well—’ t he w ord f loated o ut o n a str eam o f smo ke—‘come o n then. Let me cast m y gaze acr oss this book of yours.’ Nell had wra pped the book in a t ea towel when she lef t Brisbane. A sensible idea—the book was old and precious, it needed protection— yet her e, in t he dim lig ht o f M r S nelgrove’s tr ove, t he do mesticity implied by its shroud embarrassed her. 95


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She un tied t he str ing a nd sli pped o ff t he r ed a nd w hite c hecked cloth, restrained herself from pushing it deep within her bag. Then she handed the book across the table into Mr Snelgrove’s waiting fingers. Silence des cended, p unctured o nly b y t he tic king o f a co ncealed clock. Nell waited anxiously while he t urned the pages, one by one. Still he said nothing. Perhaps he r equired further explanation. ‘What I was ho ping—’ ‘Silence.’ A pale hand was lifted; the cigarette wedged between two fingers threatened to relinquish its ash ti p. Nell’s words stuck in her t hroat. He was wi thout doubt the rudest man she had e ver had t he misf ortune t o de al wi th, a nd gi ven t he character of some of her second-hand dealing associates that was saying something. N onetheless, he was her b est c hance o f f inding t he information she needed . S he had li ttle c hoice b ut t o si t, c hastised, watching a nd wa iting as t he ciga rette’s w hite b ody mo rphed in to a n improbably long cylinder of ash. Finally, the ash detached itself and dropped, lightly, to the ground. Joined the other dusty corpses that had died similar silent deaths. Nell, by no me ans a k een housekeeper, shuddered. Mr Snelgrove took one last, h ungry drag a nd s quashed the sp ent cigarette f ilter into a he aving ashtray. Af ter w hat s eemed an et ernity, he spoke through a co ugh. ‘Where did y ou come by this?’ Was she imaginin g t he tr emor o f in terest in his v oice? ‘ I was given it.’ ‘By whom?’ How t o a nswer t hat o ne. ‘ By t he a uthor her self, I t hink. I do n’t really remember, I was gi ven it as a c hild.’ He was wa tching her k eenly no w. H is li ps tig htened, tr embled a little. ‘I’ve heard of it, of course, but in all my days I confess I’ve never seen a co py.’ The book lay upon the table now and Mr Snelgrove ran his ha nd lightly over its cover. He let his eyelids flutter closed and uttered a sigh of deep w ellbeing, that of the desert walker finally delivered to water. Surprised by this shift in deme anour, Nell cleared her t hroat and clutched at words. ‘It’s rare then?’ ‘Oh yes,’ he said softly, opening his eyes once more, ‘yes. Exceptionally rare. Only one edition, you see. And the illustrations, Nathaniel Walker. 96


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This would be one of the only books he ever did.’ He opened the cover and gazed at the frontispiece. ‘It’s a ra re specimen indeed.’ ‘And w hat a bout t he a uthor? D o y ou kno w a nything a bout E liza Makepeace? ’ N ell ca ught her b reath as he wr inkled his gna rled o ld nose. Dared to hope. ‘She’s proved rather elusive. I’ve only managed to turn up the most spa re of details.’ Mr Snelgrove pushed himself to standing and glanced longingly at the b ook b efore t urning t o a w ooden b ox o n t he shelf b ehind. I ts drawers were small and, when he pulled one open, Nell saw it was filled to the brim with little rectangular cards. He riffled through, muttering to himself, until finally he withdrew one. ‘Here we are then.’ His lips moved as he s canned the card and in time t he v olume ra ised. ‘ Eliza M akepeace . . . stories a ppeared in various p eriodicals . . . Onl y o ne p ublished co llection,’ he t apped a finger on Nell’s book, ‘which we have right here . . . very little scholarly work on her . . . except . . . ah, yes.’ Nell sat straighter. ‘What is i t? What have you found?’ ‘An a rticle, a b ook t hat men tions y our E liza. I t co ntains a li ttle biography if I r emember.’ He shuffled to a b ookcase that ran f loor to ceiling. ‘Relatively recent, only nine years old. According to my note it should be filed somewhere . . .’ He ran a f inger along the fourth shelf, hesitated, continued, stopped. ‘Here.’ He grunted as he p ulled down a book and blew dust from its top. Then he t urned it over and squinted at the spine. ‘Fairytales and Fiction Weavers of the Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Cen turies b y Dr Rog er M cNab.’ H e lic ked his f inger and t urned t o t he index, traced do wn t he lis t. ‘ Here w e a re, E liza Makepeace, page forty-seven.’ He pushed the open book across the table to Nell. Her he art was racin g, p ulse f lecking b eneath her skin. S he was warm, very warm. S he f umbled t he pages t o forty-seven, read E liza’s name at the top. Finally, finally, she was making progress, a biography that promised to flesh out the one person to whom she knew she was somehow linked. ‘Thank you,’ she s aid, the words catching in her t hroat. ‘Thank you.’ Mr Snelgrove nodded, embarrassed by her gratitude. He tilted his head in t he direction of Eliza’s book. ‘I don’t suppose you’re seeking a good home for this one?’ 97


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Nell smiled slightly and shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t part with it. It’s a fa mily heirloom.’ The bell tinkled. A young man stood on the other side of the glass office door, staring uncertainly at the towers of sagging shelves. Mr Snelgrove nodded curtly. ‘Well, if y ou change your mind, you know where to find me.’ Peering over his glasses at the new customer, he huffed shortly. ‘Why do they always hold the door open?’ He began his sh uffle bac k t owards t he sho p. ‘ Fairytales a nd F iction Weavers is three pounds,’ he s aid as he pass ed Nell’s chair. ‘You may sit here and avail yourself of the facilities for a brief time, just be sure and leave the money on my counter when you leave.’ Nell no dded her agr eement a nd, as t he do or c losed b ehind him, heart pounding, she b egan to read. A writer of the first decade of the twentieth century, Eliza Makepeace is best remembered for her fairytales, which appeared regularly in various periodicals over the years spanning 1907 to 1913. She is generally credited with having authored thirty-five stories, however this listing is incomplete and t he t rue ext ent o f h er o utput m ay n ever be k nown. An ill ustrated collection o f El iza Makepeace’s f airytales was p ublished b y t he Lo ndon press Hobbins and Co in August 1913. The volume sold well and received favourable reviews. The Times described the stories as ‘a strange delight that enlivened in this reviewer the enchanting and sometimes frightening sensations o f c hildhood’. Th e ill ustrations b y N athaniel Walker wer e praised e specially a nd a re t hought b y so me t o r ank a mongst h is be st work1. They were a departure from the oil portraits for which he i s now better remembered. Eliza’s own story began on 1 S eptember 1888 when s he was bor n in London. Th e b irth r ecords f or t hat ye ar i ndicate t hat s he was bo rn a twin, and the first twelve years of her life were spent in a tenement house at number thirty-five Battersea Church Road. Eliza’s pedigree is r ather more c omplex t han h er h umble o rigins m ight s uggest. H er m other, Georgiana, was t he da ughter o f a n a ristocratic f amily, i nhabitants o f 1 See Tho mas R . C ollins, Sketching the P ast (H amilton H udson, 1959), a nd Reginald Coyte, Famous Illustrators (Wycliffe Press, 1964).

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Blackhurst Manor in Cornwall. Georgiana Mountrachet caused a society scandal when, at the age of seventeen, she ran away from the family estate with a yo ung man far beneath her own social class. Eliza’s father, Jonathan Makepeace, was bo rn in London in 1866 t o a pen niless Th ames ba rgeman a nd h is w ife. H e was t he f ifth o f n ine children and grew up in the slums behind the London docks. Although his death in 1888 occurred before Eliza was born, Eliza’s published tales seem t o r einterpret even ts t hat wer e l ikely exper ienced b y a yo ung Jonathan Makepeace during his childhood on the river. For instance, in ‘The R iver’s C urse’, t he de ad m en h anging f rom t he f airy ga llows a re almost ce rtainly ba sed on s cenes J onathan M akepeace would ha ve witnessed as a boy at Execution Dock. We must presume that these stories were passed to Eliza through her mother, Georgiana, embellished perhaps, and stored in Eliza’s memory until she began to write herself. How the son of a poo r London bargeman came to meet and fall in love w ith t he h ighborn Ge orgiana M ountrachet r emains a m ystery. In line w ith t he se cretive n ature o f h er e lopement, Ge orgiana left n o information about events leading to her departure. Attempts to learn the truth are further thwarted by her family’s diligent efforts to smother the story. T here w as v ery lit tle cov erage in the ne wspapers a nd one m ust search further afield, in contemporary letters and diaries, to find mention of what must surely have been a great scandal at the time. The occupation listed on Jonathan’s death certificate is ‘Sailor’, however the precise nature of his employment is unclear. It is speculation only that leads this writer to suggest that perhaps Jonathan’s life on the seas brought him briefly to the rocky shores of Cornwall. That perhaps, on the cove of her family’s estate, Lord Mountrachet’s daughter, famed throughout the county for her flame-haired beauty, chanced to meet the young Jonathan Makepeace. Whatever the circumstances of their meeting, that they were in love cannot be do ubted. Alas, the you ng couple were not to be g ranted years of h appiness. J onathan’s s udden a nd so mewhat i nexplicable de ath le ss than ten months after their elopement must have dealt a devastating blow to Ge orgiana M ountrachet, wh o was left a lone i n Lo ndon, u nwed, pregnant, and with neither family nor financial security. Georgiana was not one to f lounder, ho wever: s he had a bandoned the str ictures of he r social class and, after the birth of her babies, abandoned too the name 99


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Mountrachet. She performed copy work for the legal firm of HJ Blackwater and Associates of Lincoln’s Inn, Holborn. There is some evidence that Georgiana’s fine penmanship was a g ift for wh ich s he f ound a mple exp ression i n h er yo uth. Th e M ountrachet family journals, donated in 1950 to the British Library, contain a number of playbills composed with careful lettering and accomplished illustrations. In t he c orner o f e ach p laybill, t he ‘artist’ h as w ritten h er n ame i n t iny print. Amateur theatricals were, of course, popular in many of the great houses, however the playbills for those at Blackhurst in the 1880s oc cur with greater regularity and seriousness than was per haps usual. Little is known of Eliza’s childhood in London, other than the house in which she was born and spent her early years. One can posit, however, that h er l ife was go verned b y t he d ictates o f po verty a nd t he d ifficult business of sur vival. I n all pr obability, the tub erculosis tha t w ould b e Georgiana’s ul timate k iller was a lready s talking h er i n t he m id-1890s. If h er c ondition f ollowed t he c ommon pa th, b y t he la tter ye ars o f t he decade, b reathlessness a nd gen eral we akness wo uld h ave p recluded regular work . C ertainly, the accou nts for H J Black water suppor t th is timetable of decline. There is no evidence that Georgiana sought medical attention for her illness, b ut f ear o f m edical i ntervention was c ommon i n t he per iod. During t he 1880s, TB was m ade a n otifiable d isease i n B ritain a nd medical practitioners were bound by law to report instances of the illness to go vernment a uthorities. M embers o f t he u rban poo r, f rightened o f being sent to sanatoriums (which more usually resembled prisons), were loath to seek help. Her mother’s illness must have had a g reat effect on Eliza, both practically and creatively. It is almost certain that she would have be en r equired t o c ontribute f inancially t o t he h ousehold. G irls i n Victorian Lo ndon wer e em ployed i n a ll m anner o f m enial po sitions— domestic ser vants, f ruit se llers, f lower g irls—and El iza’s dep iction o f mangles a nd h ot t ubs i n so me o f h er f airytales s uggests t hat s he was intimately a cquainted w ith t he t ask o f la undering. Th e va mpire-like beings in ‘The Fairy Hunt’ may also reflect the early nineteenth-century belief that sufferers of consumption were vampire-afflicted: sensitivity to bright light, swollen red eyes, very pale skin, and the characteristic bloody cough were all symptoms that fed this belief. 100


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Whether Ge orgiana m ade a ny a ttempt t o c ontact h er f amily a fter Jonathan’s de ath, a nd as h er o wn h ealth de teriorated, is u nknown. However, i n t his w riter’s o pinion, i t se ems u nlikely. Cer tainly, a le tter from Linus Mountrachet to an associate, dated December 1900, suggests that he had onl y recently learned of El iza, his l ittle L ondon niece, and was s hocked t o t hink t hat s he h ad pas sed a de cade i n s uch t errible conditions. Perhaps Georgiana feared that the Mountrachet family might be u nwilling t o f orgive h er o riginal de sertion. I f h er b rother’s le tter is anything to go by, such fear was unfounded. After so many long years spent searching abroad, trawling the seas and scouring the lands, to think my beloved sister was s o near all along. And allo wing herself to suffer such privations! You will s ee that I sp oke tr uth w hen I t old y ou o f her na ture. H ow li ttle she seemed to care t hat we loved her s o and longed only for her s afe homecoming . . .

Though Georgiana never made such a h omecoming, Eliza was de stined to return to the bosom of her maternal family. Georgiana Mountrachet died i n June 1900 wh en El iza was e leven. Th e de ath c ertificate n ames her killer as consumption and her age as thirty. After her mother’s death, Eliza was sen t to live w ith her mother’s family on the Cornish coast. It is unclear how this family reunion was effected, but one can safely assume that, despite the unfortunate circumstances precipitating it, for the young Eliza this change of location was a most fortunate occurrence. Relocation to Blackhurst Manor, with its grand estate and gardens, must have been a welcome relief, offering safety after the dangers of the London streets. Indeed, t he se a be came a m otif o f r enewal a nd po ssible r edemption i n her fairytales. Eliza is k nown to have lived w ith her maternal uncle’s family until the a ge o f twen ty-five, h owever h er wh ereabouts t hereafter r emain a mystery. Various theories have been formulated as to her life after 1913, though all a re y et to b e pr oved. S ome h istorians sug gest tha t she most likely fell victim to the spread of scarlet fever that enveloped the Cornish coast i n 1913. Ot hers, per plexed b y t he 1936 p ublication o f h er f inal fairytale, ‘The Cuckoo’s Flight’, in the journal Literary Lives, suggest that 101


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she spent her time travelling, seeking the life of adventure championed by her fairytales. This tantalising idea is yet to receive any serious academic attention and, despite such theories, the fate of Eliza Makepeace, along with the date of her death, remains one of literature’s mysteries. There exis ts a c harcoal s ketch o f El iza M akepeace, d rawn b y t he well-known Edwardian portrait artist, Nathaniel Walker. Found after his death amongst his unfinished works, the sketch, entitled The Authoress, hangs currently in the Tate Gallery in London. Although Eliza Makepeace published only one complete collection of fairytales, her work is r ich in metaphorical a nd socio logical t exture a nd wo uld r eward sc holarship. Where e arlier tal es li ke ‘ The C hangeling’ sh ow a strong inf luence f rom the European fairytale tradition, later tales like ‘The Crone’s Eyes’ suggest a m ore o riginal a nd, o ne wo uld ven ture, a utobiographical a pproach. However, l ike ma ny fe male w riters of the f irst decade of th is ce ntury, Eliza Makepeace fell v ictim to the cultural shift that occurred after the momentous world events of the early century (the First World War and women’s suffrage to name but two) a nd slipped from readers’ attention. Many of he r stor ies w ere l ost dur ing the S econd World War, w hen the British Library was robbed of entire runs of its more obscure periodicals. As a consequence, Eliza and her fairytales are relatively unknown today. Her work, along with the author herself, seems to have disappeared from the f ace o f t he e arth, lo st t o us l ike so m any o ther gh osts o f t he e arly decades of the century.

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H

igh a bove M r a nd M rs S windell’s ra g a nd b ottle sho p, in t heir narrow house by the Thames, there was a tiny room. Little more than a c loset, r eally. I t was da rk a nd da mp wi th a f usty smell (t he natural co nsequence o f p oor dra inage a nd no nexistent v entilation), discoloured walls that cracked in summer and seeped through winter, and a f ireplace w hose c himney had b een b locked s o lo ng i t s eemed churlish to suggest it should be otherwise. Yet despite its meanness, the room above the Swindells’ shop was t he only home Eliza Makepeace and her twin b rother, Sammy, had e ver known, a mo dicum of safety and s ecurity in li ves o therwise de void o f b oth. The y had b een b orn in t he a utumn o f L ondon’s f ear, a nd t he o lder E liza gr ew t he mo re certain she became that this fact, above any other, made her w hat she was. The Ri pper was t he f irst adversary in a lif e t hat would b e f illed with them. The thing Eliza liked best about the room upstairs, indeed the only thing she liked beyond its bare status as shelter, was the crack between two b ricks, hig h a bove t he old p ine shelf. She was eter nally g rateful that the slapdashery of a long-ago builder, combined with the tenacity of the local rats, had begot a nice fat gap in the mortar. If Eliza lay flat on her st omach, str etched her self r ight alo ng t he shelf wi th her e ye pressed close against the bricks and her head cocked just so, she could glimpse the nearby bend of the river. From such secret vantage point she was a ble to watch unobserved as t he tide o f busy daily life ebbed and flowed. Thus were Eliza’s twin ideals achieved: she was able to see, yet not be seen. For though her o wn curiosity knew no b ounds, Eliza didn’t lik e t o b e wa tched. S he un derstood t hat t o b e no ticed was 103


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dangerous, that certain scrutiny was akin t o thieving. Eliza knew this because it was w hat she most lik ed to do, store images in her mind t o be replayed, revoiced, recoloured as she p leased. To weave them into wicked st ories, f lights o f fa ncy t hat w ould ha ve ho rrified t he p eople who’d provided unwitting inspiration. And there were so many people to choose from. Life on Eliza’s bend of the Thames never stopped. The river was London’s lifeblood, swelling and thinning with the ceaseless tides, tra nsmitting the beneficent and the brutal alike, in and out of the city. Although Eliza liked it when the coal boats came in at high water, the watermen rowing people back and forth, the lighters bringing in ca rgo f rom the colliers, it was lo w tide when the river really came to life. When the levels dropped sufficiently for Mr Hackman and his son to start dragging for bodies whose pockets needed c learing; w hen t he m udlarks t ook u p p osition, s couring t he stinking mud for rope and bones and copper nails, anything they could find that might be swapped for coin. Mr Swindell had his own team of mudlarks and his own patch of mud, a putrid square he kept guarded as if i t co ntained t he Queen’s o wn g old. Thos e w ho da red cr oss his boundary line w ere lik ely as no t t o f ind t heir wa terlogged p ockets being fleeced by Mr Hackman next time t he tide dropped. Mr S windell was al ways ho unding Sa mmy t o jo in t he m udlarks. He said it was t he boy’s duty to repay his la ndlord’s charity wherever he co uld. F or t hough Sa mmy a nd E liza ma naged t o s crape t ogether enough to cover the rent, Mr Swindell never let them forget that their freedom rested on his willingness not to advise the authorities of their recent change in circumstances. ‘Them Do-Gooders what come sniffing round would be very interested to learn that two young orphans, likes of y ourselves, has b een lef t t o f end alo ne in t he b ig o ld w orld. Very interested indeed,’ was his common refrain. ‘By rights I should of given you up soon as your ma breathed her last.’ ‘Yes, Mr Swindell,’ Eliza would say. ‘Thank you, Mr Swindell. Very kind of you it is too.’ ‘Harumph. Don’t you go forgetting it neither. By the goodness of me and my missus’s hearts you’re still here.’ Then he would look down his quivering nose and, by sole virtue of his mean-spiritedness, set his pupils to narrowing. ‘Now if that lad, with his knack for finding things, 104


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would find his way into my mud patch, I might be convinced you was worth keeping. Never did meet a lad wi th a b etter nose.’ It was true. Sammy had a talent for turning up treasures. Ever since he was a tin y b oy, pretty things had s eemingly gone out of their way to lie a t his f eet. M rs S windell s aid i t was t he idio t’s c harm, t hat t he Lord looked after fools and madmen, but Eliza knew that wasn’t true. Sammy wasn’t an idiot, he just saw better than most because he didn’t waste his time in t alking. Not a w ord, ever. Not once in all his tw elve years. He didn’t need to, not with Eliza. She always knew what he was thinking and feeling, always had. He was her twin a fter all, two halves of the one whole. That was ho w she kne w he was f rightened of t he r iver mud, and although she didn ’t sha re his f ear, E liza under stood i t. The a ir was different w hen you got ne ar t he water’s edge. S omething in t he mud fumes, t he sw ooping o f t he b irds, t he stra nge s ounds t hat b ounced between the ancient banks of the river . . . Eliza knew also that it was her r esponsibility to look after Sammy, and not just because Mother had al ways told her s o. (It was M other’s inexplicable theory that a bad man—she never said who—was lurking, intent upon finding them.) Even when they were very small Eliza had known that Sammy needed her more than she needed him, even before he ca ught t he f ever a nd was ne arly lost t o t hem. S omething in his manner left him vulnera ble. Other children had kno wn it when they were small, grown-ups knew it now. They sensed somehow that he was not really one of them. And he wasn’t, he was a changeling. Eliza knew all about changelings. She’d read about them in t he book of fairytales that had s at for a time in the rag and bottle shop. There’d been pictures, too. Fairies and sprites who looked just like Sammy, with his fine strawberry hair, long ribbony limbs and round blue eyes. The way Mother told it, something had set Sammy a part f rom o ther c hildren e ver since he was a ba be: a n innocence, a stillness. She used to say that while Eliza had screwed up her little red face a nd howled for a f eeding, Sammy had ne ver cr ied. He used to lie in his dra wer, listening, as if t o beautiful music floating on the breeze that no o ne but he co uld hear. Eliza had managed to convince her landlords that Sammy shouldn’t join t he m udlarks, t hat he was b etter o ff c leaning c himneys f or 105


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Mr Suttborn. Th ere w eren’t m any bo ys Sa mmy’s a ge s till en gaged in sweeping, she reminded them, not since the laws against child-sweeps were passed, and there was no one could clean the narrower chimneys over Kensington way quite like a skinny lad with pointy elbows made just for climbing dark and dusty chutes. Thanks to Sammy, Mr Suttborn was al ways f ully b ooked, a nd t here was m uch t o b e s aid, sur ely, f or regular coins? Even when weighed against the hope that Sammy might pluck something valuable from the mud. Thus fa r t he Swindells had b een made t o s ee r eason—they lik ed Sammy’s coins, just as they’d happily taken Mother’s when she was alive and doing the copy work for Mr Blackwater—but Eliza wasn’t sure how long she co uld k eep t hem a t ba y. M rs S windell in pa rticular had difficulty s eeing b eyond her gr eed, a nd was f ond o f makin g v eiled threats, m uttering a bout t he D o-Gooders w ho’d b een snif fing a bout looking for muck to sweep from the streets to the workhouse. Mrs Swindell had al ways been afraid of Sammy. She was t he sort of p erson f or w hom f ear was t he na tural r esponse t o t hat b eyond explanation. E liza had o nce he ard her w hispering to Mrs B arker, t he coal-whipper’s wife, saying she’d heard it from Mrs Tether, the midwife that deli vered t he tw o of t hem, t hat Sa mmy had b een b orn with t he cord around his neck. Should never’ve made it through the first night, would’ve breathed his last w hen he t ook his f irst but for t he work of mischief. ’ Twas t he D evil’s w ork, she s aid; t he b oy’s mo ther made a deal with Him downstairs. You only had to look at him to know it—the way his eyes stared deep wi thin a p erson, the stillness in hi s body, so unlike the other lads his age—oh yes indeed, there was something very wrong with Sammy Makepeace. Such tall tales made Eliza even more fiercely protective of her twin. At nig ht s ometimes, w hen she la y in b ed list ening t o t he S windells arguing, their little daughter, Hatty, bawling over the top, she lik ed to imagine dr eadful t hings ha ppening t o M rs S windell. Tha t she mig ht fall, by accident, into t he f ire w hen she was washin g, or slip b eneath the mangle and be squeezed to death, or drown in a vat of boiling lard, head first, skinny legs t he only part of her t hat remained to evidence her gruesome end . . . Speak o f t he D evil a nd she shall a ppear. Ro und t he co rner in to Battersea Church Road, shoulder bag fat with spoils, came Mrs Swindell. 106


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Home after another profitable day spent hunting little girls with pretty dresses. Eliza pulled herself away from the crack and shimmied along the shelf, us ed the edge of the chimney to e ase herself down. It was Eliza’s job to launder the dresses Mrs Swindell brought home. Sometimes w hen she was b oiling t he dr esses o ver t he f ire, mindin g not to tear the spider’s-web lace, Eliza wondered what those little girls thought w hen t hey s aw M rs S windell wa ving her co nfectionery bag at t hem, t he co nfectionery bag f ull o f shin y b its o f co loured g lass. Not t hat t he li ttle girls e ver g ot ne ar t he bag t o kno w t he tr ick t hat had been played. No fear. Once she had t hem alone in t he alley, Mrs Swindell got their pretty dresses off them so fast they didn’t have time to s cream. The y p robably had nig htmares a fterwards, E liza t hought, like the nightmares she had a bout Sammy stuck up the chimney. She felt s orry f or t hem—Mrs S windell o n t he h unt was a f earful t hing indeed—but it was their own fault. They shouldn’t be so greedy, always wanting mo re t han t hey alr eady had . It ne ver ce ased t o a maze E liza that li ttle girls b orn t o gra nd ho uses a nd fa ncy p erambulators a nd lacy frocks should fall vic tim to Mrs Swindell for such small p rice as a bag o f b oiled sweets. The y were lucky all t hey lost was a dr ess and some p eace o f mind . Ther e w ere w orse loss es t o b e had in t he da rk alleyways of London. Downstairs, the front door slammed. ‘Where are you then, girl? ’ The v oice came rolling up the stairs, a hot ball of venom. Eliza’s heart sank as it hit her: the hunt had not gone well, a fac t w hich b oded ill f or t he inhabitants of number t hirty-five Battersea Church Road. ‘Get downstairs and ready the supper or you’ll book yourself a hidin g.’ Eliza hurried down the stairs and into the rag and bottle shop. Her gaze pass ed q uickly o ver t he dim sha pes, a co llection o f b ottles a nd boxes reduced by darkness to geometric oddities. By the counter, one such shape was mo ving. Mrs Swindell was b ent over like a m ud crab rummaging in her bag, sif ting through various lace-trimmed dresses. ‘Well don’t just stand there gawking like that idjit brother of yours. Get the lantern lit, stupid girl.’ ‘The stew’s on the stove, Mrs Swindell,’ said Eliza, hurrying to light the gas. ‘And the dresses are almost dr y.’ 107


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‘Should think so too. Day after day I go out, trying to earn the coin, and all’s you have to do is get the dresses laundered. Sometimes I think I’d b e b etter o ff do ing i t myself. S hove y ou a nd y our b rother o ut o n your ears.’ She puffed a nasty sigh and sat in her chair. ‘Well, come over here, then, and get my shoes off.’ While E liza was knel t o n t he gr ound, mass aging t he na rrow boots lo ose, t he do or o pened aga in. It was Sa mmy, b lack a nd d usty. Wordlessly, Mrs Swindell held out her bony hand and beckoned slightly with her f ingers. Sammy dug into the pocket at the front of his overalls, pulled out two co pper co ins a nd la id t hem w here t hey w ere d ue. M rs S windell eyed t hem susp iciously b efore kic king E liza aside wi th her sw eaty stockinged f oot a nd hobb ling t o t he mo neybox. W ith a sla nt-eyed glance o ver her sho ulder, she p ulled t he k ey f rom t he f ront o f her blouse and turned it in the lock. Stacked the new coins atop the others, smacking her li ps wetly as she calc ulated their total. Sammy came to the stove and Eliza fetched a pa ir of bowls. They never ate with the Swindells. It wasn’t right, Mrs Swindell said, for the two of t hem t o b e g etting ide as a bout t heir b eing pa rt of t he fa mily. They was hir ed hel p, a fter all , mo re lik e s ervants t han t enants. E liza began ladlin g o ut t heir st ew, p ouring i t t hrough t he sie ve as M rs Swindell insisted: it didn’t do to waste the meat on a pair of ungrateful wretches. ‘You’re tired,’ Eliza whispered. ‘You started so early this morning.’ Sammy shook his he ad, he didn’t like her t o worry. Eliza gla nced t owards M rs S windell, c hecked h er bac k wa s s till turned before slipping a small p iece of hock into Sammy’s bowl. He smiled slig htly, wa rily, his r ound e yes meetin g E liza’s. S eeing him lik e t his, sho ulders def lated wi th t he da y’s he avy la bours, face plastered wi th t he s oot f rom r ich men’s c himneys, gra teful f or t he morsel of leathery meat, made her wa nt to wrap her a rms around his small frame and never let him g o. ‘Well, well. What a pretty picture,’ Mrs Swindell said, clapping the moneybox lid shut. ‘Poor Mr Swindell, out in the mud digging for the treasures w hat put food in y our ungrateful mouths—’ she wag gled a knobbly f inger in Sa mmy’s direction—‘while a y oung lad t he likes of you is makin g free in his ho use. It ain’t right, I t ells you, it ain’t right 108


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at all . W hen t hose D o-Gooders co me bac k, I ’ve a g ood mind t o t ell them so.’ ‘Does M r S uttborn ha ve mo re w ork f or y ou t omorrow, Sa mmy? ’ Eliza spoke quickly. Sammy nodded. ‘And the day after that?’ Another nod. ‘That’s two more coins this week, Mrs Swindell.’ Oh, how meek she ma naged to make her v oice! And how little it mattered. ‘Insolence! How da re y ou bac kchat. I f i t w eren’t f or M r S windell and me , y ou tw o sni velling w orms’d b e o ut o n y our e ars, s crubbing floors in t he workhouse.’ Eliza drew breath. One of the last t hings Mother had done was t o obtain an undertaking from Mrs Swindell that Sammy and Eliza should be allowed to stay on as tenants for as long as t hey continued to meet the rent and contribute to the household. ‘But Mrs Swindell,’ Eliza said cautiously, ‘Mother said you undertook—’ ‘Undertook? U ndertook? ’ An gry b ubbles o f s aliva b urst in t he corners of her mouth. ‘I’ll give you undertook. I undertook to tan your hide till y ou can’t sit down no longer.’ She rose suddenly and reached for a le ather strap hanging by the door. Eliza stood firm though her he art was t humping. Mrs Swindell stepped forward, then stopped, a cruel tic trembling her li ps. Without a w ord she t urned t owards Sa mmy. ‘ You,’ she s aid. ‘Come over here.’ ‘No,’ Eliza said quickly, gaze darting to Sammy’s face. ‘No, I’m sorry Mrs Swindell. It was in solent of me, you’re right. I . . . I’ll make it up to y ou. Tomorrow I ’ll d ust t he sho p, I ’ll s crub t he f ront st ep, I ’ll . . . I’ll . . .’ ‘Muck out the water closet shed a nd rid the attic of rats.’ ‘Yes,’ Eliza was no dding. ‘All of it.’ Mrs Swindell stretched the strap out straight before her, a horizon of leather. She glanced beneath her eyelashes, from Eliza to Sammy and back. F inally, she r eleased o ne side o f t he stra p a nd ho oked i t aga in into place by the door. A shower of dizzy r elief. ‘Thank you, Mrs Swindell.’ 109


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Hand shaking a little, Eliza passed the bowl of stew to Sammy and picked up the ladle t o serve her own. ‘Stop right there,’ said Mrs Swindell. Eliza looked up. ‘You,’ said Mrs Swindell, pointing at Sammy. ‘Clean the new bottles and get them set up on the shelf. There’ll be no stew till it’s done.’ She turned to E liza. ‘And you, girl, get upstairs and out of my sig ht.’ Her thin li ps q uivered. ‘ You’ll g o wi thout t onight. I ’ve no in tention o f feeding a rebellion.’

c When she was y ounger, E liza had lik ed t o imagine t hat her fa ther would one day appear and rescue them. After Mother and the Ripper, Father the Brave was E liza’s best story. Sometimes, when her e ye was sore from being pressed against the bricks, she w ould lie bac k on the top shelf a nd imagine her galla nt fa ther. S he w ould t ell her self t hat Mother’s account was wr ong, that he hadn’t really drowned at sea but had b een s ent a way o n a n im portant jo urney a nd w ould s omeday return to save them from the Swindells. Though she kne w it to be fantasy, no mo re likely to happen than for fairies and goblins to appear from between the fireplace bricks, the pleasure she t ook f rom imaginin g his r eturn was no t dimmed . H e would a rrive o utside t he S windells’ ho use—on a ho rse, she al ways thought. Ridin g t he ho rse, no t in a ca rriage p ulled b ehind, a b lack horse with a g listening mane and long, muscular legs. And e veryone in t he street would stop w hat t hey were doing and st are at t his man, her father, handsome in his b lack riding costume. Mrs Swindell, with her mis erable p inched face , w ould p eer o ver t he t op o f her washin g line, over the top of the pretty dresses snatched that morning, and she’d call to Mrs Barker to come and see all t hat was ha ppening. And t hey would know who this was, that it was Eliza and Sammy’s father, come to rescue them. And he w ould ride them to the river, where his shi p would be waiting, and they’d sail off across the ocean to faraway places with names she’d never heard of. Sometimes, o n t he ra re o ccasions w hen E liza had b een a ble t o convince her t o join in t elling tales, Mother had sp oken of the ocean. 110


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For she had s een i t wi th her o wn e yes, a nd was t hus a ble t o f urnish her stories with sounds and smells that were magical to Eliza—crashing waves and salty air, and fine grains of sand, white rather than the slimy black sediment of the river mud. It wasn’t often, though, that Mother joined in a t story time. For t he most pa rt she dis approved of stories, especially t hat o f F ather t he B rave. ‘ You m ust le arn t o kno w t he difference between tales and truth, my Liza,’ she would say. ‘Fairytales have a ha bit o f endin g t oo s oon. The y ne ver sho w w hat ha ppens afterwards, when the prince and princess ride off the page.’ ‘But what do y ou mean, Mother?’ Eliza would ask. ‘What happens t o t hem w hen t hey need t o f ind t heir way in t he world, to make money and escape the world’s ills.’ Eliza had ne ver under stood. I t s eemed ir relevant, t hough she wouldn’t s ay as m uch t o M other. The y w ere p rinces a nd p rincesses, they didn’t need t o mak e t heir way in t he w orld, only as fa r as t heir magical castle. ‘You m ustn’t wa it f or s omeone t o r escue y ou,’ M other w ould continue, a fa raway lo ok in her e yes. ‘A girl exp ecting r escue ne ver learns t o s ave her self. E ven wi th t he me ans, she’ll f ind her co urage wanting. D on’t b e like t hat, E liza. You must f ind your courage, le arn to rescue yourself, never rely on anyone else.’ Alone in t he u pstairs r oom, simmer ing wi th loa thing f or M rs Swindell a nd a nger a t her o wn im potence, E liza cra wled in side t he disused fireplace. Carefully, slowly, she reached up as high as she could, felt about with an open hand for the loose brick, pulled it clear. In the small cavity b eyond, her f ingers grazed t he fa miliar t op o f t he small clay mustard pot, its cool surface and rounded edges. Mindful not to send no tice o f her ac tions ec hoing do wn t he c himney a nd in to M rs Swindell’s waiting ears, Eliza eased it out. The pot had b een Mother’s and she’d kept it secret for years. Days before her death, in a rare moment of consciousness, Mother had told Eliza of the hidey-hole. She bade her retrieve its contents and Eliza had done s o: b rought t he c lay p ot t o M other’s b edside, wide-e yed wi th wonder at the mysterious hidden ob ject. Suspense tingled in E liza’s f ingertips as she wa ited for Mother t o fumble the pot open. Her movements were clumsy in the last days and 111


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the pot’s lid was held tig ht by a wax st opper. Finally, it cracked apart from the base. Eliza gasped in amazement. Inside the pot was a b rooch, the likes of which would have had Mrs Swindell weeping warm tears down her horrid face. It was the size of a penny, gems lining the decorative outer rim, red and green and shiny, shiny white. Eliza’s f irst t hought was t hat t he b rooch had b een st olen. S he couldn’t imagine Mother doing such a thing, but how else had she come to possess such glorious treasure? Where could it have come from? So many questions and yet she co uldn’t find her t ongue to speak. It wouldn’t have mattered if she had; M other wasn’t listening. She was gazing at the brooch with an expression Eliza had ne ver seen before. ‘This brooch is p recious to me,’ came t he tumble of words. ‘Very precious.’ M other t hrust t he p ot in to E liza’s ha nds, almos t as if she could no lo nger bear to touch it. The p ot was g lazed, smo oth a nd co ol b eneath her f ingers. E liza didn’t kno w ho w t o r espond. The b rooch, M other’s stra nge expression . . . it was all so sudden. ‘Do you know what it is, E liza?’ ‘A brooch. I’ve seen them on the fancy ladies.’ Mother smiled w eakly and Eliza thought she m ust have given the wrong answer. ‘Or perhaps a p endant? Come loose from its chain?’ ‘You w ere r ight t he f irst time . I t is a b rooch, a sp ecial kind o f brooch.’ She pressed her hands together. ‘Do you know what it is behind the glass?’ Eliza looked at the pattern of red-gold threads. ‘A tapestry?’ Mother smiled again. ‘In a way it is, though not the sort formed of threads.’ ‘But I ca n see the threads, plaited together to form a r ope.’ ‘They are strands of hair, Eliza, taken from the women in my family. My grandmother’s, her mother’s before, and so on. It’s a tradition. This is called a mo urning brooch.’ ‘Because it’s worn only in t he morning?’ Mother reached out and stroked the end of Eliza’s plait. ‘Because it reminds us o f those we’ve lost. Those who came before and made us who we are.’ 112


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Eliza nodded soberly, aware, though she wasn’t sure how, of having received a sp ecial confidence. ‘The brooch is worth a lot of money, but I have never been able to bring m yself t o s ell i t. I ha ve fallen vic tim, time a nd aga in, t o m y sentimentality, but that should not stop you.’ ‘Mother?’ ‘I am not well, my child. Soon it will fall to you to look after Sammy and yourself. It may become necessary to sell the brooch.’ ‘Oh no, Mother—’ ‘It may become necessary, and it will be your decision to make. Do not let my reluctance guide y ou, do y ou hear?’ ‘Yes, Mother.’ ‘But if y ou do need t o s ell i t, E liza, b e ca reful ho w y ou do s o. It must not be sold officially, there can be no r ecord.’ ‘Why not?’ Mother lo oked at her a nd Eliza recognised the lo ok. She herself had given it to Sammy many times when deciding how honest to be. ‘Because my family would find out.’ Eliza was silent; Mother’s family, along wi th her past, was ra rely sp oken o f. ‘ They will ha ve r eported it stolen—’ Eliza’s brows shot up. ‘—Erroneously, my child, for it is mine. I was given it by my mother on t he o ccasion o f m y sixt eenth b irthday, i t was in m y fa mily lo ng before that.’ ‘But if i t’s yours, Mother, why can no o ne know you have it?’ ‘Such a sale would reveal our whereabouts, and that cannot happen.’ She took Eliza’s hands, e yes wide, face pale a nd weak f rom the ef fort of speaking. ‘Do you understand?’ Eliza no dded, she under stood. Tha t is, she s ort o f under stood. Mother was w orried about the Bad Man, the one she’d been warning them a bout all t heir li ves. W ho co uld b e a nywhere, l urking b ehind corners, waiting to catch them. Eliza had always loved the stories, though Mother never went into sufficient detail to assuage her curiosity. It was left to Eliza to embellish Mother’s warnings, to give the man a glass eye, and a bask et of snakes, and a li p that curled when he sneered. ‘Shall I f etch you some medicine, Mother?’ ‘Good girl, Eliza, you’re a g ood girl.’ 113


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Eliza placed the clay pot on the bed beside Mother and fetched the little b ottle of laudanum. When she r eturned, Mother reached out to stroke again the strand of long hair that had unravelled from Eliza’s plait. ‘Look after Sammy,’ she said. ‘And take care yourself. Always remember, with a str ong enough will, even the weak can wield gr eat power. You must be brave when I . . . if anything should happen to me.’ ‘Of co urse, M other, b ut no thing will ha ppen t o y ou.’ E liza didn’t believe this and neither did M other. Everybody knew what happened to people who got the consumption. Mother ma naged a si p of medicine t hen le aned bac k aga inst her pillow, exha usted b y t he ef fort. H er r ed ha ir s pread o ut b eside her, revealing her pale nec k wi th i ts sin gle s car, t he f ine slice t hat ne ver faded and had first inspired Eliza’s tale of Mother’s encounter with the Ripper. Another of the tales she ne ver let Mother hear. With h er ey es s till c losed, M other s poke so ftly, in s hort, fa st sentences: ‘My Eliza, I s ay this but once. If he f inds you and you need to escape, then, and only then, take down the pot. Don’t go to Christie’s, don’t go to any of the big auction houses. They have records. Go around the corner and ask at Mr Baxter’s house. He’ll tell you how to find Mr John Picknick. Mr Picknick will know what to do.’ Her eyelids quivered with the strain of so much speech. ‘Do you understand?’ Eliza nodded. ‘Do you understand?’ ‘Yes, Mother, I under stand.’ ‘Until such time, forget that it exists. Do not touch it, do not show it to Sammy, do no t tell a s oul. And E liza?’ ‘Yes, Mother?’ ‘Always watch for the man of whom I sp eak.’

c And Eliza had b een good to her w ord. For the most pa rt. She’d taken the pot down only twice, and then merely to look. To float her fingers over the top of the brooch, just as Mother had done, to feel its magic, its inestimable power, before sealing the lid quickly and carefully with candle wax, a nd stowing it back in p lace. 114


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And though she t ook it down today, it wasn’t to look at Mother’s mourning b rooch. F or E liza had made her o wn addi tion t o t he c lay pot. Inside was her o wn treasure, her own contingency for the future. She plucked out the little leather pouch and held i t tightly in her palm. Dr ew str ength f rom i ts s olidity. I t was a tr inket Sa mmy had found in t he str eet a nd gi ven her. S ome w ealthy c hild’s p laything, dropped a nd f orgotten, f ound a nd r evived. E liza had k ept i t hidden from the first. She knew if t he Swindells saw it, their eyes would light up and they’d insist on putting it downstairs in the rag and bottle shop. And Eliza wanted the pouch like she’d never wanted anything before. It had been a gift and it was hers. There weren’t many things she could say that about. It was some weeks before she finally found a use for it, as a hiding place for her secret coins, the ones the Swindells knew nothing about, paid t o her b y M atthew Ro din, t he ra t-catcher. E liza had a skill f or rat-catching, though she didn’t like to do i t. The ra ts were just tr ying to stay alive after all, best as t hey could in a ci ty that favoured neither the meek nor the mild. She tried not to think about what Mother would say—she’d always had a s oft spot for animals—instead Eliza reminded herself t hat she didn ’t ha ve m uch c hoice. I f she a nd Sa mmy w ere t o stand a chance, they needed coin of their own, secret coin that passed beneath the Swindells’ notice. Eliza sat on the edge of the hearth, clay pot on her lap, and dusted her sooty hands on the underside of her dr ess. It wouldn’t do t o wipe them w here M rs Swindell co uld s ee. No g ood w ould co me o nce her suspicious nose was s et to twitching. When E liza was s atisfied her ha nds w ere c lean, she o pened t he pouch, loosened the soft silken ribbon and gently widened the opening. Peeked inside. Rescue yourself, Mother had said, and look after Sammy. And that was just what Eliza intended to do. Inside the pouch there were four threepenny bits. Two more and she’d have enough to buy fifty oranges. That was all t hey needed to start out as orange-sellers. The coins they made would buy more oranges and then they’d have their own money, their o wn li ttle b usiness. The y’d b e f ree t o f ind a ne w p lace t o li ve, where t hey w ere s afe, wi thout t he wa tchful, v engeful S windell e yes 115


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upon them. The e ver-looming threat of being turned over to the DoGooders and sent to the workhouse— Footsteps on the landing. Eliza p ushed t he co ins bac k in to t he p ouch, tig htened i ts nec k and p oked i t in side t he p ot. H eart t humping, she slo tted t he p ot back in side t he c himney; i t co uld b e s ealed la ter. J ust in time , she jumped clear and p erched, a mo del of inno cence, on t he end o f t he rickety bed. The do or o pened a nd Sa mmy a ppeared, still b lack wi th s oot. Standing in the doorframe, single candle flickering limply in his hand, he looked so thin Eliza thought it a trick of the light. She smiled at him and he ca me t owards her, r eached in side his p ocket a nd r etrieved a small potato sneaked from Mrs Swindell’s larder. ‘Sammy!’ Eliza scolded, taking the soft spud. ‘You know she counts them. She’ll figure it was y ou that took it.’ Sammy shrugged, started rinsing his face in t he bowl of water by the bed. ‘Thank y ou,’ she s aid, st ashing t he p otato in her mendin g bask et when he wasn’t watching. She’d return it in t he morning. ‘It’s getting cold,’ she said, taking her pinafore off so she wore only her under dress. ‘ It’s e arly t his y ear.’ S he c limbed in to b ed, shi vered beneath the thin grey blanket. Down to his under shirt and shorts, Sammy hopped in b eside her. His feet were freezing and she tr ied to warm them with her own. ‘Shall I t ell you a st ory?’ She felt his head moving, his hair brushing her cheek as he nodded. And so she launched into her favourite tale: ‘Once upon a time, when the night was co ld and dark and the streets were empty, and her twin babies were pushing and squirming inside her b elly, a y oung princess heard f ootfalls b ehind her, kne w in stantly w hose wic ked tr ead t hey were . . .’ She’d been telling it for years, though not when Mother could hear. Mother would have said Eliza was upsetting Sammy with her tall tales. She didn’t under stand t hat c hildren a ren’t f rightened b y st ories; t hat their lives are full of far more frightening things than those contained in fairytales. 116


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Her brother’s shallow breaths had b ecome regular and Eliza knew that he had fallen asleep. She stopped her story and reached to take his hand in her s. It was s o cold, so bony, she f elt a f lutter of panic in her stomach. She tightened her grasp, listening to him breathe. ‘Everything will be all right, Sammy,’ she whispered, thinking of the leather pouch, the money inside. ‘I’ll make sure of it, I p romise.’

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en’s daughter Ruby was waiting for Cassandra when she arrived at Heathrow. A p lump w oman in her la te f ifties, wi th a face t hat glowed and short silver-grey hair that stood to resolute attention. She had an energy t hat s eemed to charge t he air around her ; t he typ e of person other people noticed. Before Cassandra could express surprise that t his stra nger was a t t he a irport t o gr eet her, R uby had s eized Cassandra’s sui tcase, p ut a f leshy a rm a round her, a nd st eered t hem both out through the glass doors of the airport and into the fume-filled carpark. Her car was a battered old hatch, its interior suffused with the scent of musk and the chemical approximation of a flower Cassandra couldn’t name. When they were both belted in, Ruby plucked a bag of liquorice allsorts from her ha ndbag and offered them to Cassandra who took a striped cube of brown, white and black. ‘I’m addicted,’ said Ruby, popping a p ink one into her mo uth and tucking i t in her c heek. ‘Seriously addic ted. S ometimes I ca n’t f inish the one in my mouth fast enough to move on to the next.’ She chewed fiercely f or a mo ment, t hen swallo wed. ‘Ah w ell. L ife’s t oo sho rt f or moderation, wouldn’t you say?’ Despite t he la te ho ur t he r oads w ere ali ve wi th ca rs. The y sp ed along t he nig ht-time mo torway, b ow-necked str eet la mps castin g orange g lows o nto t he b itumen b elow. W hile R uby dr ove q uickly, making sha rp ja bs a t t he b rake o nly w hen a bsolutely necess ary, gesticulating and shaking her he ad at other drivers w ho dared get in her wa y, C assandra s tared o ut t he windo w, men tally tracin g t he concentric r ings o f L ondon’s a rchitectural mo vements. S he lik ed t o 118


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think of cities that way. A dr ive from edge to centre was lik e taking a time capsule into the past. The modern airport hotels and wide, smooth arterial r oads mo rphed in to p ebble-dashed ho uses, t hen ma nsion blocks, then, finally, the dark heart of Victorian terraces. As t hey dr ew c loser t o t he cen tre o f L ondon, C assandra f igured she sho uld t ell Ruby t he na me o f t he ho tel she’d b ooked f or t he tw o nights b efore she lef t f or C ornwall. S he f ossicked in her bag f or t he plastic folder in w hich she was k eeping her tra vel do cuments. ‘Ruby,’ she said, ‘are we ne ar Holborn?’ ‘Holborn? No. Other side o f town. Why?’ ‘That’s where my hotel is. I can catch a taxi, of course, I don’t expect you to drive me all t he way.’ Ruby looked at her j ust long enough for Cassandra to worry that no one’s eyes were on the road. ‘Hotel? I do n’t think so.’ She changed gear, b raked j ust in time t o a void co llision wi th a b lue va n in f ront. ‘You’re staying with me, I w on’t hear otherwise.’ ‘Oh n o,’ sa id C assandra, th e f lash o f b lue m etal s till lo ud in h er mind. ‘I couldn’t, it’s too much trouble.’ She began to relax her grip on the car door handle. ‘Besides, it’s too late to cancel my booking.’ ‘Never too late. I’ll do it for you.’ Ruby turned to Cassandra again, seatbelt s queezing her la rge b reast s o t hat i t almost le apt f rom her shirt. ‘And it’s no trouble. I’ve made up a bed and I’m looking forward to your visit.’ She grinned. ‘Dad’d skin me ali ve if he t hought I’d sent you off to a ho tel!’ When they reached South Kensington, Ruby reversed the car into a min uscule space a nd C assandra held her b reath, silenced b y admiration of the other woman’s lusty confidence. ‘Here w e a re t hen.’ Ruby p lucked t he k eys f rom t he igni tion a nd gestured towards a w hite terrace on the other side of the road. ‘Home sweet home.’ The flat was tiny. Tucked deep within the Edwardian house, up two flights of stairs and behind a yellow door. It had only one bedroom, a little shower recess and toilet, and a kitchenette attached to the sitting room. Ruby had s et up the sofa bed for Cassandra. ‘Only t hree st ar, I ’m a fraid,’ she s aid. ‘ I’ll mak e i t u p t o y ou a t breakfast.’ 119


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Cassandra g lanced uncer tainly a t t he tin y ki tchenette a nd R uby laughed so that her lime gr een blouse shook. She wiped her e yes. ‘Oh Lord, no! I don’t mean to cook. Why put oneself through the agony when someone else can do it so much better? I’ll take you round the corner to a ca fé instead.’ She flicked the switch on the kettle. ‘Cuppa?’ Cassandra smiled weakly. What she really wanted to do was let her facial muscles relax out of this pleased-to-meet-you smile. It may have been the fact of having been so far above the earth’s surface for such a long time, or just her usual mild ly antisocial tendencies, but she was using every ounce of energy to keep up a f ront of function. A c up of tea would mean at least another twenty minutes of smiling and nodding and, g od help her, f inding answers t o Ruby’s constant questions. S he thought briefly, with guilty longing, of the hotel room on the other side of town. Then she noticed Ruby was already dunking twin teabags into twin teacups. ‘Tea’d be great.’ ‘Here you are then,’ said Ruby, handing Cassandra a steaming cup. She sat down on the other side o f the sofa and beamed as a c loud of musk-scented a ir a rranged i tself a round her. ‘ Don’t b e sh y,’ she s aid, indicating t he suga r p ot. ‘And w hile y ou’re a t i t, y ou ca n t ell me all about yourself. What a t hrill, this house in C ornwall!’

c After Ruby had f inally gone to bed, Cassandra tried to sleep. She was tired. C olours, s ounds, sha pes, all b lurred a round her, b ut sleep was elusive. I mages a nd co nversations p layed ra pidly acr oss her b rain, a never-ending stream of thoughts and feelings tied together by no theme more specific than that they were hers: Nell and Ben, the antiques stall, her mother, the plane trip, the airport, Ruby, Eliza Makepeace and her fairytales . . . Finally she gave up on sleep. Pushed back the covers and climbed off the sofa. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark so she could make her way to t he f lat’s only window. Its wide ledg e jutted out above t he radiator and if C assandra p ushed aside t he c urtains she co uld j ust f it acr oss it, bac k aga inst o ne t hick r endered wall , f eet t ouching t he o ther. S he leaned forward onto her knees a nd lo oked outside, across t he skinny 120


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Victorian gardens with their stone walls de voured by ivy, towards the street beyond. Moonlight hummed quietly on the ground below. Although it was almost midnig ht, London wasn’t dark. Cities like London never were, she susp ected, not any more. The mo dern world had killed nig ht-time. Once i t must have been very different, a ci ty at the mercy of nature. A ci ty where nightfall turned the streets to pitch and the air to fog: Jack the Ripper’s London. That was t he London of Eliza Makepeace, the London Cassandra had read about in N ell’s notebook, of mist-f illed streets and lo oming horses, g lowing lamps t hat materialised t hen vanished again into t he fog-laden haze. Looking down onto the narrow cobbled mews behind Ruby’s flat, she could imagine them now: ghostly horsemen coaxing their frightened beasts along busy lanes. Lantern men perched high atop the carriages. Street sellers and harlots, policemen and thieves . . .

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T

he fog was t hick and yellow, the colour of pease pudding. It had crept in overnight, rolled down the surface of the river and spread heavily across t he streets, a round t he houses, b eneath t he do orstops. Eliza wa tched f rom t he crac k b etween t he b ricks. B eneath i ts silen t cloak, ho uses, gas la mps, walls w ere t urned t o mo nstrous shado ws, lurching bac k a nd f orth as t he sul phurous c louds shif ted a round them. Mrs Swindell had left her with a pile of laundry, but as far as Eliza could see, there was no point washing anything with the fog as it was— what was white would be grey by day’s end. It was just as well to hang the clothes out wet but unlaundered, which is what she’d done. It would save the bar of soap, not to mention Eliza’s time. For Eliza had m uch better things to do w hen the fog was t hick, all t he better to hide a nd all the better to sneak. The Ripper was o ne of her b est games. In the beginning she had played i t by her self, b ut over time she ’d t aught Sa mmy t he r ules a nd now t hey t ook t urns enac ting t he pa rts o f M other a nd t he Ri pper. Eliza co uld ne ver decide w hich r ole she p referred. The Ri pper, she sometimes t hought, f or his sheer p ower. It made her skin f lush with guilty p leasure, cr eeping u p b ehind Sa mmy, stif ling a gig gle as she prepared to catch him . . . But there was something seductive in playing Mother, too. In walking quickly, cautiously, refusing to look over her shoulder, refusing to break into a r un, tr ying t o k eep ahe ad o f t he f ootsteps b ehind her, as her heartbeat grew loud enough to drown them out and leave her wi thout proper warning. The fear was delicious, it made her skin tin gle. 122


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Although t he Swindells w ere b oth o ut s cavenging (t he f og was a gift f or t hose r iver d wellers w ho s cratched a li ving b y un scrupulous means), Eliza nonetheless went quietly down the stairs, careful to avoid the s queak o f t he f ourth tr ead. Sa rah, t he girl w ho lo oked a fter t he Swindells’ daughter, Hatty, was the sort who liked to curry favour with her employers by making sly reports on Eliza’s failings. At the bottom of the stairs Eliza stopped and scanned the shadowy lumps and bumps of the shop. The fingers of fog had found their way between the bricks and flattened out across the room, hovering heavily over t he disp lays, c lustering y ellow a round t he f lickering gas la mp. Sammy was in t he bac k co rner, si tting o n a st ool c leaning b ottles. He was deep in t hought: E liza r ecognised t he mask o f da ydream o n his face. With a g lance t o co nfirm t hat Sa rah wasn’t l urking, E liza cr ept towards him. ‘Sammy!’ she w hispered as she made her a pproach. Nothing, he hadn’t heard. ‘Sammy!’ His knee stopped jiggling and he leaned so that his head appeared around the shop counter. Straight hair fell to the side. ‘There’s a f og out.’ His blank expression reflected the self-evidence of this statement. He shrugged slightly. ‘Thick as the gutter muck, the street lamps have all but disappeared. Perfect for the Ripper.’ That got Sammy’s attention. He was still for a moment, considering, then he shook his head. Pointed at Mr Swindell’s chair with its stained cushion, stuck where the bones of his bac k pressed into it, night after night, when he r eturned from the tavern. ‘He won’t even know we’re gone. He’ll be ages yet and so will she .’ He shook his he ad again, with slightly less vig our this time. ‘They’ll be busy all afternoon, neither would pass up an opportunity to make some extra co in.’ Eliza could tell she was g etting to him. H e was part of her a fter all , she’d always b een able t o read his t houghts. ‘Come on, we won’t be long. We’ll go as far as t he river and then we’ll turn back.’ Nearly, nearly. ‘You can choose who you want to be.’ 123


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That did i t, as she ’d kno wn i t w ould. Sa mmy’s s ombre e yes met hers. He lifted his hand, clenched it in a small, pale fist as if he c lutched a knife.

c While Sammy stood by the door, waiting out the ten second head start always acco rded t o t he p erson p laying Mother, E liza crept away. S he ducked b eneath M rs S windell’s la undry lines, a round t he ra gman’s wagon, a nd st arted t owards t he r iver. Ex citement had her he art hammering. It was delicio us, this feeling of danger. Waves of thrilling fear crashed b eneath her skin as she sne aked along, weaving her wa y around p eople, wag ons, dogs, p erambulators, hazy wi th f og. All t he while her e ars w ere p ricked f or t he f ootsteps b ehind her, cr eeping, creeping, catching her u p. Unlike Sammy, Eliza loved the river. It made her f eel close to her father. Mother hadn’t been one for volunteering information about the past but she’d told Eliza once that her father had grown up on a different bend of the same river. Had learned his sailor’s ropes on a collier before joining another crew and heading for the high seas. Eliza liked to think about all he m ust have s een on his r iverbend, round ne ar Ex ecution Dock. Where pirates were hanged, their bodies left to sway from chains until three tides had washed o ver them. Dancing the hempen jig, t he old-timers called it. Eliza shi vered, imaginin g t he lif eless b odies, w ondering w hat i t might feel like to have a final breath squeezed from her own neck, then scolded her self f or b ecoming distrac ted. I t was t he s ort o f la pse t o which Sammy usually fell victim. And it was all v ery well for Sammy: Eliza knew she had t o be more careful than that. Now w here w ere Sa mmy’s f ootsteps? S he stra ined t o he ar, concentrated her mind . L istened . . . G ulls b y t he r iver, mast r opes creaking, hull tim ber str etching, a tr olley tr undling b y, t he f ly-paper man calling, ‘Catch ’em alive-oh’, the quick steps of a h urried woman, a paper boy singing out the price of his ra g . . . Suddenly, behind her, a crash. A ho rse whinnying. A ma n’s voice hollering. 124


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Eliza’s he art t humped, she ne arly t urned. Ached t o s ee w hat had happened. Stopped herself just in time. It wasn’t easy. She was curious by nature, Mother had always said so. She’d shaken her head and clicked her t ongue, a nd t old E liza t hat if she didn ’t le arn t o st op her mind racing on ahead of her she’d end up running into a mountain made of her o wn imaginin gs. B ut if Sa mmy c hanced t o b e ne ar a nd s aw her peeking she would have to forfeit, and she was almost at the river. The smell of Thames mud mixed with the fog’s sulphurous odour. She had almost won, she o nly had t o make it a li ttle further. There was a h ullabaloo of voices now, clattering away behind her, and the jangling of a b ell drawing near. Silly horse had p robably r un into the knife grinder’s wagon, the horses always went a li ttle mad in the fog. But what a pest! What chance had she of hearing Sammy if he chose to attack her now? The r ock wall a t t he r iver’s edg e appeared, f loating fa intly in t he haze. Eliza grinned and broke into a r un for the last f ew yards. Strictly, t o r un a t all was aga inst t he r ules, b ut she co uldn’t hel p herself. Her hands hit the slimy rocks and she squealed in delight. She’d made it, she’d won, outwitted the Ripper once again. Eliza hoisted herself onto the wall and perched triumphantly, facing the street from which she’d come. She drummed her heels aga inst the rock and s canned t he sheet o f fog for Sammy’s creeping shape. Poor Sammy. He’d never been as g ood at games as she was. H e took longer to le arn t he r ules, was les s a ble t o adopt t he role in w hich he’d b een cast. Pretending didn’t come naturally to Sammy, as i t did t o Eliza. As she s at, the smells a nd sounds of the street r ushed back upon her. With ea ch b reath s he ta sted th e o iliness o f th e f og, a nd th e be ll she’d he ard was lo ud no w, co ming c loser. The p eople a round her seemed excited, all rushing in the one direction the way they did when the ragman’s son had one of his epileptic fits, or when the hurdy-gurdy man came to visit. Of co urse! The h urdy-gurdy ma n, t hat exp lained w here Sa mmy was. Eliza jumped from the wall, scraping her boot on a rock that jutted out at its base. 125


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Sammy never could resist music. He was no doubt standing by the hurdy-gurdy man, mouth slightly open as he gazed up at the organ, all thought of the Ripper and the game evaporated. She f ollowed t he p eople w ho w ere massin g, k ept a pace past t he tobacconist’s shop, t he b ootmaker, t he pawnbroker. But as t he crowd thickened, the bell faded, and still no organ music could be heard, Eliza moved faster. A na meless dr ead had s ettled in her st omach, a nd she us ed her elbows to force her way past other people—fancy ladies in their walking skirts, gentlemen in morning coats, street boys, washerwomen, clerks— as all t he while she s canned for Sammy. Reports w ere b eginning t o r ipple bac k f rom t he cen tre o f t he gathering and Eliza caught bits and pieces being exchanged in excited whispers above her head: a black horse that had loomed out of nowhere; a small b oy who didn’t see him co ming; the terrible fog . . . Not Sammy, she told herself, it couldn’t be Sammy. He’d been right behind her, she’d been listening for him . . . She was close now, had ne arly reached the clearing. Could almost see through the fog. Holding her breath she pushed to the front of the band of onlookers and the gruesome scene was b efore her. She took it in all at once, understood immediately. The black horse, the f rail b ody of t he b oy lying by t he entrance to t he butcher’s shop. Strawberry hair matted deep r ed w here it lay upon t he cobblestones. Chest opened by a ho rse’s hoof, blue eyes blank. The butcher had come out and was kneeling by the body. ‘’E’s gone all right. No chance, the little fellow.’ Eliza lo oked bac k a t t he ho rse. H e was f risky, f rightened b y t he haze, the crowd, the noise. Sighing great huffs of hot breath, visible as they displaced the fog a li ttle. ‘Anyone know the name of this here boy?’ The cr owd mo ved a bout, jost ling as a w hole w hile indi viduals turned to one another, lifted their shoulders, shook their heads. ‘I mighta seen him r ound,’ came one uncertain voice. Eliza met the horse’s shiny black eye. As the world and all its noises seemed t o s pin a round h er, th e h orse s tood s till. Th ey r egarded o ne another and in t hat moment she felt as if he s aw inside her. Glimpsed 126


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the void t hat had o pened s o quickly she w ould spend t he rest of her life trying to fill it. ‘Someone must know him,’ said the butcher. The crowd was q uiet, the atmosphere all t he more eerie for it. Eliza knew she sho uld feel hatred towards the black beast, should despise his str ong legs a nd smo oth, ha rd t highs, b ut she didn ’t. Eyes locked with his she felt almost recognition, as if the horse understood, as no o ne else could, the emptiness inside her. ‘Righto,’ s aid t he b utcher. H e w histled a nd a y oung a pprentice appeared. ‘Fetch the cart and clear the lad a way.’ The a pprentice hurried back inside then returned with a w ooden cart. While he loaded the b oy’s b roken b ody, t he cr ossing sw eeper st arted b rooming t he bloodied road. ‘I believe he li ves on Battersea Church Road,’ came a slo w, steady voice. It s ounded lik e o ne o f t he men a t t he law f irm w here Mother had worked, not a toff ’s voice exactly, but more plummy than those of the other river dwellers. The butcher looked up to see where it had co me from. A t all ma n wi th a p ince-nez a nd a ne at b ut w orn coa t st epped forward, out of the fog. ‘I saw him t here just the other day.’ There was a m urmur as t he cr owd dig ested t his inf ormation. Looked anew at the small b oy’s ruined body. ‘Any idea which house, gov’nor?’ ‘I’m afraid I do n’t know that.’ The b utcher signalled t o his lad . ‘ Take him t o B attersea Ch urch Road and ask a round. Someone ought to know him.’ The ho rse no dded a t E liza, d ucked his he ad t hree times, t hen sighed and looked away. Eliza blinked. ‘Wait,’ she s aid, almost a w hisper. The butcher looked at her. ‘Eh?’ All eyes turned to take her in, this speck of a girl with a long plait of rose gold hair. Eliza glanced at the man with the pince-nez. The lenses were shiny and white so that she co uldn’t see his e yes. The b utcher held u p his ha nd t o silence t he cr owd. ‘ Well t hen, child. Do you know the name of this unfortunate lad? ’ ‘His name is Sa mmy Makepeace,’ Eliza said. ‘And he’s my brother.’ 127


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c Mother had s et coin aside f or her o wn burial, but no suc h provision had b een made f or her c hildren. N aturally eno ugh, f or w hat pa rent ever allowed that such a t hing might be necessary? ‘He’ll have a pa uper’s funeral out at St Bride’s,’ said Mrs Swindell, later that same afternoon. She sucked some soup from her spoon then pointed i t at E liza, w ho was si tting o n t he f loor. ‘ They’ll b e o pening the pit again Wednesday. Till then, I expect we’ll have to keep him here.’ She chewed the inside of her c heek, bottom lip pouting. ‘Upstairs, of course. Can’t have the stink k eeping customers away.’ Eliza had he ard o f t he pa upers’ f unerals a t S t B ride’s. The la rge pit, reopened e very w eek, t he pile of b odies, t he c lergyman ga bbling a quick s ervice s o t hat he mig ht r escue him self f rom t he dr eadful neighbourhood st ench as s oon as p ossible. ‘ No,’ she s aid, ‘ not S t Bride’s.’ Little H atty st opped c hewing her b read. S he let t he l ump r est behind her right cheek while she looked, wide-eyed, from her mother to Eliza. ‘No?’ Mrs Swindell’s thin fingers tightened on her s poon. ‘Please, M rs S windell,’ E liza s aid. ‘ Let him ha ve a p roper b urial. Like Mother’s.’ She bit her t ongue to save from crying. ‘I want him t o be with Mother.’ ‘Oh you do no w, do y ou? A ho rse-drawn hearse perhaps? Couple of professional mourners? And I s’pose you think Mr Swindell and me should be paying for your fancy funeral.’ She sniffed hungrily, enjoying the sour rant. ‘Contrary to popular belief, missy, we ain’t a c harity, so unless you’ve got yourself the coin, that boy’s going to spend his a fter at St Bride’s. Good enough for the likes of him i t is, t oo.’ ‘No he arse, M rs S windell, no mo urners. J ust a b urial, a gra ve o f his own.’ ‘And just who do y ou propose to arrange all t hat?’ Eliza swallo wed. ‘ Mrs B arker’s b rother is a n under taker, p erhaps he could do i t. Surely if you ask, M rs Swindell . . .’ ‘Waste a favour on you and your idjit brother?’ ‘He’s not an idiot.’ 128


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‘Stupid enough to get himself trod on by a ho rse.’ ‘It wasn’t his fault, it was t he fog.’ Mrs Swindell sucked more soup across her b ottom lip. ‘He didn’t even want to go out,’ said Eliza. ‘Course he didn ’t,’ s aid Mrs Swindell. ‘It weren’t his s ort of caper. It were yours.’ ‘Please Mrs Swindell, I ca n pay.’ Twin brows shot sky ward. ‘Oh you can, can you? With promises and moonbeams?’ Eliza thought of the leather pouch. ‘I . . . I have some coin.’ Mrs Swindell’s mouth dropped open and a trickle of soup escaped. ‘Some coin?’ ‘Just a li ttle.’ ‘Why, you sneaky little wench.’ Lips tightened like the top of a coin purse. ‘How much?’ ‘A shilling.’ Mrs S windell s creeched wi th la ughter; a ho rrendous no ise s o foreign, so raw, that her little girl b egan to bawl. ‘A shilling?’ she spat. ‘A shilling won’t buy you the nails to drive shut the coffin.’ Mother’s brooch, she could sell the brooch. It was true Mother had made her p romise not to part with it unless t he Bad Man threatened, but surely in a si tuation such as t his . . . Mrs Swindell was coughing now, choking on her unexpected mirth. She gave her bony chest a slap, then set little Hatty scuttling across the floor. ‘Stop with your caterwauling, I ca n’t hear myself think.’ She s at a mo ment, t hen na rrowed her e yes in E liza’s dir ection. Nodded a few times as a scheme took shape. ‘All your begging’s set my mind. I’m going to see to it personally that the boy gets nothing better than he des erves. He’ll have a pauper’s funeral.’ ‘Please—’ ‘And I’ll have the shilling for me tr oubles.’ ‘But Mrs Swindell—’ ‘Mrs Swindell nothing. That’ll learn you for being sneaky, keeping coin hidden. Just you wait until Mr Swindell gets home and hears about this, then there’ll be hell t o pay.’ She handed Eliza her b owl. ‘Now get me another serving and you can take Hatty up to bed.’ 129


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c Nights were the worst. Street noises took on a garish quality, shadows lurched without reason and, alone in t he tiny room for the first time in her lif e, E liza f ell vic tim t o her nig htmares. Nightmares fa r w orse than anything she had imagined in her st ories. In the daytime, it was as if t he world had b een turned inside out, like a ga rment o n t he line . All was t he s ame sha pe, size a nd co lour, but u tterly wr ong no netheless. And al though E liza’s b ody p erformed in the same way it had b efore, her mind r oamed the landscape of her terrors. A gain a nd aga in she f ound her self imaginin g Sa mmy a t t he bottom of the St Bride’s pit, lying, limbs askew, where he’d been tossed amongst t he b odies o f t he na meless de ad. Trapped b eneath t he dir t, eyes opening, mouth trying to call o ut that there’d been a mist ake, he wasn’t dead at all. For M rs S windell had g ot her wa y a nd Sa mmy had r eceived t he burial of a pauper. Eliza had taken the brooch from its hiding spot and gone as far as John Picknick’s house, but in the end she co uldn’t bring herself to sell it. She’d stood out front a full half-hour, trying to decide. She knew if she s old the brooch she’d receive enough money to bury Sammy properly. She also knew Mr and Mrs Swindell would want to know w here t he mo ney had co me f rom a nd w ould p unish her mercilessly for keeping such a tr easure secret. But it was not fear of the Swindells that decided her. It wasn’t even Mother’s voice, loud within her memo ry, making her p romise to s ell the brooch only if t he phantom man came threatening. It was her o wn fear that the future held w orse than the past. Tha t there would b e a time , lurking in t he foggy years to come, w hen t he brooch was t he lone key to her sur vival. She turned around without setting foot inside Mr Picknick’s house, and hurried back to the rag and bottle shop, brooch burning a guilty hole in her p ocket. And she t old herself that Sammy would understand, that he had known as well as she did t he cost of life on their riverbend. Then she folded his memory as gently as she co uld, wrapped it in the la yers o f emo tions—joy, lo ve, co mmitment—for w hich she no longer had need , and locked the whole deep in side her. B eing empty 130


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of such memories and emotions felt right somehow. For with Sammy’s death Eliza was half a p erson. Like a r oom robbed of candlelight, her soul was co ld, dark and empty.

c When was it that the idea first came to her? Later, Eliza could never be sure. There was nothing different about the day in question. She opened her eyes in t he dim of the tiny room as she did e ach morning and lay still, re-entering her body after the harrowing stretch of night. She pulled back her side of the blanket and sat up, placed bare feet on the floor. Her long plait fell over one shoulder. It was cold; autumn had sur rendered t o win ter a nd mo rning was as da rk as nig ht. E liza struck a match and held it to the candle wick, then looked up to where her pinafore was ha nging on the back of the door. What made her do i t? What made her r each beyond the pinafore to t he shir t a nd b reeches t hat h ung b ehind? Clim b in side Sa mmy’s clothing instead? Eliza never knew, but it felt right, as if it were the only thing to do. The shir t smelled s o fa miliar, lik e her o wn c lothes a nd y et no t, a nd when she p ulled on the breeches, she s avoured the curious sensation of bare ankles, cool air on skin accustomed to stockings. She sat on the floor and laced up Sammy’s scuffed boots, a p erfect fit. Then she st ood in f ront o f t he small mir ror a nd lo oked. Re ally looked as the candle flickered beside her. A pale face stared back. Long hair, golden red, blue e yes with pale b rows. Without letting her gaze slip, Eliza picked up the pair of sewing scissors that sat in the laundry basket and held her plait out to the side. The rope of her hair was thick and she had t o hac k t hrough. F inally i t dr opped in to her ha nd. N o longer bound, the hair on her head fell loose, shaggy around her face. She continued to cut until her ha ir was t he same length that Sammy’s had been, then she p ulled on his c loth cap. They w ere twin s, i t was li ttle s urprise t hat t hey sho uld lo ok s o similar, and yet Eliza drew breath. She smiled, very slightly, and Sammy smiled back at her. She reached out and touched the cold glass of the mirror, no lo nger alone. Thump . . . thump . . . 131


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Mrs S windell’s b room end o n t he ce iling b elow, her da ily call t o start the laundering. Eliza p icked u p her lo ng r ed b raid f rom t he f loor, unravelling at the top where it had b een detached, and tied a p iece of twine a round its end. Later she would tuck it away with Mother’s brooch. She didn’t need it now; it was o f the past.

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C

assandra had kno wn t he b uses w ould b e r ed, o f co urse, a nd double-decked, b ut t o s ee t hem tr undling b y wi th des tinations like Kensington H igh S treet a nd P iccadilly Cir cus a bove t heir f ront windows was nonetheless startling. Like being dropped somehow into a storybook from her childhood, or one of the many films she’d watched where black beetle-nosed taxis scurried down cobbled lanes, Edwardian terraces stood to attention on wide streets, and the north wind stretched thin clouds across a low sky. She had b een in t his London of a t housand film sets, a t housand stories, for almost tw enty-four hours now. When she’d f inally woken from her jetlagged slumber, she’d found herself alone in Ruby’s tiny flat, the midda y sun sla nting b etween t he c urtains t o cast a na rrow ra y across her face . On the little stool beside the sofa bed, there was a no te from Ruby: Missed yo u a t b reakfast! Did n’t wa nt t o wa ke yo u—help yo urself t o anything worth scavenging. Banana in the fruit bowl, leftover something in t he f ridge, t hough h aven’t c hecked lately—may be a ll t oo g ruesome! Towels i n t he ba throom cu pboard i f yo u’d l ike t o ge t c lean. I ’m a t t he V&A until 6. You must drop by and see the exhibition I’m curating at the moment. Something v. v. exciting to show you! Rx PS Come early afternoon. Wretched meetings all morning. So it was, at one pm, with her stomach growling, Cassandra found herself standing in the centre of Cromwell Road, waiting for the traffic 133


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to st op i ts s eemingly p erpetual f low t hrough t he v eins o f t he ci ty s o she could cross to the other side. The V ictoria a nd Alb ert M useum st ood la rge a nd im posing before her, t he c loak o f a fternoon shado w slidin g ra pidly acr oss i ts stone f ront. A gia nt mausoleum o f t he past. I nside, she kne w, w ere rooms and rooms, each one full of history. Thousands of items, out of time and place, reverberating quietly with the joys and traumas of forgotten lives. Cassandra bumped into Ruby directing a group of German tourists to the new V&A coffee shop. ‘Honestly,’ Ruby whispered loudly as they herded away, ‘I’m all f or having a ca fé in t he building—I like a g ood coffee as m uch as t he next p erson—but no thing g ets m y g oat lik e people w ho breeze past m y exhibition in s earch of t he Holy Grail of sugarless muffins and imported soft drinks!’ Cassandra smiled somewhat guiltily, hoping Ruby couldn’t hear her own st omach gr umbling a t t he delicio us smells ema nating f rom t he café. She’d actually been heading there herself. ‘I mean, how can they pass up the opportunity to stare the past in the face? ’ R uby f lapped a ha nd a t t he r ows o f tr easure-stocked g lass cabinets comprising her co llection. ‘How can they?’ Cassandra sho ok her he ad a nd s uppressed a r umble. ‘ I do n’t know.’ ‘Ah w ell,’ R uby sig hed dra matically, ‘ you’re her e no w a nd t he Philistines a re b ut a dist ant memo ry. H ow’re y ou f eeling? N ot t oo jetlagged?’ ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ ‘You slept well?’ ‘The sofa bed was v ery comfy.’ ‘No need t o lie,’ Ruby s aid with a la ugh, ‘though I a ppreciate t he sentiment. At least the lumps and bumps stopped you sleeping the day away. I would’ve had to ring and wake you up otherwise. No way I was going to let y ou miss this.’ She beamed. ‘I still can’t believe Nathaniel Walker once lived on the same estate your cottage is o n! He probably saw i t, y ou kno w, dr ew in spiration f rom i t. H e ma y e ven ha ve b een inside.’ With her eyes bright and round, Ruby hooked an arm through Cassandra’s and started down one of the aisles. ‘Come on, you’re going to love this!’ 134


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With mild trepidation, Cassandra prepared herself to muster up a suitably enthusiastic reaction no ma tter what it was t hat Ruby was s o keen to show her. ‘There you are then.’ Ruby pointed triumphantly at a row of sketches in the cabinet. ‘What do y ou think of those?’ Cassandra gasped, leaned forward to get a better look. There would be no need to pretend enthusiasm. The pictures on display both shocked and thrilled her. ‘But where did they . . . ? How did you . . . ?’ Cassandra glanced sideways at Ruby, who clapped her hands together in obvious delight. ‘I had no ide a these existed.’ ‘Nobody did ,’ s aid R uby g leefully. ‘ Nobody ex cept t he o wner, and I ca n assur e y ou she hadn ’t gi ven t hem much t hought in a v ery long time.’ ‘How did y ou get them?’ ‘Purely by chance, darling. Purely by chance. When I first conceived the idea for the exhibition, I didn’t just want to rearrange the same old Victoriana that people have been shuffling past for decades. So I ran a little classified advert in all t he specialist mags I co uld think of. Very simple, it just read Wanted on loan: artistic objects of interest from the turn of the nineteenth century. To be displayed with loving care in London museum exhibition. ‘Lo a nd b ehold, I st arted r eceiving p hone calls t he da y t he f irst advert appeared. Most of them were false alarms of course, Great Aunt Mavis’s paintings of the sky and the like, but there were pieces of gold amongst the rubble. You’d be surprised the number of priceless items that have survived despite the slightest care.’ It was t he s ame with antiques, C assandra t hought: t he b est f inds were al ways t hose t hat had b een f orgotten f or decades, es caped t he clutches of enthusiastic DIY-ers. Ruby lo oked aga in a t t he sk etches. ‘ These w ere a mong m y most prized dis coveries.’ S he smiled a t Cassandra. ‘ Unfinished sk etches by Nathaniel Walker, w ho’d ha ve t hought? I me an, w e’ve g ot a small collection of his portraits upstairs, and there’s some at Tate Britain, but as far as I kne w, as far as anyone knew, that was all t hat had sur vived. The rest were thought to have—’ 135


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‘Been des troyed. Yes, I kno w.’ C assandra’s c heeks w ere wa rm. ‘Nathaniel Walker was notorious for disposing of preparatory sketches, work he wasn’t happy with.’ ‘You ca n imagine t hen ho w I f elt w hen t he w oman ha nded me these. I ’d dr iven all t he way o ut t o C ornwall t he day b efore a nd had been tra ipsing f rom o ne ho use t o a nother p olitely dec lining va rious items t hat w ere en tirely un suitable. H onestly—’ she r olled her e yes skyward—‘the t hings p eople t hought mig ht f it t he b ill w ould a maze you. Suffice to say, when I a rrived at the house I was j ust about ready to call it quits. It was one of those white seaside cottages with the grey slate roofs, and I was on the verge of giving up when Clara opened the door. She was a funny little thing, like a character out of Beatrix Potter, an ancient hen dressed in a ha usfrau’s apron. She ushered me into the tiniest, most cluttered sitting room I’d ever seen—made my place look like a ma nsion—and she in sisted o n makin g me a c uppa. I ’d ha ve preferred a whiskey at that point, the day I’d had, but I sank down into the c ushions and waited to s ee w hat utterly worthless object she was going to waste my time wi th.’ ‘And she ga ve you these.’ ‘I knew what they were immediately. They’re not signed, but they’ve got his em bossing stamp on them. See in t he upper left-hand corner. I swear, I started to shake when I saw that. Nearly knocked my cup of tea all over them.’ ‘But ho w did she g et t hem? ’ C assandra ask ed. ‘ Where did she get them?’ ‘She said they were amongst her mo ther’s things,’ said Ruby. ‘Her mother, Mary, moved in wi th Clara after she was wido wed, and lived there until she died in t he mid sixties. The y were both widows and I gather they were good company for one another. Certainly Clara was delighted to have a captive audience to regale with stories about mother dearest. Before I left she insisted on showing me up the most perilous flight o f st airs t o t ake a lo ok a t M ary’s r oom.’ R uby le aned c loser t o Cassandra. ‘What a surprise that was. Mary might have been dead for forty years, but that room looked as if she was a bout to arrive home at any moment. It was creepy, but in the most delicious way: a slim li ttle single bed, still made up perfectly, a newspaper folded on the bedside table with a half-co mpleted crossword on t he upper sheet. And o ver 136


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beneath the window was a little locked chest—tantalising!’ She fingercombed her wild gr ey ha ir. ‘I t ell y ou, it t ook e very bit of restraint I could m uster t o r esist t earing acr oss t he r oom a nd r ipping t he lo ck open with my bare hands.’ ‘Did she o pen it? Did y ou see what was in side?’ ‘No such luck. I r emained mercifully restrained and was usher ed out a f ew moments later. I had t o content myself with t he Nathaniel Walker sketches and Clara’s assurances that there’d been no mo re like them amongst her mo ther’s things.’ ‘Was Mary an artist too?’ said Cassandra. ‘Mary? N o, she was a do mestic. A t le ast she was t o b egin wi th. During the first war she’d worked in a m unitions factory and I t hink she must’ve left service after that. Well, she left service in a ma nner of speaking. She married a butcher and spent the rest of her days making black puddings and keeping the chopping boards clean. Not sure which I’d have liked least!’ ‘Either way,’ C assandra s aid, f rowning, ‘how on e arth did she g et her ha nds o n t hese? N athaniel Walker was fa mously s ecretive a bout his artwork, and the sketches are so rare. He didn’t give them to anyone, never signed contracts with publishers who wanted to retain copyright of the originals, and that was the finished artwork. I can’t imagine what would have made him pa rt with unfinished sketches like these.’ Ruby shr ugged. ‘Borrowed t hem? B ought t hem? Maybe she st ole them. I do n’t know, and I m ust admit I do n’t much mind. I’m happy to chalk it up to one of life’s beautiful mysteries. I j ust thank god she did g et her ha nds o n t hem, a nd t hat she ne ver r ealised t heir val ue, didn’t find them worthy of display, and was thus able to preserve them so beautifully for us t hrough the entire twentieth century.’ Cassandra leaned closer to the pictures. Though she’d ne ver s een them b efore she r ecognised t hem. The y w ere unmist akeable: e arly drafts o f t he ill ustrations in t he fa irytale b ook. Drawn mo re q uickly, the lines s cratched e agerly in a n exp loratory fashio n, f illed wi th t he artist’s early enthusiasm for the subject. Cassandra’s breaths shortened as she r emembered f eeling t hat s ensation her self w hen she b egan a drawing. ‘It’s incredible, having the chance to see a w ork in p rogress. It s ays s o m uch mo re a bout t he a rtist, I s ometimes t hink, t han t he finished work ever could.’ 137


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‘Like the Michelangelo sculptures in Flo rence.’ Cassandra looked sideways at her, pleased by Ruby’s perspicacity. ‘I got goosebumps the first time I s aw a picture of that knee emerging from the marble. As if the figure had been trapped inside all along, just waiting for someone with enough skill t o come and release him.’ Ruby beamed. ‘Hey,’ she s aid, alight with a sudden ide a, ‘it’s your only night in London, let’s go out to eat. I’m supposed to catch up with my friend, Grey, but he’ll understand. Or I’ll bring him, too, more the merrier, after all—’ ‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ came an American accent, ‘do you work here?’ A tall black-haired man had co me to stand between them. ‘I do,’ said Ruby, ‘how may I hel p?’ ‘My wife and I are mighty hungry and one of the guys upstairs said there was a co ffee shop down here?’ Ruby rolled her e yes at Cassandra. ‘There’s a ne w Carluccio’s near the station. Seven o’clock, my shout.’ Then she pressed her lips together and forced a t hin smile. ‘Right this way, sir. I’ll show you where it is.’

c When she left the V&A, Cassandra went in search of a delayed lunch. She f igured t he last me al she’d e aten m ust ha ve b een t he aer oplane supper, a ha ndful o f R uby’s liq uorice alls orts a nd a c up o f t ea: li ttle wonder her stomach was shouting at her. Nell’s notebook had a pocket map o f cen tral L ondon g lued in side t he f ront co ver, a nd as fa r as Cassandra co uld t ell, no ma tter w hich dir ection she t ook she was bound to find something to eat and drink. As she p eered at the map she noticed a faint biro cross, somewhere on the other side of the river, a str eet in B attersea. Ex citement b rushed lik e f eathers o n her skin. X marked the spot, but which spot exactly? Twenty minutes later, she b ought a t una sandwich and a b ottle of water at a ca fé on the Kings Road, then continued down Flood Street towards the river. On the other side, the four smokestacks of Battersea power station stood tall and bold. Cassandra felt an odd thrill as she traced Nell’s footsteps. The autumnal sun had come out from hiding and was tossing silver flecks along the surface of the river. The Thames. What a lot the river 138


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had s een: inn umerable li ves sp ent alo ng i ts ba nks, co untless de aths. And it was from this river that a boat had left, all those years ago, with little Nell on board. Taking her away from the life she’d known, towards an uncer tain f uture. A f uture t hat was no w past, a lif e t hat was o ver. And yet it still mattered, it had mattered to Nell and it mattered now to Cassandra. This p uzzle was her inher itance. More than that, it was her responsibility.

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ell til ted her he ad t o g et a b etter vie w. S he had ho ped t hat b y seeing t he ho use in w hich E liza had liv ed she mig ht s omehow recognise it, feel instinctively that it was important to her past, but she did not. The ho use at number thirty-five Battersea Church Road was utterly unfamiliar. It was plain, and for the most part looked like every other house on the street: three storeys, sash windows, thin drainpipes snaking up rough brick walls that time and grime were turning black. The only thing that set it apart was a n odd addition at the top of the house. F rom t he o utside i t a ppeared t hat pa rt o f t he r oof had b een bricked in t o cr eate a n extra r oom, t hough wi thout s eeing i t f rom inside it was dif ficult to know. The road itself ra n pa rallel t o t he Tha mes. This dir ty street with rubbish in i ts gu tters a nd sno tty c hildren p laying o n i ts pa vement certainly didn’t seem the type of place to spawn a wr iter of fairytales. Silly, romantic notions, of course, but w hen Nell had imagined E liza her thoughts had been fleshed out with images of JM Barrie’s Kensington Gardens, the magical c harm of Lewis Carroll’s Oxford. But this was t he address listed in t he book she’d bought from Mr Snelgrove. This was t he house where Eliza Makepeace had been born. Where she’d spent her e arly years. Nell w ent c loser. Ther e didn’t s eem t o b e a ny ac tivity in side t he house so she da red to lean right up against the f ront window. A tin y room, a b rick f ireplace, and a p oky kitchen. A na rrow f light of stairs that clung to the wall by the door. Nell stepped back, almost tr ipping over a de ad pot plant. 140


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A face at the window next door made her jump, a pale face framed by a co rona of frizzled white hair. Nell blinked, and when she lo oked back the face was gone. A ghost? She blinked again. She did not believe in ghosts, not the sort that went bump in t he night. Sure eno ugh, t he do or t o n umber t hirty-seven B attersea Ch urch Road swung open with mighty force. Standing on the other side was a miniature w oman, a bout f our f oot t all wi th p ipe-cleaner legs a nd a walking stick. From a raised mound on the left of her chin came one long silver hair. ‘Who’re you, girlie? ’ she s aid in a m uddy cockney voice. It had b een forty years at least since anyone had called her girlie . ‘Nell Andr ews,’ she s aid, st epping bac k f rom t he wizened p lant. ‘ I’m just visiting. Just looking. Just trying to—’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Australian.’ ‘Australian? ’ s aid t he w oman, pale li ps dra wing bac k a t t he sides in a gumm y smile . ‘ Why didn’t y ou s ay s o? M y niece’s h usband is Australian. The y li ve in S ydney, y ou mig ht kno w o f ’em? D esmond and Nancy Parker?’ ‘Afraid not,’ said Nell. The old woman’s countenance began to sour. ‘I don’t live in Sydney.’ ‘Ah well,’ said the woman somewhat sceptically. ‘P’haps if you ever get there you’ll run into them.’ ‘Desmond and Nancy. I’ll be sure to remember.’ ‘He don’t get in till la te most times.’ Nell frowned. The niece’s husband in Sydney? ‘Fellow what lives next door. Quiet for the most part.’ The woman dropped her voice to a stage whisper. ‘Might be a darkie, but he works hard.’ She shook her he ad. ‘Fancy that! An Af rican man living here at number t hirty-five. Did I e ver t hink I’d s ee t he day? My ma’d roll in her grave if she kne w there was b lacks living in t he old house.’ Nell’s interest was p iqued. ‘Your mother lived here too?’ ‘That she did ,’ said the old woman proudly. ‘I was b orn here, that very house what you’re so interested in, matter of fact.’ ‘Born here?’ Nell raised her e yebrows. There weren’t many people who co uld s ay t hey’d li ved t heir en tire lif e in t he o ne str eet. ‘ What’s that, sixty, seventy years ago?’ ‘Nearly s eventy-eight, I ’ll have y ou know.’ The w oman j utted her chin so that the silver hair caught the light. ‘Not a day less.’ 141


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‘Seventy-eight years,’ said Nell slowly. ‘And you’ve been here all that time. Since . . .’ a q uick calculation, ‘since 1897? ’ ‘I ’ave, December 1897. Chr istmas baby, I was.’ ‘Do you have many memories? From childhood, I me an?’ She cackled. ‘Sometimes I t hink they’re the only memories I g ot.’ ‘It must have been a dif ferent place back then.’ ‘Oh yes,’ said the old woman sagely, ‘and that’s a fac t.’ ‘The woman I’m interested in li ved on this street too. Here at this house apparently. Perhaps you remember her? ’ Nell unzipped her bag and withdrew the picture she’d had p hotostated from the frontispiece of the fairytale book. Noticed that her f ingers were trembling slightly. ‘She’s drawn to look like a fairytale illustration, but if you look closely at her face . . .’ The old woman extended a gna rled hand and took t he proffered image, s quinted s o t hat r ows o f wr inkles ga thered a round e ach e ye. Then she st arted to cackle. ‘You know her? ’ Nell held her b reath. ‘I kno w ’er all r ight, I ’ll r emember ’er t o me d ying da ys. Used t o frighten the bejesus out of me w hen I was a li ttl’un. Told me all s orts of wicked stories w hen she kne w my ma w eren’t around to give ’er a pounding a nd s end ’er s cuttling.’ S he lo oked u p a t Nell, f rowning s o that her f orehead concertinaed. ‘Elizabeth? Ellen?’ ‘Eliza,’ Nell said quickly. ‘Eliza Makepeace. She became a wr iter.’ ‘I wouldn’t know about that, not much of a reader m’self. Can’t see the point of all t hem pages. All’s I kno w is t hat the girl t here in y our picture told stories to make your hair stand on end. Kept most o f us local kids f rightened of the dark, though we was al ways coming back for more. Don’t know where she le arned the likes of ’em herself.’ Nell lo oked again at t he house, tr ied to get a s ense of t his young Eliza. An in veterate storyteller, scaring the younger children with her tales of terror. ‘We missed her when she were taken.’ The old woman was shaking her head sadly. ‘I’d have thought you’d be pleased not to be frightened any more.’ ‘Not lik ely,’ s aid t he o ld w oman, li ps moving as t hough she w ere chewing her o wn gum s. ‘ There a in’t a c hild ali ve w hat do n’t en joy a good scare now and then.’ She dug her walking stick into a spot on the 142


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stairs where the render was cr umbling. Squinted up at Nell. ‘That girl herself g ot t he w orst s ort o f s care t hough, fa r w orse t han a ny o f her tall tales. Lost her brother, you know, one day in t he fog. Nothing she could tell us was as ghastly as what happened to him. It was a big black horse, trod right through his heart.’ She shook her head. ‘The girl, she were never the same after that. Went a bit batty, you ask me, cut off all her hair and started wearing breeches if I r emembers properly!’ Nell felt a r ush of excitement. This was ne w. The old woman cleared her throat, withdrew a tissue and spat into it. Continued as if no thing had happened. ‘There was a r umour going around she wer e taken to t he workhouse.’ ‘She wasn ’t,’ s aid N ell. ‘ She was s ent t o li ve wi th fa mily in Cornwall.’ ‘Cornwall.’ A kettle began to whistle from inside. ‘That’s nice then, isn’t it?’ ‘I imagine i t was.’ ‘Well t hen,’ t he o ld w oman s aid wi th a no d t owards t he ki tchen, ‘that’s t eatime.’ The p ronouncement was s o ma tter o f fac t t hat f or a brief, hopeful moment Nell thought she might be being invited inside, offered tea and countless other anecdotes about Eliza Makepeace. But when the door began to close, the old lady on one side and Nell on the other, the fond fancy passed. ‘Wait,’ she s aid, pushing her hand out to hold off the closing door. The old woman held the door ajar as the kettle continued to shrill. Nell pulled a piece of paper from her handbag and began to scribble on it. ‘If I wr ite down the address and phone number of the hotel I’m staying at, will y ou contact me if y ou remember a nything els e a bout Eliza? Anything at all? ’ The old woman cocked a silvery eyebrow. She paused briefly, as if sizing Nell up, then took the piece of paper. Her voice when she spoke was slightly changed. ‘If I t hink of anything, I’ll let y ou know.’ ‘Thank you, Mrs . . .’ ‘Swindell,’ said the old woman. ‘Miss Harriet Swindell. Never met a man I’d let mak e me his o wn.’ Nell lif ted a ha nd t o wa ve fa rewell, b ut o ld M iss S windell’s do or was already closed. As the kettle finally stopped shouting inside, Nell glanced at her watch. If she hurried, there was still enough time to get 143


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to the Tate Gallery. There she could see Nathaniel Walker’s portrait of Eliza, the one he’d called The Authoress. She pulled the little tourist map of London from her bag and ran her finger up the river until she found Millbank. With a f inal g lance down B attersea Church Road, as a r ed London b us sh uddered past t he ba nks o f Victorian ho uses t hat had played host to Eliza’s childhood, Nell set off.

c And there she was, The Authoress, hanging on the gallery wall. Just as Nell remembered her. Thick braid slung over one shoulder, frilly white collar buttoned to her c hin s o t hat her f ine neck was encas ed, hat on her he ad. Qui te dif ferent f rom t he s orts o f ha ts us ually w orn b y Edwardian ladies. Its lines were more masculine, its pitch more jaunty, its wearer irreverent somehow, though Nell wasn’t sure how she k new that. S he c losed her e yes. I f she tr ied ha rd eno ugh she co uld a lmost remember a voice. It came to mind at times, a silvery voice, full of magic and mystery a nd s ecrets. B ut i t al ways sli pped away b efore she co uld clasp the memory to her, make it her own to command and recall. People were moving b ehind her a nd Nell opened her e yes again. The Authoress came once more into frame and Nell walked closer. The portrait was un usual: for one t hing, it was a c harcoal sketch, more a study t han a p ortrait. The f raming was in teresting, t oo. The sub ject wasn’t facing t he artist, but had b een drawn as if walkin g away, as if she’d turned back her gaze o nly at the last minute and been frozen in that mo ment. Ther e was s omething en gaging in her wide e yes, her lips pa rted as if t o sp eak; a nd s omething unco mfortable, t oo. It was the a bsence o f e ven t he hin t o f a smile , as if she ’d b een sur prised. Observed. Caught. If only you could speak, Nell thought. Then perhaps you could tell me who I a m, what I was do ing with you. Why we boarded that boat together and why you didn’t come back for me. Nell f elt s et u pon b y t he d ull w eight o f dis appointment, t hough what revelations she’d imagined might be gleaned from Eliza’s portrait, she didn’t know. Not imagined, she corrected herself, hoped. Her entire quest was bas ed on hope. The world was an awfully large place and it 144


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wasn’t easy to find a person who’d gone missing sixty years earlier, even if that person was o neself. The r oom was b eginning t o em pty a nd N ell f ound her self surrounded on all f our sides b y the silent gazes o f the long-dead. All observing her in that strange, heavy way the portrait subject has: eyes, eternally watchful, following the voyeur around the room. She shivered and slipped on her coat. The other portrait caught her eye when she was almost at the door. As her gaze fell upon the painting of the dark-haired woman with pale skin and plump red lips, Nell knew exactly who she was. A t housand snatches of long-forgotten memories combined in an instant, certainty flooded e very cell . I t wasn’t t hat she r ecognised t he na me p rinted beneath the portrait, Rose Elizabeth Mountrachet—the words themselves meant very little. It was more and it was less. Nell’s lips began to quiver and something deep inside her chest clenched. Breathing was difficult. ‘Mamma,’ she w hispered, feeling stupid and elated and vulnerable all at once.

c Thank god the Central Reference Library was open late, for there was no wa y N ell co uld ha ve wa ited un til mo rning. F inally she kne w her mother’s na me, Ros e E lizabeth M ountrachet. L ater, she w ould lo ok back o n t hat mo ment in t he Tate Galler y as a b irth o f s orts. Swiftly, with neither warning nor fuss, she was s omeone’s child, she kne w her mother’s name. She said the words over and over as she scurried along the darkening streets. It was no t the first time she’d heard them. The b ook she’d bought from M r S nelgrove wi th i ts en try o n E liza had men tioned t he Mountrachet fa mily. E liza’s ma ternal unc le, mino r mem ber o f t he aristocracy, owner of the grand estate in C ornwall. Blackhurst, where Eliza had been sent after her mother’s death. It was the link she’d been looking for. The thread that tied the Authoress of Nell’s memory to the face she now recognised as her mo ther’s. The w oman a t t he lib rary desk r emembered N ell f rom t he da y before, when she’d come searching for information on Eliza. ‘Did you find Mr Snelgrove then?’ she s aid with a gr in. 145


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‘I did,’ said Nell, rather breathlessly. ‘And you lived to tell the tale.’ ‘He sold me a b ook that was v ery helpful.’ ‘That’s o ur M r S nelgrove, al ways ma nages t o mak e a s ale.’ S he shook her he ad fondly. ‘I w onder,’ s aid N ell, ‘ if y ou co uld hel p me aga in. I need t o f ind some information on a w oman.’ The lib rarian b linked. ‘ I’m g oing t o need a li ttle mo re t o g o o n than that.’ ‘Of co urse. A w oman b orn s ometime in t he la te ninet eenth century.’ ‘Was she a wr iter too?’ ‘No, at least I do n’t think so.’ Nell exhaled, collected her t houghts. ‘Her name was Ros e Mountrachet and her fa mily were aristocrats of some kind. I t hought perhaps I mig ht find something in o ne of those books, you know the sort, with details of members of the peerage.’ ‘Like Debrett’s. Or Who’s Who.’ ‘Yes, exactly.’ ‘Worth a lo ok,’ s aid t he lib rarian. ‘ We’ve g ot b oth p ublications here, but Who’s Who is p robably the easier to read. Hereditary peers are automatically invited f or inc lusion. S he mig ht no t have a n entry of her o wn but if y ou’re lucky she’ll b e mentioned in s omeone els e’s, her fa ther’s p erhaps, o r her h usband’s. D on’t s’pose y ou kno w w hen she died? ’ ‘No, why?’ ‘Given that you don’t know when she was entered, if at all, it might save you time if y ou just looked her u p in Who Was Who first. Need to know when she died f or that, though.’ Nell shook her head. ‘I couldn’t even guess. If you point me in t he general direction I’ll just check through the Who’s Who—start this year and work backwards until I f ind mention of her.’ ‘Might take a w hile, and the library’s closing soon.’ ‘I’ll be quick.’ The woman shrugged. ‘Take the stairs to the first floor and you’ll find the backfiles at the enquiry desk. The listin gs are alphabetical.’

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Finally, in 1934, N ell str uck g old. It wasn’t Ros e Mountrachet, b ut i t was a M ountrachet nonetheless. Linus, the uncle who’d claimed Eliza Makepeace after Georgiana’s death. She scanned the entry: MOUNTRACHET, Lord, Linus St John Henry. b. 11 January 1860, s. of la te L ord S t J ohn L uke M ountrachet a nd la te M argaret E lizabeth Mountrachet, m. 31 A ugust 1888 A deline L angley. One d. late Rose Elizabeth Mountrachet, m. late Nathaniel Walker. Rose had married Nathaniel Walker. That meant, didn’t it, that he was her father? She read the entry again. The late Rose and Nathaniel. So t hey’d b oth died e arlier t han 1934. W as t hat w hy she’d b een wi th Eliza? Had Eliza been appointed her guardian because her parents were both dead? Her fa ther—that is, H ugh—had f ound her o n t he M aryborough wharf in late 1913. If Eliza had been appointed guardian after Rose and Nathaniel were killed, t hat me ant, didn’t it, t hat t hey must have died before then? Suppose she w ere to look up Nathaniel Walker in Who’s Who for that year? He was sur e to have an entry. B etter yet, if her t heory was correct and he was no lo nger alive in 1913, she sho uld go straight to Who Was Who. She hurried along the line o f shelves and pl ucked out Who Was Who 1897–1915. Fingers trembling, she flicked through from the back, Z, Y, X, W. There he was. WALKER, Nathaniel James, b. 22 July 1883, d. 2 September 1913. s. of Anthony S ebastian Walker a nd M ary Walker, m. t he la te H on. Ros e Elizabeth Mountrachet, 3 March 1908. One d. the late Ivory Walker. Nell stopped short. One da ughter was co rrect, but w hat did t hey mean by late? She wasn’t dead, she was v ery much alive. Nell was a ware suddenl y o f t he lib rary he ating, f elt she co uldn’t breathe. She fanned her face a nd looked back at the entry. What could it possibly mean? Could they have got it wrong? ‘Found her? ’ Nell lo oked u p. The w oman f rom t he f ront desk. ‘Are t hese e ver wrong?’ she s aid. ‘Do they ever get things wrong?’ 147


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The w oman p ursed her li ps t houghtfully. ‘ They’re no t t he mos t reliable s ources, I su ppose. The y’re p ut t ogether wi th inf ormation supplied by the subjects themselves.’ ‘What about when the entry is de ad?’ ‘I’m sorry?’ ‘In Who Was Who the entries are all dead. Who supplies the information then?’ She shrugged. ‘Remaining family, I exp ect. Most of it I guess t hey just copy from the last questionnaire the entry provided. Add the death dates and B ob’s your uncle.’ She brushed a b it of lint f rom the top of the shelf. ‘We’re closing in ten minutes. Let me know if there’s anything else I ca n help you with.’ There had been a mistake, that was all. It must happen often; after all, the person setting the type didn’t know the subjects personally. It was p ossible, wasn’t i t, t hat a typ esetter’s mind mig ht wa nder f or a moment, the word ‘late’ be inserted by error? A stranger consigned to early death in p osterity’s silent eyes? It was little more than a typo. She knew she was the child of whom the entry spoke and she most certainly was not ‘late’. All she needed to do was f ind a biography of Nathaniel Walker and she could prove the entry was wrong. She had a name now; her name had once been Ivory Walker. And if it didn’t feel familiar, if it didn’t slip over her like a wellworn coat, then that was as it was. There was no accounting for memory, which things stuck and which didn’t. She remembered suddenly the book she’d bought on her way into the Tate, all about Nathaniel’s paintings. It was bound to include a brief biography. She pulled it from her bag a nd flipped it open. Nathaniel Walker (1883–1913) was born in New York to Polish immigrant parents, A ntoni a nd M arya Walker (o riginally Walczwk). H is f ather worked on the city wharves and his mother took in laundry and raised their six children, of whom Nathaniel was t he third. Two of his siblings died of various fevers and Nathaniel was set to follow his father onto the wharves when a picture he had been sketching on a New York street was noticed by passer-by Walter Irving Jnr, heir to the Irving oil fortune, who commissioned Nathaniel to paint his portrait. 148


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Under his patron’s wing, Nathaniel became a well-known member of New York’s burgeoning society. It was a t one of Irving’s parties in 1907 that Nathaniel met the Honourable Rose Mountrachet who was visiting New York f rom Co rnwall. Th ey wer e m arried t he f ollowing ye ar a t Blackhurst, the Mountrachet estate near Tregenna, Cornwall. Nathaniel’s reputation c ontinued t o g row a fter h is m arriage a nd r elocation t o t he UK, and the pinnacle of his career was the commission in early 1910 for him to paint what would be King Edward VII’s final portrait. Nathaniel and Rose Walker had one daughter, Ivory Walker, born in 1909. His wife and daughter were Nathaniel’s frequent subjects and one of his best loved portraits is t hat named Mother and Child. The young couple were tragically killed in 1913 at Ais Gill when their railway train and another collided and caught fire. Ivory Walker died from scarlet fever days after her parents’ deaths. It made no sense. Nell knew she was t he c hild t o w hom t his biography referred. Rose and Nathaniel Walker were her pa rents. She remembered Ros e, had do ne s o in stantly. The da tes f itted: her b irth, even her voyage to Australia, tied in too neatly with Rose’s and Nathaniel’s deaths to be coincidence. Not to mention the further connection that Rose and Eliza must have been cousins. Nell t urned t o t he index a nd ra n her f inger do wn t he list. S he stopped at Mother and Child and flicked to the nominated page, heart thumping. A tremor in her lo wer lip. She mig ht not remember b eing called Ivory but there was no longer any doubt. She knew what she had looked like as a little girl. This was her. Sitting on her mother’s lap, painted by her father. Why t hen did hist ory t hink her de ad? W ho had gi ven suc h misinformation t o Who Was W ho? Was i t a delib erate de ception o r had t hey b elieved i t t hemselves? N ot r ealising t hat she had , in stead, been b oarded o n a shi p t o A ustralia b y a m ysterious wr iter o f fairytales. You mustn’t speak your name. It’s a game we’re playing. That’s what the Authoress had said. Nell could hear it now, the silvery voice, like a breeze off t he o cean sur face. It’s our se cret. You mustn’t tell. Nell was four y ears o ld aga in, f elt t he f ear, t he uncer tainty, t he ex citement. 149


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Smelled the river mud, so different from the wide b lue sea, heard the hungry Tha mes gulls, t he s ailors callin g t o o ne a nother. A pa ir o f barrels, a da rk hiding space, a t hread of dust-flecked light . . . The Authoress had t aken her. S he hadn’t b een a bandoned a t all . She’d b een kidna pped a nd her gra ndparents didn’t kno w. Tha t’s w hy they hadn’t come looking for her. They’d believed her de ad. But w hy had t he A uthoress t aken her? And w hy had she t hen disappeared, leaving Nell alone on the boat, alone in t he world? Her past was lik e a R ussian do ll, q uestion in side q uestion in side question. And what she needed to unravel these new mysteries was a person. Someone to whom she could speak, who might have known her then, or kno w s omeone w ho had . S omeone w ho co uld shed lig ht o n t he Authoress, and the Mountrachets, and Nathaniel Walker. That someone, she figured, was not going to be found in the dusty vaults of a r eference library. She would need t o go to the heart of the mystery, to Cornwall, to this village, Tregenna. To the huge dark house, Blackhurst, where once her family had lived and she, as a little girl, had roamed.

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R

uby was late for dinner but Cassandra didn’t mind. The waiter had given her a table by the large glass window and she was watching harried commuters hoofing their way home. All these people, the stars of lives unfolding quite outside the sphere in which Cassandra’s own life took place. They came in waves. There was a b us stop right out front, and across the street the S outh Kensington tube station still wore its pretty coat of Art Nouveau tiles. Every so often the traffic current swept a wind-blown cluster of people inside the restaurant doors, where they would slide in to s eats or st and by t he brightly lit deli a waiting w hite cardboard boxes of gourmet food to carry home for dinner. Cassandra r ubbed her t humb alo ng t he s oft, w orn edg e o f t he notebook and ran the sentence through her mind once more, wondering whether it would sit more easily this time. Nell’s father was Nathaniel Walker. Nathaniel Walker, painter to the royals, had been Nell’s father. Cassandra’s great-grandfather. No, th e tru th s till fi tted lik e so meone e lse’s glo ve, j ust a s i t h ad when she’d first uncovered it that afternoon. She’d been sitting on the bench by the Thames decoding Nell’s scrawled account of her visi t to the Battersea house in which Eliza Makepeace had been born, the Tate Gallery where Nathaniel Walker’s portraits were on display. The breeze had picked up, skimming the river’s surface and racing up the banks, and Cassandra had been about to leave when something drew her eye to the particularly scratchy passage on the facing page, an underlined sentence t hat r ead: Rose Mountrachet was m y m other. I r ecognise h er portrait, and I remember her. An arrow then, and Cassandra’s attention 151


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leapt ahe ad t o t he ti tle o f a b ook, Who Was W ho, under w hich was printed a hasty list o f dot-points. • • •

Rose Mountrachet married Nathaniel Walker, painter, 1908 one daughter! Ivory Walker (born some time a fter—1909? Check scarlet fever?) Rose a nd Nathaniel b oth killed 1913, tra in crash, Ais G ill (s ame year I dis appeared. Link?)

A p iece o f lo ose pa per had b een f olded in to t he ma rgins o f t he notebook, a p hotocopy taken from a b ook called Great Rail Disasters of t he S team Age. C assandra p ulled i t o ut aga in no w. The pa per was thin and the text faded, but it was b lessedly unmarked by the mould spots t hat w ere b usy de vouring t he r est o f t he b ook. The ti tle at t he top r ead ‘ The Ais G ill R ailway Tragedy’. A s b istro no ise h ummed warmly around her, C assandra s canned once more t hrough t he brief but enthusiastic account. In the dark and early hours of 2 S eptember 1913, two M idland Railway trains left Carlisle Station en route for St Pancras Station, all those aboard unaware that they were being spirited towards a scene of utter devastation. It was a steep line, traversing as it did the peaks and troughs of the rolling northern landscape, and the trains were hopelessly underpowered. Two facts c onspired t o d rive t he t rains t o t heir de struction t hat n ight: t heir engines were smaller than was recommended for the line’s steep gradients, and each had been supplied with poorly screened coal, full of slack that prevented it from burning efficiently. After departing Carlisle at 1.35 am, the first train laboured to reach the Ais Gill summit: the steam pressure began to plummet and the train ground t o a h alt. On e c an i magine t he pas sengers wo uld h ave be en surprised by the train’s sudden stoppage so soon after leaving the station, but n ot u nduly a larmed. A fter a ll, t hey wer e i n sa fe h ands; t he g uard had r eassured the m tha t the y’d only b e sit ting still a fe w m inutes a nd then they’d be o n their way again. Indeed, the guard’s certainty that the wait would be short was one of the fatal errors made that night. Conventional railway protocol suggests that i f h e’d k nown h ow lo ng i t wo uld a ctually t ake f or t he d river a nd 152


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fireman to clean the grate and rebuild the steam pressure, he’d have laid some d etonators or ca rried a l antern d own the line to sig nal to a ny oncoming trains. But alas, he did not, and thus the fates of the good folk on board were sealed. For f urther do wn t he l ine t he se cond en gine was a lso s training. I t pulled a lighter load but the small engine and inferior coal were nonetheless sufficient impediments to cause the driver difficulties. A few miles before Mallerstang, t he d river m ade t he f atal de cision t o le ave t he c ab a nd inspect the engine in action. Though such practice seems unsafe by today’s standards, it was quite a common occurrence those days. Unfortunately, while the driver was a bsent from the cab, the fireman also encountered problems: the injector was stalling and the boiler level had begun to fall. When the driver returned to the cab, the task consumed their attention so f ully t hat t hey bo th m issed t he r ed la ntern bei ng wa ved f rom t he Mallerstang signal box. By the time they finished and returned their attention to the line, the first stalled train was but a few yards away. There was no way the second train could stop in time. As can be i magined, the damage was ext reme and the tragedy y ielded unexpectedly high casualties. Additional to the collision i mpact, t he pa rcels va n’s r oof s lid o ver t he se cond en gine a nd dissected the first-class sleeping accommodation behind. The gas from the lighting system ignited and fire swept through the devastated carriages, claiming the lives of those poor unfortunates who stood in its way. Cassandra shivered as imag es f rom a da rk nig ht in 1913 ass ailed her: t he st eep s ummit r ide, t he nig ht-draped t errain t hrough t he window, the sensation of the train coming to an unexpected standstill. She wondered what Rose and Nathaniel had been doing at the moment of impact, whether they’d been asleep in t heir carriage, or engaged in conversation. W hether t hey’d e ven b een sp eaking o f t heir da ughter, Ivory, waiting for them at home. How odd that she should be so moved by the plight of forebears she’d only just learned she had. How awful it must ha ve b een f or N ell, t o f inally dis cover her pa rents o nly t o los e them again in suc h a t errible way. The do or o f C arluccio’s p ushed o pen, b ringing wi th i t a b urst o f cool a ir laced wi th exha ust f umes. C assandra lo oked u p t o s ee R uby bustling towards her, a t hin man with a shiny bald he ad close behind. 153


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‘What a n a fternoon!’ R uby co llapsed o nto t he s eat acr oss f rom Cassandra. ‘A group of students right at the last. I didn’t think I’d ever extricate myself!’ She indicated the thin neat man. ‘ This is G rey. He’s a lot more fun than he lo oks.’ ‘Ruby, da rling, w hat a c harming in troduction.’ H e ext ended a smooth hand across the table. ‘Graham Westerman. Ruby’s told me all about you.’ Cassandra smiled. It was an interesting proposition given that Ruby had known her the sum total of two waking hours. Still, if anyone was capable of such a mirac le, Cassandra suspected it was Ruby. He slid into a s eat. ‘What a str oke of luck inheriting a ho use.’ ‘Not to mention a delicious family mystery.’ Ruby waved at a waiter and proceeded to order breads and olives for them all. At men tion o f t he m ystery, C assandra’s li ps tin gled wi th her newfound knowledge, the identity of Nell’s parents. The secret, though, sat lumpen in her t hroat. ‘Ruby t ells me y ou en joyed her exhib ition,’ s aid G rey, e yes twinkling. ‘Of course she did , she’s only human,’ said Ruby. ‘Not to mention an artist herself.’ ‘Art historian.’ Cassandra blushed. ‘Dad s aid y ou dra w b rilliantly. Y ou ill ustrated a kids ’ b ook, didn’t you?’ She shook her he ad. ‘No. I us ed to draw, but it was j ust a hobby.’ ‘Bit more than a hobby from what I he ar. Dad said—’ ‘I used to muck around with a sketchpad when I was younger. Not any more. Not for years.’ ‘Hobbies ha ve a t endency t o dr op b y t he wa yside,’ G rey s aid diplomatically. ‘ I sub mit as e vidence R uby’s mer cifully sho rt-lived infatuation with ballroom dancing.’ ‘Oh Grey, just because you’ve got two left feet . . .’ As her tablemates fell to debating Ruby’s commitment to the finer points o f s alsa, C assandra let her t houghts sli p bac kwards t o t he afternoon, many years before, when Nell had tossed the sketchpad and pack of 2B pencils onto the table where Cassandra was busy drowning in algebra homework. 154


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She’d b een living with her gra ndmother for just over a y ear. Had started high school and was having as much trouble making friends as she was making equations balance. ‘I do n’t kno w ho w t o dra w,’ she ’d s aid, s urprised a nd un sure. Unexpected presents had al ways made her wa ry. ‘You’ll le arn,’ s aid N ell. ‘ You’ve g ot e yes a nd a ha nd. Dra w w hat you see.’ Cassandra sighed patiently. Nell was full of unusual ideas. She was nothing a t all lik e t he o ther kids ’ m ums a nd cer tainly no thing lik e Lesley, b ut she me ant w ell a nd C assandra didn’t wa nt t o h urt her feelings. ‘I think there’s more to it than that, Nell.’ ‘Nonsense. It’s j ust a ma tter o f makin g sur e y ou s ee w hat’s r eally there. Not what you think is t here.’ Cassandra raised her e yebrows dubiously. ‘Everything is made up of lines and shapes. It’s like a code, you just need t o le arn t o read and interpret it.’ Nell p ointed across t he room. ‘That lamp over there, tell me w hat you see.’ ‘Um . . . a lamp?’ ‘Well there’s your problem,’ said Nell. ‘If all you see is a lamp, you’ve no chance of drawing it. But if y ou see that it’s actually a tr iangle on top o f a r ectangle, wi th a skinn y t ube co nnecting t hem—well y ou’re halfway there, aren’t you?’ Cassandra shrugged, uncertain. ‘Humour me. Have a g o.’ Cassandra sighed again, a small sig h of extravagant tolerance. ‘Never know, you might surprise yourself.’ And she had . N ot t hat she’d exhib ited a ny gr eat t alent t hat f irst time. The sur prise had b een ho w m uch she en joyed i t. T ime had seemed t o dis appear w hen she had t he sk etchpad o n her la p a nd a pencil in her ha nd . . . The waiter arrived and tossed two tins of bread onto the table with continental flair. Nodded as R uby placed an order for prosecco. As he left, Ruby reached for a wedge of focaccia. She winked at Cassandra and indicated the table. ‘Try the olive and balsamic. They’re to die for.’ Cassandra dunked some focaccia into the oil and vinegar. ‘Come Cassandra,’ said Grey, ‘save an old unmarried couple from bickering, tell us a bout your afternoon.’ 155


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She picked up a cr umb of bread that had fallen o nto the table. ‘Yes, anything exciting?’ said Ruby. Cassandra he ard her self st art sp eaking, ‘ I f ound o ut w ho N ell’s biological parents were.’ Ruby squealed. ‘What? How? Who?’ She bit her lip, arresting its attempt to tremble into a smile of selfconscious pleasure. ‘Their names were Rose and Nathaniel Walker.’ ‘Oh my goodness,’ Ruby laughed, ‘it’s the same as my painter, Grey! What are the odds of that, and us j ust speaking of him t oday, and he once living on the same estate as . . .’ She froze as realisation turned her face f rom p ink t o w hite. ‘ You do me an m y Nathaniel Walker.’ S he swallowed. ‘Your great-grandfather was Nathaniel Walker?’ Cassandra no dded, co uldn’t s top her self gr inning. F elt vaguel y ridiculous. Ruby’s mouth dropped open. ‘And you had no ide a? Today, when I saw you at the gallery?’ Cassandra s hook h er h ead, s till smilin g lik e a f ool. S he s poke, if only t o f orce t he g oofy gr in f rom her face . ‘ Not un til t his a fternoon when I r ead it in Nell’s notebook.’ ‘I ca n’t b elieve y ou didn’t s ay s omething as s oon as w e g ot her e tonight!’ ‘With all your talk of salsa, I imagine she didn’t have the opportunity,’ said G rey. ‘ Not t o men tion, R uby da rling, t hat s ome p eople ac tually like to keep their private life private.’ ‘Oh Grey, no o ne really likes keeping secrets. The o nly thing that makes a secret fun is knowing that you weren’t supposed to tell it.’ She shook her head at Cassandra. ‘You’re related to Nathaniel Walker. Some people have all t he bloody luck.’ ‘It feels a li ttle strange. It’s very unexpected.’ ‘Too right,’ said Ruby. ‘All those people searching through history in t he ho pes t hey’re r elated t o W inston b loody Ch urchill, a nd provenance drops unexpectedly into your lap in the shape of a famous painter.’ Cassandra smiled aga in, couldn’t help it. The waiter reappeared and poured them all a g lass of prosecco. ‘To solving mysteries,’ said Ruby, holding hers aloft. They clinked glasses and all t ook a si p. 156


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‘Pardon my ignorance,’ said Grey, ‘my knowledge of art history isn’t what i t mig ht b e, b ut if N athaniel Walker had a da ughter w ho w ent missing, surely there’d have been a huge search?’ He held his palms out towards Cassandra. ‘I’m not doubting your grandmother’s research, but how on e arth did t he daughter of a fa mous artist go missing and no one knew it?’ Ruby, for once, had no r eady answer. She looked to Cassandra. ‘From w hat I ca n gather, reading Nell’s no tebook, all t he records say Ivory Walker died when she was four. The same age Nell was when she turned up in Australia.’ Ruby rubbed her hands together. ‘You think she was kidnapped and whoever did it made it look like she had died? How completely thrilling. So who was i t? Why did t hey do i t? What did Nell find out?’ Cassandra smiled a pologetically. ‘ It s eems she ne ver ma naged t o solve that part of the mystery. Not for sure.’ ‘What do y ou mean? How do y ou know?’ ‘I read the end o f her no tebook. 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 sui tcase co ntaining a b ook o f fa irytales t hat spa rked s ome memories. B ut if E liza p ut N ell o n t he b oat she didn ’t mak e i t t o Australia herself.’ ‘What happened to her? ’ Cassandra shr ugged. ‘ There’s no o fficial r ecord. I t’s lik e 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 wa iter t opped u p t heir g lasses a nd ask ed w hether t hey w ere ready to order their main course. ‘I suppose we should,’ said Ruby. ‘Could you give us f ive minutes though? ’ S he o pened her men u wi th p urpose a nd sig hed. ‘ It’s all tremendously exciting. To t hink: tomorrow you’re off to C ornwall to see your secret cottage! How can you bear it?’ ‘Are you staying in t he cottage itself?’ said Grey. Cassandra sho ok her he ad. ‘ The s olicitor w ho’s b een holding t he key s aid i t’s no t r eally ha bitable. I ’ve made a r eservation a t a ne arby 157


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hotel, the Blackhurst Hotel. It’s the house where the Mountrachet family used to live, Nell’s family.’ ‘Your family,’ said Ruby. ‘Yes.’ C assandra hadn’t t hought o f t hat. N ow her li ps w ere a t i t again, acting against her wishes t o form a tr embling smile. Ruby shivered theatrically. ‘I’m completely envious. I’d give anything for a m ystery lik e t hat in m y fa mily’s past, s omething ex citing t o unravel.’ ‘I do f eel q uite ex cited. I t’s st arted t o ha unt me , I t hink. I k eep seeing that little girl, little Nell, plucked from her fa mily, 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 lo t of talking. ‘It’s silly, I suppose.’ ‘Not at all. I t hink it’s completely understandable.’ And s omething in t he sym pathetic q uality o f R uby’s t one made Cassandra’s skin co ol. S he kne w w hat was co ming. H er st omach tightened and her mind grasp ed for words to change the subject. But she wasn’t fast eno ugh. ‘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 tw o-year-old laugh, slipped free. Somehow she manage d to no d, to smi le weakly, to hold b ack the memories as Ruby reached to take her ha nd. ‘After w hat ha ppened t o y our li ttle b oy, i t’s no w onder y ou’re s o intent o n dis covering y our gra ndmother’s past.’ R uby ga ve a li ttle squeeze. ‘Makes perfect sense to me: you lost a child and now you hope to find one.’

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liza knew who they were as soon as she s aw them turn the corner into B attersea Ch urch Road . S he’d g limpsed t hem in t he str eets before, the old one and the young one, dressed to the nines, doing their Good Works with all the violent certainty as if G od himself had come down from on high and bid them do s o. Mr S windell had b een t hreatening t o call t he D o-Gooders e ver since Sa mmy lef t t hem, had let no o pportunity pass t o r emind E liza 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 kno ck a t t he do or. E liza f roze. S he sur veyed t he room, cursing the tiny crack in the mortar, the blocked chimney. Being windowless and unobserved was all w ell 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 M iss R hoda S turgeon, a nd t his is m y niece , M iss M argaret Sturgeon.’ Then Mrs Swindell: ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’ ‘My, w hat a lo t o f f unny o ld t hings, a nd ba rely space t o swin g a cat.’ Mrs Swindell again, her tone soured: ‘Follow me, the girl’s upstairs. And watch yourselves. Breakages must be paid for.’ 159


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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 c hest, like a f lame in a light breeze. Then t he traitorous do or was o pen, t he two D o-Gooders f ramed by the jamb. The older one smiled, e yes receding into folds of skin. ‘ Ladies of the Parish calling,’ she s aid. ‘I’m Miss Sturgeon, and this is m y 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 s aid, a nd made a c licking s ound wi th her t ongue, ‘ your plight was no t 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 he alth flourished here? No window to speak of.’ Mrs S windell, o ffended b y t he s candalous a ffront t o her r oom, scowled at Eliza. The o lder M iss S turgeon t urned t o t he y ounger, w ho had no t moved f rom t he do orway. ‘ I ad vise y ou a fix y our ha ndkerchief, Margaret, what with your delicate constitution.’ The y oung w oman no dded a nd p lucked a lac y s quare f rom her sleeve. F olded i t in half t o f orm a tr iangle t hen c lamped i t o ver her mouth and nose while she v entured a st ep across the threshold. Filled wi th t he cer tainty o f her o wn r ighteousness, t he o ld M iss Sturgeon proceeded undeterred. ‘I’m delighted to announce that we’ve been a ble t o f ind s omewhere f or y ou, E liza. A s s oon as w e he ard o f your situation, we immediately set about trying to help. You’re a mi te too y oung f or s ervice—and, I s uspect, o f t he wr ong c haracter—but we’ve ma naged t o do v ery w ell. With G od’s g ood grace w e’ve f ound you a p lace at the local workhouse.’ Eliza’s breath shortened, caught in her t hroat. ‘So if y ou’ll gather your things,’ Miss Sturgeon’s gaze f lickered sideways beneath her blunt lashes, ‘such as t hey are, we’ll be on our way.’ Eliza didn’t move. ‘Come now, don’t tarry.’ 160


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‘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 nos e went begging skyward. ‘Come along now.’ ‘I won’t.’ ‘Maybe she’s den se,’ t he y oung M iss S turgeon s aid t hrough 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 tr y t o f ind s ome mo re sui table c lothing f or t he girl , Margaret dear. And b e careful not to breathe the foulness.’ Eliza shook her head. She wasn’t going to the workhouse and neither was she c hanging out of Sammy’s clothing. It was pa rt 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,’ s aid Mrs Swindell, holding E liza’s t atty pinafore hig h. ‘She won’t need a ny more than that where she’s going.’ Eliza t hought suddenl y o f M other’s w ords. H er in sistence t hat 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 le apt towards the door. The o ld M iss S turgeon, wi th ad vantageous hef t a nd sur prisingly 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 mig ht. Old Miss Sturgeon let out a scream, clutched at her thigh. ‘Why, you little wildcat!’ ‘Aunt! She’ll have given you the rabies!’ ‘I t old y ou she w ere a menace ,’ s aid M rs S windell. ‘ Here, f orget about the clothes. Let’s get her downstairs.’ They e ach t ook a n a rm a nd t he y oung M iss S turgeon ho vered nearby offering useless advice as to the presence of stairs and doorways, while Eliza thrashed this way and that. 161


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‘Be still, girl!’ Old Miss Sturgeon. ‘Help!’ yelled Eliza, almost breaking free. ‘Someone help me.’ ‘You’ll g et a wallo ping,’ M rs S windell hiss ed as t hey r eached t he bottom of the stairs. Then suddenly, an unexpected ally. ‘A rat! I s aw 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! B reakages must be paid for.’ ‘But it was y our own fault. If you hadn’t been harbouring rats—’ ‘I never did! Ther e ain’t a rat within a ha ir’s breadth—’ ‘Auntie, I s aw it. A ho rrid thing, large as a dog, wi th beady black eyes and long sharp claws . . .’ Her voice tapered off and she sl umped against the chair back. ‘I’ve come over all faint. I’m not made for such horrors.’ ‘There no w, M argaret, co urage t o t he stic king p lace. Think o f Christ’s forty days and forty nights.’ The old Miss Sturgeon proved her own impressive constitution by keeping a tig ht gr ip o n E liza’s a rm w hile le aning in t o b olster her collapsing niece w ho was now snivelling: ‘But its beady little eyes, the horrible twitchy nose—’ She gasped. ‘Arggghhh! There it is!’ All e yes t urned in t he dir ection o f M argaret’s p ointing f inger. Crouched b ehind t he coal s cuttle, a q uivering ra t. E liza 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 dir ections. Margaret was s quealing, M iss S turgeon sh ushing, M rs S windell cursing, glass shattering, and then, from nowhere, a ne w voice. Loud and low. ‘Stop immediately.’ All s ound e vaporated as E liza, M rs S windell a nd t he tw o M isses Sturgeon turned to see whence the words came. Standing in t he 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. 162


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‘Miss Eliza Makepeace?’ Eliza nodded in a jerky fashion, unable to find words. Too dismayed that her p oint of escape was now blocked to wonder at the identity of this stranger who knew her na me. ‘Daughter o f G eorgiana M ountrachet? ’ H e ha nded a p hotograph to Eliza. It was Mother, much younger, dressed in t he fine clothing of a lady. Eliza’s eyes widened. She nodded, confused. ‘I a m Phine as Newton. On b ehalf o f L ord L inus Mountrachet o f Blackhurst Manor, I ha ve come to collect you. To bring you home to the family estate.’ Eliza’s jaw dropped, t hough not s o low as t hose b elonging to t he Misses S turgeon. M rs S windell co llapsed o nto a c hair, vic tim o f a sudden bout of apoplexy. Her mouth opened and closed like a mudflat fish as she b leated co nfusedly: ‘ Lord M ountrachet . . . ? B lackhurst Manor . . . ? Family estate . . . ? ’ Old Miss Sturgeon straightened. ‘Mr Newton, I’m afraid I ca nnot 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 t urned t o E liza, ba rely f linched a t her un usual o utfitting. ‘Come then, miss. Ther e’s a st orm approaching and we’ve a way to go.’ It took but a sp lit second for Eliza to decide. Never mind t hat she had ne ver he ard o f L inus M ountrachet o r B lackhurst est ate. N ever mind that she had no ide a whether this Mr Newton spoke the truth. Never mind t hat Mother had r emained r esolutely tig ht-lipped a bout her family, that a dark shadow had fallen across her face whenever Eliza pressed her f or f urther men tion. An ything was b etter t han t he workhouse. And in g oing alo ng wi th t his ma n’s st ory, es caping t he 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 r escue her self j ust as sur ely as if she ’d ma naged t o b reak f ree a nd sprint out of the door. She h urried t owards M r N ewton, st ood b ehind his c loaked a rm and sne aked a g lance at his face . At s uch c lose ra nge, he was no t s o large as he had s eemed w hen silho uetted in t he do orway. H e was barrel-shaped and of medium height. His skin was ruddy and beneath 163


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his tall black hat Eliza could see a small a mount of hair that the years were bleaching from brown to silver. While t he Misses Sturgeon were s crutinising t he wardship order, Mrs S windell f inally r egained her composure. S he p ushed f orward, thrusting a t hin, r opy f inger in t he dir ection o f M r N ewton’s c hest, punctuating every third word. ‘This is nothing but a trick and you, sir, are a trickster.’ She shook her he ad. ‘I don’t know what it is y ou want with t he girl , t hough I ca n imagine w ell enough, but y ou w on’t st eal her from me by your wicked tricks.’ ‘I assur e y ou, mada m,’ s aid M r N ewton, swallo wing a l ump o f rather apparent distaste, ‘there is no tr ick afoot.’ ‘Oh no? ’ Her brows leapt and her li ps stretched around a s alivary smile. ‘Oh no?’ She turned triumphantly towards the Misses Sturgeon. ‘It’s lies, all lies, a nd he a nasty lia r. This girl a in’t got no fa mily, she’s an o rphan, she is. An o rphan. And she ’s mine , mine t o do wi th as I please.’ Her lip took on a vic torious curl as she r eached a p osition she thought unass ailable. ‘ She w ere lef t me w hen t he girl ’s mo ther die d because there were nowhere else for her to go.’ She paused triumphantly. ‘That’s r ight, t he girl’s own ma t old me her self: she had no fa mily t o speak of. Not one mention of no family in the thirteen years I knowed her. This ma n’s a shyster.’ Eliza glanced upwards at Mr Newton who emitted a short sigh and raised his e yebrows. ‘ Though i t sur prises me li ttle t hat M iss E liza’s mother failed to divulge the details of her family’s existence, it does not alter the fact that it is s o.’ He nodded at the old Miss Sturgeon. ‘It’s all in those papers.’ He stepped outside and held t he carriage door wide. ‘Miss Eliza?’ he s aid, indicating that she sho uld 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: ca rriage o r w orkhouse. S he had no f urther co ntrol o ver her own destiny, no t a t t his p oint. Her o nly o ption was t o t hrow her self upon the mercy of one of the people gathered here. With a deep breath, she took a st ep towards Mr Newton. ‘I have nothing packed . . .’ ‘Someone fetch Mr Swindell!’ 164


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Mr Newton smiled grimly. ‘I can think of nothing here that could possibly have a p lace at Blackhurst Manor.’ A small crowd of neighbours had gathered now. Mrs Barker stood to o ne side , mo uth aga pe, bask et o f w et la undry n ursed acr oss her middle; little Hatty leaned her sno tty 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 ha nd before the open space. With a final glance at the panting Mrs Swindell and the two Misses Sturgeon, Eliza climbed up the small ladder t hat had f olded down to meet the gutter and disappeared into the dark cavity of the carriage.

c It wasn’t until t he do or was c losed b ehind her t hat E liza realised she wasn’t alo ne. S itting acr oss f rom her, in t he da rk fa bric f olds o f t he other side, was a ma n she r ecognised. A ma n wearing pince-nez and a neat suit. Her stomach lurched. She knew instantly that this was t he Bad Man that Mother had warned them about, and she knew she had to escape. But as she t urned desperately towards the closed door, the Bad Man hit the wall b ehind him a nd the carriage lurched forward.

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21 The road to Cornwall, 1900 Cornwall, England, 1900

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s t hey h urtled alo ng B attersea Ch urch Road , E liza s tudied t he carriage do or. P erhaps if she t urned o ne o f t he knobs, p ressed one of the grooves, it would spring open and she could tumble to safety. The q uality o f t hat s afety was d ubious; if she sur vived t he 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 f luttering lik e a tra pped spa rrow wi thin her r ib cag e, she reached out carefully, closed her f ingers around the lever and— ‘I wouldn’t do t hat if I w ere you.’ She looked up sharply. The ma n was wa tching her, e yes magnif ied b ehind t he len ses o f 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 no ise then, rapid sucking sounds that Eliza took for laughter only by the upturned corners of his mo uth. As q uickly as i t st arted, t he no ise s topped a nd t he ma n’s mo uth rearranged i tself alo ng s our lines. H e b rushed his b ushy mo ustache, 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 ha nds o n t he p olished t op o f a da rk ca ne. ‘ I w ork f or your uncle, and I sleep v ery lightly.’ The carriage wheels danced metallic down one cobblestone laneway after another, brick buildings f led by, grey and grey as fa r as t he e ye 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 169


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horses. Willed her sp inning t houghts t o stra ighten. C oncentrated o n the seat’s cold leather beneath her. It was all she co uld do t o 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 f irst drops of rain spat sp itefully o n t he ca rriage r oof a nd t he w orld o utside was s oon blanketed in white. It lashed against the windows and dripped through the thin gaps at the top of the carriage doors. They dr ove o n t hus f or ho urs a nd E liza s ought r efuge in her thoughts, until suddenly they rounded a bend in the road and a trickle of ic y wa ter la nded o n her he ad. S he b linked t hrough wa terlogged lashes, looked down at the drenched patch on her shir t. Felt a s trong urge to cry. Strange that in a da y of tumult, it should be something so innocuous as a dr ibble of water that prompted a p erson 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 t hroat. Without s eeming t o o pen his e yes, M r M ansell p lucked a w hite handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it towards Eliza. Motioned for her t o take it. She patted her face dr y. ‘Such a fuss,’ he said, in a v oice so thin his lips were barely parted. ‘Such a lo t of fuss.’ Eliza t hought a t f irst t hat he r eferred t o her. It s eemed unfa ir as she had made v ery li ttle f uss, b ut she didn ’t da re s ay as m uch. ‘ So many years devoted,’ he co ntinued, ‘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, wa ited for Mr Mansell to mak e his me aning c lear. B ut he did no t sp eak aga in. Merely t ook back hi s h andkerchief a nd h eld i t b etween tw o pallid f ingers b efore discarding it on the seat beside him. 170


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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 t hey a rrived? E liza lo oked out of t he window but she co uld see no ho use. Onl y a vast, s odden f ield, a nd b eside i t a small st one building wi th a ra in-battered sign a bove t he do or. MacCleary’s I nn, 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 do or sla mmed sh ut, E liza he ard him sho ut: ‘ Deliver t he girl t o Blackhurst’.

c A sharp turn and Eliza was thrown against the hard, cold door. Shocked from sleep , i t t ook her s ome mo ments t o r emember w here she was, why she was alo ne in a da rkened ca rriage b eing sp irited t owards a n unknown destiny. Patchily, heavily, it all came back to her. The summons of her m ysterious unc le, es cape f rom t he c lutches o f M rs S windell’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 a nd nig ht, st opping o nly o ccasionally t o c hange t he ho rses, a nd now it was almost da rk again. Evidently she had b een asleep for some time; just how long, she co uldn’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 o f t he co untryside, q uivering as t he coac hman na vigated t he 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 da rk 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 f irst glimpse of what must surely lie ahe ad. Blackhurst. She could hear her he art, a sparrow no longer but a raven with large, powerful wings, beating within her c hest. Suddenly, they emerged. 171


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A stone building, the biggest Eliza had ever seen. Bigger even than the hotels in L ondon where the toffs came and went. It was shr ouded in da rk mist, wi th t all tr ees a nd b ranches laced t ogether b ehind i t. Lamplight flickered yellow in s ome of the lower windows. Surely this could not be the house? Movement a nd her gaze was dra wn t o a windo w ne ar t he t op. A dist ant face , b leached b y ca ndlelight, was wa tching. E liza mo ved closer t o t he window t o get a b etter lo ok, but w hen she did t he face was gone. And then the carriage passed the building, metal wheels continuing to clack along the driveway. They went beneath a s tone arch and the carriage jerked to a hal t. Eliza s at aler t, wa iting, wa tching, w ondering w hether 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 f or dithering.’ Eliza took the proffered hand and scrambled down the carriage steps. They’d outrun t he rain w hile she was sleep ing, but t he sky p romised 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 f rom t hat in L ondon. C older, less gr easy; it smelled lik e s alt a nd 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 t he doorway, dressed a li ttle like a t off. He spoke like one too, and yet Eliza knew that he wasn’t. His rigidity gave him away, the vehemence of his su periority. No one born to quality ever needed tr y so hard. ‘Couldn’t be helped, Mr Thomas,’ said Newton. ‘Wretched weather the w hole wa y. L ucky w e made i t a t all , w hat wi th t he Tamar r ising like it is.’ Mr Tho mas was unmo ved. He snapped c losed his p ocket 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.’ 172


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Mr Thomas turned to take in E liza, swallowed a ba rbed kernel of displeasure. ‘What is t his?’ ‘The girl, sir. Just like I was t old 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 w hen I fetched her.’ This news seemed to mollify Mr Thomas somewhat. He forced a sigh through tight lips. ‘I suppose if M r Mansell was s atisfied . . .’ The coac hman no dded. ‘ If t hat’s all , I ’ll b e g etting t he ho rses 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 t o L ondon, b ut w hen she lo oked a fter him he ’d alr eady b een enveloped by the fog and she was stra nded. ‘Come,’ said Mr Thomas, and Eliza did as she was bade . Inside was co ol and dank, though warmer and drier than outside. Eliza f ollowed M r Tho mas alo ng a sho rt hall way, tr ying t o k eep her feet f rom c lipping on t he grey f lagstones. The a ir was t hick with t he smell of roasting meat and Eliza felt her st omach flip over. When had she last eaten? A bowl of Mrs Swindell’s broth two days before, a piece of b read a nd c heese t hat t he coac hman had gi ven her ma ny ho urs ago . . . Her lips grew dry with sudden hunger. The smell was str onger as t hey walk ed t hrough a h uge st eamy 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 r ush of excited whispering. Eliza could’ve wept for having been so close to food. Her mouth watered as if she ’d swallowed a ha ndful of s alt. At the end o f the hall, a skinn y woman with a face made stif f by exactitude st epped f rom a do orway. ‘ This is t he niece , M r Tho mas? ’ Her direct gaze travelled slowly down Eliza’s person. ‘It is, M rs Hopkins.’ ‘There has b een no mist ake?’ ‘Regrettably not, Mrs Hopkins.’ 173


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‘I s ee.’ S he dr ew in a slo w b reath. ‘ She cer tainly has t he lo ok o f London about her.’ This, Eliza could tell, was no t to her ad vantage. ‘Indeed, Mrs Hopkins,’ said Mr Thomas. ‘I was o f a mind t o have her bathed before presenting her.’ Mrs H opkins’s li ps tig htened. A sha rp, decisi ve sig h. ‘ Though I agree with your sentiment, Mr Thomas, I’m afraid there isn’t time. She has already let us kno w of her disp leasure at being kept waiting.’ She. Eliza wondered who she was. A cer tain agi tation cr ept in to M rs H opkins’s ma nner w hen t he word was sp oken. S he b rushed q uickly at her alr eady smo oth skir ts. ‘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 t o be dinner. And s oon. Eliza was lig ht-headed with relief. A giggle from behind and Eliza turned just in time t o see a c urlyhaired 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 y ou 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 la rge room. The f loors w ere co vered wi th pale r ectangular f lagstones, a nd 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 b elow. 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 t o come. His pale lips quivered as he looked down at her. Little lines puckered. ‘The mistress, your aunt, will b e down to s ee you in a min ute. Mind your ps a nd qs a nd call her “ my L ady” unless she b ids y ou do otherwise.’ Eliza nodded. She was her a unt. 174


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Mr Th omas wa s s till loo king a t h er. H e s hook hi s h ead s lightly without r emoving his gaze . ‘ Yes,’ he s aid in a q uick, q uiet v oice. ‘I can see your mother in y ou. You’re a t atty little wench, no mist ake about it, but she’s in t here somewhere.’ B efore Eliza could tr y on for size t he ple asant no tion t hat she was s omehow li ke M other, t here was a no ise a t t he t op o f t he gra nd st aircase. M r Tho mas st opped, straightened. He gave Eliza a little prod and she stumbled alone across the t hreshold into a la rge room with burgundy wallpaper and a f ire raging in t he hearth. Gas la mps f lickered o n t he t ops o f t ables b ut desp ite t heir b est efforts t hey co uldn’t ho pe t o lig ht t he eno rmous r oom. D arkness 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 t he grate, hurled jagged shadows against the walls. With a shi ver of anticipation, Eliza turned.

c A t all, t hin w oman s tood in t he do orway, her b ody a n elo ngated hourglass. Her long dress, blue silk as deep as t he midnight sky, clung to her f igure. A h uge dog—no , no t a dog, a ho und—stood b y her , lo ng legs prancing as he w orried close, stalking about the hem o f her dr ess. He lifted his knobb led head every so often to rub against her ha nd. ‘Miss E liza,’ a nnounced M r Tho mas, w ho had h urried in b ehind 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 wi th N ewton t omorrow. S he co mes la ter t han exp ected.’ S he spoke s o slo wly, s o sur ely, t hat E liza co uld f eel t he sha rp co rners o f her words. ‘Yes, my Lady,’ said Thomas, cheeks flaming. ‘Shall I bring the tea, my Lady? Mrs Hopkins has—’ ‘Not no w, Tho mas.’ Without t urning, she ga ve a vague f lutter o f her pale , f ine ha nd. ‘ You sho uld kno w b etter t han t hat, i t’s fa r t oo late for tea.’ 175


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‘Yes, my Lady.’ ‘If w ord sho uld tra vel t hat t ea had b een t aken a t B lackhurst Manor after dark—’ A tig ht 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 alo ne.’ ‘And Miss Eliza, ma’am?’ The aunt inhaled sha rply. ‘A light supper.’ Eliza’s stomach groaned. Please God that her me al 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 a unt dr ew a lo ng slo w b reath a nd b linked a t E liza. ‘ Come closer then, child. Let me lo ok at you.’ Eliza obeyed, walked towards her aunt and stood, trying to silence breaths that had gr own unaccountably quick. Close u p, t he a unt was b eautiful. I t was t he typ e o f b eauty exemplified in e ach f eature b ut diminishe d s omehow b y t he w hole. Her face was lik e that in a pa inting. Skin as w hite as sno w, lips as r ed as blood, eyes of palest b lue. Looking into her e yes was lik e staring at a mir ror wi th a lig ht sho ne u pon i t. H er da rk ha ir was smo oth a nd shiny, sw ept bac k f rom her face a nd ga thered r ichly a t t he cr own o f her head. The aunt’s gaze picked over Eliza’s face and her e yelids seemed to flicker slightly. Cold fingers lifted Eliza’s chin, all the better to observe her. E liza, un sure w here t o lo ok, b linked a t t hose im passable e yes. The giant dog st ood by his mistr ess, breathing warm damp air onto Eliza’s arms. ‘Yes,’ the aunt said, the ‘s’ sound lingering on her li ps and a ner ve twitching at the side of her mouth. It was as if she answered a question that had no t b een asked. ‘You are her da ughter. Reduced in all wa ys, but her s no netheless.’ S he shi vered slig htly as a s cud o f ra in hi t t he windows. The f oul w eather had f inally f ound t hem. ‘ We m ust o nly hope y our na ture is no t t he s ame. Tha t wi th timel y in tervention w e can arrest any similar tendencies.’ 176


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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 li ps into a t hin smile. ‘Your mother brought shame upon her fa mily’s name. Of fended against all w ho li ve in t his house. We do no t sp eak o f her her e. Ever. This is t he f irst a nd most important condition of your accommodation at Blackhurst Manor. Do you understand?’ Eliza bit her li p. ‘Do you understand?’ An unexpected tremor had entered the aunt’s voice. Eliza nodded slightly, more from surprise than agreement. ‘Your unc le is a g entleman. H e under stands his r esponsibilities.’ The aunt’s eyes f lickered in t he direction of a p ortrait by the door. A man of middle years with ginger hair and a foxlike expression. But for his red hair, he was no thing like Eliza’s mother. ‘You must remember always ho w f ortunate y ou a re. Work ha rd t hat y ou mig ht s ome da y deserve your uncle’s generosity.’ ‘Yes, my Lady,’ said Eliza, remembering what Mr Thomas had said. The aunt turned and pulled a small le ver on the wall. Eliza swallo wed. D ared t o sp eak. ‘ Excuse me , m y L ady,’ she s aid softly. ‘Am I t o meet my uncle?’ Her aunt’s left eyebrow arched. Thin pleats appeared briefly on her forehead b efore smo othing o nce mo re t o gi ve t he a ppearance o f alabaster. ‘ My h usband has b een in S cotland t aking p hotographs o f 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 eno ugh that he has b rought you here, do not be seeking more. Do you understand?’ The li ps quivered. ‘Do you understand?’ Eliza nodded quickly. Then, b lessedly t he do or was o pen a nd M r Tho mas was t here again. ‘You rang, my Lady?’ 177


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The a unt’s e yes w ere s till f ocused o n Eliza. ‘ The c hild n eeds cleaning.’ ‘Yes, my Lady, Mrs Hopkins has alr eady fetched the water.’ The aunt shi vered. ‘ Have her p ut s ome ca rbolic in i t. S omething strong. S ufficient t o r emove t hat L ondon gr ime.’ S he sp oke under her breath. ‘ Would t hat i t r emoved all els e wi th w hich I f ear she ’s been tainted.’

c Still raw from the scrubbing she’d received, Eliza followed the flickering of M rs H opkins’s la ntern u p a f light o f co ld w ooden s tairs a nd in to 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 ca nvas, hung lonely in a da rkened corridor. She slo wed. The f inal pa inting’s sub ject she r ecognised. I t was different from that in the room downstairs: in this one he was younger. His face was f uller and there was little hint of the fox that would later gnaw its way to the surface. In this portrait, in t his young man’s face, Eliza saw her mo ther. ‘That there’s your uncle,’ said Mrs Hopkins without turning. ‘You’ll meet him in t he flesh soon enough.’ The word flesh made Eliza aware of t he f lecks o f p ink a nd cr eam pa int t hat lin gered o n t he p ortrait 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 o f the hallway and Eliza h urried after, still clutching Sammy’s clothing to her chest. The ho usekeeper wi thdrew a la rge k ey f rom a f old in her dr ess a nd inserted it into t he lo ck. Pushed o pen t he do or and st arted t hrough, lantern held alo ft. The room was dark; the lantern cast only the dimmest light across its threshold. In the centre Eliza could make out a b ed of shiny black wood, f our p osts t hat lo oked t o ha ve u pon t hem en graved f igures 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 no t to waste a sme ar. Mrs Hopkins, w ho had b een watching with a s omewhat stunned expression, made no co mment. S he co ntinued stif fly, s et do wn t he lantern o n a w ooden b ox at t he f oot o f t he b ed a nd p ulled bac k t he heavy blanket. ‘There you are then, climb in. I ha ven’t all nig ht.’ Eliza did as she was t old. The sheets w ere cold and damp beneath her legs, s ensitive after their fierce scouring. Mrs H opkins t ook t he la ntern a nd E liza he ard t he do or c lose behind her. And t hen she was alo ne in t he pitch-dark room, listening as the house’s tired old bones creaked beneath its shiny skin. The darkness of the bedroom had a s ound, Eliza thought. A lo w, distant rumbling. Ever-present, always threatening, never coming close enough to be revealed as s omething harmless. And then it started to rain again, heavy and sudden. Eliza shivered as a f lash of lig htning split t he sky in to two jag ged halves and t hrew light acr oss t he w orld. I n t hose mo ments o f ill umination, al ways followed by a crac k of t hunder t hat made t he giant house shake, she scanned t he r oom o ne wall a t a time , tr ying t o mak e o ut her surroundings. Flash . . . crack . . . dark wooden wardrobe beside the bed. Flash . . . crack . . . fireplace against the far wall. Flash . . . crack . . . ancient rocking chair by the window. Flash . . . crack . . . a window seat. On tiptoes, Eliza crossed the cold floor. Wind slipped through the cracks in t he timbers and r ushed along its surface. She climbed onto the windo w s eat t hat had b een b uilt in to t he no ok a nd lo oked o ut across t he da rk gr ounds. An gry c louds had shr ouded t he mo on a nd the ga rden sa t b eneath a c loak o f tr oubled nigh t. Needles o f dri ving rain pelted the sodden ground. Another flash of lightning and the room was lit once more. As the light faded, Eliza caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window. Her face, Sammy’s face. Eliza reached out but the image had already faded and her fingers merely brushed the icy glass. She knew, in that moment more than any before, that she was a lo ng way from home. 179


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She went back to bed and slid between the cold, damp, unfamiliar sheets. Placed her he ad on Sammy’s shirt. Closed her eyes and drifted amongst the reedy fringe of sleep. Suddenly she s at bolt upright. Her stomach turned and her he art beat faster. Mother’s brooch. How could she ha ve forgotten? In all t he hurry, with all t he dra ma, she had lef t i t b ehind. H igh u p in t he c himney cavity, in M r and Mrs Swindell’s house, Mother’s treasure waited.

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22 Cornwall, 2005 Cornwall, England, 2005

C

assandra dropped a teabag into a c up and switched on the kettle. As it worked itself up to steaming, she gazed towards the window. Her room was a t t he back of t he Blackhurst Hotel, facing out to s ea, and th ough i t wa s da rk Ca ssandra co uld s till m ake o ut so me o f th e rear ga rdens. A c lipped kidne y-shaped la wn slo ped a way f rom t he terrace towards a line of tall trees, blue beneath the moon’s silvery light. That was t he c liff face , C assandra kne w, t hose tr ees t he last line o f defence on this particular piece of earth. Somewhere beyond the cove was the town itself. Cassandra hadn’t seen much of it yet. The tra in trip had t aken most o f the day and by the time t he t axi w ove i ts wa y t hrough t he bac k hills o f Tregenna, daylight was fading quickly to darkness. Only briefly as the car mounted a crest had she g limpsed a circle of twinkling lights in the cove below, like a fa iry village materialising with the dusk. As she wa ited for the water to boil, Cassandra thumbed the dogeared edge of Nell’s notebook. She’d had it out during much of the train trip, had imagined t hat her time co uld b e w ell sp ent unravelling t he next stage of Nell’s journey, but she had been mistaken. The theory was sound, its practice not so easily accomplished. She’d been in company most o f t he tr ip wi th her o wn t houghts, had b een s o e ver since t he dinner with Ruby and Grey. Though Nick and Leo were never far from Cassandra’s mind , ha ving t he fac t o f t heir de aths r emarked u pon s o openly, so unexpectedly, had brought the fracturing moment crashing back. It had been so sudden. She supposed such things always were. One moment she was a wif e and mother, t he next she was alo ne. And all 181


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for the sake of an uninterrupted hour in which to draw. She’d thrust a thumb-sucking L eo in to Nick’s a rms a nd s ent t hem t o t he sho ps f or groceries they didn’t need. Nick had gr inned at her as he ’d started the car down the driveway, and Leo h ad waved a c hubby little hand, still clutching t he silk p illowcase he ’d t aken t o ca rrying e verywhere. Cassandra had waved back absently, her mind alr eady in her s tudio. Worst of all was how much she’d relished the hour and a half before the knock came on her door. She hadn’t even noticed how long they’d been gone . . . Nell had b een C assandra’s s aviour f or a s econd time . S he’d co me straightaway, brought Ben with her. He’d been able to explain what had happened, the words that had made no sense from the policeman’s lips: an accident, a swerving truck, a collision. A ghastly sequence of events so mundane, s o ordinary, it was im possible to b elieve t hat t hey were happening to her. Nell hadn’t told Cassandra it would be all r ight. She’d understood better t han t hat, had kno wn t hat i t w ould ne ver, co uld ne ver, b e all right. She’d come armed instead with pills to help Cassandra sleep. To deliver a blessed blow to her racing mind and make it all disappear, if only for a f ew hours. And t hen she’d taken Cassandra home with her. It was better back at Nell’s; the ghosts weren’t as comfortable there. Nell’s place had its own set and the ones Cassandra brought didn’t have quite the same free run. Time afterwards was a haze . Of gr ief and horror and nig htmares that co uldn’t b e shed wi th t he ne w da y. S he wasn’t s ure w hich w ere worse, the nights that Nick filled her t houghts, his g host asking, over and over, why did y ou make us g o? Why did y ou make me t ake Leo? Or t he nig hts w hen he w ouldn’t co me, w hen she was alo ne a nd t he dark hours threatened to stretch interminably, the partial salvation of the da wn r ushing a way f rom her fast er t han she co uld e ver ho pe t o chase i t. And t hen t here was t he dr eam. The ha teful f ield wi th i ts promise of finding them. During the days it was L eo who trailed her, the noise of his t oys, a cr y, a li ttle hand grabbing at her skir t, begging to be lifted into her arms and held. Oh, the flicker of unabated joy in her heart, momentary, fractured, but real nonetheless. The sp lit s econd in w hich she f orgot. 182


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Then t he t hud o f r eality w hen she t urned t o s coop him u p a nd he wasn’t there. She had tr ied going out, had t hought she mig ht escape them that way, but it hadn’t worked. There’d been so many children everywhere she went. The parks, the schools, the shops. Had there always been so many? So she’d stayed home, spent the days in Nell’s yard, lying on her back beneath the old mango tree and watching the clouds waft overhead. The perfect blue sky behind the frangipani leaves, the fluttering of the palm f ronds, tin y st ar-shaped s eeds dislo cated b y t he b reeze t o ra in over the path below. Thinking o f no thing. Trying t o t hink o f no thing. Thinkin g o f everything. That was w here N ell had f ound her o n a n a fternoon in A pril. The s eason had j ust b egun t o t urn, summer ’s sw elter had lif ted a nd there was a hin t o f im pending a utumn in t he a ir. C assandra’s e yes were closed. The f irst she r ealised t hat Nell was st anding ne arby was t he loss of warmth from the skin o n her a rms and the slight darkening inside her eyelids. Then a v oice: ‘Thought I’d find you out here.’ Cassandra said nothing. ‘D’you think it might be time you started doing something, Cass?’ ‘Please Nell. Leave it alone.’ Slower, mo re c learly en unciated. ‘ You need t o st art do ing s omething.’ ‘Please . . .’ To p ick u p a p encil made her p hysically ill . A s f or opening o ne o f her sk etchbooks . . . H ow co uld she b ear t o r isk glimpsing the swell of a plump cheek, the tip of an upturned nose, the arc of kissable baby lips . . . ? ‘You need t o do s omething.’ Nell was j ust trying to help and yet there was a pa rt of Cassandra that wa nted t o s cream a nd shak e her gra ndmother, p unish her f or this fa ilure t o un derstand. I nstead, s he sigh ed. H er lid s, s till c losed, fluttered a little. ‘I hear it enough from Dr Harvey. I don’t need it from you, too.’ ‘I don’t mean therapeutically, C ass.’ A b rief hesitation b efore Nell continued. ‘I mean you need t o start contributing.’ 183


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Cassandra’s e yes o pened, she lif ted a ha nd t o b lock t he g lare. ‘What?’ ‘I’m not a sp ring chicken, my love. I need s ome help. Around the house, in t he shop, financially.’ The offending sentences shimmered in the bright air, sharp edges refusing t o dissi pate. H ow co uld N ell b e s o co ld? S o t houghtless? Cassandra shivered. ‘My family is gone,’ she managed finally, her throat aching with the effort. ‘I’m grieving.’ ‘I kno w t hat,’ s aid N ell, e asing her self do wn t o si t b y C assandra. She reached out and clutched her ha nd. ‘I know that, my darling girl. But it’s been six mo nths. And you are not dead.’ Cassandra was cr ying now. It was s aying the words out loud that did it. ‘You are here,’ said Nell softly, squeezing Cassandra’s hand, ‘and I need help.’ ‘I can’t.’ ‘You can.’ ‘No—’ Her head was t hrobbing; she was tir ed, so tired. ‘I mean I can’t. I have nothing to give.’ ‘I don’t need you to give me anything. I just need you to come with me and do as I ask. Y ou can hold a p olishing cloth, can’t you?’ Nell had r eached o ut t hen t o str oke C assandra’s ha ir f rom her cheeks, sticky with tears. Her voice was low, unexpectedly steely. ‘You’ll beat this. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you will. You’re a sur vivor.’ ‘I don’t want to survive it.’ ‘I know that, too,’ Nell had said. ‘And it’s fair enough. But sometimes we don’t have a c hoice . . .’ The ho tel k ettle swi tched i tself o ff wi th a tr iumphant click and Cassandra poured water over the teabag, hand shaking a li ttle. Stood for a mo ment as i t dr ew. S he r ealised no w t hat N ell r eally had understood, that she knew all too well the sudden, blinding emptiness of having one’s ties c ut. She stir red her t ea a nd sig hed q uietly as N ick a nd L eo r etreated once mo re. F orced her self t o f ocus o n t he p resent. S he was a t t he Blackhurst Hotel in T regenna, C ornwall, listening as t he waves of an unfamiliar ocean crashed u pon the sands of an unfamiliar beach. 184


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Beyond t he da rk he ads o f t he t allest tr ees, a lo ne b ird c ut b lack across an inky sky, and moonlight rippled on the faraway ocean surface. Tiny lig hts wink ed a t t he sho re. F ishing b oats, C assandra f igured. Tregenna was a f ishing village, after all. Strange, in this modern world it was a s urprise to find a poc ket where things were still done in th e old way, on a small s cale, as t hey had b een done for generations. Cassandra t ook a si p a nd exhaled wa rmly. S he was in C ornwall, just as N ell had b een b efore her . Ros e a nd N athaniel a nd E liza Makepeace b efore t hat. As she w hispered t heir names t o her self, she felt an odd tingling beneath her skin. Like tiny threads all being pulled at the same time. She had a p urpose here, and it was not to wallow in her own past. ‘Here I a m, N ell,’ she s aid s oftly. ‘ Is t his w hat y ou wa nted me to do? ’

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23 Blackhurst Manor, 1900 Blackhurst Manor, Cornwall, 1900

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hen Eliza woke next morning, it took her a moment to remember where she was. She seemed to be lying in a huge wooden sleigh with a deep b lue canopy suspended above. Her nightdress was o f the type to have Mrs Swindell r ubbing her ha nds together with g lee and Sammy’s dir ty c lothing was b unched b eneath her he ad. Then she remembered: the Do-Gooders, Mr Newton, the carriage ride, the Bad Man. She was a t her unc le and aunt’s house, there had b een a s torm, lightning, thunder and rain. Sammy’s face in t he window. Eliza s crambled o nto t he windo w s eat a nd lo oked o utside. Was forced t o s quint. The ra in and t hunder of t he nig ht b efore had b een rolled away by the dawn, and the light, the air, was all washed c lean. Leaves a nd b ranches la y str ewn acr oss t he la wn a nd a ga rden s eat directly beneath the window had b een blown over. Her attention was drawn to a distant corner of the garden. Someone, a ma n, moved a mongst t he gr eenery. He had a b lack b eard a nd was dressed in overalls, a s trange little green hat and black galoshes. A noise b ehind her a nd E liza turned. The do or to t he room was open and a young maid with emphatically curly hair was placing a tray on the bedside table. It was t he same maid who’d received a s colding the night before. ‘Morning, miss,’ she s aid. ‘My na me’s Mary a nd I ’ve b rought y ou some breakfast. Mrs Hopkins said you could have it in your room this morning on account of the long journey you took these past days.’ Eliza hurried to sit at the little table. Her eyes widened as she t ook in t he co ntents o f t he tra y: ho t b read r olls wi th lashin gs o f mel ting butter, white pots filled to the brim with the fruitiest conserves she had 186


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ever seen, a pair of kippers, a pile of fluffy egg, a fat, glistening sausage. Her heart sang. ‘That w ere q uite a st orm y ou b rought wi th y ou last nig ht,’ s aid Mary, stra pping t he c urtains bac k. ‘ I almost didn ’t mak e i t ho me. Thought for a time I w ere going to need t o stay here the night!’ Eliza swallowed a lump of bread. ‘You don’t live here?’ Mary laughed. ‘No fear. Might be all right for the rest of them but I sho uldn’t lik e t o li ve—’ S he g lanced at E liza, a p ink g low wa rming her cheeks. ‘That is, I li ve in t he village. With my ma a nd pa a nd my brothers and sister.’ ‘You ha ve a b rother? ’ A s E liza t hought o f Sa mmy t he em ptiness yawned inside her. ‘Oh yes indeed, three of them. Two older and one younger, though Patrick, the eldest, don’t live at home no more. Still works on the fishing boats with my pa t hough. He, Will and Pa go out every day, whatever the weather. The y ounger, Roly, he’s only three, he st ays at home with my ma and little May.’ She plumped the cushions on the window seat. ‘We Martins have always worked on the sea. My great-grandfather were one of the Tregenna pirates.’ ‘The what?’ ‘The Tregenna pirates,’ said Mary, eyes widening with incredulity. ‘Have you not heard of them?’ Eliza shook her he ad. ‘The Tregenna p irates w ere t he most f earsome b unch y ou’d e ver find. The y r uled t he s eas in t heir time , b ringing bac k w hiskey a nd pepper when the folk at home couldn’t get them otherwise. Only ever took from the rich, mind you. Just like what’s-his-name, except on the ocean, not in the forest. There’s passages winding right the way through these hills, one or two reach all t he way to the sea.’ ‘Where is t he sea, Mary?’ said Eliza. ‘Is it near?’ Mary lo oked at her s trangely again. ‘Well of course it is, p oppet! Can’t you hear it?’ Eliza paused and listened. Could she he ar the sea? ‘Listen,’ s aid M ary. ‘ Whoosha . . . whoosha . . . whoosha . . . That there’s the sea. Breathing in and out as it always does. Could you really not hear it?’ ‘I could hear it,’ said Eliza. ‘I just didn’t know it was t he sea.’ 187


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‘Didn’t know it was t he sea?’ Mary grinned. ‘What on God’s earth did you think it was? ’ ‘I thought it was a tra in.’ ‘A tra in!’ M ary er upted in to la ughter. ‘ You a re t he tic ket. The station’s a way off from here. Thought the sea were a train indeed. Just you wait until I t ell my brothers.’ Eliza t hought of t he few stories Mother had t old about s and and silver shingles and wind that smelled like salt. ‘Could I go and look at the sea, Mary?’ ‘I reckon you could. So long as y ou make sure and be back when Cook rings the luncheon bell. The mistress is out visiting this morning, so she w on’t b e her e t o no tice.’ A c loud ca me acr oss Mary’s c heerful face w hen she men tioned t he mistr ess. ‘ Just y ou mind y ou’re bac k before she is, y ou he ar? S he’s o ne f or r ules a nd o rder, a nd no t t o b e crossed.’ ‘How do I g et there?’ Mary b eckoned E liza t owards t he windo w. ‘Come o ver her e a nd I’ll show you, poppet.’

c The air was different here, and the sky. It seemed brighter and further away. N ot lik e t he gr ey lid t hat h ung lo w o ver L ondon, t hreatening, always t hreatening, t o c lose u pon i t. This sky was lif ted hig h b y s ea breezes, like a great white sheet on laundering day, with the air caught beneath it, billowing higher and higher. Eliza stood at cliff ’s edge looking out across the cove towards the deep blue sea. The very same sea her father had sailed upon, the beach her mother had known when she was a girl . The storm of the nig ht b efore had lef t driftwood s cattered across the pale sho re. Elegant white branches, gnarled and polished by time, emerged from the pebbles like the antlers of some great ghostly beast. Eliza could taste salt in the air, just as Mother had always said. Out of t he co nfines o f t he stra nge ho use she f elt suddenl y lig ht a nd f ree. She took a deep b reath and started down the wooden steps, scuttling faster and faster, eager to be at the bottom. 188


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Once she reached the shore, she sat on a smooth rock and unlaced her b oots, f ingers tr ipping over t hemselves to complete t he t ask. She rolled the hems of Sammy’s breeches so that they sat above her knees, then she picked her way towards the water’s edge. Stones, smooth and spiky alik e, w ere wa rm b eneath her f eet. S he st ood f or a mo ment, observing as t he great blue mass he aved in a nd out, in a nd out. Then, wi th a deep , s alty b reath, she ski pped f orward s o t hat her toes, her a nkles, her knees w ere w et. S he f ollowed t he sho reline, laughing at t he co ol bubbles b etween her to es, picking up shel ls t hat took her fa ncy and, once, a p iece of sea debris shaped like a st ar. It was a small co ve wi th a deep c urve a nd i t didn’t t ake lo ng f or 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 eno ugh t o st and o n. S he h unted o ut jag ged f ootholds a nd scrambled up the rock’s side, didn’t stop until she’d made it to the very top. She was s o high, she co uldn’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 a t the furthest point. She sat on the rock’s raised fist and laughed, breathlessly. It was lik e being at the top of a gr eat ship. Beneath her, the white froth o f d uelling wa ves; b efore her, t he o pen s ea. The sun had s et hundreds o f lig hts t o shimmer ing o n i ts sur face, r ising a nd r ippling with t he b reeze, all t he wa y t owards t he c lear un broken ho rizon. 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 t he li ps o f t he Tha mes r iver men. B eyond e ven t hat was t he F ar 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 unlik e a ny she’d exp erienced b efore. A wa rmth, a g limpse o f possibility, an absence of wariness— She le aned f orward a nd s quinted. The ho rizon was un broken no mo re. S omething had a ppeared: a b ig b lack shi p wi th f ull s ails, 189


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balanced on the line where sea met sky, as if about to slip over the rim of the world. Eliza blinked and when her e yes opened again the ship was g one. It had dis appeared; in to t he dist ance, she su pposed. H ow swiftly ships must move in the open sea, how strong their wide, white sails. Tha t was t he s ort o f shi p her fa ther w ould ha ve s ailed u pon, she thought. Eliza allowed her a ttention t o dr ift sky wards. A gull was cir cling above, calling out, camouflaged against the white sky. She followed its path un til s omething o n t he c liff t op ca ught her e ye. Ther e was a cottage, almost hidden b y trees. She could just make out its roof and a f unny li ttle windo w t hat st uck o ut o n t op. S he w ondered w hat i t 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 st arted as co ld water sp rayed her face . S he lo oked do wn at the swirling sea. The tide was co ming in, the water rising quickly. The ledge she had f irst stepped upon was under wa ter now. She cra wled bac k alo ng t he r idge o f t he r ock a nd w ent ca refully down, keeping to the deepest edge so she could wrap her fingers around the craggy side. When she was almost a t water le vel she pa used. From t his a ngle she could see that the rock wasn’t solid. It was as if someone had carved out a gr eat 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 s eries of caves that ran beneath the cliffs? Eliza shimmied a round 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 o ut. H er v oice ec hoed p leasingly, la pped against the walls b efore 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 co uld see what lay inside— A t hudding s ound, dist ant b ut dra wing ne ar. Ker-thud, k er-thud, ker-thud . . . 190


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Eliza’s f irst t hought was t hat i t issued f rom wi thin t he cave. Fear glued her f eet to the sp ot, as she w ondered w hat s ort of s ea 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 t he r idge of t he cliff, she s aw a pa ir 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 r emembered M ary’s wa rning. The a unt had g one o ut f or t he morning but was exp ected back for luncheon; Eliza was not to be late. She c lambered alo ng t he r ock a nd j umped c lear o nto t he p ebbly shore. R an t hrough t he shallo w wa ter t hen bac k u p t he b each. E liza 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 t he track b etween t he trees. The s un had shif ted 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 ti ptoed 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 fa iry glimpsed was b ound to grant her f inder’s wishes. A no ise a nd E liza f roze. H eld her b reath. I n t he c learing b efore her was a ma n, a r eal live man. The o ne with the black b eard 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 me aty 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 t he better to observe. The man had a barrow beside him, f ull of dirt. Or s o it seemed. Eliza knew that was a mere ruse, that beneath the dirt he had his tr easures stored. For he was a pirate king, of course. One of the Tregenna pirates, or the ghost of a Tregenna pirate. An unde ad seafarer, waiting to take revenge for the deaths of his comrades. A ghost with unfinished business, waiting in his la ir to capture little girls t o take home for his wif e to bake into 191


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pies. That was the ship she’d seen out at sea, the big black ship that had disappeared in t he blink of an eye. It was a g host ship, and he— The branch she was p erched upon snapped and Eliza tumbled to the ground, landed in a mo und of moist leaves. The bearded man barely moved a muscle. His right eyeball seemed to swivel slightly in E liza’s direction as he co ntinued to chew his pasty. Eliza stood, rubbed at her knee, then straightened. Pulled a dry leaf from her ha ir. ‘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 t orn up like that.’ ‘I came last nig ht. I b rought the storm with me.’ ‘That’s quite a p ower you’ve got for such a small t hing.’ ‘With a s trong 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 wa ited to see what the man would say. He st ared a t her, che wing slo wly. ‘ I d are s ay she k new w hat she were talking about. Mothers tend towards right on most t hings.’ The warm pins and needles o f relief. ‘My mother died.’ ‘So did mine .’ ‘I’m living here now.’ He nodded. ‘I’d say you are.’ ‘My name is E liza.’ ‘And mine is D avies.’ ‘You’re very old.’ ‘As old as me li ttle finger and a b it older than me t eeth.’ Eliza took a deep b reath. ‘Are you a p irate?’ He laughed, a deep chuffing sound like smoke from a dirty chimney. ‘Sorry t o dis appoint you, my girl , I’m a ga rdener, just like my dadd y afore me. Maze keeper to be particular about it.’ Eliza wrinkled her nos e. ‘Maze keeper?’ ‘I k eep t he maze t ended.’ W hen E liza’s face sho wed no da wn o f clarity, Davies pointed at the tall twin hedg es behind him, b ridged by 192


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an iron gate. ‘’Tis a puzzle made from hedges. The object, to find a way through without winding up lost.’ A puzzle t hat could f it a p erson inside? E liza had ne ver he ard of such a t hing. ‘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 y ou’re no t s o l ucky—’ his e yes widened o minously—‘you’ll lik ely perish o f st arvation b efore a nyone kno ws y ou’re missin g.’ H e le aned towards her, lowered his v oice. ‘I oft times co me across t he b ones of such unlucky souls.’ Thrill squeezed Eliza’s voice to a whisper. ‘And if I made it through? What would I f ind 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 i t? Who lives there?’ ‘No one now. Lord Archibald Mountrachet—your great-grandfather, he’d have been—he had i t built when he w ere in c harge. There’s some what says it were built as a lo okout, a signallin g post.’ ‘For the smugglers, the Tregenna pirates?’ He smiled. ‘I can tell young Mary Martin’s had y our ear.’ ‘Can I go and see it?’ ‘You’ll never find it.’ ‘I will.’ His eyes twinkled as he t eased. ‘Never, you’ll never find your way through t he maze . Even if y ou do, y ou’ll ne ver w ork o ut ho w t o g et through the secret gate and into the cottage garden.’ ‘I will! L et me tr y, please Davies.’ ‘I’m a fraid i t a in’t p ossible, M iss E liza,’ D avies s aid, s obering somewhat. ‘ There’s no o ne b een r ight t he wa y t hrough t he 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 pa rts beyond.’ ‘Why has no o ne been through? ‘Your uncle had i t closed s ome time past. N o one’s b een t hrough since.’ He leaned towards her. ‘Your mother, now there’s someone who knew the maze lik e the back of her ha nd. Almost as w ell as I.’ 193


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A bell sounded in t he 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 la ughed. ‘ The st aff do n’t e at l uncheon, M iss E liza, t hat’s no t 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 lo ng time.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘It’s not a p lace I lik e to be.’ Eliza didn’t understand. ‘Why not?’ Davies stroked his b eard. ‘I’m happier w hen I s tick to my plants, Miss Eliza. There’s some that are made f or the society of men, o thers 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 ma n’s way of being. Do you see what I’m saying?’ Eliza thought of her a unt in t he 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 g ood lass. S he’ll look out for you up at the house.’ He frowned a li ttle as he st ared 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 ha ve your he art on a su pper tray. She don’t like her rules broken, and that’s a fac t.’ Eliza smiled , t hough D avies did no t. S he t urned t o g o, st opped when she s aw s omething in t he upper window, s omething she’d s een the day before. A face , small a nd watchful. ‘Who’s that?’ she s aid. 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? 194


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‘We us ed t o s ee q uite a lo t o f her a bout t he es tate, b right y oung thing she was, b ut 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 t he face dis appeared quickly into the dark. A slig ht smile p ulled a t E liza’s face . ‘ Rose,’ she s aid, t asting t he sweetness o f t he w ord. I t was j ust lik e t he na me o f a p rincess in a fairytale.

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24 Cliff Cottage, 2005 Cliff Cottage, Cornwall, 2005

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he wind w hipped through Cassandra’s hair, twirling her p onytail inside o ut, o utside in, lik e str eamers o n a winds ock. S he p ulled her cardigan tight around her shoulders and paused a moment to catch her b reath, lo oked bac k down t he na rrow coast al r oad t o t he villag e below. Tiny white cottages clung like barnacles to the rocky cove, and red and blue fishing boats dotted the denim ha rbour, bobbing on the swell as gulls swooped and spiralled above their hauls. The air, even at this height, was laden wi th salt licked from the sea’s surface. The r oad was s o na rrow a nd s o c lose t o t he c liff ’s edg e t hat Cassandra wondered how anyone ever worked up the courage to drive along i t. Tall, pale s ea gras ses gr ew e ach side , shi vering as t he 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 t hem. Only the tendrils of discomfort remained. At some point during the night she’d been woken by a more material cause. A no ise, lik e t he s ound o f a k ey in her b edroom do or. S he’d been sure t hat’s w hat it was, t he in sertion a nd jig gling as t he p erson on t he other side tr ied t o make it turn, but w hen she’d mentioned it at t he f ront desk t his mo rning, t he girl had lo oked a t her stra ngely 196


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before s aying, in a ra ther c hilly v oice, t hat t he ho tel us ed k ey ca rds, not met al k eys. What she’d he ard was o nly t he wind t oying with t he old brass fitting. Cassandra st arted u p t he hill aga in. It co uldn’t b e m uch f urther, the woman in t he village grocery shop had s aid it was o nly a tw enty minute walk a nd 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 t all and thin while she was sho rt and stout. For a moment Cassandra thought they might be sightseers enjoying the view, but when each lifted a ha nd in unison and waved, she kne w who they must be. ‘Hello there!’ called the man, coming towards her. He was middleaged, though his ha ir and beard, white as icin g sugar, gave the initial impression of a m uch older face. ‘You must be Cassandra. I’m Henry Jameson a nd t his—’ he indica ted t he b eaming w oman—‘is m y wife, Robyn.’ ‘Lovely to meet y ou,’ said Robyn, hot on her h usband’s heels. H er greying hair was cut in a neat bob that grazed cheeks pink and polished and plump as apples. Cassandra smiled. ‘Thanks for meeting me o n a Sa turday, I r eally appreciate it.’ ‘Nonsense.’ Henry ran a hand across his head to tidy fine windblown hairs. ‘ No tr ouble a t all . I o nly ho pe y ou do n’t mind Rob yn co ming along—’ ‘Of co urse she do esn’t, w hy w ould she mind? ’ s aid Rob yn. ‘ You don’t mind, do y ou?’ Cassandra shook her he ad. ‘What did I t ell y ou? S he do esn’t mind a b it.’ Rob yn c lutched Cassandra’s wr ist. ‘ Not t hat he had a ny c hance o f st opping me . H e’d have been risking the divorce courts if he’d so much as tr ied.’ ‘My wife is the secretary of the local historical society,’ Henry said, a hint of apology threading through his v oice. ‘I’ve p ublished a n umber o f li ttle b ooklets o n t he a rea. H istories mainly, a bout lo cal fa milies, im portant la ndmarks, gr eat ho uses. M y most recent is about the smuggling trade. We’re actually in the middle of putting all of the articles onto a w ebsite—’ 197


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‘It’s her sw orn a im t o t ake t ea in e very st ately ho me in t he county.’ ‘But I’ve lived in t his village all m y life and I’ve never so much as set foot inside the old place.’ Robyn smiled s o that her c heeks shone. ‘I don’t mind t elling you, I’m about as c urious as a ca t.’ ‘We w ould ne ver ha ve guess ed, m y lo ve,’ s aid H enry w earily, 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. A s t hey climbed hig her, C assandra b egan to notice the birds. Masses of tiny brown swallows calling to one another as they scuttled f rom o ne sp indly b ranch t o a nother. S he had t he o ddest 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 j unior conveyancer, but I r emember the sale.’ ‘Everyone remembers t he s ale,’ called Rob yn. ‘It was t he last pa rt of t he o ld est ate t o g o. Ther e w ere f olk in t he villag e w ho sw ore t he cottage’d never be sold.’ Cassandra lo oked out to s ea. ‘Why is t hat? The ho use must have beautiful views . . .’ Henry g lanced a t Rob yn, w ho had st opped walkin g a nd was catching her breath, hand on the middle of her chest. ‘Well now, that’s true enough,’ he s aid, ‘but—’ ‘There w ere bad st ories a bout t own,’ s aid Rob yn, b etween pa nts. ‘Rumours and the like . . . about the past.’ ‘What sort of things?’ ‘Silly rumours,’ said Henry firmly, ‘lots of nonsense, the sort you’d find in a ny English village.’ ‘There was t alk that it was haunted,’ Robyn continued, sotto voce. Henry laughed. ‘Find me a ho use in C ornwall that isn’t.’ Robyn rolled her pale b lue eyes. ‘My husband is a p ragmatist.’ 198


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‘And my wife is a romantic,’ said Henry. ‘Cliff Cottage is stone and mortar, just like all the other houses in Tregenna. It’s no more haunted than I am.’ ‘And y ou call y ourself a C ornishman.’ Rob yn t ucked a s trand o f wayward hair b ehind her e ar and s quinted up at C assandra. ‘Do you believe in g hosts, Cassandra?’ ‘I don’t think so.’ Cassandra thought of the strange feeling the birds had given her. ‘Not the sort that go bump in t he night.’ ‘Then you’re a sensible girl,’ said Henry. ‘The only thing that’s been in or out of Cliff Cottage in the past thirty years is the odd local lad out to give himself and his ma tes a f right.’ Henry took a mo nogrammed handkerchief f rom his tr ouser p ocket, f olded i t in half a nd ga ve his forehead a pat. ‘Come now, Robyn dear. We’ll be all day if we don’t keep moving and that sun’s got a b ite. A b it of leftover summer this week.’ The steep incline and narrowing track made f urther conversation difficult, a nd t hey walk ed t he last h undred metr es in silence . Wispy strands of pale grass shimmer ed as t he wind sig hed gently through. Finally, a fter passin g t hrough a c lump o f strag gly shr ubs, t hey reached a st one wall . I t was a t le ast t hree metr es hig h a nd s eemed incongruous after they’d come so far without seeing a single man-made structure. An ir on arch framed the entrance gate and wiry tendrils of creeper had plaited themselves through, been calcified by time. A sign that must once have been attached to the gate now dangled by a corner. Pale gr een a nd b rown lic hen had gr own s cablike acr oss i ts s urface, filling greedily the curly lettered grooves. Cassandra inclined her head to read the words: Keep out or the risk be a ll yours. ‘The wall is a r elatively new addition,’ said Robyn. ‘By new, my wife means it’s only a hundred years old. The cottage must be three times t hat.’ Henry cleared his t hroat. ‘Now you realise, don’t you, that the old place is in a st ate of some disrepair?’ ‘I have a p hotograph.’ She pulled it from her ha ndbag. He raised his eyebrows as he looked it over. ‘Taken before the time of sale, I’d say. It’s changed a bit since then. It’s been untended, you see.’ He extended his left arm to push aside the iron gate and motioned with his head. ‘Shall we?’ A stone path led b eneath an arbour of ancient roses with arthritic joints. The t emperature cooled as t hey crossed the garden’s threshold. 199


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The overall impression was one of darkness and gloom. And quiet, an odd, still quiet. Even the noise of the irrepressible sea seemed dulled in her e. I t was as if t he gr ounds wi thin t he st one wall w ere asleep . Waiting for something, or someone, to wake them. ‘Cliff Cottage,’ said Henry, as t hey reached the path’s end. Cassandra’s eyes widened. Before her was a huge tangle of brambles, thick and knotted. Ivy leaves, deep green and jagged, clung on all sides, stretching across the spaces where windows must be hidden. She would have been hard-pressed to make out the building that lay beneath the creepers had she no t known it was t here. Henry co ughed, a pology aga in co louring his face . ‘ For sur e, i t’s been left to its own devices.’ ‘Nothing a g ood clean-up wouldn’t fix,’ said Robyn, with a f orced cheerfulness t hat co uld ha ve r esurrected sunk en shi ps. ‘ No need f or despondence. You’ve s een w hat t hey do o n t hose r enovation sho ws, haven’t you? You get them in Australia?’ Cassandra nodded absently, trying to make out the roofline. ‘I’ll let y ou do t he honours,’ s aid Henry, reaching into his p ocket to withdraw a k ey. It was sur prisingly he avy, lo ng wi th a deco rative end , a swirl o f brass in a b eautiful pa ttern. A s she c lasped i t, C assandra f elt a f lash of recognition. She’d held a k ey like this before. When, she wondered? In t he a ntiques s tall? The imag e was s o str ong b ut t he memo ry wouldn’t come. Cassandra stepped onto the stone tread by the door. She could see the lock but a w eb of ivy had str ung itself across the doorway. ‘These ought to do the trick,’ said Robyn, plucking a pair of secateurs from her handbag. ‘Don’t look at me like that, dear,’ she said as Henry raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m a co untry girl, we’re always prepared.’ Cassandra took the proffered tool and snipped the strands, one by one. When they all hung loose she paused a moment and ran her hand lightly over the salt-scarred wood of the door. A part of her was loa th to proceed, content t o linger a w hile on t he t hreshold of knowledge, but when she glanced over her shoulder both Henry and Robyn nodded encouragement. S he p ushed t he k ey in to t he lo ck a nd, usin g b oth hands, turned hard. 200


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The smell was the first thing to hit her, damp and fecund, and rich with a nimal dr oppings. L ike t he ra inforests bac k ho me in A ustralia, whose canopies concealed a s eparate world of moist fertility. A closed ecosystem, wary of strangers. She took a tiny step inside the hall. The front door admitted enough light to reveal mossy flecks floating lazily in the stale air, too light, too tired, t o fall . The f loors w ere made o f w ood a nd wi th e ach st ep her shoes made s oft, apologetic sounds. She came to the first room and peered around the door. It was dark, the windo ws coa ted b y decades-o ld gr ime. A s her e yes ad justed Cassandra saw it was a kitchen. A pale wooden table with tapered legs stood at centre, two cane chairs tucked obediently beneath. There was a b lack ra nge s et in to a n alco ve o n t he fa r wall , co bwebs f orming a furry cur tain b efore i t, a nd in th e co rner a s pinning wh eel wa s s till threaded with a piece of dark wool. ‘It’s like a museum,’ whispered Robyn. ‘Only dustier.’ ‘I don’t think I’ll be offering you a c up of tea any time s oon,’ said Cassandra. Henry had wa ndered o ver b eyond t he sp inning w heel a nd was pointing to a st one nook. ‘There’s a s et of stairs over here.’ A narrow flight ran up directly before turning abruptly at a small platform. Cassandra put her f oot on the first step, testing its strength. Sturdy enough. Cautiously, she b egan climbing. ‘Go carefully now,’ s aid Henry, following, hands hovering b ehind Cassandra’s back in a vague , kindly attempt at protection. Cassandra reached the little platform and stopped. ‘What is i t?’ said Henry. ‘A tr ee, a h uge tr ee, co mpletely b locking t he wa y. It’s co me r ight through the roof.’ Henry p eered o ver her sho ulder. ‘ I do n’t t hink Rob yn’s s ecateurs are g oing t o b e m uch hel p,’ he s aid, ‘not t his time . You need a tr eelopper.’ He started back down the stairs. ‘Any ideas, Robyn? Who would you call t o clear a fallen log? ’ Cassandra followed him and arrived at the bottom as Robyn said, ‘Bobby Blake’s lad o ught to do t he trick.’ 201


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‘Local b oy.’ H enry no dded a t C assandra. ‘ Runs a la ndscaping business. Does most of the work up at the hotel, too, and you won’t get a better recommendation than that.’ ‘I’ll give him a call , shall I? ’ said Robyn. ‘Find out how he’s placed later in t he week? I’ll just take myself out to the point and see if I ca n pick up mobile reception. Mine’s been dead as a doorknob since we set foot in her e.’ Henry sho ok his he ad. ‘ Over a h undred y ears since M arconi received his signal , a nd no w lo ok w here t echnology’s t aken us. Y ou know t he signal was s ent f rom j ust r ound t he coast a li ttle wa y? Poldhu C ove? ’ ‘Was it?’ As the extent of the cottage’s dereliction dawned on her, Cassandra was b eginning t o f eel incr easingly o verwhelmed. G rateful though she was to Henry for meeting her, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to feign interest in a lecture on early telecommunications. She brushed aside a woven shawl of spider’s web and leaned against the wall, offered him a st oic smile o f polite encouragement. Henry seemed to sense her mood. ‘I’m terribly sorry the cottage is in such a state,’ he said. ‘I can’t help but feel some responsibility, being the solicitor in c harge of the key.’ ‘I’m sur e t here was no thing y ou co uld ha ve do ne. P articularly if Nell ask ed y our fa ther no t t o.’ S he smiled . ‘ Besides, i t w ould’ve b een trespassing and the sign o ut front is p retty clear about that.’ ‘True eno ugh, a nd y our gra ndmother was ada mant a bout us no t calling in tradesmen. She said the house was very important to her and she wanted to see to the restoration personally.’ ‘I think she had p lans to move here,’ said Cassandra. ‘For good.’ ‘Yes,’ said Henry. ‘I had a lo ok back over the old files when I knew I’d be meeting you this morning. All her let ters mention coming here herself until one written in early 1976. She said her circumstances had changed and she wouldn’t be back, not for a time at any rate. She asked my father to hold the key, though, so she’d know where to find it when the time ca me.’ He looked around the room. ‘But it never did.’ ‘No,’ said Cassandra. ‘But you’re here now,’ Henry said with renewed enthusiasm. ‘Yes.’ 202


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A noise at the door and they both looked up. ‘I got on to Michael,’ said Rob yn, t ucking her p hone a way. ‘ He s aid he ’d p op o ver o n Wednesday mo rning t o s ee w hat needs do ing.’ S he t urned t o Henry. ‘Come now, my love, we’re expected at Marcia’s for lunch and you know how she g ets when we’re late.’ Henry ra ised his e yebrows. ‘ Our da ughter has ma ny vir tues b ut patience is no t chief among them.’ Cassandra smiled. ‘Thanks for everything.’ ‘Now don’t you be thinking of trying to move that log yourself,’ he said. ‘No matter how keen you are to get a lo ok upstairs.’ ‘I promise.’ As t hey made t heir wa y alo ng t he pa th t o t he f ront ga te, Rob yn turned back to Cassandra. ‘You look like her, you know.’ Cassandra blinked. ‘Your grandmother. You have her e yes.’ ‘You met her? ’ ‘Oh y es, o f co urse, e ven b efore she b ought t he co ttage. One afternoon she came into the museum where I was w orking. She asked questions about local history. Some of the old families in pa rticular.’ Henry’s v oice f rom t he c liff edg e. ‘Come o n, Robyn love. Marcia will never forgive us if t he roast burns.’ ‘The Mountrachet family?’ Robyn waved at Henry. ‘That’s them. The ones who used to live up at t he gra nd ho use. The W alkers, t oo. The pa inter a nd his wif e, a nd the lady writer who published fairytales.’ ‘Robyn!’ ‘Yes, y es. I ’m co ming.’ S he rolled her e yes at C assandra. ‘He’s g ot about as much patience as a firecracker on a fire, that husband of mine.’ And then she b ustled after him, in structions for Cassandra to call o n them any time f loating back after her on the sea breeze.

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25 Tregenna, 1975 Tregenna, Cornwall, 1975

T

he Tregenna Museum of Fishing and Smuggling was nes tled in a small whitewashed building on the rim of the outer harbour, and though t he ha ndwritten sign p osted in t he f ront windo w was c lear about t he o pening ho urs, Nell had b een in t he villag e f or t hree days before she f inally glimpsed a lig ht inside. She turned the handle and pushed open the low, lace-draped door. Behind t he desk s at a p rim w oman wi th sho ulder-length b rown hair. Younger t han L esley, t hought Nell, but with a b earing inf initely older. The woman stood when she saw Nell, so that the tops of her legs pulled the lace cloth and a pile of papers towards her. She had the look of a c hild caught raiding t he cake tin. ‘ I—I wasn’t exp ecting visitors,’ she said, peering over the top of her la rge glasses. Nor did she seem particularly pleased to see any. Nell held out her hand. ‘Nell Andrews.’ She glanced at the name plaque on the desk. ‘And you must be Robyn Martin?’ ‘We don’t get many visitors, not in t he off season. I’ll just find the key.’ She worried the papers on the desk, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘ The displays are a li ttle dusty,’ she s aid, a no te of acc usation in her v oice. ‘But it’s through that way.’ Nell’s gaze f ollowed the sweep of Robyn’s arm. Beyond the closed glass door was a small adjoining room, host to various nets and hooks and rods. Black and white photographs had been hung upon the wall, boats and crews and local coves. ‘Actually,’ s aid N ell, ‘ I’m lo oking f or pa rticular inf ormation. The fellow at the post office thought you might be able to help.’ ‘My father.’ 204


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‘Pardon me? ’ ‘My father’s the postmaster.’ ‘Yes,’ Nell said, ‘well, he thought you might be able to help me. The information I’m after isn’t anything t o do wi th f ishing or smuggling, you see. It’s local history. Family history, to be precise.’ The c hange in Rob yn’s countenance was in stant. ‘Whyever didn’t you s ay s o? I w ork her e at t he f ishing museum t o do m y b it f or t he community, b ut Tregenna s ocial his tory is m y lif e. H ere.’ S he r iffled through the pieces of paper she’d been busy with on her desk and thrust one into Nell’s hand. ‘This is the text for a tourist pamphlet I’m putting together, a nd I ’m j ust f inishing t he dra ft o f a li ttle a rticle o n gr eat houses. I’ve had in terest from a p ublisher in F almouth.’ She looked at her fine silver-chained wristwatch. ‘I’d be happy to speak with you only I have to be somewhere—’ ‘Please,’ said Nell. ‘I’ve come a lo ng way and I w on’t take much of your time. If you could just spare me a f ew minutes.’ Robyn’s lips tightened and she fixed Nell with her mouse-like gaze. ‘I ca n do b etter t han t hat,’ she s aid, no dding decisi vely. ‘I’ll t ake y ou with me.’

c A thickening layer of fog had blown in with the high tide and conspired with dusk to leach the village of colour. As they climbed higher along the na rrow str eets, e verything was t urned a shade o f gr ey. The swif t change in conditions had brought an agitation to Robyn’s manner. She walked at a clipped pace so that Nell, despite her own naturally spruce gait, had to work to keep up. Though Nell wondered where it was they were going so fast, t he pace was suc h an impediment to conversation that she co uldn’t ask. At t he t op o f t he str eet, t hey r eached a li ttle w hite ho use wi th a sign that read Pilchard Cottage. Robyn rapped on the door and waited. There w ere no lig hts o n in side a nd she lif ted her wr ist c loser t o her eyes to make out the time. ‘Still not home. We tell him always to come home early when the fog sets in.’ ‘Who?’ 205


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Robyn glanced at Nell as if she ’d forgotten for a mo ment that the other woman was with her. ‘Gump, my grandfather. He goes each day to wa tch t he b oats. H e was a f isherman him self, y ou s ee. H e’s b een retired twenty years but he’s not happy unless he knows who’s been out and where they were catching.’ Her voice snagged. ‘We tell him not to stay out when the fog’s on the rise, but he w on’t be told—’ She broke off and squinted into the distance. Nell followed her gaze, watched as a patch of thick mist seemed to darken. A f igure loomed towards them. ‘Gump!’ called Robyn. ‘No fuss, my girl,’ came a voice from the fog. ‘No fuss.’ He appeared in the gloom, climbed his t hree concrete steps and turned the key in the lock. ‘Well, don’t just stand there shivering like a pair of winnards,’ he s aid o ver his sho ulder. ‘ Come o n in a nd w e’ll ha ve a nice dr op of warm.’ In the narrow hallway, Robyn helped the old man out of his s altencrusted mac kintosh a nd b lack w ellington b oots t hen st owed t hem on a low wooden bench. ‘You’re damp, Gump,’ she f ussed, clutching a handful of his c hecked shirt. ‘Let’s get you some dry clothes.’ ‘Pah,’ said the old man, tapping his gra nddaughter’s hand. ‘I’ll sit a time b y t he f ire a nd b e dr y as a b one b y t he time y ou b ring me some tea.’ Robyn ra ised her e yebrows slig htly in N ell’s dir ection as G ump hobbled into t he f ront r oom: C an y ou s ee w hat I ha ve t o de al wi th? said the gesture. ‘Gump’s almost ninety but he refuses to move out of his house,’ she said quietly. ‘Between us we make sure someone has supper with him every night. I’m Monday to Wednesday.’ ‘He seems well for ninety.’ ‘His eyesight’s starting to fail and his he aring isn’t the best, but he still in sists o n m aking s ure “hi s bo ys” g et bac k sa fely in to po rt, n o thought for his own frailties. God help me if he co mes to harm on my watch.’ She peered through the glass, wincing as her grandfather tripped over the r ug on his wa y to the armchair. ‘I don’t suppose . . . That is, I wonder whether you’d sit with him w hile I lig ht the fire and put the kettle on. I’ll feel better once he’s all dr ied out.’ 206


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Lured by the exquisite promise of finally learning something of her family, there was li ttle Nell wouldn’t agree to. She nodded and Robyn smiled wi th r elief b efore h urrying t hrough t he do or a fter her grandfather. Gump had s at himself in t he tan leather armchair, a ho mely quilt spread across his la p. For a mo ment, as she lo oked at that quilt, Nell thought of Lil and the quilts she’d made for each of her daughters. She wondered what her mo ther would think about this quest she was o n, whether she’d understand why it was so important to Nell to reconstruct the f irst f our y ears o f her lif e. P robably no t. L il had al ways b elieved that a p erson’s duty was to make the best of the hand they were dealt. No us e w ondering w hat mig ht ha ve b een, she us ed t o s ay, all t hat matters is what is. Which was all very well for Lil, who knew the truth about herself. Robyn pushed herself to standing, new flames leaping eagerly from paper to paper on t he grate b ehind her. ‘I’m going to fetch s ome tea now, Gump, put the supper on to cook. While I’m in t he kitchen my friend here . . .’ She looked searchingly at Nell. ‘I’m sorry . . .’ ‘Nell, Nell Andrews.’ ‘. . . Nell, is going to sit with you, Gump. She’s a visitor to Tregenna and interested in the local families. Perhaps you can tell her a bit about the old town while I’m gone?’ The o ld ma n held o pen palm s u pon w hich a lif etime o f ha uling ropes and threading ho oks had wr itten its tale. ‘Ask me a nything,’ he said, ‘and I’ll tell you all I kno w.’ As Robyn disappeared through a lo w doorway, Nell looked about for somewhere to sit. She settled on a green wing-backed chair by the fire, enjoying the surge of warmth as f irelight yawned across her side . Gump looked up from the pipe he was b usy loading and nodded his encouragement. Apparently the floor was her s. Nell c leared her t hroat a nd shif ted her f eet a li ttle o n t he r ug, wondering w here t o b egin. S he decided t here was no p oint b eating around the bush. ‘It’s the Mountrachet family I’m interested in.’ Gump’s match sizzled a nd he p uffed vigorously to start his p ipe. ‘I’ve been asking about in the village but it seems that no one knows anything about them.’ 207


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‘Oh they know about them all right,’ he said on a smoky exhalation. ‘They just don’t talk about them.’ Nell’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Why is t hat?’ ‘The f olk in T regenna lik e a g ood ya rn, b ut w e’re a su perstitious bunch by and large. We’ll chat happily on just about any subject you care to name, but ask a bout the happenings up there on the cliff and people clam up.’ ‘I no ticed,’ s aid N ell. ‘ Is i t b ecause t he M ountrachets w ere ti tled aristocrats? Upper class?’ Gump snorted. ‘ They had mo ney, but don’t you go talking about class.’ He leaned forward. ‘That was a title paid for by the spilled blood of inno cents. S eventeen tw enty-four, i t was. A wild st orm b lew u p late o ne a fternoon, t he f iercest in y ears. The lig hthouse lost i ts r oof and t he ne w oil lamp f lame was sn uffed out as if i t were little b etter than a candle. The moon was in hiding and the night was black as my boots.’ Pale lips tightened around his p ipe. He sucked long and hard, warming to his tale. ‘Most of the local fishing boats had come in early but there was a single sloop still out in the strait, a double-master with a foreign crew. ‘The crew of that sloop never stood a chance. They say there were waves breaking half way up t he Sharpstone cliffs and she was t hrown so ha rd aga inst t he rocks t hat she st arted t o fall t o pieces b efore she even reached the cove. There were newspaper reports and a government inquiry, b ut t hey ne ver r ecovered m uch mo re t han a f ew p ieces o f tattered r ed ceda r f rom t he hull. The y b lamed t he lo cal f ree trader s, of course.’ ‘Free traders?’ ‘Smugglers,’ said Robyn, who had appeared with the tea tray. ‘But it wasn’t them who stripped the ship of its cargo,’ said Gump. ‘No fear. It was t he family that did i t, the Mountrachet family.’ Nell t ook a p roffered c up f rom Rob yn. ‘ The M ountrachets w ere smugglers?’ Gump la ughed a dr y, w hiskery la ugh a nd t ook a swig o f t ea. ‘They were nothing s o dignif ied as t hat. Smugglers do t heir share of liberating overtaxed items from ships that come to grief, but they also do t heir b it o f r escuing t he cr ews. W hat ha ppened t hat nig ht in t he Blackhurst cove was the work of thieves. Thieves and murderers. They 208


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killed every single one of that crew, stole the cargo from her hull, then early next mo rning, b efore a nyone had a c hance t o le arn w hat had happened, t hey drag ged t he shi p a nd i ts b odies o ut t o s ea a nd s ank it. M ade t hemselves a f ortune: cra tes o f p earls, a nd i vory, fa ns f rom China, jewellery from Spain.’ ‘Over t he next f ew y ears, B lackhurst under went massi ve r enovations.’ Rob yn t ook u p t he st ory, p erching o n t he faded v elvet o f her grandfather’s f ootstool. ‘ I’ve j ust b een wr iting a bout i t f or my “Great Houses of Cornwall” pamphlet. That’s when it acquired the third storey and a n umber of t he garden follies. And M r Mountrachet was gi ven an ennoblement by the King.’ ‘Amazing what a f ew well-chosen gifts can do.’ Nell shook her he ad and shifted uncomfortably. Now was no t the time to mention that these murderers and thieves were her a ncestors. ‘To think they got away with it.’ Robyn g lanced a t G ump, w ho c leared his t hroat. ‘ Well no w,’ he muttered. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’ Nell looked between them, confused. ‘There’s worse punishments than those doled out by the law. Mark my words, there’s worse punishments than that.’ Gump exhaled through tight li ps. ‘After w hat happened in t he cove, t he fa mily u p t here was cursed, every last o ne of them.’ Nell le aned b ack aga inst her s eat, dis appointed. A fa mily c urse. Right when she’d thought herself on the verge of actual information. ‘Tell her about the ship, Gump,’ said Robyn, seeming to sense Nell’s deflation. ‘The black ship.’ Happy t o ob lige, G ump ra ised his v olume a no tch as a sho w o f narrative co mmitment. ‘ The fa mily mig ht’ve sunk t hat shi p b ut t hey couldn’t rid themselves of her, not for long. She still appears sometimes on the horizon. Usually before or after a st orm. A la rge black sloop, a phantom shi p, st alking t he co ve. H aunting t he des cendants o f t hose responsible.’ ‘You’ve seen it? The shi p?’ The o ld man sho ok his he ad. ‘I t hought I mig ht have once but I was mist aken, t hank G od.’ He le aned f orward. ‘ It’s a n ill wind b lows that shi p in to vie w. The y s ay a p erson w ho sig hts t he p hantom shi p pays p enance for its loss. I f you s ee it, it s ees you. And all I kno w is 209


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that t hose w ho admi t t o ha ving s een i t a ttract mo re ill f ortune t han anyone sho uld b ear. The slo op’s p roper na me was t he Jacquard, b ut around here we call i t the Black Hearse.’ ‘Blackhurst Estate,’ said Nell. ‘Not a co incidence, I t ake it?’ ‘She’s a bright penny,’ said Gump, smiling around his pipe at Robyn. ‘A b right p enny, t his o ne. And t here’s s ome t hat w ould agr ee t hat’s where the estate got its name.’ ‘Not you?’ ‘I’ve al ways t hought i t had mo re t o do wi th t he b ig b lack r ock up there in t he Blackhurst Cove. There’s a pass age runs right the way through it, you know. It used to lead from the cove to somewhere on the estate and back into the village. A b lessing for the smugglers, but a t emperamental o ne at t hat. S omething in t he a ngles a nd shapes o f the tunnel: if the tide rose higher than expected, a man inside the caves had little hope of sur vival. That rock’s been hearse to plenty of brave souls over the years. If you’ve ever looked down onto the estate beach you’ll have seen it. Monstrous jagged thing.’ Nell shook her head. ‘I haven’t seen the cove, not yet. I tried to visit the ho use y esterday b ut t he f ront ga tes w ere lo cked. I ’m g oing bac k tomorrow to drop a let ter of introduction in t he letterbox. Hopefully the owners will let me t ake a lo ok. Any idea what they’re like?’ ‘New people,’ said Robyn sagely. ‘Out-of-towners, talk of turning it into a ho tel.’ S he le aned f orward. ‘ They s ay t he y oung w oman’s a paperback writer, romances and the like. She’s very glamorous and the books are quite racy.’ Her gaze slipped sideways to her grandfather and she flushed. ‘Not that I’ve read them myself.’ ‘I saw part of the property advertised in the estate agent’s office in town,’ said Nell. ‘A little house called Clif f Cottage is f or sale.’ Gump la ughed dr ily. ‘And al ways will b e. Ther e’s no o ne f ool enough to buy it. Take more than a coat of paint to clear that place of all the misfortune it’s seen.’ ‘What sort of misfortune?’ Gump, who had heretofore spun his stories with abounding relish, was suddenly silent, chewing over this last question. A f licker seemed to pass through his eyes. ‘That place should’ve been burned down years ago. There were things went on there that weren’t right.’ ‘What sort of things?’ 210


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‘Never you mind about that,’ he said, lips trembling. ‘Just you take my word for it. There’s some places can’t be made new with a fresh coat of paint.’ ‘I didn’t mean to buy it,’ said Nell, surprised by his v ehemence. ‘I just thought it might be a way of getting a lo ok at the estate.’ ‘No need t o go through the Blackhurst estate to get a lo ok at the cove. You can see it from the cliff top.’ He raised his pipe in the direction of t he coast. ‘ Take t he path f rom t he village up around t he bluff and look towards Sharpstone; that’s it below you. Prettiest little cove in all of Cornwall except for that brutish rock. No sign o f the blood spilled across its beach long ago.’ The smell o f b eef a nd r osemary had gr own t hick a nd Rob yn fetched b owls a nd sp oons f rom t he ki tchen. ‘ You’ll st ay f or su pper, won’t you Nell?’ ‘Course she will,’ said Gump, leaning back into his chair. ‘Wouldn’t think o f s ending her o ut o n a nig ht lik e t his o ne. B lack as y our ha t out there and twice as t hick.’

c The stew was delicious and Nell took little convincing to have a second bowl. Afterwards, Robyn excused herself to wash t he dishes, and Nell and Gump were alone again. The room was warm now, and his cheeks red. He sensed her gaze a nd nodded convivially. There was s omething e asy a bout W illiam M artin’s co mpany, something in sulating a bout si tting in his f ront r oom. This was t he power of the story weaver, Nell realised. An a bility to conjure colour so t hat all els e s eemed t o fade . And W illiam M artin was a b orn storyteller, there was little doubt about that. Just how much of his tales to believe was a nother question. He had a n obvious gift for spinning straw in to g old, b ut no netheless he was lik ely t o b e t he o nly p erson she’d find who had li ved through the years that interested her. ‘I wonder,’ she said, fire warming her side so that it itched pleasingly, ‘when you were younger, did you ever know Eliza Makepeace? She was a writer, the ward of Linus and Adeline Mountrachet.’ There was a perceptible pause. William’s voice was whisker-muffled. ‘Everyone knew of Eliza Makepeace.’ 211


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Nell dr ew b reath. Finally. ‘ Do y ou know w hat happened t o her? ’ she said, all in a r ush. ‘In the end, I me an?’ He shook his he ad. ‘I don’t know that.’ A new reticence had crept into the old man’s bearing, a guardedness that had b een absent until now. While t he implications of t his made her heart swell with hope, Nell knew she’d have to tread carefully. She didn’t want to s end him into his shel l, not now. ‘What about earlier, when she lived at Blackhurst? Can you tell me anything?’ ‘I said I kne w of her. I had no o ccasion to know her w ell, I wasn’t welcome a t t he b ig ho use. Thos e in c harge u p t here w ould’ve had something to say about that.’ Nell p ersisted. ‘ From w hat I ca n ga ther, E liza was last s een in London in late 1913. She was with a small girl, Ivory Walker, who was almost four years old. Rose Mountrachet’s daughter. Can you think of any r eason, a ny r eason at all , w hy E liza mig ht have b een p lanning a trip to Australia with someone else’s child?’ ‘No.’ ‘Any idea why the Mountrachet family might have told people their granddaughter was de ad when she was v ery much alive?’ The reed of his v oice split. ‘No.’ ‘So you knew that Ivory was ali ve despite contrary reports?’ The fire crackled. ‘I didn’t know that, because it isn’t so. That child died of scarlet fever.’ ‘Yes, I know that’s what was said at the time.’ Nell’s face was warm, her head throbbing. ‘I also know that it’s not true.’ ‘How would you know a t hing like that?’ ‘Because I was that child.’ Nell’s voice cracked. ‘I arrived in Australia when I was four. Was put on a boat by Eliza Makepeace when everyone thought that I was de ad and no o ne seems to be able to tell me w hy.’ William’s expression was difficult to interpret. He seemed about to answer but didn’t. Instead, he r ose, str etched o ut his a rms s o t hat his b elly t hrust forward. ‘I’m tired,’ he said gruffly. ‘It’s about time I went up to my bed.’ He called o ut, ‘Robyn?’ And aga in, louder, ‘Robyn!’ ‘Gump? ’ Rob yn r eturned f rom t he ki tchen, t ea t owel in ha nd. ‘What is i t?’ 212


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‘I’m turning in.’ He started for the narrow stairs that curved an exit path from the room. ‘You do n’t wa nt a nother c up o f t ea? We w ere having suc h a nice time.’ William placed his hand on Robyn’s shoulder as he passed her. ‘Put the w ood in t he ho le o n y our wa y o ut, w on’t y ou m y girl . We do n’t want the mist s ettling inside.’ As bewilderment widened Robyn’s eyes, Nell fetched her own coat. ‘I should go.’ ‘I’m very s orry,’ said Robyn. ‘I don’t know w hat’s come over him. He’s old, he g ets tired . . .’ ‘Of course.’ Nell finished doing up her buttons. She knew she should apologise, i t was her fa ult a fter all t hat t he o ld ma n had b een u pset, and yet she couldn’t. Disappointment sat like a wedge of lemon in her throat. ‘Thank you for your time,’ she managed to say, stepping out of the front door and into the oppressive damp. Nell glanced back when she reached the bottom of the hill and saw that Ro byn wa s s till wa tching. S he ra ised a n a rm t o wa ve wh en th e other woman did s o. William Martin may have been old and tired, but there was mo re to his sudden depa rture t han t hat. Nell ought to know, she had held onto her own thorny secret long enough to recognise a fellow sufferer. William knew more than he was letting on and Nell’s need to uncover the truth outranked her r espect for his p rivacy. She pressed her lips together and bowed her head against the cold. Determined to convince him into telling her all he kne w.

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E

liza was right: the name ‘Rose’ was well suited to a fairytale princess, and certainly Rose Mountrachet enjoyed the uncommon privilege and b eauty b efitting t he pa rt. Sadl y t hough, f or li ttle Ros e, t he f irst eleven years of life had b een anything but a fa iry story. ‘Open wide.’ Dr Matthews plucked a reedy paddle from his leather bag and flattened Rose’s tongue. He leaned forward to peer down her throat, his face so close that she was granted an unwelcome opportunity to conduct reciprocal inspection of his nas al hairs. ‘Hmmm,’ he s aid, setting the hairs to quivering. Rose coughed weakly as t he retracting paddle s craped her t hroat. ‘Well, Doctor?’ Mamma stepped from the shadow, tapered fingers pale against her deep b lue dress. Dr M atthews st ood t o f ull heig ht. ‘ You did w ell t o call , L ady Mountrachet. There is indeed a n inflammation.’ Mamma sighed. ‘I thought as much. You have a preparation, Doctor?’ As Dr M atthews o utlined his r ecommended mo de o f tr eatment, Rose turned her he ad to the side a nd closed her e yes. Yawned lightly. For as lo ng as she co uld r emember, she’d kno wn she wasn ’t lo ng f or this world. Sometimes, in w eaker moments, Rose allowed herself to imagine what life might be like if she didn’t know her end, if the future stretched before her indef initely, a lo ng road with twists a nd turns she co uldn’t anticipate. W ith milest ones t hat mig ht inc lude a s ociety deb ut, a husband, children. A gra nd home of her o wn with w hich to impress other ladies. F or oh, if she w ere honest, how earnestly she lo nged for such a lif e. 214


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She didn’t let her self imagine t his t oo o ften t hough. W hat us e was t here in la menting? Instead, she wa ited, convalesced, worked on her s crapbook. Re ad, w hen she was a ble, o f p laces she’d ne ver s ee, and fac ts she’d ne ver us e, in co nversations she’d ne ver ha ve. Waiting for t he next ine vitable ep isode t hat b rought her c loser t o The End , hoping that the next ailment might be a little more interesting than the last. S omething wi th less pa in a nd mo re r eward. L ike t he time she ’d swallowed Mamma’s thimble. She hadn’t meant to, of course. If it hadn’t been so shiny, so pretty in its silver acorn holder, she wouldn’t have thought to touch it. But it had a nd she did . W hat eig ht y ear o ld w ould ha ve do ne dif ferently? She’d been trying to balance it on the tip of her tongue, somewhat like the clown in her Meggendorfer Circus book, the one who balanced the red ball on his silly pointed nose. Inadvisable certainly, but she’d only been a c hild, a nd b esides, had b een p erforming t he f eat f or s ome months without mishap. The t himble ep isode had t urned o ut p retty w ell b y all acco unts. The doctor had been called immediately, a new young physician who’d only recently taken over the village practice. He’d poked and prodded and do ne w hat do ctors do , b efore makin g q uivering sug gestion t hat a certain ne w diagnostic t ool mig ht b e o f s ome us e. B y t aking a photographic exposure he’d be able to look right within Rose’s stomach without so much as lif ting a s calpel. Everyone had b een pleased with this suggestion: Father, whose skill with a camera meant he was called upon to take the modern exposure; Dr Matthews, because he was able to publish the photographs in a sp ecial journal called t he Lancet; and Mamma, because the publication sent a r ipple of excitement through her society circles. As f or Ros e, t he t himble was pass ed (most indeco rously) s ome forty-eight hours later and she was able to bask in the certain knowledge that she’d finally managed to please Father, if o nly briefly. Not that he said as m uch, that was no t his wa y, but Rose was p erspicacious when it came to recognising the moods of her parents (if not yet their divining causes). And Father’s pleasure had made Rose’s own spirits rise as high and as lig ht as o ne of Cook’s soufflés. ‘With your permission, Lady Mountrachet, I’ll finish my examination.’ 215


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Rose sig hed as Dr M atthews lif ted her nig htgown t o exp ose her stomach. She closed her eyes tighter as cold fingers pressed on her skin, and she t hought a bout her s crapbook. M amma had a rranged f or a periodical from London with pictures of the latest bridal fashions and, using lace a nd r ibbons f rom her cra ft b ox, Ros e was deco rating t he scrapbook page beautifully. Her bride was coming along splendidly: a veil o f B elgian lace , li ttle s eed p earls g lued a round t he r im, p ressed flowers for her bouquet. The groom was rather a different matter: Rose didn’t kno w m uch a bout g entlemen. (And nei ther sho uld she . I t wouldn’t be proper for a young lady to know such things.) But it seemed to Ros e t hat t he sp ecifics o f t he gr oom w ere o f li ttle im portance, as long as t he bride was p retty and pure. ‘All looks satisfactory,’ said Dr Matthews, patting Rose’s nightgown back in to p lace. ‘ Fortunately t he inf ection is no t g eneral. M ight I suggest t hough, L ady M ountrachet, t hat I sp eak wi th y ou f urther regarding the best possible treatment?’ Rose o pened her e yes in time t o ca tch t he do ctor’s sy cophantic smile at Mamma. How tiresome he was, always angling for an invitation to tea, the opportunity to meet a nd treat more of the county’s gentry. The p ublished p hotos o f Ros e’s t himble in situ had ga rnered him a certain cachet amongst t he county’s well heeled, and he’d b een quick to capitalise upon it. As he t ucked his st ethoscope carefully inside his big b lack bag, p atted i t in to p lace wi th his ne at li ttle f ingers, Ros e’s tedium turned to irritation. ‘Am I no t yet he aded to he aven t hen, D octor? ’ she s aid, blinking plainly a t his r eddening face . ‘ Only I ’m w orking o n a pag e f or m y scrapbook and it would be a sha me to leave it unfinished.’ Dr Matthews laughed girlishly and glanced at Mamma. ‘Well now, child,’ he stammered, ‘there’s no need for worry. In time we shall all be welcomed at God’s table . . .’ Rose watched for a while as he launched into an uncomfortable lecture on life and death, before turning her he ad to conceal a faint smile. The prospect of an e arly de ath sits dif ferently upon e ach p erson. In some it gifts maturity far outweighing their age and experience: calm acceptance blossoms into a b eautiful nature and soft countenance. In others, however, it allows formation of a tiny ice flint in their heart. Ice that, though at times co ncealed, never properly melts. 216


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Rose, though she w ould have liked to be one of the former, knew herself deep do wn to be one of the latter. It wasn’t that she was nasty , rather t hat she’d de veloped a gif t f or dispassio n. An a bility t o st ep outside her self a nd obs erve si tuations wi thout t he distrac tion o f sentiment. ‘Dr Matthews.’ Mamma’s voice interrupted his increasingly desperate description of God’s little girl angels. ‘Why don’t you go downstairs and wait for me in t he morning room. Thomas will f etch the tea.’ ‘Yes, Lady Mountrachet,’ he said, relieved to be delivered from the sticky conversation. He avoided Rose’s eyes as he lef t the room. ‘Now Rose,’ said Mamma, ‘that was ill ma nnered of you.’ The admonition was diluted by Mamma’s recent concern and Rose knew she w ouldn’t s uffer castiga tion. S he ne ver did . W ho co uld b e cross wi th a li ttle girl wa iting f or de ath t o f ind her? Ros e sig hed. ‘I know, M amma, a nd I ’m s orry. Onl y I f eel s o lig ht-headed, a nd listening to Dr Matthews makes it so very much worse.’ ‘A weak constitution is a dr eadful cross to bear.’ Mamma took up Rose’s hand. ‘But you are a y oung lady, a M ountrachet. And ill he alth is no ex cuse for manners less t han perfect.’ ‘Yes, Mamma.’ ‘I m ust g o a nd sp eak wi th t he do ctor no w,’ she s aid, la ying co ol fingertips on Rose’s cheek. ‘I’ll look in on you again when Mary brings your tray.’ She swept towards the door, dress rustling as she crossed from rug to floorboards. ‘Mamma?’ called Rose. Her mother turned back. ‘Yes?’ ‘There’s something I wanted to ask you.’ Rose hesitated, unsure how to proceed. Aware how curious her q uestion was. ‘ I saw a b oy in t he garden.’ Mamma’s left eyebrow briefly broke formation. ‘A boy?’ ‘This morning, I saw him from the window when Mary moved me to my chair. He was st anding behind a rho dodendron bush speaking with Davies, a naughty-looking boy with shaggy red hair.’ Mamma p ressed a ha nd aga inst t he pale skin b eneath her nec k. Exhaled slowly and steadily so that Rose’s interest was further piqued. ‘That was no b oy you saw, Rose.’ ‘Mamma?’ 217


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‘That was y our cousin, Eliza.’ Rose’s e yes widen ed. Thi s wa s un expected. P rincipally b ecause it couldn’t b e s o. M amma had no b rothers o r sist ers, a nd wi th G randmamma’s passing, Mamma, Papa and Rose were the only Mountrachets left. ‘I have no suc h cousin.’ Mamma straightened, spoke unusually swiftly. ‘Unfortunately, you do. Her name is E liza and she has co me to live at Blackhurst.’ ‘For how long?’ ‘Indefinitely, I f ear.’ ‘But Mamma . . .’ Rose felt more light-headed than ever. How could such a t atty ur chin b e her cousin? ‘Her hair . . . her manner . . . her clothes were all wet, and she dirty and wind-blown . . .’ Rose shuddered. ‘There were leaves all over her p erson . . .’ Mamma lifted a f inger to her li ps. She turned to face t he window and the dark curl at the nape of her nec k shivered. ‘She had no where else to go. Father and I agreed to take her in. An act of Christian charity she’ll never appreciate, let alone deserve, but one must always be seen to do t he right thing.’ ‘But Mamma, what is she t o do here?’ ‘Cause us great vexation, I’ve little doubt. But we could hardly turn her away. Failure to act would have looked dreadful, thus must we turn necessity t o vir tue.’ H er w ords had t he s ound o f s entiments b eing forced through a sieve. She seemed to sense their emptiness herself and said nothing further. ‘Mamma?’ Rose poked cautiously at her mo ther’s silence. ‘You ask ed w hat she is t o do her e? ’ Mamma turned t o face Ros e and a ne w edge entered her v oice. ‘I am giving her t o you.’ ‘Giving her t o me? ’ ‘As a project of sorts. She will be your protégée. When you are well enough, you will b e responsible for teaching her ho w to behave. She’s little better than a s avage, not one whit of grace or charm. An orphan who’s had li ttle if a ny guidance as t o living in p olite society.’ Mamma exhaled. ‘Of course, I ha ve no ill usions and don’t expect you to work miracles.’ ‘Yes, Mamma.’ 218


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‘You can only imagine, child of mine, the influences to which this orphan has been exposed. She has been living in London amongst such dreadful decadence a nd sin.’ And then Rose knew just who this girl must be. Eliza was the child of Papa’s sister, the mysterious Georgiana whose portrait Mamma had banished to the attic, of whom nobody dared speak. Nobody, that is, ex cept Grandmamma. In t he o ld w oman’s f inal mo nths, w hen she had r eturned lik e a wounded bear to Blackhurst and retired to the turret room to do her dying, she drifted in and out of wakefulness, speaking in fits and starts about a pair of children called Linus and Georgiana. Rose knew Linus was her fa ther t hus, she ga thered, G eorgiana m ust b e his sist er. The one who had dis appeared before Rose was b orn. It was a summer y morning, and Rose was resting in t he armchair by the turret window, a warm sea breeze tickling the back of her neck. Rose liked to sit by Grandmamma, to study her as she slept, each breath possibly her last, a nd had b een watching c uriously as b eads of sweat glazed the old woman’s forehead. Suddenly Grandmamma’s eyes blinked open: they were wide a nd pale, bleached by a lifetime of bitterness. She stared at Rose a moment but her gaze r emained un touched b y r ecognition a nd slid side ways. Transfixed, o r s o i t s eemed, b y t he g entle b illowing o f t he summer curtains. Ros e’s f irst in stinct was t o r ing f or M amma—it had b een hours since Grandmamma last awoke—but just as she r eached for the bell the old woman heaved a sigh. A long, wearied sigh, so thoroughly deflating that thin skin s agged into hollows between her b ones. Then out of nowhere a wizened ha nd clutched Rose’s wrist. ‘Such a beautiful girl,’ she said, so quietly that Rose had to lean close to hear the words that were sp oken next. ‘ Too b eautiful, a c urse. Had all t he young men’s he ads t urning. H e co uldn’t hel p him self, f ollowed her everywhere, t hought w e didn’t kno w. S he ra n a way a nd didn’t co me back, not a w ord from my Georgiana . . .’ Now Rose Mountrachet was a g ood girl who knew the rules. How could she b e anything other? Her entire life, confined to her sic kbed, she’d b een ca ptive t o her mo ther’s ep isodic lec ture o n t he r ules a nd nature of good society. Rose knew all t oo well that a lad y must never wear p earls o r dia monds in t he mo rning; m ust ne ver ‘cut’ s omeone 219


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socially; m ust ne ver, under a ny cir cumstances, call o n a g entleman alone. But most im portantly of all, Rose knew that scandal was t o be avoided at all costs, t hat it was a n evil whose very hint could smite a lady where she st ood. Smite, at least, her g ood name. And y et t his men tion o f her er rant a unt, t he t antalising w hiff o f family s candal, did no suc h t hing to Ros e. On t he contrary, it s ent a wicked thrill racing down her spine. For the first time in years she felt her f ingertips tin gle wi th ex citement. S he le aned c loser still , willin g Grandmamma to continue, eager to follow the flow of conversation as it swirled into dark uncharted waters. ‘Who, Grandmamma? ’ prodded Ros e. ‘Who was i t followed her? Who did she r un away with?’ But G randmamma didn ’t a nswer. W hatever t he s cenarios t hat played across her mind t hey refused manipulation. Rose persisted but to no a vail. And in t he end she had t o b e co ntent wi th t urning t he questions over and over in her mind , the name of her a unt becoming for her a sym bol of dark and testing times. Of all t hat was unfa ir and wicked in t he world . . . ‘Rose?’ Mamma’s brows were knitted into a slig ht frown. One she tried to conceal but which Rose had b ecome practised at recognising. ‘Are you s aying s omething, child? You were w hispering.’ She reached out a ha nd to gauge Rose’s temperature. ‘I’m all r ight, Mamma, just a li ttle distracted by my thoughts.’ ‘You seem flushed.’ Rose pressed her own hand against her forehead. Was she flushed? She couldn’t tell. ‘I shall send Dr Matthews up again before he leaves,’ said Mamma. ‘I’d sooner be careful than sorry.’ Rose closed her e yes. Another visit from Dr Matthews, two in t he one afternoon. It was b eyond her capacity to bear. ‘You’re too weak today to greet our new project,’ said Mamma. ‘I’ll speak with the doctor and, if he deems it suitable, you may meet Eliza tomorrow. E liza! I magine b estowing a M ountrachet fa mily na me o n the daughter of a s ailor!’ A sailor, this was ne w. Rose’s eyes snapped open. ‘Mamma?’ 220


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Mamma gr ew f lushed her self t hen. S he’d s aid mo re t han she intended, a n un usual sli p in her a rmour o f p ropriety. ‘ Your co usin’s father was a s ailor. We do no t speak of him.’ ‘My uncle was a s ailor?’ Mamma gasped and her thin hand leapt to her mouth. ‘He was not your unc le, Ros e, he was no thing t o y ou o r me . H e was no mo re married to your Aunt Georgiana than I was.’ ‘But M amma!’ It was mo re s candalous t han Ros e had e ver b een able to invent for herself. ‘Whatever can you mean?’ Mamma’s voice was lo w. ‘Eliza may be your cousin, Rose, and we have little choice but to have her in this house. But she’s lowborn, make no mistake of that. She is fortunate indeed that her mother’s death has brought her back to Blackhurst. After all the shame this family suffered at the hands of her mo ther.’ She shook her he ad. ‘It nearly killed y our father when she lef t. I ca n’t bear to think what might have happened had I not been here to see him through the scandal.’ She looked directly at Rose. Her voice contained the slightest tremble. ‘A family can bear only s o m uch sha me b efore i ts g ood na me is ir reparably t arnished. That is why it’s so important that you and I live spotlessly. Your cousin Eliza will present a challenge, of that I’ve little doubt. She will never be one of us, but through our best efforts we will at least elevate her from the London gutter.’ Rose pretended absorption in t he ruffled sleeve of her nig htdress. ‘Can a girl o f lo w b irth ne ver b e t aught t o pass her self o ff as a lady, Mamma?’ ‘No, my child.’ ‘Not e ven if she w ere t aken in b y a nob le fa mily? ’ Ros e g lanced at Mamma f rom b eneath her e yelashes. ‘ Married a g entleman, perhaps?’ Mamma turned sharp eyes upon Rose and hesitated before speaking slowly, carefully. ‘It is possible, of course, that a rare girl of humble but proper b eginnings, w ho w orks ce aselessly t o im prove her self, ma y effect a n ele vation.’ S he dr ew a q uick b reath designed t o s ettle her composure. ‘But not, I fear, in the case of your cousin. We must lower our expectations, Rose.’ ‘Of course, Mamma.’ 221


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The r eal r eason f or her mo ther’s dis comfort s at b etween t hem, though M amma, if she ’d susp ected Ros e kne w, w ould ha ve b een mortified. It was another family secret that Rose had managed to glean from her d ying gra ndmother. A s ecret t hat exp lained s o m uch: t he animosity b etween t he tw o ma triarchs, a nd e ven mo re t han t hat, Mamma’s obsession with manners. Her devotion to the rules of society, her commitment to presenting always as a pa ragon of propriety. Lady A deline M ountrachet ma y ha ve a ttempted t o ba nish all mention of the truth long ago—most who knew it had b een terrified into wi ping i t f rom t heir memo ries, a nd t hose w ho hadn’t w ere t oo mindful o f t heir p ositions t o da re b reathe a w ord a bout L ady Mountrachet’s o rigins—but G randmamma had f elt no suc h co mpunction. S he’d b een o nly t oo happy t o r emember t he Yorkshire girl whose pious parents, fallen on hard times, had leapt at the opportunity to pack her off to Blackhurst Manor, Cornwall, where she might serve as protégée for the glorious Georgiana Mountrachet. Mamma pa used a t t he do or. ‘ One last t hing, Ros e, t he most important thing of all.’ ‘Yes, Mamma?’ ‘The girl must be kept out of Father’s way.’ A t ask t hat shouldn’t b e dif ficult; Ros e could count on one hand the n umber o f times she ’d s een F ather d uring t he pas t y ear. All t he same, her mo ther’s vehemence was intriguing. ‘Mamma?’ A slight pause that Rose noted with growing interest, then the reply that raised more questions than it answered. ‘Your father is a busy man, an important man. He doesn’t need t o be reminded constantly of the stain o n his fa mily’s g ood na me.’ S he inhaled q uickly a nd her v oice dropped to a grey whisper. ‘Believe me w hen I tell you, Rose, none in this house shall benefit should the girl be allowed near Father.’

c Adeline pressed gently at her fingertip and watched as the red bead of blood a ppeared. I t was t he t hird time she ’d p ricked her f inger in as many minutes. Embroidery had al ways served to calm her ner ves but their fraying this day had been complete. She set the petit point aside. It was the conversation with Rose that had her rattled, and the distracted 222


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tea with Dr M atthews, but b eneath it all, of course, lay t he arrival of Georgiana’s girl . Tho ugh p hysically a mer e s crap o f a c hild, she had brought something with her. Something invisible, like the atmospheric shift that precedes a mig hty storm. And t hat something threatened to bring t o a n end e verything f or w hich Adeline had str ived; indeed , it had alr eady st arted i ts in sidious w ork, f or all da y A deline had b een beset with memories of her own arrival at Blackhurst. Memories she’d worked hard to forget, and to ensure that others did t oo . . . When she’d arrived in 1886, Adeline had been met by a house that seemed em pty o f inha bitants. And w hat a ho use i t was, b igger t han anything she’d ever set foot inside. She’d stood for ten minutes at least, waiting f or s ome dir ection, f or s omeone t o r eceive her, un til f inally a young ma n, w earing a f ormal sui t a nd a ha ughty exp ression, had appeared in the hall. He’d stopped, surprised, then checked his pocket watch. ‘You’re e arly,’ he s aid, in a t one t hat lef t Adeline in li ttle doubt as to his o pinion o f t hose w ho a rrived b efore t heir time . ‘ We’re no t expecting you until tea.’ She stood silently, unsure what was exp ected of her. The man huffed. ‘If you wait here, I’ll find someone to show you to your room.’ Adeline was a ware o f b eing tr oublesome. ‘ I co uld t ake a walk through t he ga rden if y ou p refer? ’ she s aid in a meek v oice, mo re conscious t han e ver o f her no rthern accen t, gr own t hicker in t his glorious, airy room of white marble. The man nodded curtly. ‘That would do w ell.’ A f ootman had w hisked her tr unks a way, s o A deline was unencumbered as she w ent bac k do wn t he gra nd st airs. S he st ood a t t he bottom, looking this way and that, trying to shake the uncomfortable sense that she had s omehow failed before she’d even begun. Reverend Lambert had mentioned the Mountrachet family’s wealth and st ature numerous times d uring his a fternoon visits with Adeline and her pa rents. I t was a n ho nour f or t he en tire dio cese, he’d s aid earnestly and often, that one of their own had been selected to undertake such an important task. His Cornish counterpart had searched far and wide, under dir ect instruction from the lady of the house, in o rder to select the most sui table candidate, and it was u p to Adeline to ensure 223


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that she was worthy of so great an honour. Not to mention the generous fee that would be paid to her pa rents for their loss. And A deline had been det ermined t o succeed . All t he wa y f rom Yorkshire she’d gi ven herself stern little lectures on topics like ‘The Appearance of Quality is Akin to the Fact’ and ‘A Lady is as a L ady Does’, but inside the house her faithless convictions had withered weakly away. A noise above drew her attention to the sky, where a family of black rooks was tracin g an intricate pattern. One o f the birds fell steeply in flight before following the others in the direction of a stand of tall trees in the distance. For want of another destination, Adeline set off after them, lecturing herself all t he way about new beginnings and starting as one meant to go on. So involved was A deline in her s elf-haranguing that she had li ttle power of observation left with which to absorb the wondrous gardens of Blackhurst. Before she’d even made a start on her affirmations about rank a nd t he a ristocracy, she had c leared t he da rk co olness o f t he woods and was st anding on the edge of a c liff, dr y grasses rustling at her feet. Beyond the cliff, tossed out flat like a hank of velvet, was t he deep blue sea. Adeline clutched hold of a nearby branch. She had never been one for heights and her he art was racin g. Something in t he water directed her gaze bac k towards t he cove. A y oung ma n a nd w oman in a li ttle b oat, he s eated w hile she st ood rocking the boat from side to side. Her dress of white muslin was wet from t he a nkles t o her wa ist a nd c lung t o her legs in a ma nner t hat made Adeline gasp. She f elt t hat she sho uld turn away but she co uldn’t t ake her e yes from t hem. The y oung w oman had r ed ha ir, suc h b right r ed ha ir, hanging loose and long, turning to wet tendrils at the end. The man had on a stra w b oater, a b lack b ox-shaped contraption str ung around his neck. He was laughing, flicking water in the girl’s direction. He started crawling towards her, reached out to grab at her legs. The b oat rocked more violently, and just when Adeline thought he would touch her, the girl turned and dived in o ne long, fluid motion into the water. Nothing in A deline’s exp erience had p repared her f or suc h behaviour. What could have possessed the young woman to do such a thing? And w here was she no w? Adeline cra ned t o s ee. S canned t he 224


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glistening water until finally a f igure in w hite became visible, gliding to t he sur face ne ar t he great black rock. The girl p ulled herself f rom the sea, dress glued to her b ody, water dripping, and without turning back climbed the rock and disappeared up a hidden pa th in t he steep hill, towards a li ttle cottage on the cliff top. Fighting to control her shallow breaths, Adeline turned her attention to t he y oung ma n, f or sur ely he was eq ually sho cked? H e had als o watched the girl dis appear and was no w rowing the boat back to the cove. He pulled it out along the pebbles, picked up his shoes and started up the steps. He had a lim p, she no ticed, and a ca ne. The man passed so close by Adeline and yet he didn’t see her. He was whistling to himself, a t une Adeline didn’t know. A happy, jaunty tune, full of sunshine and salt. The antithesis of the gloomy Yorkshire she was s o desperate to escape. This y oung man seemed twice as t all as the fellows back home and twice as b right. Standing alone on the cliff top, she was aware suddenly of the heat and weight of her travelling suit. The water below looked so cool; the shameful thought was her s before she co uld control it. What might it feel like to dive beneath the surface and emerge, dripping wet, as t he young woman, as G eorgiana, had do ne? Later, ma ny y ears la ter, w hen L inus’s mo ther, t he o ld wi tch, la y dying, she co nfessed her r eason f or s electing A deline as G eorgiana’s protégée. ‘I was looking for the dullest little dormouse I could find, with piety a gr eat p lus, in t he hopes t hat s ome of it w ould r ub off on my daughter. I didn’t suspect for a mo ment that my rare bird would take flight and the dormouse usurp her place. I suppose I should congratulate you. You won in t he end, didn’t you, Lady Mountrachet?’ And s o she had . F rom h umble b eginnings, wi th ha rd w ork a nd determination, Adeline had risen in the world, higher than her parents could e ver have imagined w hen t hey p ermitted her depa rture for an unknown village in C ornwall. And she had continued working hard, even after her marriage and assumption to the title Lady Mountrachet. She’d run a tight ship so that no matter the mud thrown, none would stick to her family, her grand home. And t hat was no t a bout t o c hange. G eorgiana’s girl was her e now, that could not be helped. It was up to Adeline to ensure that life at Blackhurst Manor went on as e ver. 225


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She just needed to free herself from the niggling fear that by Eliza’s accommodation at Blackhurst, Rose would somehow be the loser . . . Adeline shook away the misgivings that continued to prick her skin and co ncentrated o n r egaining her co mposure. S he had al ways b een sensitive where Rose was co ncerned, that was w hat came of having a delicate child. B eside her, the dog, A skrigg, whimpered. He, too, had been unsettled all day. Adeline reached down and stroked the knobbled head. ‘Shhh,’ she said. ‘All will be well.’ She scratched his raised eyebrows. ‘I’ll see to that.’ There was no thing to fear, for what risk could this interloper, this skinny girl with cropped hair and skin sallow from a life of poverty in London, possibly present to Adeline and her family? One needed only to glance at Eliza to see that she was no G eorgiana, God be thanked. Why, p erhaps t hese dis quieting f eelings w eren’t f ear at all , b ut r elief. Relief at having faced her worst fears and had them dissipate. For with Eliza’s arrival came the additional comfort of knowing for certain that Georgiana was r eally g one, ne ver t o r eturn. And in her p lace a wa if with no ne o f her mo ther’s p eculiar p ower f or b ending p eople t o her will without so much as trying. The door opened, admitting a gust t o tussle with the fire. ‘Dinner is s erved, ma’am.’ How Adeline despised Thomas, despised them all. For all their yes and no ma ’am, dinner is s erved ma’am, she kne w w hat t hey r eally thought of her, what they’d always thought of her. ‘The master?’ Her coldest, most authoritative voice. ‘Lord Mountrachet is o n his way from the darkroom, ma’am.’ The wretched darkroom, of course that’s where he was. She’d heard his carriage arrive on t he dr iveway w hilst she was end uring tea with Dr Matthews. Had kept one e ar trained on t he entrance hall wa iting for her h usband’s signa ture str ide—heavy, lig ht; he avy, lig ht—but nothing. She should have guessed that he’d gone straight to his infernal darkroom. Thomas was still watching her, so Adeline screwed her composure to the sticking place. She’d sooner suffer at the hands of Lucifer himself than grant Thomas the satisfaction of noting marital disharmony. ‘Go,’ she s aid, wi th a wa ve o f her wr ist, ‘and s ee t o i t p ersonally t hat t he master’s boots are cleaned of the ghastly Scottish mud.’ 226


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c Linus was already seated when Adeline arrived at the table. He’d started on his soup and didn’t look up as she entered. He was too busy studying the black and white prints that were laid out over his end o f the long table: moss a nd butterflies and bricks, the spoils of his r ecent trip. Seeing him, Adeline suffered a warm shot of air to the brain. What would others say if they knew that the Blackhurst dinner table was host to such behaviour? She glanced sideways at Thomas and the footman, each focused on the distant wall. But Adeline wasn’t fooled, she kne w that b ehind t heir g lazed expressions t heir minds w ere busy: judging, noting, preparing to tell their counterparts in o ther houses about the slipping standards at Blackhurst Manor. Adeline s at stif fly in her p lace, wa ited as t he f ootman p laced her s oup in f ront of her. S he t ook a small mo uthful and burned her tongue. Watched as L inus, he ad b owed, co ntinued his in spection o f the photographic prints. The little patch at the very crown of his head was t hinning. It lo oked lik e a spa rrow had b een a t w ork, la ying t he first scanty threads for a ne w nest. ‘The girl is her e?’ he s aid, without looking up. Adeline felt her skin p rickle: the wretched girl. ‘She is.’ ‘You’ve seen her? ’ ‘Of course. She has b een accommodated upstairs.’ Finally he lifted his head, took a sip of his wine. Then another. ‘And is she . . . is she like . . . ? ’ ‘No.’ Adeline’s voice was co ld. ‘No, she is no t.’ In her la p, her f ists balled tight. Linus exhaled sho rtly, broke a p iece of bread and began to eat it. He sp oke wi th his mo uth f ull, sur ely j ust t o sp ite her. ‘ Mansell s aid as much.’ If anyone was t o blame for the girl’s arrival it was Henry Mansell. Linus ma y ha ve s ought G eorgiana’s r eturn, b ut i t was M ansell w ho’d kept the hope alive. The det ective, with his t hick moustache and fine pince-nez, had t aken L inus’s mo ney a nd s ent him f requent r eports. Every night Adeline had prayed that Mansell would fail, that Georgiana would stay away, that Linus would learn to let her g o. 227


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‘Your trip went well?’ said Adeline. No answer. His eyes were on the prints again. Adeline’s pride prevented another sideways glance at Thomas. She composed her f eatures in a mask o f co ntented calm a nd a ttempted another spoonful of soup, cooler by now. Linus’s rejection of Adeline was one thing—he’d begun his drift soon after their marriage—but his complete denial o f Ros e was s omething o ther. S he was his c hild; his blood co ursed t hrough her v eins, t he b lood o f his nob le fa mily. How he co uld remain so detached, Adeline couldn’t fathom. ‘Dr Matthews has b een again today,’ she s aid. ‘Another infection.’ Linus lo oked up, e yes drawn with t he familiar veil of disinterest. Ate another mouthful of bread. ‘Nothing too serious, thank goodness,’ said Adeline, buoyed by his lifted gaze. ‘No need f or grave concern.’ Linus swallowed his p iece of bread. ‘I head for France tomorrow,’ he said blankly. ‘ There’s a ga te at Notre Dame . . .’ His sentence faded away. C ommitment t o k eeping A deline inf ormed o f his mo vements only went so far. Adeline’s left brow peaked slightly before she caught it and ironed it smo oth. ‘Lovely,’ she s aid, winding her li ps back into a tig ht smile; smothering the image, from nowhere, of Linus in the little boat, camera pointed at a f igure dressed all in w hite.

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27 Tregenna, 1975

T

here it was, the black rock of William Martin’s story. From the top of the cliff, Nell watched as white sea froth swirled about the base before rushing inside the cave and being sucked back out on the tide. It didn’t take much to imagine the cove as the site of thrashing storms and sinking ships and midnight smuggling raids. Across the cliff top a line o f trees stood soldierlike, blocking Nell’s view of the house at Blackhurst, her mo ther’s house. She dug her ha nds deeper into the pockets of her coa t. The wind was str ong u p her e a nd i t t ook all her str ength t o ma intain bala nce. Her neck was numb, her cheeks simultaneously warm with chafing and cool with the breeze. She turned to follow the path of f lattened grass back from the cliff edge. The road didn’t come this far and the way was narrow. Nell went cautiously: her knee was sw ollen and bruised after the rather impromptu entrance she’d made to the Blackhurst estate the previous da y. S he’d g one in tending t o deli ver a let ter s aying t hat she was an antiques dealer visiting from Australia, and requesting that she might come and see the house at a time co nvenient to its owners. But as she’d st ood b y t he t all met al ga tes, s omething had o vercome her, a need every bit as str ong as t hat to breathe. The next she kne w she’d abandoned all digni ty a nd was c lambering gracelessl y u p t he ga te, seeking footholds in t he decorative metal curls. Ridiculous behaviour for a w oman half her a ge, but that was as i t was. To stand so close to her family home, her own birthplace, and be denied as much as a glimpse was intolerable. It was only regrettable that Nell’s physical dexterity had been no match for her tenacity. She’d been embarrassed and grateful in equal measure when Julia Bennett chanced 229


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upon her trespass attempt. Thankfully the new owner of Blackhurst had accepted Nell’s explanation and invited her to take a lo ok. It had b een such an odd feeling, seeing inside the house. Strange, but no t in t he wa y she ’d exp ected. N ell had b een s peechless wi th anticipation. She’d walked across the entrance hall, climbed the stairs, peered a round do orways, t elling her self o ver a nd o ver: y our mo ther sat here, y our mother walk ed here, y our mother loved here; a nd she had waited for the enormity to hit her. For some wave of knowing to launch itself from the house’s walls a nd crash over her, for some deep part of herself to recognise that she was home. But no such knowingness had come. A foolish expectation, of course, and not like Nell at all. But there it was. E ven the most p ragmatic person fell victim at times t o a longing for something other. At least she could now add texture to the memories she was tr ying t o r ebuild; imagined co nversations w ould take place in real rooms. In the long shimmery grass Nell spied a stick just the right length. There was s omething imme asurably p leasant in walkin g with suc h a stick, it added a sense of industry to a person’s journey. Not to mention it would take some pressure off her swollen knee. She reached to pick it up and continued carefully down the slope, past t he tall stone wall. There was a sign o n t he f ront gate, just above t hat w hich t hreatened trespassers. For Sale, it read, and then a p hone number. This, then, was t he cottage belonging to the Blackhurst estate, the one J ulia B ennett had men tioned t he da y b efore, a nd t hat W illiam Martin had wished b urned t o t he gr ound, t hat had st ood wi tness t o things that ‘weren’t right’, whatever they might be. Nell leaned against the gate. There didn’t look to be much threatening about it. The garden was o vergrown a nd t he a pproaching d usk s pilled in to e very co rner, settled for the night in co ol, dim p ockets. A na rrow path led t owards the cottage b efore s currying lef t at t he f ront do or and continuing its windy way t hrough t he ga rden. B y t he fa r wall st ood a lo nely st atue plastered wi th gr een lic hen. A small nak ed b oy in t he middle o f a garden bed, wide e yes turned eternal on the cottage. No, not a ga rden bed, the boy stood in a f ish pond. The correction came swiftly and certainly, surprising Nell so that she held tig hter to the locked gate. How did she kno w? 230


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Then b efore her e yes t he ga rden c hanged. Weeds a nd b rambles, decades in the growing, receded. Leaves lifted from the ground, revealing paths and flowerbeds and a garden seat. Light was permitted entry once more, tossed dappled across the surface of the pond. And then she was in tw o p laces a t o nce: a sixty-f ive-year-old w oman wi th a s ore knee , clinging to a rusty gate, and a little girl, long hair plaited down her back, sitting on a tuft of soft, cool grass, t oes dangling in t he pond . . . The plump fish bobbed to the surface again, golden belly shining, and the little girl laughed as he opened his mouth and nibbled her big toe. S he lo ved t he p ond, had wa nted o ne a t ho me, b ut M amma had been f earful t hat she’d fall in a nd dr own. M amma was o ften f earful, especially where the little girl was co ncerned. If Mamma knew where they were today, she’d be very cross. But Mamma didn’t know, she was having one of her bad da ys, was lying in t he dark of her b oudoir with a damp flannel on her f orehead. A noise and the little girl looked up. The lady and Papa had come back o utside. The y st ood f or a mo ment a nd Papa s aid s omething t o the lad y, s omething t he li ttle girl co uldn’t he ar. He t ouched her a rm and t he lad y st arted walkin g slo wly f orwards. S he was wa tching t he little girl in a stra nge way, a wa y that reminded her o f the boy statue who stood by t he p ond all da y, ne ver s o much as b linking. The lad y smiled, a magical smile, and the little girl pulled her feet from the pond and waited, waited, wondering what the lady would say . . . A r ook f lew c lose o verhead a nd wi th i t time was r estored. The brambles and creepers re-formed, leaves dropped, and the garden was once more a damp, moist place at the mercy of the dusk. The boy statue green with age, just as he sho uld be. Nell was aware of an ache in her knuckles. She loosened her grip on the gate and watched the rook, broad wings beating the air as he soared towards the top of the Blackhurst trees. In the west a flock of clouds had been lit from behind and glowed pink in the darkening sky. Nell glanced dazedly at the cottage garden. The little girl was gone. Or was she? As Nell dug t he stic k in b efore her a nd st arted bac k t owards t he village, a p eculiar s ense o f d uality, no t un welcome, f ollowed her all the way.

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28 Blackhurst Manor, 1900

N

ext morning, as pale win try light rippled the glass of the nursery windows, Ros e smo othed t he ends o f her lo ng, da rk ha ir. M rs Hopkins had b rushed it until it shone, just the way Rose liked, and it sat p erfectly aga inst t he lace o f her v ery f inest dr ess, t he o ne t hat Mamma had s ent f or f rom P aris. Ros e was f eeling tir ed a nd a li ttle tetchy, but that was her wont. Little girls with weak constitutions weren’t expected t o b e ha ppy all t he time a nd Ros e had no in tention o f performing aga inst typ e. I f she w ere ho nest, she ra ther lik ed ha ving people wa lk o n eg gshells a round her : i t made her f eel a li ttle less miserable w hen others were similarly stif led. B esides, Ros e had g ood reason f or w eariness t oday. S he had la in awake all nig ht, t ossing a nd turning like the princess with her pea, only it hadn’t been a lump in the mattress that had k ept her awake, rather Mamma’s astonishing news. After Mamma had left the bedroom, Rose had fallen to pondering the precise nature of the stain on her family’s good name, exactly what sort of drama had erupted after her Aunt Georgiana’s flight from home and fa mily. All nig ht she had w ondered a bout her wic ked a unt, a nd the thoughts had not evaporated with the dawn. During breakfast, and later w hile M rs Hopkins dr essed her, e ven no w as she wa ited in t he nursery, her mind was s o en gaged. S he was wa tching t he f irelight flickering against the pale hearth bricks, wondering whether the dusky orange shado ws r esembled t he do or t o hell t hrough w hich her a unt must surely have passed, when suddenly—footsteps in t he hallway! Rose jumped a little in her seat, smoothed the lamb’s wool blanket across her knees, and quickly arranged her face along the lines of placid perfection she’d learned from Mamma. Cherished the little thrill that 232


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worked i ts wa y do wn her sp ine. Oh, w hat a n im portant t ask i t was! The assignment of a protégée. Her very own wayward orphan to remake in her own image. Rose had never had a friend before, nor been allowed a p et o f a ny kind (M amma had gra ve co ncerns a bout ra bies). And despite Mamma’s words of caution, she ha rboured great hopes of this cousin o f her s. S he w ould b e t urned in to a lad y, w ould b ecome a companion for Ros e, s omeone to mop Ros e’s brow w hen she was ill , stroke her ha nd when she was p eevish, brush her ha ir when she was bothered. And she would be so grateful for Rose’s instruction, so happy to have been granted insight into the ways of ladies, that she would do exactly as Ros e o rdered. S he w ould b e t he p erfect f riend—one w ho never argued, never behaved tiresomely, never so much as v entured a disagreeable opinion. The door opened, the fire sputtered crossly at the disturbance, and Mamma str ode in to t he r oom, b lue skir ts swishin g. Ther e was a n agitation t o M amma’s ma nner t oday t hat p iqued Ros e’s in terest, something in t he set of her c hin that suggested her misgi vings about the project were greater and more varied than she had revealed. ‘Good morning, Rose,’ she s aid rather curtly. ‘Good morning, Mamma.’ ‘Allow me t o present your cousin,’ the slightest pause, ‘Eliza.’ And t hen, f rom s omewhere b ehind M amma’s skir ts, was t hrust forth the skinny sapling Rose had glimpsed from the window the day before. Rose couldn’t help it, she dr ew back a li ttle into t he s afe arms of her chair. Her gaze slid from top to bottom, taking in the child’s short, shaggy ha ir, t he g hastly a ttire (breeches!), her kn obbly knees a nd scuffed boots. The co usin said nothing, merely stared in a wide-e yed way Rose found exceptionally r ude. Mamma was r ight. This girl (f or surely she wasn ’t exp ected t o t hink o f her as a co usin!) had b een deprived of even the most basic ed ucation on manners. Rose r ecaptured her f lagging co mposure. ‘ How do y ou do? ’ H er tone was a li ttle w eak, b ut a no d f rom Mamma assur ed her t hat she had p erformed w ell. S he a waited a r eturn gr eeting, b ut no ne was forthcoming. Rose glanced at Mamma who indicated that she sho uld push on regardless. ‘And tell me, Cousin Eliza,’ she tried again, ‘are you enjoying your time here with us? ’ 233


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Eliza blinked at her as o ne might a c urious, foreign animal in t he London zoo, then nodded. Another s et o f f ootsteps in t he hall a nd Ros e was gra nted b rief respite f rom t he c hallenge o f summo ning u p f urther p leasantries t o converse with this strange, silent cousin. ‘I’m s orry t o in terrupt y ou, m y L ady,’ ca me M rs H opkins’s v oice from the door, ‘only Dr Matthews is downstairs in the morning room. He says he’s brought the new tincture you were asking after.’ ‘Have him le ave it for me, Mrs Hopkins. I ha ve other business to attend to at present.’ ‘Of course, my Lady, and I suggested as much to Dr Matthews, but he was most def inite about giving it to you himself.’ Mamma’s e yelashes p erformed t he s lightest o f f lutters, s o sub tle that only one whose life’s work had involved observation of her moods would have noticed. ‘Thank you, Mrs Hopkins,’ she said grimly. ‘Advise Dr Matthews that I will b e down directly.’ As Mrs Hopkins’s footsteps disappeared down the hallway, Mamma turned to the cousin and said, in a c lear, authoritative voice: ‘You will sit silently on the rug and listen carefully as Rose instructs you. Do not move. Do not speak. Do not touch a t hing.’ ‘But Mamma—’ Rose had no t expected to be left alone so soon. ‘Perhaps you will b egin your less ons by giving your cousin s ome guidance as t o proper dress.’ ‘Yes, Mamma.’ And then the billowing blue skir ts were receding again, the do or was c losed a nd t he room’s f ire ce ased spitting. Ros e met t he cousin’s gaze. They were alone together and the work would begin.

c ‘Put t hat down. Put it down at once.’ Things were not going at all as Rose had imagined. The girl would not listen, would not obey, did not fall into line even when Rose raised the threat of Mamma’s wrath. For five whole minutes now Eliza had been wandering around the nursery, picking t hings u p, in specting t hem, p utting t hem do wn aga in. N o doubt leaving sticky fingerprints everywhere. At this moment she was shaking the kaleidoscope that some great aunt or another had sent for 234


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Rose’s birthday one year. ‘That’s precious,’ Rose said sourly. ‘I insist that you leave it. You’re not even doing it right.’ Too la te, Ros e r ealised she had s aid t he wr ong t hing. N ow t he cousin was coming towards her, holding out the kaleidoscope. Coming so c lose Ros e co uld g limpse t he dir t b eneath her f ingernails, t he dreaded dirt that Mamma promised would make her ill . Rose was ho rrified. She shrank back against her c hair, head spinning. ‘No,’ she ma naged to say, ‘shoo. Get away.’ Eliza stopped at the arm of the chair, seemed about to perch herself right there on the velvet. ‘Get a way, I s aid!’ Ros e f lapped a pale , w eak ha nd. Did i t no t understand the Queen’s English? ‘You mustn’t sit right by me.’ ‘Why not?’ So it did have words. ‘You’ve been outside. You’re not clean. I could catch something.’ Rose collapsed back against the cushion. ‘I’m awfully dizzy now, and it’s all y our fault.’ ‘It’s no t m y fa ult,’ s aid E liza p lainly. N ot e ven t he tiniest no te o f proper supplication. ‘I’m dizzy t oo. It’s because this room’s as ho t as a furnace.’ She dizzy too? Rose was speechless. Dizziness was her own special weapon to deploy. And w hat was t he cousin doing now? She was o n her feet again, moving towards the nursery window. Rose watched, eyes wide with fear. Surely she didn’t intend to— ‘I’ll just get this open.’ Eliza jiggled the first lock loose. ‘Then we’ll be right.’ ‘No.’ Rose felt terror surge within her. ‘No!’ ‘You’ll feel much better.’ ‘But it’s winter. It’s come over all dark and cloudy outside. I mig ht catch a chill.’ Eliza shrugged. ‘You might not.’ Rose was so shocked by the girl’s cheek that indignation outweighed fear. She adopted Mamma’s voice. ‘I demand that you stop.’ Eliza wr inkled her nos e, s eemed t o b e dig esting t his in struction. As Rose held her breath, the cousin’s hands dropped from the window lock. She shrugged again, but the gesture was somehow less impertinent this time. As she wandered back towards the centre of the room, Rose thought she det ected a p leasing desp ondence in t he s et o f E liza’s 235


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shoulders. Finally, the girl stopped in the centre of the rug and pointed to t he c ylinder in Ros e’s la p. ‘ Can y ou sho w me ho w i t w orks? The telescope? I co uldn’t see through it.’ Rose exhaled , w eary, r elieved a nd incr easingly co nfused b y t his strange creature. Really, to have turned her a ttention back to the silly trinket a gain, j ust lik e th at! S till, th e co usin h ad b een o bedient a nd surely t hat des erved s ome small enco uragement . . . ‘First o f all ,’ she said p rimly, ‘ it’s no t a t elescope a t all . It’s a kaleidoscope. You’re n ot supposed to see through it. You look inside and the pattern changes.’ She held i t up and performed the action before laying the toy on the floor and rolling it towards her co usin. Eliza p icked i t u p a nd p ut i t t o her e ye, t urned t he end . A s t he pieces o f co loured g lass ra ttled t his wa y a nd t hat, her mo uth sp read into a wide smile , which broadened until she was la ughing. Rose blinked with surprise. She hadn’t heard much laughter before, only the servants occasionally when they thought she wasn’t near. The sound was lovely. A happy, light, girlish s ound, quite at odds with her cousin’s appearance. ‘Why do y ou wear those clothes?’ said Rose. Eliza continued to peer through the kaleidoscope. ‘Because they’re mine,’ she s aid eventually. ‘They belong to me.’ ‘They look as if t hey belong to a b oy.’ ‘Once upon a time t hey did. Now they’re mine.’ This was a surprise. Things were becoming more curious with each passing minute. ‘Which boy?’ There came no a nswer, just the jiggling of the kaleidoscope. ‘I said, which boy?’ A li ttle louder this time. Slowly, Eliza lowered the toy. ‘It’s very bad ma nners to ignore people, you know.’ ‘I’m not ignoring you,’ said Eliza. ‘Then why don’t you answer?’ Another shrug. ‘It’s rude to lift your shoulders like that. When someone speaks to you, you must provide t hem with an answer. Now tell me, w hy were you ignoring my question?’ Eliza lo oked u p a nd st ared a t her. A s Ros e wa tched, s omething seemed to change in her co usin’s face. A lig ht t hat hadn’t b een t here 236


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before seemed now to glow behind her e yes. ‘I didn’t speak, because I didn’t want her to know where I was.’ ‘Her who?’ Carefully, slowly, Eliza came a li ttle closer. ‘The Other Cousin.’ ‘What o ther co usin? ’ Re ally t he girl sp oke no s ense. Ros e was beginning t o t hink she tr uly was sim ple. ‘ I do n’t kno w w hat y ou’re talking about,’ she s aid. ‘There is no o ther cousin.’ ‘She’s a s ecret. They keep her lo cked upstairs.’ ‘You’re making it up. Why would anyone keep her a s ecret?’ ‘They kept me a s ecret, didn’t they?’ ‘They didn’t keep you locked upstairs.’ ‘That’s b ecause I wasn ’t da ngerous.’ E liza ti ptoed t o t he n ursery door, prised it open a crac k and peered outside. She gasped. ‘What?’ said Rose. ‘Shh!’ E liza held a f inger to her li ps. ‘We can’t let her kno w we’re in here.’ ‘Why?’ Rose’s eyes were wide. Eliza tiptoed back to the edge of Rose’s chair. The flickering firelight in the darkening room gave her face an eerie glow. ‘Our Other Cousin,’ she said, ‘is insane.’ ‘Mad?’ ‘As a hatter.’ Eliza lowered her voice so that Rose had to lean close to hear. ‘She’s been locked in the attic since she was small, but someone’s let her o ut.’ ‘Who?’ ‘One o f t he g hosts. The g host o f a n o ld w oman, a v ery fa t o ld woman.’ ‘Grandmamma,’ whispered Rose. ‘Shh!’ said Eliza. ‘Listen! Footsteps.’ Rose co uld f eel her p oor f eeble he art le aping lik e a f rog in her chest. Eliza jumped onto the arm of Rose’s chair. ‘She’s coming!’ The door opened and Rose screamed. Eliza grinned and Mamma gasped. ‘What are you doing up there, wicked girl?’ she hissed, gaze flitting from Eliza to Rose. ‘Young ladies do no t sit astride the furniture. You 237


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were t old no t t o mo ve.’ H er b reathing was lo ud. ‘Are y ou ha rmed, my Rose?’ Rose shook her he ad. ‘No, Mamma.’ For j ust a n in stant, M amma s eemed a t a ra re loss; Ros e almost feared that she might cry. Then she s eized Eliza by the upper arm and marched her t owards t he do or. ‘ Wicked girl! Y ou’ll ha ve no su pper tonight.’ A familiar steel had returned to her voice. ‘And no supper any night thereafter. Not until you learn to do as you are told. I am mistress of this house and you will obey me . . .’ The door closed and Rose sat alone once more. Wondering at this peculiar turn of events. The thrill of Eliza’s story, the curious enjoyable fear that had stalked up her spine, the terrible, wonderful spectre of the mad Other Cousin. But it was the crack that had appeared in Mamma’s usually cast-iron composure that intrigued Rose most of all. For in that moment, the stable borders of Rose’s world had s eemed to shift. All was no t as i t had b een. And t hat knowledge made Ros e’s heart thump—strongly now—with unexpected, unexplained, unadulterated joy.

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29 The Blackhurst Hotel, 2005 Cornwall, 2005

T

he colours were different here. Cassandra had ne ver realised how sharp t he Australian g lare was un til she met t he g entle C ornish light. She wondered how she’d go about replicating it in watercolours, surprised herself for having wondered. She took a bite of buttery toast and chewed thoughtfully, looked at the line o f trees that stood on the cliff edg e. Closin g o ne e ye, she lif ted her index f inger t o trace alo ng their tops. A shadow fell across her t able and t here was a v oice r ight b eside her. ‘Cassandra? C assandra Ryan? ’ A w oman in her e arly sixties was standing b y t he t able, sil ver-blonde a nd sha pely, wi th e ye mak eup whose application had left no corner of the shadow compact unexplored. ‘I’m Julia Bennett, I own the Blackhurst Hotel.’ Cassandra wiped a buttery finger on her napkin and shook hands. ‘Nice to meet y ou.’ Julia indicated the vacant chair. ‘Mind if I . . . ?’ ‘Of course not, please.’ Julia s at do wn a nd C assandra wa ited uncer tainly, w ondering whether t his was pa rt o f t he p ersonalised s ervice t hreatened in t he brochure. ‘I hope you’re enjoying your stay with us.’ ‘It’s a lovely spot.’ Julia lo oked a t her a nd smiled s o t hat dim ples a ppeared in e ach cheek. ‘You know, I ca n s ee your grandmother in y ou. But I b et you hear that all the time.’ 239


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Behind C assandra’s p olite smile , a f lock o f q uestions r esisted shepherding. How did t his stranger know who she was? H ow did she know Nell? How had she p ut the two of them together? Julia la ughed a nd le aned f orward co nspiratorially. ‘A li ttle b irdie told me t he Australian girl w ho’d inher ited t he co ttage was in t own. Tregenna is a small p lace, you sneeze o n the Sharpstone cliff and the fellows in t he harbour know all a bout it.’ Cassandra r ealised w ho t he b ird in q uestion was. ‘ Robyn Jameson.’ ‘She was her e y esterday, tr ying t o enlist me f or t he f estival committee,’ said Julia. ‘Couldn’t resist imparting the local comings and goings while she was a t it. I p ut two and two together and connected you with t he lad y w ho ca me t o call s ome t hirty y ears ag o, s aved my skin by taking the cottage off my hands. I always wondered when your grandmother w ould return, k ept a n e ye o ut f or her f or s ome time . I liked her. She was a stra ight shooter, wasn’t she? ’ The des cription was s o acc urate t hat C assandra co uldn’t hel p wondering what Nell had s aid or done to earn it. ‘You know, the first time I met your grandmother, she was hanging from a rather thick wisteria near the front entrance.’ ‘Really?’ Cassandra’s eyes widened. ‘She’d scaled the front wall and was having difficulty getting down on t he o ther side . L ucky f or her I ’d j ust had a n a rgument wi th m y husband Richard, number ninety-seven for the day, and I was stalking around the grounds trying to cool down. I hate to think how long she’d have been hanging there otherwise.’ ‘She was tr ying to see the house?’ Julia nodded. ‘Said she was an antiques dealer interested in Victoriana and wondered if she co uld take a p eek inside.’ Cassandra felt a fierce flame of affection for Nell as she imagined her scaling walls and telling half-truths, refusing to take no for an answer. ‘I told her she was welcome to come in, just as soon as she’d finished swinging f rom my cr eepers!’ Julia laughed. ‘ The ho use was in p retty poor condition, it’d b een roundly neg lected for decades b y t hen, and Rick a nd I had disma ntled t hings t o t he p oint t hat t hey lo oked fa r worse than they had done to begin with, but she didn’t seem to mind. 240


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She walked through, stopping at each and every room. It was lik e she was trying to commit them to memory.’ Or retrieve t hem f rom memory. C assandra wondered how much Nell had told Julia about the reason for her interest. ‘Did you show her the cottage too?’ ‘No, b ut I sur e as hell men tioned i t t o her. Then I cr ossed m y fingers and everything else I could manage to cross.’ She laughed. ‘We were t hat desp erate f or a b uyer! We w ere g oing b roke j ust as sur ely as if we’d d ug a ho le b eneath t he ho use a nd t ossed e very last p ound into it. We’d had the cottage on the market for a while, you see. Almost sold i t twice t o L ondoners lo oking f or a ho liday ho me, b ut b oth contracts fell through. Rotten luck. We dropped the price but there was no way we could get a local to buy it, not for love nor money. Spectacular views and no o ne interested because of some silly old rumours.’ ‘Robyn told me.’ ‘As fa r as I ca n s ee, t here’s s omething wr ong wi th y our ho use in Cornwall if it isn’t haunted,’ said Julia lightly. ‘We’ve got our very own ghost at the hotel. But you already know that, I he ar you met her t he other night?’ Cassandra’s p uzzlement m ust ha ve sho wn o n her face , f or J ulia continued, ‘Samantha on the front desk told me you reported a key in your door?’ ‘Oh,’ s aid C assandra, ‘yeah. I t hought it was a nother guest, b ut it must’ve been the wind. I didn’t mean to cause any—’ ‘That’s her all r ight, t hat’s our g host.’ Julia laughed at C assandra’s expression of perplexity. ‘Oh, now, don’t you be alarmed, she won’t do you any harm. She’s not an unfriendly ghost exactly. I wouldn’t keep an unfriendly ghost.’ Cassandra had t he f eeling t hat J ulia was p ulling her leg. All t he same, she’d heard more talk of ghosts since she ’d arrived in C ornwall than she had since she was tw elve y ears o ld a nd w ent t o her f irst slumber party. ‘I suppose every old house needs o ne,’ she v entured. ‘Precisely,’ said Julia. ‘People expect it. I’d have had to invent one if there hadn’t been one here already. A hist oric hotel like this . . . Why, a resident ghost is as im portant to guests as c lean towels.’ She leaned forward. ‘Ours even has a name. Rose Mountrachet: she and her family used to live here, back at the start of the twentieth century. Well, before 241


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that if you consider the family went back hundreds of years. That’s her in the picture hanging by the bookcase in the foyer, the young woman with pale skin a nd dark hair. Have you seen it?’ Cassandra shook her he ad. ‘Oh, you must,’ said Julia. ‘It’s a John Singer Sargent, painted a few years after he did t he Wyndham sisters.’ ‘Really?’ Cassandra’s skin co oled. ‘An actual John Singer Sargent?’ Julia laughed. ‘Incredible, isn’t it? Another of the house’s secrets. I didn’t realise its value myself until a few years ago. We had a f ellow out from Christie’s to look at another painting and he spotted it. I call it my nest egg, not that I could ever bear to part with it. Such a beauty was our Rose, and such a tragic lif e! A delica te child who overcame ill health only to die at twenty-four in a dreadful accident.’ She sighed romantically. ‘Have you finished your breakfast? Come with me and I’ll show you the painting.’

c Rose M ountrachet a t eig hteen was fa ir indeed: w hite skin, a c loud of da rk ha ir sw ept bac k in a lo ose b raid, a nd t he f ull b osom s o fashionable in t he p eriod. Sa rgent was r enowned f or his a bility t o discern and capture the personality of his sitters, and Rose’s gaze was soulful. Red li ps r elaxed in r epose b ut e yes t hat r emained wa tchful, fixed on the artist. It was a s eriousness of expression that fitted with what C assandra imagined o f a girl w ho’d sp ent her en tire childhood imprisoned by ill health. She leaned closer. The portrait’s composition was interesting. Rose was seated on a sofa, a book in her lap. The sofa was angled away from the frame so that Rose was in t he right-hand foreground and behind her was a wall pa pered in gr een but with little other det ail. The wa y the wall was r endered gave it a sense of being pale and feathery, more impressionistic than the realism for which Sargent was kno wn. It was not unhe ard o f f or Sa rgent t o us e suc h t echniques, b ut t his s eemed somehow lighter than his o ther work, less c areful. ‘She was a b eauty, wasn’t she? ’ said Julia, sashaying over from the reception desk. 242


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Cassandra nodded distractedly. The date on the painting was 1907, not long before he swore off portraiture. Perhaps he had been growing tired of rendering the faces o f the wealthy even then. ‘I see she’s worked her sp ell on you. Now you know why I was s o keen to enlist her as o ur ghost.’ She laughed, then noticed Cassandra hadn’t. ‘Are you all r ight? You look a li ttle peaky. Glass o f water?’ Cassandra sho ok her he ad. ‘ No, no , I ’m f ine t hanks. It’s j ust t he painting . . .’ S he p ressed her li ps t ogether, he ard her self s ay, ‘ Rose Mountrachet was my great-grandmother.’ Julia’s eyebrows leapt. ‘I only found out recently.’ Cassandra smiled at Julia, embarrassed. No ma tter t hat i t was t he tr uth, she f elt lik e a n ac tor sp eaking s oap opera lines, bad s oap opera lines. ‘ I’m sorry. This is t he first time I ’ve seen a p icture of her. It all f eels very real suddenly.’ ‘Oh my dear,’ said Julia, ‘I hate to be the one to break it to you but I’m a fraid y ou m ust b e mist aken. Ros e co uldn’t b e y our gr eatgrandmother. S he co uldn’t b e a nyone’s gr eat-grandmother. H er o nly child died wh en she was practically still a ba by.’ ‘Of scarlet fever.’ ‘Poor li ttle c herub, f our y ears o ld—’ S he lo oked side ways a t Cassandra. ‘If you know about t he s carlet fever, you must know t hat Rose’s daughter died.’ ‘I kno w p eople t hink t hat, b ut I als o kno w i t’s no t w hat r eally happened. It can’t be.’ ‘I’ve s een t he he adstone in t he es tate cemet ery,’ s aid J ulia g ently. ‘Sweetest lines o f poetry, so sad. I ca n show it to you if y ou’d like.’ Cassandra could feel her c heeks flushing as t hey always did w hen she sensed the outskirts of disagreement. ‘There may be a he adstone, but there’s no little girl b uried there. Not Ivory Walker at any rate.’ Julia’s expression vacillated between interest and concern. ‘Go on.’ ‘When my grandmother was twenty-one, she found out her parents weren’t really her pa rents.’ ‘She was ado pted?’ ‘Sort of. She was found on a wharf in Australia when she was four years o ld, wi th no thing b ut a c hild’s sui tcase. It wasn’t un til she was sixty-five that her dad finally gave her the case and she was able to start searching f or inf ormation a bout her past. S he ca me t o En gland a nd 243


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spoke wi th p eople a nd r esearched, a nd all t he w hile she k ept a journal.’ Julia smiled knowingly. ‘Which you have now.’ ‘Exactly. Tha t’s ho w I kno w she f ound o ut t hat Ros e’s da ughter didn’t die. She was kidnapped.’ Julia’s b lue e yes s earched C assandra’s face . Her c heeks had t aken on a sudden f lush. ‘But if that were the case, wouldn’t there have been a s earch? Wouldn’t i t ha ve b een all o ver t he ne wspapers? L ike w hat happened with the Lindbergh boy?’ ‘Not if t he family kept it quiet.’ ‘Why would they have done that? They’d have wanted everyone to know, surely?’ Cassandra was shakin g her he ad. ‘ Not if t hey wa nted t o a void scandal. The w oman w ho t ook her was t he wa rd o f L ord a nd L ady Mountrachet, Rose’s cousin.’ Julia gasped. ‘Eliza took Rose’s daughter?’ It was C assandra’s turn to look surprised. ‘You know of Eliza?’ ‘Of co urse, she’s q uite fa mous in t hese pa rts.’ Julia swallo wed. ‘ Let me get this straight. You think Eliza took Rose’s daughter to Australia?’ ‘Put her o n the boat to Australia but didn’t go herself. Eliza went missing s omewhere b etween L ondon a nd M aryborough. W hen m y great-grandfather found Nell, she was all by herself on the wharf. That’s why he t ook her ho me, he co uldn’t leave a c hild that age alone.’ Julia was c licking her t ongue. ‘ To t hink of a li ttle girl a bandoned like t hat. Your p oor grandmother, t errible not t o know one’s origins. Certainly explains her e agerness to take a lo ok at this place.’ ‘That’s w hy N ell b ought t he co ttage,’ s aid C assandra. ‘ Once she discovered who she was, she wa nted to own a p iece of her past.’ ‘Of course.’ Julia lifted her ha nds then dropped them again. ‘That part makes perfect sense, I j ust don’t know about the rest.’ ‘What do y ou mean?’ ‘Well, even if w hat you say is co rrect, if Ros e’s daughter sur vived, was kidna pped, w ound u p in A ustralia, I j ust ca n’t b elieve E liza had anything to do wi th it. Rose and Eliza were so close. More like sisters than cousins, the very best of friends.’ She paused, seemed to run the equation o nce mo re t hrough her mind , t hen exhaled decisi vely. ‘ No, I just can’t believe Eliza capable of such betrayal.’ 244


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Julia’s faith in E liza’s innocence didn’t seem that of a dispassionate observer dis cussing a hist orical h ypothetical. ‘ What mak es y ou s o certain?’ Julia indicated a pair of wicker chairs arranged in the bay window. ‘Come, sit for a mo ment. I’ll have Samantha organise some tea.’ Cassandra glanced at her watch. Her appointment with the gardener was dra wing ne ar b ut she was c urious a bout J ulia’s str ength o f conviction, the way she sp oke of Eliza and Rose as o ne might of dear friends. S he s at in t he p roffered c hair w hile J ulia mo uthed ‘ Tea? ’ in Samantha’s glazed direction. As Sa mantha dis appeared, J ulia co ntinued: ‘ When w e b ought Blackhurst it was in a complete mess. We’d always dreamed of running a place like this but the reality resembled something out of a nightmare. You have no idea how much can go wrong in a house this size. It took us three years to make any headway at all. We worked solidly, nearly lost our marriage in the process. Nothing like rising damp and endless holes in t he roof to drive a co uple apart.’ Cassandra smiled. ‘I can imagine.’ ‘It’s sad really. The house was lived in and loved by the one family for so long, but in the twentieth century, particularly after the first war, it was virtually abandoned. Rooms were boarded up, fireplaces sealed, not to mention the damage done by the army when they were here in the forties. ‘We s ank e very p enny we had in to t he house. I was a wr iter way back when, a series of romantic novels in the sixties. Not exactly Jackie Collins, but I did all r ight. My husband was in ba nking and we were confident we had enough to get this place up and running.’ She laughed. ‘Huge underestimation. Huge. By our third Christmas, we’d almost run out of money and had little to show for it other than a marriage hanging by a f ew t hreads. We’d alr eady s old most o f t he smaller pa rts o f t he estate and by Christmas Eve 1974 w e were just about ready to throw in the towel, head back to London with our tails between our legs.’ Samantha a ppeared wi th a he avily loaded tra y, jo lted i t o nto t he table then hesitated before reaching for the teapot handle. ‘I can pour it myself, Sam,’ said Julia, waving her away with a laugh. ‘I’m not the Queen. Well not yet.’ She winked at Cassandra. ‘Sugar?’ ‘Please.’ 245


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Julia handed a cup of tea to Cassandra, took a sip of her own, then resumed her st ory. ‘It was f reezing cold that Christmas Eve. A st orm had blown in o ff t he s ea and was t errorising t he he adland. We’d lost power, o ur t urkey was g oing o ff in a wa rm f ridge, a nd w e co uldn’t remember where we’d put the new batch of candles. We were hunting in o ne o f t he u pstairs r ooms w hen a f lash o f lig htning ba thed t he room in lig ht and the two of us no ticed the wall.’ She rubbed her li ps together in a nticipation of her o wn punchline. ‘In the wall, there was a hole.’ ‘Like a mo use hole?’ ‘No, a s quare hole.’ Cassandra frowned uncertainly. ‘A little cavity in the stone,’ said Julia. ‘The sort of thing I dreamed of as a kid w henever my brother found my diaries. It had been hidden behind a tapestry that the painter pulled down earlier in the week.’ She took a large slurp of tea before continuing. ‘I know it sounds silly, but finding t hat hide y-hole was lik e a g ood-luck c harm. Almost lik e t he house itself was s aying, “All right, you’ve been here long enough with your banging and clanging. You’ve proved your intentions are true, so you can stay.” And I t ell you, from that night onwards things seemed easier somehow. Started to go right more often than they went wrong. Your grandmother turned up for one thing, eager to buy Cliff Cottage, a f ellow na med B obby B lake b egan b ringing t he ga rden bac k t o lif e and a co uple of coach companies started bussing tourists in f or afternoon teas.’ She was smilin g a t t he memo ry a nd C assandra almos t f elt bad for interrupting. ‘But what was i t you found? What was in t he hideyhole?’ Julia blinked at her. ‘Was it something belonging to Rose?’ ‘Yes,’ s aid Julia, swallo wing a n ex cited smile . ‘ Yes i t was. T ied u p with a r ibbon was a co llection of scrapbooks. One f or each year from 1900 up until 1913.’ ‘Scrapbooks?’ ‘Plenty of young ladies used to keep them back then. It was a hobby wholeheartedly approved of by the powers that were—one of the few! A form of s elf-expression in w hich a y oung lady mig ht b e p ermitted 246


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indulgence without fears that she’d lost her soul to the devil.’ She smiled fondly. ‘ Oh, Ros e’s s crapbooks a re no dif ferent f rom a ny o ther y ou might find in museums or attics all across the country—they’re full of pieces o f fa bric, sk etches, p ictures, in vitations, li ttle a necdotes—but when I found them I so identified with this young woman from almost a century before, her hopes and dreams and disappointments, that I’ve had a s oft spot for her e ver since. I t hink of her as a n angel, watching over us.’ ‘Are the scrapbooks still here?’ A guil ty no d. ‘ I kno w I sho uld do nate t hem t o a m useum o r t o one of those local history mobs, but I’m rather superstitious and can’t bear to part with them. For a li ttle while I p ut them on display in t he lounge, in one of the glass cabinets, but every time I ca ught a g limpse I f elt a wa ve o f sha me, as if I ’d t aken s omething p rivate a nd made it p ublic. I ha ve t hem st ored in a b ox in m y r oom no w, f or wa nt o f somewhere better.’ ‘I’d love to see them.’ ‘Of co urse y ou w ould, m y de ar. And s o y ou shall .’ J ulia smiled brilliantly a t C assandra. ‘ I’m exp ecting a gr oup b ooking in t he next half-hour and Robyn’s got the rest of my week stitched up with festival arrangements. Can we say dinner, Friday night, up in m y apartment? Rick will be away in London so we’ll have a real girls’ night. Pore over Rose’s scrapbooks and have ourselves a good old weep. How does that sound?’ ‘Great,’ said Cassandra, smiling a li ttle uncertainly. It was t he first time anyone had e ver invited her a nywhere for a cr y.

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areful not to alter her p osition on the sofa and incur the portrait artist’s wra th, Ros e allo wed her gaze t o dr op s o she co uld lo ok upon the most recent page of her scrapbook. She’d been working on it all week, whenever Mr Sargent had allo wed them a r est from posing. There was a piece of the pale pink satin from which her birthday dress had been sewn, a ribbon from her hair, and at the bottom, in her b est hand, she’d written out the lines f rom a p oem by Lord Tennyson: But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or a t the casement seen her stand? Or is s he known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott? How Ros e iden tified wi th t he L ady o f S halott! C ursed t o sp end eternity in her c hamber, f orced al ways t o exp erience t he w orld a t one remove. F or hadn’t she , Ros e, sp ent most o f her lif e simila rly interred? But not any more. Rose had made a decision: no longer would she be shac kled b y t he mo rbid p rognoses o f Dr M atthews, t he ho vering concern of Mamma. Though still delicate, Rose had learned that frailty begot f railty, t hat no thing ca used lig ht-headedness s o sur ely as da y after day of stifling confinement. She was going to open windows when she was hot—she might catch a chill, but then again she might not. She was going to live with every expectation of marrying, having children, growing o ld. And a t lo ng last, o n t he o ccasion o f her eig hteenth birthday, Ros e was t o lo ok down on C amelot. B etter t han t hat, walk through C amelot. F or a fter y ears o f p leading, M amma had f inally consented: t oday, f or t he f irst time , Ros e was t o acco mpany E liza t o the Blackhurst cove. 248


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Ever since she’d arrived seven years before, Eliza had been bringing back tales from the cove. When Rose was lying in her warm dark room, breathing the stale air of her la test illness, E liza would burst through the door so that Rose could almost smell the sea on her skin. She would climb in beside Rose and put a shell, or a powdery cuttlefish, or a little piece of shingle in her hand, and then she would begin her story. And in her mind, Rose would see the blue sea, feel the warm breeze in her hair, the hot sand beneath her f eet. Some of the tales Eliza invented, some she learned elsewhere. Mary, the maid, had b rothers who were f ishermen, and Rose suspected she enjoyed chatting when she should be working. Not to Rose, of course, but Eliza was different. All the servants treated Eliza differently. Quite improperly, almost as if t hey fancied themselves her f riends. Just la tely Ros e had b egun t o s uspect t hat E liza was v enturing beyond the estate, had ma ybe even spoken with a villag er or two, for her tales had t aken on a ne w edge. They were rich with the specifics of boats and sailing, mermaids and treasures, adventures across the sea, told in co lourful language that Rose secretly savoured; and there was a more expansive look in their teller’s eyes, as if she’d tasted the wicked things of which she sp oke. One thing was cer tain, Mamma would be livid to learn that Eliza had b een into the village, mixed with common folk. It riled Mamma enough t hat E liza s poke wi th t he s ervants—for t hat fac t alo ne Ros e was able to b ear E liza’s f riendship with Mary. If Mamma were to ask Eliza where she went, certainly Eliza wouldn’t lie, though what Mamma could do Rose wasn’t sure. In all the years of trying, Mamma had been unable to find a p unishment that deterred Eliza. The threat of being considered improper meant nothing to Eliza. Being sent to the cupboard beneath the stairs only gave her time a nd quiet t o in vent mo re st ories. D enying her ne w dr esses—punishment indeed for Rose—garnered nary a sig h: Eliza was more than happy to wear Rose’s cast-offs. When it came to punishments, she was lik e the heroine from one of her own stories, protected by a fa iry charm. Watching Mamma’s thwarted attempts to discipline Eliza gave Rose illicit p leasure. E ach b id was met wi th a b lank b lue-eyed b link, a carefree shr ug a nd a n una ffected, ‘ Yes, A unt’. A s if E liza g enuinely hadn’t r ealised her b ehaviour mig ht ca use o ffence. The shr ug in 249


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particular drove Mamma to fury. She had long ago released Rose from any expectation that she mig ht shape Eliza into a p roper young lady, was p leased eno ugh t hat Ros e had succeeded in co nvincing E liza t o dress appropriately. (Rose had accep ted Mamma’s praise and silenced the little voice whispering that Eliza had shed t he tatty breeches only when she no lo nger fitted them.) There was s omething broken inside Eliza, Mamma said, like a piece of mirror in a telescope that prevented it f rom f unctioning p roperly. P revented her f rom f eeling p roper shame. As if she read Rose’s thoughts, Eliza shifted beside her on the sofa. They h ad been si tting s till f or alm ost a n h our a nd r esistance wa s emanating from Eliza’s body. Numerous times Mr Sargent had needed to remind her to stop frowning, to hold a position, while he amended part of his painting. Rose had heard him telling Mamma the day before that he’d have been finished already, only the girl with hair afire refused to sit still long enough for him to capture her expression. Mamma had shi vered dist astefully w hen he s aid t hat. S he w ould have preferred that Rose were Mr Sargent’s sole subject, but Rose had put her foot down. Eliza was her cousin, her only friend, of course she must b e in t he p ortrait. And t hen Ros e had co ughed a li ttle, e yeing Mamma from beneath her lashes, a nd the matter had b een closed. And al though t he small ic y pa rt o f Ros e s avoured M amma’s displeasure, her insistence on Eliza’s inclusion had been heartfelt. Rose had ne ver had a f riend b efore E liza. The o pportunity had ne ver presented itself, and even if it had, what use did a girl no t long for life have f or f riends? L ike most c hildren w hom cir cumstance has accustomed to suffering, Rose had found she shared little in common with other girls her age. She had no interest in rolling hoops or tidying dolls’ ho uses, a nd b ecame q uickly b ored w hen faced wi th w earying conversations as t o her favourite colour, number or song. But Eliza was not like other little girls. Rose had known that on the first da y t hey met. E liza had a wa y o f s eeing t he w orld t hat was frequently surprising, of doing things that were completely unexpected. Things that Mamma couldn’t bear. The best thing about Eliza, though, even better than her ability to rile Mamma, was her st orytelling. She knew so many wonderful tales the likes of which Rose had never heard. Frightening stories that made 250


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Rose’s skin prickle and her feet perspire. About the Other Cousin, and the London river, and a wicked Bad Man with a glinting knife. And of course her tale about the black ship that haunted the Blackhurst cove. Even t hough Ros e kne w it to b e another of E liza’s f ictions, she lo ved to hear the story told. The phantom ship that appeared on the horizon, the ship that Eliza claimed to have seen and had spent many a summer’s day in t he cove hoping to see again. The one t hing Ros e had ne ver b een a ble t o g et E liza t o t ell t ales about was her brother, Sammy. She’d let slip his name only once but had clammed up immediately w hen Ros e probed f urther. It was M amma who informed Rose that Eliza had been a twin, had once had a brother cut from the same cloth, a b oy who had died in a tragic wa y. Over t he years, w hen she was l ying alone in b ed, Ros e had lik ed to imagine his death, this little boy whose loss had done the impossible: robbed E liza t he st oryteller o f w ords. ‘ Sammy’s D eath’ had r eplaced ‘Georgiana’s Es cape’ as Ros e’s da ydream o f c hoice. S he’d imagined him drowning, she’d imagined him fallin g, a nd she’d imagined him wasting away, t he p oor little b oy w ho had co me b efore her in E liza’s affections. ‘Sit still,’ said Mr Sargent, pointing his paintbrush in Eliza’s direction. ‘Stop wriggling. You’re worse than Lady Asquith’s corgi.’ Rose b linked, was ca reful no t t o let her exp ression c hange w hen she realised that Father had entered the room. He was standing behind Mr Sa rgent’s e asel, wa tching in tently as t he a rtist w orked. F rowning and til ting his he ad, t he b etter t o f ollow t he b rushstrokes. Ros e was surprised, she had never imagined her father had an interest in the fine arts. The o nly t hing f or w hich she kne w him t o b ear f ondness was photography, b ut e ven t hat he ma naged t o mak e d ull. N ever p hotographing p eople, o nly b ugs a nd p lants a nd b ricks. Yet her e he was, transfixed by his daughter’s portrait. Rose sat a little taller. Only twice in her c hildhood had Ros e b een granted opportunity to observe her father at close quarters. The first instance was when she swallowed t he t himble a nd F ather had b een called u pon t o t ake t he photograph for Dr Matthews. The s econd had no t been so felicitous. She’d been hiding. Dr M atthews was exp ected and the nine-yearold Rose had taken it into her head she didn’t feel like seeing him. She’d 251


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found the one place Mamma would never think to seek her : Father’s darkroom. There was a ca vity b eneath t he b ig desk a nd Ros e had t aken a pillow to keep herself comfortable. And f or the most pa rt she was: if only the room hadn’t had such a ghastly smell, like the cleaning lotions the servants used during the spring clean. She had been there for fifteen minutes or so when the door to the room opened. A t hin beam of light passed through a tin y hole in t he centre of a tim ber knot at the back of the desk. Ros e held her b reath and pressed her eye against the hole, dreading the sight of Mamma and Dr Matthews coming for her. But it wasn’t Mamma or the doctor holding the door open, it was Father, dressed in his lo ng black travelling cloak. Rose’s throat constricted. Without ever having been properly told, she knew that the threshold to Father’s darkroom was o ne she sho uld not cross. Father st ood f or a mo ment, silho uetted b lack aga inst t he b right outside. Then in he ca me, peeling off his coat and discarding it on an armchair just as Tho mas appeared, mortification paling his c heeks. ‘Your L ordship,’ Tho mas s aid, ca tching his b reath, ‘ we w eren’t expecting you until next—’ ‘My plans were changed.’ ‘Cook is p reparing luncheon, my Lord,’ said Thomas, lighting the gas lamps on the wall. ‘I’ll lay for two and tell Lady Mountrachet that you’ve returned.’ ‘No.’ The suddenness wi th w hich t his command was issued ca used Rose’s breath to catch. Thomas t urned a bruptly t owards F ather a nd t he ma tch b etween his gloved fingers extinguished, victim of the sudden c hill. ‘No,’ s aid F ather a gain. ‘ The jo urney was lo ng, Tho mas. I need to rest.’ ‘A tray, sir? ’ ‘And a deca nter of sherry.’ Thomas no dded, t hen dis appeared t hrough t he do or, f ootsteps fading down the hall. 252


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Rose could hear a thumping. She pressed her ear against the desk, wondering w hether s omething in t he dra wer, s ome m ysterious i tem belonging t o F ather, was tic king. Then she r ealised i t was her o wn heart, pounding a wa rning against her c hest. Jumping for its life. But t here was no es cape. N ot w hile F ather s at in his a rmchair, blocking the door. And so Rose, too, continued to sit, knees p ulled tight against the traitorous heart which threatened to give her away. It was the only time she co uld remember being alone with Father. She noticed how his presence filled the room so that a space, previously benign, now s eemed charged with emotions and feelings Ros e didn’t understand. Dull footsteps on the rug, then a h eavy masculine exhalation that made the hairs on her a rms stand on end. ‘Where a re y ou? ’ F ather s aid s oftly, t hen aga in f rom b etween clenched teeth. ‘Where are you?’ Rose caught her breath and kept it prisoner behind tight lips. Was he speaking to her? Had her all-knowing father somehow divined that she was hidden w here she sho uld not be? A sigh from Father—sorrow? love? weariness?—and then ‘poupee’. So softly, so quietly, a broken word from a broken man. Rose had been learning F rench f rom M iss T ranton, a nd she kne w w hat poupee meant—little baby doll. ‘Poupee,’ Father said again. ‘Where are you, my Georgiana?’ Rose released her b reath. Relie ved t hat he had no t dis cerned her presence, aggrieved that such soft tones did no t describe her na me. And, as she p ressed her c heek aga inst t he desk, Ros e p romised herself that one day someone would speak her na me that way . . . ‘Put y our ha nd do wn!’ M r Sa rgent was exasp erated no w. ‘ If y ou continue to move it, I’ll paint you with three and that’s how you’ll be remembered evermore.’ Eliza heaved a sig h, knotted her ha nds behind her bac k. Rose’s e yes w ere g lazed f rom ho lding t he o ne p osition a nd she blinked a f ew times. F ather had lef t t he r oom no w, b ut his p resence lingered, the same unhappy feeling that always trailed after him. 253


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Rose let her gaze r est o nce mo re o n her s crapbook. The fa bric was suc h a p retty shade o f p ink, o ne she kne w w ould sui t her da rk hair well. Throughout her y ears of sickness, t here was o nly one t hing Ros e had e ver wa nted a nd t hat was t o gr ow u p. To es cape t he b ounds o f childhood a nd li ve, as M illy The ale had p ut i t s o p erfectly in Ros e’s favourite book, however briefly and brokenly. She longed to fall in love, to marry, to have children. To leave Blackhurst and begin a life all her own. Away from this house, away from this sofa that Mamma insisted she recline upon e ven w hen she f elt quite well. ‘Rose’s s ofa,’ Mamma called it. ‘Put a new throw rug on Rose’s sofa. Something that will pick up the paleness of her skin, mak e her ha ir look shinier.’ And the day of her escape was drawing near, Rose knew it. At long last Mamma had agr eed t hat Ros e was w ell enough to meet a sui tor. Over t he pas t f ew mo nths, M amma had a rranged l uncheons wi th a procession of eligible young (and not so young!) men. They’d all been fools—Eliza had en tertained Ros e f or ho urs a fter e ach visi t wi th her re-enactments and impersonations—but it was g ood practice. For the perfect gentleman was out there somewhere, waiting for her. He would be nothing like Father, he w ould be an artist, with an artist’s sense of beauty and possibility, who didn’t care two whits about bricks and bugs. Who was o pen and easy to read, whose passions and dreams brought light to his e yes. And he w ould love her, and only her. Beside her, Eliza huffed impatiently. ‘Really, Mr Sargent,’ she s aid. ‘I should paint myself faster.’ Her husband would b e like E liza, Ros e realised, a smile p ulling at her placid expression. The gentleman she sought was the male incarnation of her co usin.

c And f inally t heir ca ptor s et t hem f ree. Tennyson was r ight, t o r ust unburnished was inconceivably dull. Eliza hurried out of the ridiculous dress Aunt Adeline had in sisted u pon f or t he p ortrait. It was o ne o f Rose’s from a season ago—lace that itched, satin that clung, and a shade of red that made Eliza feel like strawberry pulp. Such a pointless waste of time , losin g a mo rning t o a gr umpy o ld ma n in tent o n ca pturing 254


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their imag es s o t hat t hey t oo co uld b e hung, lo nely a nd st atic, u pon some chilly wall. Eliza hopped down on ha nds a nd kne es a nd p eered b eneath her bed. Lifted the corner of the f loorboard she’d lo osened long ago. She reached her hand inside and pulled out the story ‘The Changeling’. Ran her hand across the black and white cover, felt the ripples of her o wn penmanship beneath her f ingertips. It was D avies who had sug gested she p ut her t ales to paper. She’d been helping him p lant new roses when a gr ey and white bird with a striped tail had f lown to a low bough nearby. ‘Cuckoo,’ s aid D avies. ‘ Winters in Af rica b ut r eturns her e in t he spring.’ ‘I wish I were a bird,’ said Eliza. ‘Then I should simply run towards the c liff t op and g lide over t he edge. All t he way t o Af rica, or India. Or Australia.’ ‘Australia?’ It was t he destina tion t hat c urrently held her imagina tion in i ts grip. M ary’s eldest b rother, P atrick, had emigra ted r ecently wi th his young family to a p lace called M aryborough, where his Aunt Eleanor had s ettled s ome y ears b efore. D espite t his fa mily co nnection, M ary liked to t hink t he name had als o swayed his c hoice, and could often be probed for details of the exotic land, floating in a fa r-off ocean on the other side of the globe. Eliza had found Australia on the schoolroom map, a s trange, giant continent in t he Southern Ocean with two ears, one pointed, one broken. ‘I know a f ellow went to Australia,’ said Davies, pausing a min ute in his p lanting. ‘Got himself a fa rm of a t housand acres and couldn’t get a t hing to grow.’ Eliza bit her lip and tasted excitement. This extremism was in line with her own impression of the place. ‘They’ve got a giant sort of rabbit there, Mary says. Kangaroos, they call t hem. Feet as lo ng as a gr own man’s leg!’ ‘I don’t know what you’d do with yourself in a place like that, Miss Eliza. Nor Africa nor India neither.’ Eliza kne w exac tly w hat she ’d do . ‘ I’m g oing t o co llect st ories. Ancient stories that no o ne here has he ard before. I’ll be just like the Brothers Grimm I was t elling you about.’ 255


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Davies frowned. ‘Why you’d want to be like your pair of grim old German fellows is b eyond me. You should be writing down your own stories, not those belonging to others.’ And so she had. She’d begun by writing a story for Rose, a birthday gift, a fairy story about a princess who was turned by magic into a bird. It was the first story she’d ever trapped on paper, and to see her thoughts and ideas turned concrete was curious. It made her skin seem unusually sensitive, stra ngely exp osed a nd vulnera ble. B reezes w ere co oler, t he sun wa rmer. S he co uldn’t decide w hether t he s ensation was o ne she liked or loathed. But Rose had al ways loved Eliza’s stories and Eliza had no gr eater gift to give, thus was i t the perfect choice. For in t he years since E liza had been plucked from her lonely London life and transplanted to the grand and mysterious Blackhurst, Rose had become a soul mate. She’d laughed a nd lo nged wi th E liza, a nd grad ually co me t o f ill t he space where Sammy once had lo dged, the dark empty hole belonging to all single twins. In return, there was no thing Eliza would not do o r give or write for Rose.

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THE CHANGELING by Eliza Makepeace

n the olden time, when magic lived and breathed, there was a Queen who longed for a child. She was a sad Queen, for the King was oft away, leaving her with little to do but dwell upon her own loneliness, and wonder how it was that her husband, whom she loved so well, could bear to be parted from her so long and so often. It happened that many years before, the King had stolen the throne from its rightful ruler, the Fairy Queen, and the beautiful, peaceful land of Fairy had overnight become a desolate place in which magic no longer flourished and laughter was banished. So wrathful was the King that he determined to capture the Fairy Queen and force her back to the kingdom. A golden cage was prepared specially that he might imprison the Fairy Queen and impel her to make magic for his pleasure. One winter’s day, while the King was away, the Queen sat by an open window, gazing out across the snow-laden ground. She was weeping as she sat, for the desolation of the winter months had a habit of reminding the Queen of her own loneliness. As she took in the barren winter landscape, she thought of her own barren womb, empty, as ever, despite her longing. ‘Oh, how I wish for a child!’ she cried. ‘A beautiful daughter with a heart of truth and eyes

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that never fill with tears. Then need I never be lonely again.’ Winter passed, and the world around began to wake. The birds returned to the kingdom and set about readying their nests, deer could be seen once more grazing where the fields met the woods, and buds burst forth upon the branches of the kingdom’s trees. As the new season’s skylarks took to the air, the Queen’s skirt began to tighten around her middle, and by and by she realised she was with child. The King had not been back to the castle and thus the Queen knew that a mischievous fairy, far from home and hidden in the winter garden, must have heard her weeping and granted her wish by magic. The Queen grew and grew and winter came once more, and on Christmas Eve, as a deep snow fell across the land, the Queen began to pain. All night she laboured, and on the last chime of midnight her daughter was born, and the Queen was able to look at last upon her baby’s face. To think that this beautiful child, with pale unblemished skin, dark hair, and red lips in the shape of a rosebud, was all hers! ‘Rosalind,’ the Queen said. ‘I shall name her Rosalind.’ The Queen was instantly smitten and refused to let the Princess Rosalind out of her sight. Loneliness had made the Queen bitter, bitterness had made her selfish, and selfishness had made her suspicious. At every turn the Queen worried that someone was waiting to steal the child from her. She is mine, thought the Queen, my salvation, thus must I keep her for myself. On the morning of the Princess Rosalind’s christening, the wisest women in all the land were invited to bring their blessings. All day the Queen watched as wishes for grace and prudence and wit rained upon the child. Finally, when night began its creep into the kingdom, the Queen bid the wise women farewell. Her back was turned but briefly, yet when she looked again upon her child, she saw 258


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that one guest remained. A traveller in a long cloak stood by the crib, staring down at the infant. ‘It is late, wise woman,’ said the Queen. ‘The princess has been blessed and must now be allowed her sleep.’ The traveller pushed back her cloak and the Queen gasped, for the face was not that of a wise maiden, but a wizened crone with a toothless smile. ‘I come with a message from the Fairy Queen,’ said the crone. ‘The girl is one of ours, thus must she come with me.’ ‘No,’ cried the Queen, rushing to the crib-side. ‘She is my daughter, my precious baby girl.’ ‘Yours?’ said the crone. ‘This glorious child?’ And she began to laugh, a cruel cackle that made the Queen draw back in horror. ‘She was yours only as long as we let you keep her. In your heart you have always known she was born of fairy dust and now must you give her up.’ The Queen wept then, for the crone’s pronouncement was all that she had feared. ‘I cannot give her up,’ she said. ‘Have mercy, crone, and let me keep her longer.’ Now it so happened that the crone liked to cause mischief and, at the Queen’s words, a slow smile spread across her face. ‘I offer you a choice,’ she said. ‘Relinquish the child now and her life will be long and happy, spent at the Fairy Queen’s knee.’ ‘Or?’ said the Queen. ‘Or you may keep her here until the morning of her eighteenth birthday, when her true destiny will come for her and she will leave you forever. Think carefully, for to keep her longer is to love her deeper.’ ‘I don’t need to think upon it,’ said the Queen. ‘I choose the second.’ The crone smiled so that the dark gaps in her mouth showed. ‘She is yours then, but only until the morning of her eighteenth year.’ 259


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At that moment the baby Princess began to cry for the first time ever. The Queen turned to scoop the child into her arms, and when she looked back the crone was gone. The Princess grew to be a beautiful little girl, full of joy and light. She bewitched the ocean with her singing and brought smiles to the faces of all throughout the land. All, that is, except the Queen, who was too plagued by fear to enjoy her child. When her daughter sang the Queen did not hear, when her daughter danced the Queen did not see, when her daughter reached out the Queen did not feel, for she was too busy calculating the time left before the child was to be taken from her. As the years passed, the Queen grew ever more afraid of the cold, dark event that lurked around the corner. Her mouth forgot how to smile, and the lines about her forehead learned how to hold their creases. Then, one night, she had a dream in which the crone appeared. ‘Your daughter is almost ten,’ said the crone. ‘Do not forget that her destiny will find her on her eighteenth birthday.’ ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ said the Queen. ‘I cannot let her go, I will not let her go.’ ‘You gave your word,’ said the crone, ‘thus must it be honoured.’ The next morning, after making sure the Princess was safely under guard, the Queen put on her riding habit and sent for her horse. Although magic had been banished from the castle there was one place where spells and sorcery might still be found. In a black cave on the edge of the enchanted sea lived a fairy who was neither good nor bad. She had been punished by the Fairy Queen for using magic unwisely and had thus remained hidden while the rest of the magic folk had fled the land. And although the Queen knew it was dangerous to seek the fairy’s help, she had no other hope. The Queen rode for three days and three nights and when she finally arrived at the cave the fairy was 260


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waiting for her. ‘Come,’ she said, ‘and tell me what it is you seek.’ The Queen told of the crone and her promise to return on the Princess’s eighteenth birthday, and the fairy listened. Then, when the Queen was finished, the fairy said, ‘I cannot undo the crone’s curse, but I may help you still.’ ‘I order you to do so,’ said the Queen. ‘I must warn you, my Queen, that when you hear what I propose, you may not thank me for my help.’ And the fairy leaned over and whispered in the Queen’s ear. The Queen did not hesitate, for surely anything was better than losing her child to the crone. ‘It must be done.’ So the fairy handed the Queen a potion and instructed her to give the Princess three drops on each of three nights. ‘All will then be as I promised,’ she said. ‘The crone will trouble you no more, for only the Princess’s true destiny will find her.’ The Queen hastened home, her mind easy for the first time since her daughter’s christening, and for the next three nights she placed three drops of the potion into her daughter’s milk glass. On the third night, when the princess drank of her glass she began to choke and, as she fell from her chair, she was changed from a princess into a beautiful bird, just as the fairy had foretold. The bird fluttered about the room and the Queen called for her servant to fetch the golden cage from the King’s quarters. The bird was shut inside, the golden door was closed, and the Queen breathed a sigh of relief. For the King had been clever and his cage, once closed, could not be reopened. ‘There now, my pretty,’ said the Queen. ‘You are safe and none shall ever take you from me.’ And then the Queen hung the cage from a hook in the highest turret of the castle. With the princess trapped in the cage, all light went out of the kingdom, and the subjects of Fairyland were 261


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sunk into an eternal winter in which crops and fertile lands failed. All that kept the people from despair was the princess bird’s songs—sad and beautiful—which drifted from the turret window and spilled across the barren land. Time passed, as time must, and royal princes made brave by greed came from far and wide to release the trapped Princess. For it was said that in the arid kingdom of Fairyland there was a golden cage so precious it made their own fortunes seem humble, and a caged bird whose songs were so beautiful that gold pieces had been known to fall from the sky when she sang. But all who tried to open the cage dropped dead as soon as they touched it. The Queen, who sat day and night in her rocking chair, guarding the cage so that none might steal her prize, laughed when she saw the princes slain, for fear and suspicion had finally conspired to drive her mad. Some years after, the youngest son of a woodcutter came to the forest from a distant land. While he was working, there arrived upon the breeze a melody so glorious that he stopped mid-stroke and remained as still as if he had been turned to stone, listening to every note. Unable to help himself, he laid down his axe and went in search of the bird that could sing so sadly and so splendidly. As he made his way through the overgrown forest, birds and beasts appeared to help him and the woodcutter’s son made sure to thank them, for he was a gentle soul who could communicate with all in nature. He climbed through brambles, ran across fields, scaled mountains, slept at night in hollow trees, ate only fruits and nuts, until finally he arrived at the castle walls. ‘How came you into this forsaken land?’ said the guard. ‘I followed the song of your beautiful bird.’ ‘Turn back if you value your life,’ said the guard. ‘For all in this kingdom is cursed, and whosoever touches the sad bird’s cage shall be lost.’ 262


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‘I have nothing to love nor lose,’ said the woodcutter’s son. ‘And I must see for myself the source of such glorious singing.’ It so happened that, just in that instant, the princess bird attained her eighteenth year and she began to sing the saddest and most beautiful song of all, lamenting the loss of her youth and her freedom. The guard stood aside, and the young man crossed into the castle and climbed the stairs to the highest turret. When the woodcutter’s son saw the trapped bird, his heart was full of care, for he liked to see neither bird nor beast imprisoned. He looked beyond the gold cage and saw only the bird inside. He reached for the cage door and, at his touch, it sprang open and the bird was set free. At that moment, the bird was transformed into a beautiful woman with long hair that swirled about her, and a crown of glistening seashells upon her head. Birds came from distant trees and from their beaks showered her with pieces of shining flint that clung to her so that she was attired all in silver. Animals returned to the kingdom, and crops and flowers began instantly to grow from the barren soil. The following day, as the sun rose brilliant over the ocean, a thundering sound could be heard, and six enchanted horses appeared at the castle gates dragging a golden carriage behind. The Fairy Queen stepped from inside and all her subjects bowed down. Following her was the fairy from the sea cave, who had proved herself most certainly good, by doing her true Queen’s bidding and ensuring that the Princess Rosalind was ready when her destiny came for her. Under the Fairy Queen’s watchful eye, the Princess Rosalind and the woodcutter’s son were married, and the joy of the young couple was so great that magic returned to the land and all in Fairyland were thenceforward free and happy. 263


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Excepting, of course, the Queen, who was nowhere to be found. In her place was a huge ugly bird with a cry so horrid it made the blood curdle of all who heard it. It was chased from the land and flew to a distant wood, where it was killed and eaten by the King, who had been driven to madness and despair by his wicked and unfruitful hunt for the Fairy Queen.

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31 Blackhurst Manor, 1907

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here was a blunt knock at the door and Eliza hid ‘The Changeling’ behind her bac k. Felt her c heeks flush with anticipation. Mary hurried in, curls messier than ever. Her hair always gave fair indication of her mood and Eliza was left in little doubt that the kitchen was abuzz with birthday preparations. ‘Mary! I was exp ecting Rose.’ ‘Miss E liza.’ M ary p ressed her li ps t ogether. An un usually p rim gesture a nd o ne t hat made E liza la ugh. ‘ The mast er wishes t o s ee you, Miss.’ ‘My uncle wishes to see me?’ Though she had roamed far and wide across the estate, in the years she’d been at Blackhurst Eliza had barely encountered her unc le. He was a shado wy f igure w ho sp ent most o f his time touring the Continent in search of bugs, the images of which he stole for his da rkroom. ‘Come now, Miss Eliza,’ said Mary. ‘Look sharp.’ Mary was mo re s erious t han E liza had e ver s een her. S he w ent quickly along the hall and down the narrow back stairs, and Eliza had to scurry to keep up. At the bottom, instead of turning left to the main part o f t he ho use, M ary t urned r ight a nd h urried alo ng a q uiet passageway, dim f or having fewer whispering lanterns than elsewhere in the house. There were no pictures either, Eliza noticed; indeed, little attempt at decoration had b een made alo ng the cool, dark walls. When t hey reached t he f urthest do or, Mary stopped. As she was about to open it she glanced over her shoulder and gave Eliza’s hand a slight squeeze, completely unexpected. 265


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Before Eliza could ask what the matter was, the door was open and Mary was a nnouncing her. ‘Miss Eliza, your Lordship.’ And t hen she was g one a nd E liza was alo ne o n t he t hreshold t o her uncle’s lair, subject to a most p eculiar smell. He was s eated b ehind a la rge w ooden desk a t t he bac k o f t he room. ‘You wished t o see me, Uncle?’ The do or closed behind her. Uncle Linus peered over his glasses. Once again Eliza found herself wondering that this blotchy old man could be related to her b eautiful mother. The ti p of his pale t ongue appeared b etween his li ps. ‘I he ar you ha ve p erformed wel l i n t he s choolroom du ring t he ye ars you ’ve been at Blackhurst.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ said Eliza. ‘And according to my man, Davies, you are fond of the gardens.’ ‘Yes, Uncle.’ From her f irst morning at Blackhurst, Eliza had b een enamoured of the estate. Along with the passageways that ran beneath the cliffs, she knew the cleared part of the maze and the wider garden as well as she’d once known the foggy streets of London. And no matter how fa r a nd wide she exp lored, t he ga rden gr ew a nd c hanged wi th each season. ‘It is wi thin our family. Your mother . . .’ His voice cracked. ‘Your mother when she was a girl had a gr eat fondness for the garden.’ Eliza tr ied to accord t his information with her o wn memories of Mother. Through the tunnel of time came fragmented images: Mother in the windowless room above Mrs Swindell’s shop; a small p ot with a fragrant herb. It hadn’t lasted long, there was li ttle that could sur vive in such dim co nditions. ‘Come closer, child,’ the uncle said, beckoning with his hand. ‘Come into the light that I mig ht see you.’ Eliza went to t he other side o f t he desk s o t hat she was st anding by his knees. The r oom’s smell was s tronger now, as if i t were coming from her unc le himself. He reached out a hand, trembling slightly, and caressed the golden ends of Eliza’s long red hair. Lightly, so lightly. Withdrew his ha nd, as if scorched. 266


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He shuddered. ‘Are you unwell, Uncle? Should I f etch someone to help?’ ‘No,’ he a nswered quickly. ‘No.’ He reached out to stroke her ha ir once mo re, c losed his e yes. E liza was s o ne ar t hat she co uld s ee t he eyeballs moving beneath his lids, could hear the tiny clicking noises in his throat. ‘We searched so long, so wide, to bring your mother . . . to bring our Georgiana home.’ ‘Yes, sir .’ M ary had t old E liza as m uch. A bout U ncle L inus’s attachment t o his y ounger sist er, his he artbreak w hen she lef t, his frequent trips to London. The searching that had consumed his youth and his little good humour, the eagerness with which he left Blackhurst each time , t he ine vitable dis appointment o f his r eturn. The wa y he would sit alone in the darkroom, drinking sherry, refusing any counsel, even that of Aunt Adeline, until Mr Mansell would appear once more with a ne w lead. ‘We were too late.’ He was str oking harder now, wrapping Eliza’s long ha ir a round his f ingers, t his wa y a nd t hat, lik e r ibbon. I t was pulling, a nd E liza had t o ho ld t he edg e o f t he desk t o s ave her self from st umbling. S he was tra nsfixed b y his face , i t was t hat o f t he wounded fairytale king whose subjects have all des erted him. ‘ I was too la te. B ut y ou a re her e no w. B y G od’s grace , I ha ve b een gi ven another chance.’ ‘Uncle?’ Her uncle’s hand dropped to his la p and his e yelids p eeled open. He pointed to a little bench on the far wall, shrouded in white muslin cloth. ‘Sit,’ he s aid. Eliza blinked at him. ‘Sit.’ He limped to a b lack tripod by the wall. ‘I wish t o take your photograph.’ Eliza had never had a photograph taken, had no interest in having one taken now. Just as she o pened her mo uth to tell him s o, the door opened. ‘The birthday luncheon—’ Aunt Adeline’s words ended with a shrill rise. Her thin hand leapt to her chest. ‘Eliza!’ The word was passenger on a des perate exhalation. ‘Whatever are you t hinking, girl? U pstairs at once. Rose is askin g for you.’ 267


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Eliza hurried towards the door. ‘And stop bothering your uncle,’ hissed Aunt Adeline as Eliza passed her. ‘Can’t you see he’s exhausted from his travels?’

c And so the day had co me. Adeline hadn’t known what form it would take, b ut t he t hreat had al ways b een t here, l urking in da rk p laces s o she could never fully be at ease. She ground her t eeth, channelled her rage into the bones at the back of her neck. Willed herself to clear the image from her mind. Georgiana’s girl, her hair hanging loose, looking for all t he w orld lik e a g host f rom t he past, a nd t he exp ression o n Linus’s face , his o ld face t urned f oolish b y a y oung ma n’s desir e. To think he had b een about to take the girl’s photograph! To do w hat he had never done for Rose. Nor for Adeline. ‘Close y our e yes, L ady Mountrachet,’ s aid her ma id, a nd Adeline did as she was ask ed. The o ther w oman’s b reath was wa rm as she brushed the hair from Adeline’s brow, strangely comforting. Oh, to sit here forever, the warm, sweet breath of this dull, cheerful girl o n her face, no other thoughts to plague her. ‘And open again, ma’am, while I fetch your pearls.’ The maid bustled away and Adeline was left alone with her thoughts. She leaned forward. Her brows were smooth, her hair neat. She pinched each cheek, harder perhaps than was necess ary, and sat back again to observe the whole. Oh, but to age was cruel! Little changes that slipped by unnoticed, that could never be arrested. The nectar of youth slipping through a b lind sieve whose holes continued to widen. ‘And thus was friend turned to foe,’ whispered Adeline to the merciless mirror. ‘Here you are, ma’am,’ said the maid. ‘I’ve brought the set with the ruby clasp. Nice and festive on such a happy occasion. Who could have imagined i t, M iss Ros e’s b irthday l uncheon. Eig hteen y ears o ld! A wedding next, y ou mark my words . . .’ As the maid babbled on, Adeline shifted her gaze, refusing to look any longer upon her own decay. The p hotograph h ung w here i t al ways had , b eside t he dr essing table. How proper she lo oked in her b ridal dress, how r ight. No one would guess b y t his p hoto at t he f ierce s elf-coaxing she’d suf fered in 268


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order to affect this model of calm. Linus, for his part, looked every bit the gentleman groom. Glum perhaps, but that was t he custom. They were married a y ear after Georgiana disappeared. From the moment o f t heir en gagement A deline L angley had w orked ha rd t o reinvent her self. S he det ermined t o b ecome a w oman w orthy o f t he grand o ld na me o f M ountrachet: cast o ff her no rthern accen t a nd small-town t astes, de voured t he wr itings o f Debrett’s, a nd s chooled herself in t he twin a rts of vanity and gentility. Adeline knew she had to b e twice as m uch a lad y as a nyone els e if she w ere t o wi pe f rom people’s memories the reality of her o rigins. ‘Would you like your green b onnet, L ady Mountrachet? ’ said the maid. ‘Only it always suits this dress so well, and you’ll be wanting a hat if y ou’re headed to the cove. I’ll lay it out on the bed, shall I? ’ Their wedding night had b een nothing like Adeline expected. She couldn’t tell, and certainly there were no words to ask, but she suspected it had disappointed Linus too. They shared a marriage bed only rarely afterwards, e ven less w hen L inus st arted his r oaming. Taking photographs, he s aid, but Adeline knew the truth. How w orthless she f elt. H ow fa iled as a wif e a nd as a w oman. Worse still, failed as a s ociety lady. For all her ef forts, they were rarely invited out. Linus, when he was at Blackhurst, was such poor company, standing alone most of the time, answering questions when necessary with belligerent remarks. When Adeline grew sickly, pale and tired, she presumed it was despa ir. Only w hen her st omach b egan to swell did she realise she was wi th child. ‘There y ou a re, L ady M ountrachet. Your ha t’s o n t he b ed, a nd you’re all ready for the party.’ ‘Thank you, Poppy.’ She managed a t hin smile. ‘That will b e all.’ As the door closed, Adeline dismantled her smile and met her own gaze once more. Rose was the rightful inheritor of the Mountrachet glory. This girl, Georgiana’s da ughter, was li ttle mo re t han a c uckoo, s ent bac k t o supplant Adeline’s own child. To push her from a nest that Adeline had fought to make her own. For a time o rder had b een ma intained. A deline made sur e t o decorate Rose with darling new dresses, a pretty sofa to sit upon, while Eliza was clothed in the previous season’s fashions. Rose’s manners, her 269


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feminine nature, were perfect, where Eliza could not be taught. Adeline was calm. But as the girls grew older, grew unstoppably towards womanhood, things were changing, slipping from Adeline’s control. Eliza’s prowess in the schoolroom was one thing—no one liked a clever woman—but now, wi th t he time she sp ent o utdoors in t he f resh s ea a ir, her complexion had t aken on a he althy g low, her ha ir, t hat acc ursed red hair, had gr own long, and she was f illing out. The other day Adeline had heard one of the servants talking about how b eautiful M iss E liza was, mo re b eautiful e ven t han her mo ther, Miss Georgiana. Adeline had frozen in her tracks when she’d heard the name s poken. Af ter all t hese y ears o f silence , i t no w a waited her a t every co rner. L aughing a t her, r eminding her o f her o wn inf eriority, her own failure ever to match up, despite working so much harder than Georgiana. Adeline felt a d ull thump in her t emple. She raised her ha nd and pressed lightly. Something was the matter with Rose. This spot on her temple was A deline’s sixt h s ense. E ver since Ros e was a tin y ba by, Adeline had p re-empted her da ughter’s maladies. I t was a b ond t hat couldn’t be broken, mother to daughter. And no w her t emple was o nce aga in t hrobbing. A deline’s li ps tightened with resolve. She observed her stern face as if i t belonged to a stra nger, t he lad y o f a nob le ho use, a w oman w hose co ntrol was infrangible. She inhaled str ength into t hat woman’s lungs. Ros e must be protected, poor Rose who failed even to perceive Eliza as a t hreat. An idea began to form in Adeline’s mind. She couldn’t send Eliza away, L inus w ould ne ver p ermit i t a nd Ros e’s s orrow w ould b e t oo great, a nd b esides, i t was b etter t o k eep o ne’s enemies c lose, b ut perhaps Adeline might find a r eason to take Rose abroad for a time? To Paris, or New York? Give her a n opportunity to shine without the unexpected glare of Eliza drawing everyone’s attention, ruining Rose’s every chance . . . Adeline smo othed her skir t as she w ent t owards t he do or. One thing was cer tain, there would be no visi ting the cove today. It was a foolish promise to have made, a moment of weakness on Adeline’s part. Thank God th ere wa s s till tim e t o co rrect h er err or in j udgement. Eliza’s wickedness would not be allowed to taint Rose. 270


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She c losed t he do or b ehind her a nd st arted do wn t he hall , skir t swishing. As for Linus, he would be kept busy. She was his wife, it was her duty to ensure he was gi ven no opportunity to suffer at the hands of his o wn impulses. He would b e pac ked off t o L ondon. S he would implore the wives of government ministers to enlist his services, suggest exotic photographic locations, send him fa r away. Satan would not be allowed to find mischief for his idle ha nds to do.

c Linus le aned bac k aga inst t he ga rden s eat a nd ho oked his ca ne beneath t he deco rative a rm. The s un was s etting a nd d usk sp illed, orange a nd p ink, acr oss t he w estern edg e o f t he est ate. Ther e had been plenty of rain throughout the month and the garden glistened. Not that Linus cared. For cen turies t he M ountrachets had b een k een ho rticulturalists. Forebear after forebear had travelled far and wide, spanning the globe in search of exotic specimens with which to augment their plot. Linus, however, had no t inher ited t he gr een t humb. Tha t had g one t o his little sister— Well, now, that wasn’t completely true. There had been a time, long ago, when he had cared for the garden. When, as a b oy, he had f ollowed Davies on his r ounds, marvelling at the sp iky f lowers in t he An tipodean ga rden, t he p ineapples in t he hothouse, the way new shoots appeared overnight, taking the place of seeds he’d helped to l ay. Most miraculous of all, in the garden Linus’s shame had disappeared. The plants, the trees, the flowers, cared not at all t hat his lef t leg had stopped gr owing inc hes sho rt o f his r ight. Tha t his lef t f oot was a useless appendage, stunted and curved, freakish. There was a place for everything and everyone in t he Blackhurst garden. Then, when Linus was seven, he’d become lost in the maze. Davies had warned him not to go inside alone, that the way was long and dark, full of obstacles, but Linus had been dizzy on the thrill of being seven years old. The maze with its dense lush walls, its promise of adventure, had lured him. He was a knight, off to do battle with the fiercest dragon 271


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in the land, and he was g oing to emerge triumphant. To find his wa y to the other side. Shadows came early to the maze. Linus had not foreseen how dark it would become, and how quickly. In the dusk, sculptures came to life, leering at him f rom their hiding places, tall hedges turned to hungry monsters, lo w hedg es p layed nasty tr icks: made him t hink he was heading in t he right direction, when in fac t he was do ubling back. Or was he? He had reached as far as t he centre before his slide t o despair was complete. Then, t o add in jury t o in sult, a b rass r ing a ttached t o a platform on the ground had le apt up and tripped him, t ossed him t o the ground so that his good ankle was twisted like that of a cheap rag doll. There’d been little choice for Linus but to sit where he was, a nkle aching, angry tears spilling hot down his c heeks. Linus had waited and waited. Dusk became dark, cool became cold, and his t ears dr ied u p. H e la ter le arned t hat i t was F ather w ho had refused to send anyone in for him. He was a boy, Father said, and, lame or not, any boy worth his salt would find his own way out of the maze. Why, he—St John Luke—had made it through when a mere four years old. The b oy needed t o toughen up. Linus had shi vered in t he maze all nig ht b efore M other f inally convinced Father to send Davies in a fter him. It t ook a w eek b efore L inus’s a nkle he aled, b ut e very da y f or a fortnight thereafter, Father marched Linus back to the maze. Set him to finding his way through, then berated him for his inevitable failure. Linus began to dream of the maze and when he was awake drew maps from memo ry. H e w orked a t i t lik e a ma thematical p roblem, f or he knew there must be a s olution. If he w ere worth his s alt he’d find it. After two weeks, Father gave up. On the fifteenth morning, when Linus appeared for his da ily test, he didn’t even lower his ne wspaper. ‘You’re a great disappointment,’ he said. ‘A fool of a boy who will never amount to anything.’ He turned a pag e, shook the paper straight and scanned for headlines of note. ‘Remove yourself from my room.’ Linus had never gone near the maze again. Unable to bring himself to blame Father and Mother for his shameful failings—they were right, after all, what kind of a boy couldn’t find his way through a maze?—he 272


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blamed the garden. He took to breaking the stems of plants, removing flowers, stepping on new shoots. All are shaped by things beyond their control, traits inherited, traits learned. For Linus, the piece of his leg bone that had refused to lengthen defined him. A s he gr ew, la meness b egot sh yness, sh yness b egot a stammer, a nd t hus L inus gr ew in to a n unlik eable li ttle b oy w ho discovered t hat attention came his wa y only w hen he b ehaved badly. He refused to go outside, so his skin grew pallid and his good leg thin. He put insects in his mo ther’s tea, thorns in his fa ther’s slippers, and gladly t ook w hatever p unishment ca me his wa y. And t hus, in suc h predictable form, Linus’s life continued. Then, when he was t en years old, a ba by sister was b orn. Linus despised her o n sig ht. S o s oft and fair and b onny. And , as Linus discovered when he peered beneath her long lacy frock, perfectly formed. B oth legs t he s ame len gth. D ear li ttle f eet, no t a us eless, wizened piece of flesh among them. Worse t han her p hysical p erfection, t hough, was her ha ppiness. Her pink smile, her m usical laugh. What business did she ha ve being so happy when he, Linus, was mis erable? Linus det ermined t o do s omething a bout i t. W henever he co uld get away from his governess, he would sneak into the nursery and kneel by the edge of the bassinette. If the baby slept, he would make a sudden noise to startle her. If she reached for a t oy, he would move it away. If she held out her arms, he would cross his own. If she smiled, he would arrange his f eatures into a mask o f appalling horror. Yet she r emained una ffected. Nothing L inus did co uld mak e her cry, nothing dinted her sunny disposition. It perplexed him, and he set his mind t o in venting sl y a nd sin gular p unishments f or his li ttle sister. As L inus gr ew in to his t eens, b ecame e ven mo re a wkward, wi th long gangly arms and odd ginger hairs sprouting from his spotty chin, Georgiana blossomed into a beautiful child, beloved of all on the estate. She b rought a smile t o t he face o f e ven t he most ha rdened t enants, farmers w ho hadn’t had a kind w ord f or t he M ountrachet fa mily in years would send baskets of apples to the kitchen for Miss Georgiana to enjoy. 273


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Then one day Linus was sitting on the window ledge in the library, using his treasured new magnifying glass to turn ants to ash, when he slipped and fell. He was unharmed, but his precious glass shattered into a h undred tin y p ieces. S o c herished was his ne w t oy, s o us ed t o disappointing himself was he, that despite his thirteen years Linus burst into tears of rage, great hulking sobs. He reproached himself for having fallen in such a clumsy way, for not being clever enough, for having no friends, for being unlovable, for being born imperfect. His tears were so blinding that Linus didn’t realise his fall had been observed. Not until he f elt the tap against his a rm. He looked up and saw his li ttle sister standing there, holding something towards him. It was Claudine, her favourite dolly. ‘Linus sad,’ she s aid. ‘Poor Linus. Claudine make Linus happy.’ Linus h ad been s peechless, h ad taken th e doll, s till s taring at hi s little sister as she s at beside him. With a n uncer tain sneer he p ushed o ne o f Cla udine’s e yelids s o that it was den ted. L ooked t o s ee w hat ef fect his va ndalism had had on his li ttle sister. She was suc king her t humb, wa tching him, b ig b lue e yes f ull o f empathy. Af ter a mo ment she r eached o ut a nd den ted Cla udine’s other lid. From that day forth, they were a team. Without complaint, without so much as a frown, she weathered her brother’s rages, his cruel humour, all the things that rejection had wrought in him. She let him f ight her, and berate her a nd, later, cuddle her. If o nly t hey’d b een lef t a lone e verything w ould ha ve t urned o ut well. But Mother and Father couldn’t bear that someone loved him. He heard t hem sp eaking in lo w v oices—too m uch time t ogether, no t proper, not healthy—and within a matter of months he was packed off to boarding school. His grades were appalling, Linus made sure of that, but Father had once hunted with t he Master of B alliol C ollege and t hus a p lace was found for him a t Oxford. The o nly p ositive t hing to come out of his university da ys was his dis covery o f p hotography. A s ensitive y oung English tutor had allowed him use of his camera, then advised him on his own purchase. 274


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And finally, when he was twenty-three, Linus returned to Blackhurst. How his poupee had grown! Thirteen and so tall. The longest red hair he had e ver s een. For a time he was sh y of her : she was s o changed, he had t o le arn her a gain. B ut o ne day, w hen he was p hotographing near the cove, she had appeared in his viewfinder. Sitting on top of the black r ock, facin g o ut t o s ea. The s alty b reeze was w eaving t hrough her hair, her a rms were wrapped around her knees, a nd her legs, her legs were bare. Linus co uld ha rdly b reathe. H e b linked, co ntinued t o wa tch as she t urned her he ad slo wly, lo oked dir ectly a t him. W here o ther subjects co uldn’t co nceal t he kno wingness in t heir e yes, G eorgiana was co mpletely un selfconscious. S he s eemed t o b e lo oking b eyond the ca mera dir ectly in to his e yes. H ers w ere t he s ame em pathetic eyes t hat had wa tched him cr ying all t hose y ears b efore. W ithout thinking, he s queezed t he camera button. Her face, her p erfect face, was his t o capture.

c Carefully Linus pulled the photographic print from his coat pocket. He was gentle, for it was old now, rough around the edges. The last of the sun’s light was almost g one, but if he held i t at the right angle . . . How many times had he sat like this and gazed upon it, pored over it after she disappeared? It was the only print he had, for when Georgiana left, someone—Mother? Adeline? one of their minions?—had sneaked into his darkroom and removed his negatives. Only this one remained, spared because Linus carried it always on his p erson. But no w, a s econd c hance, a nd t his o ne L inus w ouldn’t los e. H e was no lo nger a c hild, b ut mast er o f B lackhurst. M other a nd F ather were both in their graves. Only that tiresome wife of his and her sickly daughter remained, and who were they to stand in Linus’s way? He had courted Adeline t o punish his pa rents f or G eorgiana’s f light, a nd t he engagement had deli vered such a f inal, brutal blow t hat t he woman’s accommodation in his house had seemed a small price to pay. And so it had been. So would it continue to be. She was easily ignored. He was master, and what he wa nted he w ould have. 275


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Eliza. He allo wed t he s ound o f i t t o es cape acr oss his li ps, lo dge within the curls of his beard. His lips were trembling and his skin had cooled. He was going to make a gift to her. Something to inspire gratitude. Something he knew she’d love, for how could she not when her mother had loved it so before her?

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32 Cliff Cottage, 2005

C

assandra stepped through the gate and was str uck once more by the stra nge, he avy silence t hat la y g eneral a round t he co ttage. There was s omething else, too, something she f elt but couldn’t name. An odd sense of collusion. As if by entering the gates she was agreeing to a pac t whose rules she did no t know. It was earlier in the day than the last time she’d come and flecks of sunlight flickered in the garden. The landscaper wasn’t due for another fifteen min utes s o C assandra p ut t he k ey bac k in her p ocket a nd decided to explore a little. A narrow stone path, almost obscured by lichen, wound along the front before disappearing around the corner. The w eeds at the side o f the house were tall and thick and she had t o pull them away from the wall before stepping through. There was something about the garden that reminded her of Nell’s backyard in Brisbane. Not the plants so much as the mood. As long as Cassandra could remember, Nell’s yard had b een a j umble of cottage plants, herbs a nd b rightly co loured a nnuals. L ittle co ncrete pa ths winding t heir wa y t hrough t he gr owth. S o dif ferent f rom t he o ther suburban bac kyards, with t heir s tretches of sunburned grass a nd t he occasional thirsty rose bushes inside white-painted car tyres. Cassandra reached the back of the cottage and stopped. A dense tangle of thorny brambles, at least three metres high, had grown across the path. She stepped closer and craned to see over the top. The shape was uniform, linear, almost as if t he plants themselves had formed a wall. She made her way along the hedge, trailing her fingers lightly over jagged ivy le aves. It was slo w going, t he undergrowth was as hig h as 277


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her knees a nd t hreatened t o tr ip her a t e ach st ep. M idway along she noticed a ga p in t he brambles, a small ga p but enough to see that no light shone through, that there was something solid behind it. Careful not t o b e p ricked b y t he t horns, C assandra r eached a ha nd in a nd leaned closer as the hedge devoured her arm, all the way to her shoulder. Her fingers scraped against something hard and cold. A wall, a st one wall, coated with moss if t he damp green sme ars on her f ingertips were anything to go by. C assandra wiped her ha nd on her je ans and pulled the title deeds f rom her bac k pocket, turned to t he property map. The co ttage was c learly marked, a small s quare towards the front of the block. According to the map, though, the rear property line ext ended q uite a wa y b eyond. C assandra r efolded t he map and tucked it away. If the map was co rrect, this wall was pa rt of Nell’s property, not its b oundary. It b elonged t o Clif f C ottage, as did whatever was o n the other side. Cassandra continued her obstacle course along the wall, hoping to find a gate or a door, anything permitting entry. The sun was r ising in the sky and the birds had relaxed their singing. The air was heavy with the sw eet, sw ooning p erfume o f a c limbing r ose. Al though i t was autumn, Cassandra was becoming hot. To think she had once imagined England a co ld country to which the sun was a stra nger. She stopped to wipe sweat from her brow and bumped her head on something low hanging. The gna rled b ough o f a tr ee r eached a rmlike o ver t he wa ll. An apple tree, Cassandra realised when she saw that the branch bore fruit, shiny, g olden a pples. The y w ere s o r ipe, s o delicio usly f ragrant, t hat she couldn’t resist picking one. Cassandra c hecked her wa tch a nd, wi th a lo nging g lance a t t he bramble hedg e, st arted bac k t he way she’d come. S he could continue her s earch f or a do or la ter, didn’t wa nt t o r isk missin g t he ga rdener. Such was t he o dd s ense o f den se s eclusion sur rounding t he co ttage, Cassandra had the feeling she might not hear him from back here, even if he called out. She unlocked the front door and went inside. The house seemed to be listening, waiting to see what she w ould do. She ran her hand lightly along the inside wall. ‘My house,’ she said softly. ‘This is my house.’ 278


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The words pressed dully into t he walls. H ow strange it was, ho w unexpected. S he wa ndered t hrough t he ki tchen, past t he sp inning wheel and into the little sitting room at the very front. The ho use felt different now that she was a lone. Familiar somehow, like a place she’d visited long ago. She e ased her self in to a n o ld r ocker. C assandra was co mfortable enough with antique furniture to know that the chair wasn’t about to collapse, a nd y et she f elt wa ry. A s if t he c hair’s r ightful o wner was somewhere nearby and might return at any time to find an intruder in their place. As she polished the apple on her shirt, Cassandra turned her head to lo ok t hrough t he dusty window. Creepers had p laited t hemselves together across the glass, but she could still see en ough to make out the ra mbling ga rden b eyond. Ther e was a li ttle st atue she hadn ’t noticed before, a child, a boy, perched on a stone, staring at the house with wide o pen eyes. Cassandra lifted the apple to her lips. The sunny scent was strong as she bit into it. An apple, from a tree in her v ery own garden, a tree planted many years before that still p roduced fruit. Year in, y ear out. It was sw eet, were apples always so sweet? She yawned. The sun h ad made her v ery drowsy. S he would sit, just f or a li ttle w hile lo nger, un til t he ga rdener a rrived. S he t ook another b ite o f t he apple. The r oom f elt wa rmer t han i t had b efore. As if t he range had suddenl y b egun to work, as if s omeone else had joined her in t he cottage and was b eginning to make lunch. Her lids were heavy and she closed her eyes. A bird somewhere sang, a lovely, lonely t une; b reeze-blown le aves t apped aga inst t he windo w, a nd in the distance the ocean breathed steadily, in and out, in and out, in and out . . .

c . . . in and out of her head all day. She paced again across the kitchen, stopped at the window but forbade herself another glance outside. She looked at her little mantel clock instead. He was late. He had said half past the hour. She wondered whether his t ardiness meant anything of 279


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consequence, w hether he’d b een ca ught u p, fallen vic tim t o s econd thoughts. Whether he was still coming. Her cheeks were warm. It was v ery warm in her e. She went back to t he ra nge a nd t urned t he da mper t o slow t he b urning. Wondered whether she sho uld have prepared some sort of meal. A noise outside. The floors of her co mposure dissolved. He was her e. She opened the door and wordlessly he ca me inside. He seemed so large in t he narrow hall, and though she kne w him well by now, she was sh y, couldn’t meet his e yes. He was ner vous, too; she could see that, though he did his b est to conceal it. They sat opposite one another at the kitchen table and the lamplight quivered between them. A strange place to sit on such a night, but that was as i t was. S he lo oked at her ha nds, wondered how to proceed. It had all s eemed s o sim ple a t f irst. B ut no w t he wa y f orward s eemed criss-crossed b y t hreads j ust wa iting t o tr ip t hem u p. P erhaps suc h meetings were always thus. He reached out. She dr ew b reath as he ca ught a lo ng t hread o f her ha ir b etween two f ingers. L ooked at it for w hat s eemed an ag e. L ooked not at t he hair so much as t he strange fact of her hair in his fingers. Finally, his gaze lif ted a nd met her o wn. H is ha nd ca me t o r est lightly on her cheek. He smiled then, and so did she. Sighed with relief and something else. He opened his mo uth and said—

c ‘Hello?’ A lo ud rapping sound. ‘Hello? Anyone there?’ Cassandra’s e yes f licked open. The a pple in her ha nd dropped to the floor. Heavy footsteps and then a man was standing in the doorway, a tall, solidly built man in his mid-f orties. Dark hair, dark eyes, wide smile . ‘Hello there,’ he said, holding his hands in an attitude of surrender. ‘You look as if y ou’ve seen a g host.’ ‘You frightened me,’ said Cassandra defensively, pulling herself out of the chair. 280


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‘Sorry.’ He stepped forward. ‘The door was open. Didn’t realise you were having a kip.’ ‘I wasn’t. I me an, I was, b ut I didn ’t me an to. I o nly me ant to sit for a w hile b ut . . .’ C assandra’s exp lanation tra iled o ff as her mind returned t o t he dr eam. It had b een a lo ng time since she ’d dr eamed anything e ven remotely erotic, a lo ng time since she ’d done anything remotely er otic. N ot since N ick. Well, no t s o t hat i t co unted, no t s o that she wa nted to remember. Where on earth had i t come from? The ma n gr inned a nd ext ended his ha nd. ‘ I’m M ichael B lake, landscaper extraordinaire. You must be Cassandra.’ ‘That’s r ight.’ S he b lushed as he c losed his la rge, wa rm ha nd around hers. He shook his he ad slightly, smiling. ‘My mate told me A ustralian girls were the prettiest but I ne ver believed him. N ow I kno w he was telling the truth.’ Cassandra didn’t know where to look, settled for a spot just beyond his left shoulder. Such open flirtation made her unco mfortable at the best of times, b ut her dr eam had lef t her do ubly unsettled. She could still sense it, lingering in th e room’s corners. ‘I hear you’ve got a p roblem with a tr ee?’ ‘Yes.’ C assandra b linked a nd no dded as she p ushed t he dr eam aside. ‘Yes, I have. Thanks for coming.’ ‘Never could resist a damsel in distress.’ He smiled again, a broad, easy smile. She p ulled her ca rdigan a li ttle tig hter r ound her middle . Tried to smile bac k b ut ma naged o nly t o f eel p rim. ‘ It’s o ver t his wa y. On the stairs.’ Michael followed her along the hall, leaned to see around the curve of t he st airwell. H e w histled. ‘ One o f t he o ld p ines. L ooks lik e she’s been l ying her e a w hile. P robably ca me do wn in t he b ig st orm o f ninety-five.’ ‘Can you move it?’ ‘Course we can.’ Michael looked over his shoulder, past Cassandra. ‘Get the chainsaw will y ou, Chris?’ Cassandra turned; she hadn’t been aware there was anyone else in the room with them. Another man stood behind her, leaner than the first, a little younger. Sandy brown hair curled roughly around his neck. 281


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Olive skin, b rown e yes. ‘ Christian,’ he s aid, no dding slig htly. H e extended his ha nd a li ttle, hesitated, then wiped it on his je ans. Held it out again. Cassandra reached to meet i t. ‘Chainsaw, Chris,’ said Michael. ‘Come on, speed it up.’ Michael raised his eyebrows at Cassandra as Christian left. ‘I’m due at the hotel in a half-ho ur or so, but never fear, I’ll get the main work done and leave my trusty sidekick to finish up.’ He smiled at Cassandra with t he s ort o f dir ect gaze she f ound impossible t o ho ld. ‘So t his is your place. I’ve lived in t he village my whole life and never thought it was owned by anyone.’ ‘I’m still getting used to the idea myself.’ Michael co cked a n e yebrow as he t ook in t he der eliction o f t he room. ‘What’s a nice A ussie girl lik e you doing in a ho use like this?’ ‘I inherited it. My grandmother left it to me.’ ‘Your grandmother was En glish?’ ‘Australian. S he b ought i t in t he s eventies w hen she was o n holiday.’ ‘Some souvenir. Couldn’t she f ind a t ea towel she lik ed?’ A no ise a t t he do or a nd Chr istian was bac k ca rrying a la rge chainsaw. ‘This the one you’re after?’ ‘It’s a saw with a chain,’ said Michael, winking at Cassandra. ‘I’d say it’s the right one.’ The hall was narrow and Cassandra turned side-on to let Christian pass. S he didn’t meet his e yes, ra ther p retended in terest in a lo ose skirting board at her f eet. The wa y Michael spoke to Christian made her feel embarrassed. ‘Chris is new to the business,’ said Michael, oblivious to Cassandra’s discomfort. ‘Doesn’t know his c hainsaw from his dr op-saw yet. He’s a bit of a gr eenie but we’ll turn him into a w oodcutter yet.’ He grinned. ‘He’s a Blake, it’s in his blood.’ He gave his brother a playful punch and the two men t urned their attention to the task at hand. Cassandra was relieved when the chainsaw started up and she was free, finally, to escape back to the garden. Although she knew her time would b e b etter sp ent c learing cr eepers f rom in side t he ho use, her 282


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interest had b een piqued. She was det ermined to find a wa y through that wall if i t took all day.

c The sun was hig h no w a nd shade was a t a p remium. C assandra unwrapped her ca rdigan and laid it on a ne arby rock. The sun ’s tiny footprints danced across her a rms and t he top of her he ad was s oon hot to the touch. She wished she’d remembered to bring a hat. As she s earched t he b rambles, p oked her ha nd gin gerly t hrough one ga p a fter a nother, a voiding t horns, her t houghts dr ifted bac k t o her dr eam. I t had b een pa rticularly vi vid a nd she co uld r emember every det ail—sights, smells, e ven t he dr eam’s p ervasive mo od. Undeniably erotic, laced with forbidden desire. Cassandra sho ok her he ad a li ttle, sho oing a way t he t endrils o f confusing and unwanted emotion. She turned her thoughts instead to Nell’s mystery. The night before, she’d sat up late reading the notebook. A task that was easier said than done. If the rash of mould didn’t make things difficult enough, Nell’s deplorable handwriting had deteriorated further w hen she a rrived in C ornwall. L onger, lo opier, s cratchier. Written faster, Cassandra was willin g to bet, more excitedly. Nonetheless, C assandra was ma naging. She’d b een spellbound by the account of Nell’s returning memories, her certainty that she’d visited the cottage as a little girl. Cassandra couldn’t wait to see the scrapbooks Julia had found, the diaries that Nell’s mother had once filled with her most p rivate t houghts. F or sur ely t hey w ould shed f urther lig ht o n Nell’s childhood, maybe even offer vital clues as t o her dis appearance with Eliza Makepeace. A whistle, loud and shrill. Cassandra looked up, expecting a b ird of some kind. Michael was st anding b y t he co rner o f t he ho use, wa tching her work. He indicated the brambles. ‘Impressive crop you’ve got there.’ ‘Nothing a bit of weeding won’t solve,’ she said, standing awkwardly. She wondered how long he’d been watching. ‘A y ear o f w eeding a nd a c hainsaw.’ H e gr inned. ‘ I’m o ff u p t o the hotel now.’ He cocked his he ad towards the cottage. ‘We’ve made some good headway. I’ll leave Chris to tie u p loose ends. H e should 283


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be a ble t o ma nage, j ust mak e sur e he le aves i t ho w y ou’d lik e.’ H e paused a nd smiled aga in in t hat a rtless wa y o f his. ‘ You’ve g ot m y number, right? Give me a call . I’ll show you a f ew of the local sights while you’re in t own.’ It wasn’t a q uestion. C assandra smiled slig htly a nd r egretted i t immediately. She suspected Michael was the sort to read any response as agr eement. S ure eno ugh, he ga ve her a wink as he he aded bac k towards the front of the house. With a sigh, Cassandra turned back towards the wall. Christian had climbed through the hole made by the tree and was now perched on the roof, using a handsaw to cut the branches into lengths. Where Michael was e asygoing, t here was a n in tensity a bout Chr istian t hat s eemed to sp ill in to e verything he did a nd t ouched. H e shif ted p osition a nd Cassandra looked away quickly, feigned an avid interest in her wall . They co ntinued w orking, a nd t he silence str ung b etween t hem amplified every other sound: Christian’s saw dragging back and forth; the p itter-patter o f b irds o n t he r oof tiles; t he fa int no ise o f r unning water s omewhere. Ordinarily, C assandra was ha ppy t o w ork without speaking, she was us ed to being alone, preferred it for the most pa rt. Only this wasn’t being alone, and the longer they pretended it was, the more static-filled the silence gr ew. Finally she co uld st and i t no lo nger. ‘ There’s a wall b ehind her e,’ she said, voice loud and somewhat more strident than she’d intended. ‘I found it earlier.’ Christian looked up from his stack of wood. Stared at her as if she’d just started quoting from the periodic table. ‘I do n’t kno w w hat’s o n t he o ther side t hough,’ she r ushed o n. ‘I can’t find a gate and the plan my grandmother got with the sale gives no indica tion. I kno w t here’s a he ap o f cr eepers a nd b ranches, b ut I thought you might be able to see from up there.’ Christian glanced down at his ha nds, seemed about to speak. A thought popped into Cassandra’s mind: he has nice ha nds. She pushed i t r ight bac k w here i t ca me f rom. ‘Can y ou s ee w hat’s o ver the wall? ’ He p ressed his li ps t ogether, d usted his ha nds o n his je ans a nd nodded a li ttle. 284


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‘You ca n? ’ This she hadn ’t r eally exp ected. ‘ What is i t? C an y ou tell me?’ ‘I can do b etter than that,’ he s aid, holding on to the eave so that he could jump down from the roof. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

c The hole was very small, right at the bottom of the wall, and concealed so t hat C assandra mig ht ha ve s earched f or a y ear a nd no t f ound i t. Christian was on his hands and knees, pulling the undergrowth aside. ‘Ladies first,’ he s aid, sitting back. Cassandra looked at him. ‘I thought maybe there’d be a gate.’ ‘You find one, I’ll follow you through it.’ ‘You want me to . . .’ She glanced at the hole. ‘I don’t know if I can, if I e ven know how to . . .’ ‘On your stomach. It’s not as tig ht as i t looks.’ Of t his C assandra had s ome do ubt. It lo oked v ery tig ht. All t he same, the day’s fruitless searching had o nly strengthened her r esolve: she needed to know what lay on the other side. She hopped down so she was e ye level with the hole and looked sidelong at Christian. ‘Are you sure this is s afe? You’ve done it before?’ ‘At le ast a h undred times.’ H e s cratched his nec k. ‘ Sure, I was younger a nd smaller b ut . . .’ H is li ps twi tched side ways. ‘ I’m jo king. I’m sorry, you’ll be fine.’ There was some relief once her head was free and she realised she wasn’t going to perish with her neck jammed beneath a brick wall. Not on the way in, at any rate. She shimmied the rest of her body through, as fast as possible, and stood up. Dusted her hands together and looked around, wide-eyed. It was a ga rden, a walled ga rden. O vergrown b ut wi th b eautiful bones visible still. Someone had cared for this garden once. The remains of two paths snaked back and forth, intertwined like the lacing on an Irish dancing sho e. Fruit trees had b een espaliered around t he sides, and wir es zigzag ged f rom t he t op o f o ne wall t o t he t op o f a nother. Hungry wisteria tendrils had woven themselves around to form a sort of canopy. 285


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Against t he s outhern wall , a n a ncient a nd knobb led tr ee was growing. Cassandra went closer. It was the apple tree, she realised, the one w hose b ough had r eached o ver t he wall . S he lif ted her ha nd t o touch one of the golden fruit. The tree was about five metres high and shaped like the Japanese bonsai plant Nell had given Cassandra for her twelfth b irthday. O ver t he decades, t he sho rt tr unk had ado pted a sideways a ngle, a nd s omeone had g one t o t he ef fort o f p ropping a crutch beneath a large limb to absorb some of its weight. A scorch mark midway along suggested a lightning strike many years before. Cassandra reached out to run her f ingers along the burn. ‘It’s magical, isn’t it, this place?’ Christian was standing in the centre of the garden by a r usted iron bench. ‘Even when I was a kid I co uld feel that.’ ‘You used to come here?’ ‘All the time. It felt like my secret spot. No one else knew about it.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, hardly anyone else.’ Beyond Chr istian, o n t he o ther side o f t he ga rden, C assandra noticed something glinting against the creeper-covered wall. She went closer. I t was met al, shinin g in t he sun. A do or. Ro pe-like t endrils draped across it, a giant web blocking the entrance to the spider’s lair. Or exit, as t he case may be. Christian joined her and together they pulled some of the brambles loose. There was a brass handle turned black with time. Cassandra gave it a rattle. The do or was lo cked. ‘I wonder where it goes.’ ‘There’s a maze on the other side that leads all the way through the estate,’ s aid Chr istian. ‘ It ends o ver ne ar t he ho tel. M ichael’s b een working to restore it these past mo nths.’ The maze, of course. She had kno wn that. Where had C assandra read a bout t he maze? W as i t N ell’s no tebook? One o f t he t ourist brochures at the hotel? A quivering dragonfly hovered near before darting away, and they turned back towards the centre of the garden. ‘Why did y our gra ndmother b uy t he co ttage? ’ s aid Chr istian, brushing a fallen le af from his sho ulder. ‘She was b orn around here.’ ‘In the village?’ 286


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Cassandra hesi tated, w ondering ho w m uch she sho uld t ell. ‘ The estate, ac tually. Blackhurst. She didn’t know until her ado ptive father died, when she was in her sixties. She found out her parents were Rose and Nathaniel Walker. He was—’ ‘An a rtist, I kno w.’ Chr istian p icked u p a small stic k f rom t he ground. ‘ I’ve g ot a b ook wi th his ill ustrations in i t, a b ook o f fairytales.’ ‘Magical Tales for Girls and Boys?’ ‘Yeah.’ He looked at her, surprised. ‘I have a co py too.’ He ra ised his e yebrows. ‘ There w eren’t ma ny p rinted, y ou kno w, not by today’s standards. Did y ou know Eliza Makepeace used to live right here in t he cottage?’ Cassandra shook her he ad. ‘I knew she gr ew up on the estate . . .’ ‘Most of her st ories were written here in t his garden.’ ‘You know a lo t about her.’ ‘I’ve been re-reading the fairytales lately. I used to love them when I was a kid , e ver since I f ound an old copy in t he lo cal charity shop. There was something bewitching about them, more than met the eye.’ He s cuffed at t he dir t wi th his b oot. ‘ It’s a b it s ad, I gues s—a gr own man reading children’s fairytales.’ ‘I don’t think so.’ Cassandra noticed that he was raising and lowering his shoulders, hands in pockets. Almost as if he w ere nervous. ‘Which one’s your favourite?’ He tilted his he ad, squinted a little in t he sun. ‘“The Crone’s Eyes”.’ ‘Really? Why?’ ‘It al ways s eemed dif ferent f rom t he o thers. M ore me aningful somehow. Plus I had a w ild eight-year-old crush on the princess.’ He smiled shyly. ‘What’s not to like about a girl whose castle is destroyed, her royal subjects vanquished, who nonetheless plucks up enough courage to embark on a q uest and uncover the old crone’s missing eyes?’ Cassandra smiled t oo. The t ale o f t he b rave p rincess w ho didn’t know she was a princess was the first of Eliza’s fairytales she’d read. On that hot Brisbane day, when she was t en years old and had dis obeyed her grandmother’s instruction, discovered the suitcase under t he bed. Christian b roke his stic k in half a nd t ossed t he p ieces aside . ‘I suppose you’re going to try and sell the cottage?’ 287


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‘Why? Interested in b uying it?’ ‘On the wage Mike’s paying me?’ Briefly their eyes met. ‘Don’t hold your breath.’ ‘I don’t know how I’m going to get it ready,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise how much work there’d be. The ga rden, the house itself.’ She gestured over the southern wall. ‘There’s a ho le in t he bloody roof.’ ‘How long are you here for?’ ‘I’m booked at the hotel for another three weeks.’ He nodded. ‘That ought to be enough time.’ ‘You reckon?’ ‘Sure.’ ‘Such faith. And y ou haven’t even seen me wield a ha mmer.’ He reached up to plait a stray piece of wisteria in wi th the others. ‘I’ll help you.’ Cassandra f elt a f lush o f em barrassment: he t hought she’d b een hinting. ‘ I didn’t me an . . . I do n’t ha ve . . .’ S he exhaled . ‘ There’s no restoration budget, none at all.’ He smiled, the first proper smile she’d seen him gi ve. ‘I’m earning peanuts already. Might as w ell earn nothing working in a p lace I love.’

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33 Tregenna, 1975 , Cornwall, 1975

N

ell looked out over the churning sea. It was the first overcast day she’d struck since a rriving in C ornwall and the whole landscape was shi vering. The w hite co ttages c linging t o co ld crags, t he sil very gulls, the grey sky reflecting the swollen sea. ‘Best view in all o f Cornwall,’ said the estate agent. Nell didn’t dignif y t he ina nity wi th co mment. S he co ntinued t o watch the roiling waves from the little dormer window. ‘There’s a nother b edroom next do or. S maller, b ut a b edroom nonetheless.’ ‘I need lo nger to inspect,’ said Nell. ‘I’ll join you downstairs when I’m done.’ The ag ent s eemed ha ppy eno ugh t o b e dismis sed a nd, wi thin a minute, N ell s aw her a ppear o utside t he f ront ga te, h uddling in to her coat. Nell wa tched as t he w oman did ba ttle wi th t he wind t o lig ht a cigarette, t hen she let her gaze dr ift do wn t owards t he ga rden. S he couldn’t see much from up here, had to look through a frayed tapestry of cr eepers, b ut she co uld j ust mak e o ut t he st one he ad o f t he li ttle boy statue. Nell le aned o n t he d usty windo w f rame, f elt t he s alt-roughened wood beneath her palms. She had been in this cottage before, as a child, she kne w t hat no w. S he had st ood a t t his v ery sp ot, in t his r oom, watching the same sea. She closed her eyes and willed her memory into sharper focus. A b ed had st ood w here she was no w, a sin gle b ed, sim ple, wi th brass ends, d ulled knobs t hat needed p olishing. From t he ceiling, an 289


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inverted co ne o f net ting f ell, lik e t he w hite mis t t hat h ung f rom t he horizon when storms were stirring the distant sea. A patchwork quilt, cool beneath her knees; fishing boats bobbing on the tide, flower petals floating on the pond below. Sitting in t his window that jutted out from the rest of the cottage was lik e ha nging f rom t he t op o f t he c liff, lik e t he p rincess in o ne of her fa vourite fa irytales, t urned t o a b ird a nd lef t swin ging in her golden cage— Raised voices downstairs, her papa and the Authoress. Her name, Ivory, sharp and jagged like a s tar cut from cardboard with pointed scissors. Her name as a w eapon. There were other angry words being hurled. Why was Papa shouting at the Authoress? Papa who never raised his v oice. The little girl f elt frightened, she didn’t want to hear. Nell clenched her e yes tighter, tried to hear. The li ttle girl b locked her e ars, s ang s ongs in her mind , t old stories, t hought a bout t hat g olden cag e, t he p rincess b ird swin ging and waiting. Nell tried to push aside the child’s song, the image of a golden cage. In the cold depths of her mind, the truth was lurking, waiting for Nell to clutch it and drag i t to the surface . . . But not today. She opened her eyes. Those tendrils were too slippery today, the water around them too murky. Nell took herself back down the narrow stairs. The agent locked the gate and together they started in silence down the path to where the car was pa rked. ‘So, what did you think?’ said the agent in the perfunctory tone of one who thought she kne w the answer. ‘I’d like to buy it.’ ‘Perhaps there’s something else I can—’ The agent looked up from the car door. ‘You’d like to buy it?’ Nell gazed aga in acr oss t he st ormy s ea, t he misty ho rizon. S he enjoyed a bit of inclemency in her weather. When the clouds hung low and rain threatened, she f elt restored. Breathed more deeply, thought more clearly. She had no ide a how she’d pay for the cottage, what she’d have to sell in o rder to do s o. But as sur e as b lack and white made gr ey, Nell 290


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knew she had to own it. From the moment she’d remembered that little girl by the fish pond, the little girl who was Nell in a different lifetime, she’d known.

c The agent drove all t he way back to the Tregenna Inn with breathless promises to walk round with the contracts just as soon as she had them typed up. She had the name of a good solicitor Nell could use, too. Nell closed the car door and went up the steps to the foyer. She was so intent on her attempt to calculate the time difference—was it add three hours and c hange a m t o p m? —so she co uld call her b ank ma nager a nd attempt t o exp lain t he sudden acq uisition o f a C ornish co ttage, she didn’t see the person coming towards her until they almost co llided. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Nell, stopping with a jo lt. Robyn Martin was b linking quickly behind her g lasses. ‘Were you waiting for me? ’ said Nell. ‘I b rought y ou s omething.’ Ro byn ha nded N ell a p ile o f pa pers clipped together. ‘It’s research for the article I’ve been working on about the M ountrachet fa mily.’ S he shif ted a wkwardly. ‘ I he ard y ou askin g Gump a bout t hem, a nd I kno w he wasn ’t a ble t o . . . t hat he wasn ’t much help.’ She smoothed already smooth hair. ‘It’s an odd assortment really, but I t hought they might be of interest to you.’ ‘Thank you,’ said Nell, meaning it. ‘And I’m sorry if I . . .’ Robyn nodded. ‘Is your grandfather . . . ? ’ ‘Much better. In fact, I was wondering whether you might come to dinner again, one night next w eek. At Gump’s house.’ ‘I a ppreciate y ou askin g me ,’ s aid N ell, ‘b ut I do n’t t hink y our grandfather will.’ Robyn sho ok her he ad, ha ir swin ging ne atly. ‘ Oh no , y ou’ve misunderstood.’ Nell’s eyebrows lifted. ‘It was his ide a,’ s aid Rob yn. ‘ He s aid t here was s omething he needed to tell you. About the cottage, and Eliza Makepeace.’

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34 New York and Tregenna, 1907

M I S S R O S E M O U N T R AC H E T , C U N A R D L I N E R , L u s i ta n i a

9 September 1907 Miss Eliza Mountrachet, Blackhurst Manor, Cornwall, England My Dearest Eliza, Oh!—What wonder the Lusitania! As I write this letter, cousin of mine, I am seated on the upper deck—a dainty little table on the Veranda Café— gazing out across the wide blue Atlantic, as our great ‘floating hotel’ spirits us towards New York. There is an atmosphere of tremendous celebration on board, with everyone positively overbrimming with hope that the Lusitania will take back the Blue Riband from Germany. At the landing stage in Liverpool, as the great ship moved slowly from her moorings & began proper her maiden voyage, the crowd on deck were singing ‘Britons never, never shall be slaves’ & waving flags, so many & so quickly, that even as we pulled further away & the folk ashore were diminished into tiny dots, I could see the flags still moving. When the boats bade us farewell by tooting their horns, I confess to goosebumps on my arms & a sensation of swelling pride in my heart. What joy to be involved in such momentous events! Will history remember us, I wonder? I do hope so—to imagine that one might do something, touch an event somehow, & thereby transcend the bounds of a single human lifetime! 292


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I know what you will say with regards to the Blue Riband—that it’s a silly race invented by silly men trying to prove little more than that their boat can outrun that belonging to even sillier men! But dearest Eliza, to be here, to breathe the spirit of excitement & conquest—Well, I can only say that it’s invigorating. I feel more alive than I have done in an age, & though I know you will be rolling your eyes, you must allow me to profess my deepest wish that we do make the trip in record speed & win back our rightful place. The entire ship is appointed in such a way that it is difficult at times to remember that one is at sea. Mamma & I are staying in one of two ‘Regal Suites’ on board—it comprises two bedrooms, a sitting room, dining room, private bath, lavatory & pantry, & is beautifully decorated, reminding me a little of the pictures of Versailles in Miss Tranton’s book, the one she brought to the schoolroom that summer long ago. I overheard a beautifully dressed lady commenting that it is more like a hotel than any ship she has ever before travelled aboard. I do not know who that lady was, but I feel sure she must be Very Important, for Mamma suffered a rare bout of speechlessness when we found ourselves within her orbit. Never fear, ’twas not abiding—Mamma cannot be repressed for long. She quickly found her tongue & has been making up for lost time ever since. Our fellow passengers are a veritable who’s who of London society, according to Mamma, & thus they must be ‘charmed’. I am under strict instructions to be always at my best—thank goodness I have two wardrobes full of armaments with which to dress for battle! For once Mamma & I are of a mind, though certainly not of a taste!—she is forever pointing out a gentleman she considers an excellent match & I am frequently dismayed. But enough—I fear I will lose the audience of my dearest cousin if I tarry too long on such subjects. Back to the ship then—I have been carrying out certain explorations, sure to make my Eliza proud. Yesterday morning I managed briefly to escape Mamma, & passed a lovely hour in the roof garden. I thought of you, dearest, & how amazed you would be to see that such vegetation could be grown on board a ship. There are tubs at every turn, filled with green trees & the most beautiful flowers. I felt quite joyous sitting amongst them (no one knows better than I the healing properties of a garden) & gave myself over to all kinds of silly daydreams. (You will be able to imagine well enough the paths down which my fancies rambled . . . ) 293


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Oh! but how I wish you had relented & come with us, Eliza. I shall make time here for a brief but gentle scold, for I simply cannot understand. It was you, after all, who first raised the notion that the two of us might some day travel to America, witness first-hand the skyscrapers of New York & the great Statue of Liberty. I cannot think what induced you to forsake the opportunity so that you might stay at Blackhurst with only Father for company. You are, as always, a mystery to me, dearest, but I know better than to argue with you when your mind is made up, my dear, stubborn Eliza. I will say only that I miss you already & find myself frequently imagining how much mischief might be had were you here with me. (How we would wreak havoc on poor Mamma’s nerves!) It is strange to think upon a time when you were unknown to me, it seems we have always been a pair & the years at Blackhurst before you arrived but a horrid waiting period. Ah—Mamma is calling. It seems we are expected yet again in the dining room. (The meals, Eliza! I am having to stroll about the deck between times in order to stand any hope at all of making a polite attempt at the next sitting!) Mamma has no doubt managed to harpoon the earl of so-and-so, or the son of some wealthy industrialist as tablemate. A daughter’s work is never done, & she is right in this: I shall never meet My Fate if I keep myself locked away. I bid you goodbye, then, my dear Eliza, & close by saying that though you are not with me in person, you most certainly are in spirit. I know that when I first catch sight of the famed lady of Liberty, standing vigilant over her port, it will be my cousin Eliza’s voice I hear, saying, ‘Just look at her & think of all she’s seen.’ I remain always, your beloved cousin, Rose

c Eliza tig htened her f ingers a round t he b rown-paper wra pped pa rcel. Standing on the doorstop of the Tregenna general store, she wa tched as a dark grey blanket of cloud sagged towards the mirror below. Haze on the horizon spoke of storms at sea, and the air in the village vacillated with a nxious f lecks o f mo isture. E liza had b rought no bag, as w hen she’d lef t t he ho use she hadn ’t in tended a tr ip t o t he villag e. I t was sometime during the morning that the story had cr ept up on her a nd 294


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demanded immedia te des cription. Th e f ive pag es lef t in her c urrent notebook had been sorely inadequate, the need for a new one pressing, thus had she em barked on this impromptu shopping expedition. Eliza glanced once more at the sullen sky and set off quickly along the harbour. When she r eached the point where the road forked, she ignored the main branch and started instead up the narrow cliff track. She had ne ver followed it before, but Davies had o nce told her t hat a short cut from the estate to the village ran along the cliff edge. The way was st eep and the grass lo ng but Eliza proceeded apace. She paused only once to look out across the flat, granite sea, on which a f leet o f tin y w hite f ishing b oats was co ming ho me t o r oost. E liza smiled to see them, like baby sparrows returning to the nest, hurrying in after a day spent exploring the rim of a vast w orld. One day she would cross that sea, all the way to the other side, just as her father had done. There were so many worlds waiting beyond the horizon. Af rica, I ndia, Ara bia, t he An tipodes, a nd in s uch fa raway places would she dis cover new stories, magical t ales from long ago. Davies had suggested she write down her own tales, and write Eliza had. She’d filled twelve notebooks and still she hadn’t stopped. Indeed, the more she wrote, the louder the stories seemed to grow, swirling in her mind , p ressing aga inst her he ad, a nxious f or r elease. S he didn’t know whether they were any good and in tr uth she didn’t care. They were her s, a nd wr iting t hem made t hem r eal s omehow. Cha racters who’d danced around inside her mind gr ew bolder on the page. They took o n ne w ma nnerisms she hadn ’t imagined f or t hem, s aid t hings she didn’t know they thought, began to behave unpredictably. Her st ories had a small b ut r eceptive a udience. E ach nig ht a fter supper, Eliza would crawl into bed beside Rose, just as she had w hen they were younger, and there she would begin her most recent fairytale. Rose w ould list en, wide-e yed, gasp ing a nd sig hing in all t he r ight places, laughing gleefully at certain gruesome moments. It was Ros e w ho had ca joled E liza in to s ending o ne o f her t ales away to the London office of the Children’s Storytime journal. ‘Don’t you want to see them in print? They will be real stories then, and you a real writer.’ ‘They’re already real stories.’ 295


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Rose had taken on a slightly devious look. ‘But if they’re published, you will e arn a li ttle income.’ An income of her own. This did interest Eliza, and Rose well knew it. Up until this point Eliza had been fully dependent on her aunt and uncle, but lately she’d been wondering how she was g oing to fund the travels and adventures she kne w the future held. ‘And it certainly wouldn’t please Mamma,’ said Rose, clasping her hands together beneath her c hin, biting her li p to stop f rom smiling. ‘A Mountrachet lady earning a li ving!’ Aunt A deline’s r eaction, as al ways, me ant li ttle o f co nsequence to Eliza, but the idea of other p eople reading her t ales . . . Ever since Eliza had dis covered t he b ook of fairytales in M rs Swindell’s rag a nd bone sho p, had dis appeared in side i ts faded pag es, she’d under stood the p ower of stories. Their magical a bility to refill t he wounded part of people. Mizzle was t urning no w t o lig ht ra in a nd E liza b egan t o r un, hugging t he no tebook t o her c hest as w et stra nds o f grass b rushed against her da mp skirt. What would Rose say when Eliza told her t he children’s journal was going to publish ‘The Changeling’, that they had asked to see more? She smiled t o herself as she ra n. A week to go before Rose was finally home, and Eliza could barely wait. How she lo nged to see her co usin! Rose had b een rather remiss with correspondence—there had been one letter composed en route to America, but nothing since, and Eliza found herself waiting impatiently for news of the great city. She would have loved to visit it herself but Aunt Adeline had b een clear. ‘Ruin your own prospects, by all means,’ she said one evening when Rose had retired to bed. ‘But I will no t allow you to ruin Rose’s future with your uncivilised ways. She’ll never meet Her Fate if she’s not given opportunity to shine.’ Aunt Adeline had drawn herself to her full height. ‘I have b ooked two pass ages to New York. One f or Ros e and one for myself. I wish t o a void un pleasantness, t hus i t w ould b e b est if she thought the decision had b een yours.’ ‘Why would I lie t o Rose?’ Aunt A deline inhaled a nd her cheeks h ollowed. ‘ To m ake h er happy, of course. Don’t you want her t o be happy?’ 296


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A thunderclap echoed between the cliff walls as E liza reached the hilltop. The sky was da rkening a nd t he ra in gr owing he avier. I n t he clearing st ood a co ttage. The s ame li ttle co ttage, E liza r ealised, t hat crouched o n t he o ther side o f t he walled ga rden t hat U ncle L inus had gi ven her t o p lant. S he h urried t o shel ter b eneath t he en trance portico, h uddled aga inst t he do or as ra in sp illed, t hicker a nd fas ter, over the eaves. It had b een two months since Ros e and Aunt Adeline had lef t for New York, a nd t hough time was drag ging no w, t he f irst mo nth had passed swiftly in a whirl of fine weather and splendid story ideas. Eliza had split each day between her tw o favourite places on the estate: the black rock down in t he cove, on top of w hich millennia o f tides had washed smo oth a s eat-sized p latform; a nd t he hidden ga rden, her garden, at the end o f the maze. What a delig ht it was t o have a p lace of one’s own, an entire garden in w hich to B e. Sometimes Eliza liked to sit on the iron seat, perfectly still, and just listen. To the wind-blown leaves t apping aga inst t he walls, t he m uffled o cean b reathing in a nd out, a nd t he b irds sin ging t heir s tories. S ometimes, if she s at still enough, she almost fa ncied she co uld he ar t he f lowers sig hing in gratitude to the sun. But not today. The sun had wi thdrawn and beyond the cliff edge sky and sea were merged in grey agitation. Rain continued to pour and Eliza sig hed. Ther e was no p oint y et attempting t o mak e her wa y t o the garden and through the maze, not unless she wa nted a t horough drenching for herself and her new notebook. If only a hollow tree could be found in which to shelter! A story idea began to flutter on the edge of Eliza’s imagination; she snatched at it, refused to let it go, held on as it grew arms, legs a nd a c lear destination. She r eached in side her dr ess a nd wi thdrew t he le ad p encil she always k ept t ucked b eneath her b odice. L eaned t he ne w no tebook against her b ent knee a nd began to scribble. The wind b lew str onger u p her e in t he r ealm o f t he b irds, a nd rain had b egun to swirl in side her hidin g place, tossing splotches on her p ristine pa ges. Eliza t urned t owards th e do or b ut s till th e ra in found her. This was no g ood! Where would she wr ite when the wet weather set in for the season? The cove and the garden would not be fair shelter 297


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then. There was her unc le’s house, of course, with its hundred rooms, but E liza f ound i t dif ficult t o wr ite w hen t here was al ways s omeone nearby. I t was p ossible t o t hink o neself alo ne, o nly t o dis cover a housemaid had b een knel t b y t he f ire, rakin g coals all t he w hile. Or her uncle, sitting silent in a dim, da rk corner. A scud of heavy rain landed at Eliza’s feet, drenching the portico. She closed t he notebook and t apped her heel im patiently against t he stone floor. She needed better shelter than this. Eliza glanced at the red door behind her. How had she not noticed before? Emerging from the lock was the ornate handle of a big brass key. Without further hesitation, Eliza twist ed i t t o t he lef t. The mec hanism shif ted wi th a c lunk. S he laid her hand on the doorknob, smooth and unaccountably warm, and turned it. A c lick, and the door was o pen, as if b y magic. Eliza stepped across the threshold into the dark, dry womb.

c Beneath t he b lack um brella L inus s at wa iting. H e hadn’t ca ught a glimpse of Eliza all day and agitation possessed his e very mannerism. She would come though, he kne w that, Davies said she had in tended to visit the garden and there was only one way back from there. Linus allowed his e yes to close and his mind t o fall bac kwards through the years to a time when Georgiana had disappeared daily into the garden. She had ask ed him aga in a nd aga in t o come, t o s ee t he p lanting she had done, but L inus al ways dec lined. He had wa ited f or her t hough, kept vigil un til his poupee reappeared each day from between the hedges. Remembered sometimes his entrapment by the maze all those years before. What an exquisite feeling it had been, the curious melange of old shame mixed with joy at his sist er’s emergence. He opened his eyes and drew breath. Thought at first he was subject to a wishf ul fantasy, but no, it was E liza, coming this way and deep in thought. She hadn’t seen him yet. His dry lips moved around the words he wished t o speak. ‘Child,’ he called o ut. She looked up, surprised. ‘Uncle,’ she said, smiling slowly. She held her hands out to the side; in o ne was a b rown package. ‘How sudden the rain!’ 298


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Her skirt was w et, the transparent rim clinging to her legs. L inus couldn’t lo ok a way. ‘ I—I was a fraid y ou mig ht b e ca ught in t he weather.’ ‘And I v ery nearly was. I f ound shelter though, in t he cottage, the little cottage on the other side o f the maze.’ Wet hair, wet hem, wet ankles. Linus swallowed, dug his cane into the damp earth and pushed himself to standing. ‘Is t he co ttage us ed b y a nyone, U ncle? ’ E liza ca me c loser. ‘ It appeared unused.’ Her smell—rain, salt, soil. He leaned against his ca ne and almost fell. She reached to steady him. ‘The garden, child, tell me o f the garden.’ ‘Oh, Uncle, how it grows! You must come one day and sit amongst the flowers. See for yourself the planting I have made.’ Her ha nds o n his a rm w ere wa rm, her gr ip f irm. He w ould gi ve the remaining years of his lif e to stop time a nd remain forever in t his moment, he a nd his G eorgiana— ‘Lord Mountrachet!’ Thomas was flustering towards them from the house. ‘My Lord, you should have said you needed hel p.’ And t hen E liza was no lo nger ho lding him, Tho mas was in her place. And Linus could only watch as she disappeared up the stairs and into t he en trance hall , pa used f ractionally a t t he st and t o co llect t he morning’s post, before being swallowed by his ho use.

c M I S S R O S E M O U N T R AC H E T , C U N A R D L I N E R , L u s i ta n i a

7 November 1907 Miss Eliza Mountrachet, Blackhurst Manor, Cornwall, England Dearest Eliza, What a time! So much has happened since last we met, I can barely think where to start. First, I must apologise for the dearth of letters in recent weeks. Our last month in New York was such a whirlwind, & when I first 299


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sat down to write to you, as we left the great American port, we fell victim to such a storm I almost believed myself back in Cornwall. The thunder, & Oh! the squalls! I was laid up in my cabin for a full two days, & poor Mamma was quite green. She required frequent tending—what a turn-up it was, Mamma ill and Sickly Rose her nurse! After the storm finally subsided, the mist remained for many days, floating about the ship like a great sea monster. It put me in mind of you, dear Eliza, & the stories you used to spin when we were girls, about the mermaids & the ships lost at sea. The skies have cleared now, as we draw ever closer towards England— But wait. Why am I giving you weather reportage when I have so much else to relate? I know the answer to that: I am dancing around my true intentions, hesitating before giving voice to my real news, for Oh! where to begin . . . You will remember, Eliza dear, from my last letter, that Mamma & I had made the acquaintance of certain Important people? One, Lady Dudmore, turned out to be a person of some consequence indeed; what’s more, it would seem she took a shine to me, for Mamma & I were issued many a letter of introduction & were thus inducted into a circle of New York’s finest society. What glittering butterflies we were, flitting from one party to another— But still I tarry—for you need not hear of every soiree, every game of bridge! Eliza dearest, with no further ado, I will hold my breath & write it plain—I am engaged! Engaged to be married! & dear Eliza, I am so bursting with joy & wonder that I hardly dare open my mouth to speak for fear I will have little to say except to gush about my Love. And that I will not do—not here, not yet. I refuse to diminish these fine feelings through inadequate attempt to capture them in words. Instead, I will wait until we meet again & then tell you all. Let it be enough, my cousin, to say that I am floating in a great & glittering cloud of happiness. I have never felt so well, and I have you to thank, my dear Eliza— from Cornwall you have waved your fairy wand & granted me my dearest wish! For my fiancé (what thrill to write those two words—my fiancé!) may not be what you imagine. Though in most everything he is of the highest order—handsome, clever & good—in matters of finance, he is quite a poor man! (And now you will begin to intuit just why I suspect you 300


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of the gift of prophecy—) He is just as the match you invented for me in ‘The Changeling’! How did you know, dearest, that I would have my head turned by such a one! Poor Mamma is in a state of some shock (though improved somewhat by now), indeed, she barely spoke to me for some days after I informed her of my engagement. She, of course, had her heart set on a greater match & will not see that I care not one whit for money or title. Those are her desires for me, & while I confess I once shared them, I do so no longer—how can I when my Prince has come for me and unlatched the door to my golden cage? I ache to see you again, Eliza, & to share with you my joy. I have missed you tremendously and can hardly bear to think that once I arrive in England there will be yet another week to wait before we’re together. I will post this letter as soon as we dock in Liverpool: would that I were accompanying it directly to Blackhurst, rather than languishing in the dreary company of Mamma’s family! I remain yours, lovingly now & evermore, cousin Rose

c If she were honest, Adeline blamed herself. Had she not, after all, been present wi th Ros e a t e ach g littering e vent d uring t heir visi t t o N ew York? Had she not appointed herself chaperone at the ball given by Mr and Mrs Irving in their grand house on Fifth Avenue? Worse still, had she not given Rose a no d of encouragement when the dashing young man with dark hair and full lips made his approach and requested the pleasure of a da nce? ‘Your daughter is a b eauty,’ Mrs Frank Hastings had s aid, leaning over t o w hisper in A deline’s e ar as t he ha ndsome couple t ook t o t he floor. ‘Fairest of them all tonight.’ Adeline had shif ted—yes, p roudly—on her s eat. (Was t hat t he moment o f her undo ing? H ad t he L ord no ted her h ubris? ) ‘ Beauty equalled by her purity of heart.’ ‘And Nathaniel Walker is a ha ndsome man indeed.’ Nathaniel Walker. It was the first time she’d heard his name. ‘Walker,’ she said thoughtfully: the name had a solid ring to it, surely she’d heard tell o f a fa mily called W alker w ho’d made t heir f ortune in o il? N ew 301


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money, but times w ere changing, there was no lo nger any shame in a match of title with treasure. ‘Who are his p eople?’ Did Adeline imagine t he hint of barely concealed glee that briefly animated Mrs Hastings’s bland features? ‘Oh, no o ne of consequence.’ She ra ised o ne bald e yebrow. ‘An a rtist, y ou kno w, b efriended, most ludicrously, by one of the younger Irving boys.’ Adeline’s smile h ad gr own s tale a round th e edg es b ut s till s he held it. All was no t y et lost, pa inting was a p erfectly nob le hobb y after all . . . ‘Rumour has i t,’ ca me M rs H astings’s cr ushing b low, ‘ the I rving chappie met him o n t he street! S on of a pa ir of immigrants, Poles at that. Walker may be what he calls him self, but I doubt that’s what was written on t he immigration papers. I he ar t ell he mak es sketches for a living!’ ‘Oil portraits?’ ‘Oh, nothing so grand as that. Scratchy charcoal things from what I understand.’ She sucked in o ne cheek in a n attempt to swallow her glee. ‘Quite a r ise indeed. Parents are Catholics, father worked on the wharves.’ Adeline f ought t he ur ge t o s cream as M rs H astings le aned bac k against her gilt chair, face pinched at the edges by one of Schadenfreude’s smiles. ‘ No ha rm in a y oung girl da ncing wi th a ha ndsome ma n, though, is t here?’ A smooth smile t o mask her pa nic. ‘No harm at all,’ said Adeline. But how could she believe it when her mind had already tossed up the memo ry o f a y oung girl st anding atop a C ornish c liff, e yes wide and heart open as she looked upon a handsome man who appeared to promise so much? Oh, there was harm indeed for a young lady flattered by the brief attentions of a ha ndsome man. The week passed, and that was the best that could be said of it. Night after night, Adeline paraded Rose before an audience of suitable young gentlemen. She waited and she hoped, longing to see a spark of interest brighten her daughter’s face. But each night, disappointment. Rose had eyes only for Nathaniel, and he, it seemed, for her. Like one in the grip of dangerous hysteria, Rose was trapped and unreachable. Adeline had to fight the urge to slap her cheeks, cheeks that glowed more fervently than a delicate young woman’s cheeks had any right to. 302


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Adeline, t oo, was ha unted b y N athaniel Walker’s face . A t e ach dinner, da nce o r r eading t hey a ttended she w ould s can t he r oom, seeking him out. Fear had created a template in her mind and all other faces were blurred: only his f eatures clear. She began to see him e ven when he wasn’t there. She had dreams of wharves and boats and poor families. Sometimes the dreams took place in Yorkshire, and her own parents p layed t he pa rt o f N athaniel’s fa mily. Oh, her p oor addled brain; to think that she co uld be brought to this. Then one evening the worst finally happened. They had b een at a ball a nd th e en tire ca rriage ride h ome Ros e wa s v ery q uiet. Th e particular typ e of quiet w hich presages a f irming of he art, a c learing of vie w. L ike s omeone n ursing a s ecret, k eeping i t c lose f or a time before unleashing it to do i ts worst. The horrid moment came when Rose was dr essing for bed. ‘Mamma,’ she s aid, as she b rushed her hair , ‘ there’s s omething I wish t o t ell y ou.’ Then t he w ords, t he dr eaded w ords. Af fection . . . fate . . . forever . . . ‘You a re y oung,’ A deline s aid q uickly, c utting Ros e o ff. ‘ It is understandable t hat y ou sho uld co nfuse f riendship wi th a ffection o f another kind.’ ‘It isn’t friendship alone that I f eel, Mamma.’ Heat rose beneath Adeline’s skin. ‘It would be a disaster. He brings nothing—’ ‘He brings himself and that’s all I need .’ Her insistence, her infuriating confidence. ‘Evidence of your naivety, my Rose, and your youth.’ ‘I am not too young to know my mind, Mamma. I am eighteen now. Did you not bring me t o New York so that I mig ht meet My Fate?’ Adeline’s voice was t hin. ‘This man is no t your Fate.’ ‘How do y ou know that?’ ‘I am your mother.’ How feeble it sounded. ‘You are beautiful, from an important family, and yet you would settle for so little?’ Rose sig hed s oftly, in a wa y t hat s eemed t o signal a c lose t o t he conversation. ‘I love him, Mamma.’ Adeline c losed her e yes. Y outh! W hat c hance had t he most reasonable arguments against the arrogant power of those three words? 303


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That her daughter, her precious prize, should utter them so easily, and about such a o ne as he! ‘And he loves me, Mamma, he t old me s o.’ Adeline’s heart tightened with fear. Darling girl, blinded by foolish thoughts of love. How t o t ell her t hat t he he arts of men w ere not s o easily won. If won, rarely kept. ‘ You’ll s ee,’ Ros e s aid. ‘ I shall li ve ha ppily e ver a fter, j ust lik e in Eliza’s st ory. S he wr ote t his, y ou kno w, almost as if she kne w w hat would happen.’ Eliza! Adeline seethed. Even here, at this distance, the girl continued her menace. Her influence extended across the oceans, her ill whisperings s abotaged Ros e’s f uture, g oaded her in to makin g t he b iggest mistake of her lif e. Adeline pressed her lips together tightly. She hadn’t overseen Rose’s recovery f rom countless ailments and illnesses in o rder to watch her throw herself away on a poor marriage. ‘You must break it off. He will understand. He must have known it would never be allowed.’ ‘We are engaged, Mamma. He has asked and I have accepted him.’ ‘Break it off.’ ‘I will n ot.’ Adeline felt her bac k against the wall. ‘You will b e shunned from society, unwelcome in y our father’s home.’ ‘Then I will st ay here where I am welcome. In Nathaniel’s home.’ How had it come to this? Her Rose, saying such things. Things she must have known would break her mamma’s heart. Adeline’s head was spinning, she needed t o lie down. ‘I’m sorry, Mamma,’ Rose said quietly, ‘but I won’t change my mind, I can’t. Don’t ask me t o.’ They didn’t sp eak for days after, excepting, of course, such banal social pleasantries as w ould have been unthinkable for either of them to igno re. Ros e t hought A deline was sulkin g, b ut she was no t. S he was deep in t hought. A deline had al ways b een a ble t o b end passio n towards logic. The c urrent eq uation was im possible, t hus s ome fac tor m ust b e changed. If it wasn’t going to be Rose’s mind, it would have to be the fiancé him self. H e m ust b ecome a ma n des erving o f her da ughter’s hand, the sort of man people spoke about with awe and, yes, with envy. 304


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And Adeline had a f eeling she kne w just how such a change might be effected. In e ach ma n’s he art t here lies a ho le. A da rk a byss o f need , t he filling of which takes precedence over all els e. Adeline suspected that Nathaniel Walker’s hole was p ride, t he most da ngerous pride, t hat of the poor man. A h unger to prove himself, to rise above his b irth and make of himself a better man than his father. Even without the biography so greedily supplied by Mrs Hastings, the more Adeline saw of Nathaniel Walker the more she kne w this to be true. She could see it in t he way he walked, the careful shine of his shoes, the keenness of his smile and the volume of his laugh. These were the traits of a man who had come from little and glimpsed the gleaming world swirling far above his own. A man whose finery was hung upon a p oor man’s skin. Adeline knew his weakness well, for it was her own. She also knew exactly w hat she had t o do . S he m ust en sure t hat he r eceived e very advantage; she must become his greatest champion, promote his art to the b est in s ociety, en sure t hat his na me b ecame syno nymous wi th portraiture of the elite. With her r inging endorsement, with his g ood looks a nd c harm, no t t o mention Ros e f or a wif e, he co uldn’t fa il t o impress. And A deline w ould mak e sur e t hat he ne ver f orgot w ho was responsible for his g ood fortune.

c Eliza dropped the letter beside her on the bed. Rose was engaged, was going to be married. The news shouldn’t have come as such a surprise. Rose had sp oken o ften o f her ho pes f or t he f uture, her desir e f or a husband a nd fa mily, a gra nd ho use a nd a ca rriage o f her o wn. And yet Eliza felt odd. She opened her new notebook and ran her fingers lightly over the first pag e, b listered b y ra indrops. S he dr ew a line wi th her p encil, watched absently as it switched from dark to light according to whether its bas e was da mp or dr y. She b egan a st ory, s cribbled and s cratched out for a time b efore pushing the book aside. Finally, Eliza leaned back against her pillow. There was no denying it, she felt unusual: something sat deep within her stomach, round and 305


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heavy, sha rp a nd b itter. S he w ondered w hether she had t aken ill . Perhaps it was the rain? Mary had often warned against staying outdoors too long. Eliza t urned her he ad t o lo ok a t t he wall , a t no thing. Ros e, her cousin, her s t o en tertain, willin g co-co nspirator, was t o b e ma rried. With w hom w ould E liza sha re t he hidden ga rden? H er st ories? H er life? H ow was i t t hat a f uture s o vi vidly imagined—y ears str etching ahead, f illed wi th tra vel a nd ad venture a nd wr iting—could p rove s o suddenly, so emphatically, a c himera? Her gaze sli pped sideways to rest on the cold glass of the mirror. Eliza didn’t often glance at the looking glass and in t he time t hat had elapsed since last she met her ec ho, something had g one missing. She sat up and moved closer. Appraised herself. Realisation came fully formed. She knew just what it was she’d lost. This reflection b elonged to an adult, t here was no p lace in i ts angles for Sammy’s face t o hide. He was g one. And now Rose was g oing too. Who was t his man who had st olen her dearest friend in t he blink of an eyelid? Eliza could not have felt so ill had she swallowed one of the Christmas decorations Mary made, one of the oranges spiked with cloves. Envy, t hat’s w hat t his l ump was called . S he en vied t he ma n w ho had made Ros e well, who had done so easily what Eliza sought to do, who had caused her cousin’s affections to shift so swiftly and completely. Envy. Eliza whispered the sharp word and felt its poisoned barbs prick the inside of her mo uth. She turned away from the mirror and closed her eyes, willed herself to forget the letter and its awful news. She didn’t want to feel envious, to harbour this barbed lump. For Eliza knew from her fa irytales the fate awaiting wicked sisters bewitched by envy.

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35 The Blackhurst Hotel, 2005 Cornwall, 2005

J

ulia’s a partment was a t t he v ery t op o f t he ho use, acces sed via a n incredibly narrow set of stairs at the end of the second floor hallway. When Cassandra left her room the sun had already begun to melt into the horizon, and the hall was now almost completely dark. She knocked and waited, tightening her grip on the neck of the bottle of wine she’d brought wi th her. A last-min ute decisio n as she ’d walk ed ho me wi th Christian through the village. The do or o pened a nd J ulia was t here, wra pped in a shin y p ink kimono. ‘Come, come,’ she s aid, gesturing for C assandra to follow as she sw ept acr oss t he r oom. ‘ I’m j ust ti tivating o ur dinner. Hope y ou like Italian!’ ‘Love it,’ said Cassandra, hurrying behind. What had o nce been a wa rren of tiny bedrooms housing an army of housemaids had been opened and reconfigured to create a large loftstyle apartment. Dormer windows ran all the way along both sides and must have given incredible views across the estate during the day. Cassandra st opped a t t he en trance t o t he ki tchen. E very sur face was covered with mixing bowls and measuring cups, tomato tins with their lids hanging off, gleaming pools of olive oil and lemon juice and other, m ysterious in gredients. F or wa nt o f s omewhere t o p ut i t, she held out her o ffering. ‘Aren’t you a da rling? ’ Julia popped the cork, then plucked a lo ne goblet f rom t he rac k a bove t he b ench, gur gled wine in to i t f rom a theatrical height. She licked a drop of shiraz from her finger. ‘Personally, I ne ver dr ink a nything b ut gin,’ she s aid wi th a wink. ‘ Keeps y ou youthful; it’s pure, you know.’ She handed the goblet of sinful red liquid 307


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to Cassandra and swept from the kitchen. ‘Now come on in and make yourself comfortable.’ She indicated an armchair in the centre of the room, and Cassandra sat down. B efore her was a w ooden chest, doubling as a co ffee table, and at i ts centre s at a s tack o f o ld s crapbooks, e ach w earing a faded brown leather jacket. A shot of excitement spread quickly through Cassandra’s body and her fingertips tingled with desire. ‘You si t a nd ha ve a li ttle f lick t hrough w hile I p ut t he f inishing touches to our dinner.’ Cassandra didn’t need t o b e t old twice . S he r eached f or t he t op scrapbook and ran her palm ever so lightly over its surface. The leather had lost all hin t of its grain and was smo oth and soft as v elvet. Inhaling her a nticipation, C assandra o pened t he co ver a nd r ead, in a pretty and precise script: Rose Elizabeth Mountrachet Walker, 1909. She traced t he w ords with a f ingertip a nd f elt t he fa int ma rks in t he paper. Imagined the nibbed pen which had made t hem. Carefully, she turned the pages until she a rrived at the first entry. A n ew ye ar. A nd o ne i n wh ich s uch t remendous even ts a re p romised. I have ba rely be en a ble t o c oncentrate s ince Dr M atthews a rrived a nd gave me his verdict. I confess , the fainting spells of late had me g ravely worried, and I was n ot the only one. I o nly needed glance at Mamma’s face to see anxiety writ large across her features. While Dr Matthews was examining m e I l ay sti ll, e yes fo cused on th e c eiling, for cing m y min d away f rom fear by recalling the happiest moments of my life so far. My wedding day, of course; my trip to New York; the summer Eliza first came to B lackhurst . . . H ow b right s uch m emories se em wh en t he l ife t hey catalogue is t hreatened! Afterwards, when Mamma and I sat side by side on the sofa awaiting Dr Matthews’s diagnosis, her hand reached for mine. It was cold. I glanced at her but she would not meet my eyes. It was then that I began to worry in earnest. Through all my childhood ailments, Mamma was t he one to keep a po sitive mind. I wo ndered why her confidence had now deserted her, what it was she had intuited that gave her cause for such concern. When Dr M atthews cleared his throat, I sq ueezed Mamma’s hand and 308


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waited. What he said, though, was more shocking than anything I could have dreamed. ‘You are with child. Two months gone, I’d say. God willing, you will deliver in August.’ Oh, but are there words to explain the joy those words provoked? After so long hoping, the terrible months of disappointment. A baby to love. An heir for Nathaniel, a g randchild for Mamma, a godchild for Eliza. Cassandra’s eyes stung. To think that this baby whose conception Rose celebrated was Nell, this desperately wanted baby-in-waiting was Cassandra’s de ar, disp laced gra ndmother. Ros e’s ho peful s entiments were esp ecially moving, wr itten as t hey were in igno rance of all t hat would come afterwards. She flicked quickly through the journal pages, past snippets of lace and ribbon, brief notes reporting doctor’s visits, invitations to various dinners and dances around the county, until finally, in December 1909, she found what she was lo oking for. She is h ere—I m ake t his r ecord a l ittle la ter t han expe cted. Th e pas t months have been more difficult than anticipated, and I h ave had little time o r en ergy f or w riting, b ut a ll h as be en wo rth i t. A fter so m any months o f h oping, lo ng s pells o f ill ness a nd wo rry a nd c onfinement, I hold i n m y a rms m y da rling c hild. E verything e lse f ades a way. S he is perfect. Her s kin so pa le a nd creamy, h er l ips so p ink a nd p lump. Her eyes are a deep blue, but the doctor says that is always so and they may darken w ith t ime. S ecretly I h ope h e is w rong. I w ish f or h er t he t rue Mountrachet colouring, like Father and Eliza: blue eyes and red hair. We have decided to name her Ivory. It is the colour of her skin and, as time will doubtless prove, her soul. ‘Here we are.’ Julia was j uggling two steaming bowls of pasta and had an enormous p epper mill t ucked b eneath her a rm. ‘Ravioli with pine nuts and gorgonzola.’ She handed one to Cassandra. ‘Careful, the plate’s a b it warm.’ Cassandra t ook t he p roffered b owl a nd s et t he s crapbook aside . ‘Smells delicious.’ 309


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‘If I hadn ’t b ecome a wr iter, t hen a r enovator, t hen a ho telier, I’d have been a c hef. Cheers.’ Julia lifted her g lass of gin, t ook a si p, then sighed. ‘ I s ometimes f eel m y en tire lif e is a s eries o f acciden ts a nd chances—not t hat I ’m co mplaining. One ca n b e v ery ha ppy ha ving relinquished all exp ectation o f co ntrol.’ S he s peared a ra violi s quare. ‘But enough about me—how goes it at the cottage?’ ‘Really w ell,’ s aid C assandra. ‘ Except t he mo re I do , t he mo re I realise needs do ing. The ga rden’s q uite wild a nd t he ho use i tself is a mess. I’m not even sure it’s structurally sound. I suppose I should have a builder come and look at it for me but I haven’t had time y et, there’s been so much else to keep me b usy. It’s all v ery . . .’ ‘Overwhelming?’ ‘Yeah, i t’s def initely o verwhelming, b ut mo re t han t hat. I t’s . . .’ Cassandra paused, searched for the right word, surprised herself when she found it, ‘. . . exciting. I’ve found something at the cottage, Julia.’ ‘Found s omething? ’ H er b rows sho t u p. ‘As in hidden tr easure something?’ ‘If you like your treasure green and fertile.’ Cassandra bit her bottom lip. ‘ It’s a hidden ga rden, a walled ga rden a t t he bac k o f t he co ttage. I don’t think anyone’s been inside for decades, and no wonder, the walls are really hig h, completely covered by brambles. You’d ne ver guess i t was there.’ ‘How did y ou find it?’ ‘By accident, really.’ Julia shook her he ad. ‘No such thing as accidents.’ ‘I honestly had no ide a it was t here.’ ‘I’m not suggesting that you did. I’m just saying, perhaps the garden only hid f rom those it didn’t wish t o see.’ ‘Well, I ’m cer tainly g lad i t sho wed i tself t o me . The ga rden is incredible. It’s really overgrown, but underneath the brambles all kinds of plants have survived. There are paths, garden seats, bird-feeders.’ ‘Like S leeping B eauty, fast asleep un til t he enc hantment is broken.’ ‘That’s the thing, though; it hasn’t been asleep. The trees have kept growing, b earing f ruit, e ven t hough t here’s b een no o ne t here t o appreciate it. You should s ee t he apple tree, it lo oks to b e a h undred years old.’ 310


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‘It is,’ s aid J ulia suddenl y, si tting u pright a nd p ushing her b owl aside. ‘Or it very nearly is.’ She flicked through the scrapbooks, running her f inger do wn pag e a fter pag e, t urning bac k a nd f orth. ‘A-ha,’ she said, tapping an entry. ‘Here it is. Just after Rose’s eighteenth birthday, before she went to New York and met Nathaniel.’ Julia propped a pair of turquoise and mother-of-pearl g lasses on t he end o f her nos e and began to read. ‘Twenty-first o f May, 1907. W hat a da y i t h as be en! And t o t hink when it s tarted I t hought I was t o s uffer ye t another i nterminable day inside. (After Dr Matthews mentioned a few cases of sniffles in the village, Mamma has become terrified that I will fall ill and jeopardise the country weekend we are to attend next month.) Eliza, as always, had other ideas. Just as soo n as M amma h ad left b y c arriage f or La dy Ph illimore’s luncheon, s he a ppeared a t m y doo r, c heeks a glow (h ow I en vy h er t he time she spends out of doors!), and insisted that I put aside my scrapbook (for I was wo rking on you, dear diary!) and come with her through the maze: there was so mething there that I must see. ‘My f irst i nstinct was t o dem ur—I f eared t hat o ne o f t he ser vants might report back to Mamma and I do n’t fancy an argument, certainly not with the New York trip on the horizon—but then I realised that Eliza had t he “ look” i n h er eye s, t he o ne s he ge ts wh en s he h as c oncocted a plan and will suffer no hesitations, the “look” that has led me into more scrapes than I c are to remember over the past seven ye ars. ‘So excited was my dear cousin that it was impossible not to be swept up i n h er en thusiasm. I so metimes t hink s he h as en ough s pirit f or t he two of us, which is just as well seeing as I a m so often dispirited. Before I knew it we were hurrying along together, arms linked, giggling. Davies was waiting for us at the maze gate, lumbering beneath the weight of an enormous potted plant, and all the way through Eliza kept doubling back with offers of help (which he always declined) before leaping back beside me, seizing my hand, and pulling me further along. We continued thus through t he m aze (w ith wh ose r outes El iza was ext remely a u f ait), crossing t he c entre s itting a rea, pas sing t he b rass r ing t hat El iza sa ys heralds the entrance to an underground passage, until we arrived, finally, at a metal door with a large brass lock. With a f lourish, Eliza withdrew a key from the pocket of her skirt and, before I had time to ask her where 311


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on e arth she’d f ound such a t hing, it was i nserted. S he t urned t he lock and pushed so t hat the door swung slowly open. ‘Inside was a garden. Similar to and yet somehow different from the other gardens on the estate. For a start, it is walled completely. Tall stone walls a round a ll f our s ides, b roken o nly b y two o pposing m etal doo rs, one on the northern and one on the southern wall—’ ‘So there is a nother door,’ said Cassandra. ‘I couldn’t find it.’ Julia lo oked o ver t he t op o f her g lasses. ‘ There w ere r enovations made, back around 1912 . . . 1913 . . . The b rick wall out front for one, maybe they removed the door then? But wait. Listen to this. ‘The garden itself was neat and rather under-planted. It had the look of a fallow field, waiting to be sown after the winter months have passed. In its centre, an ornate metal bench sat by a stone birdbath, and on the ground were several wooden crates loaded w ith small potted plants. ‘Eliza ran inside with all the grace of a sc hoolboy. ‘“What is this place?” I said in wonder. ‘“It’s a ga rden, I’ve been tending it. You should have seen the weeds when first I s tarted. We’ve been so b usy, haven’t we, D avies?” ‘“We cer tainly have at that, Miss Eliza,” he s aid, depositing the po t plant by the southern wall. ‘“It’s going to be ours, Rose, yours and mine. A secret place where we can be t ogether, just the two o f us, j ust as we i magined when we wer e younger. F our wa lls, loc ked doo rs, o ur ver y o wn pa radise. E ven wh en you’re unwell you can come here, Rose. The walls keep it protected from the rough sea winds, so you’ll still be able to listen to the birds, smell the flowers, feel the sun on your face.” ‘Her enthusiasm, the intensity of her feeling, was such that I couldn’t help b ut lo ng f or s uch a ga rden. I gaze d u pon t he t amed garden be ds, the potted flowers that were just beginning to bud, and I c ould imagine the paradise she described. “I heard talk when I was ver y small about a walled garden hidden on the property, but I thought it must be a story.” ‘“It’s n ot,” sa id El iza, eye s s hining. “ It was a ll t rue, a nd n ow we’re bringing it back to life.” ‘They had certainly worked hard. If the garden had been untended all t his t ime, ever s ince . . . I f rowned, t he t alk I ’d h eard as a g irl was coming back to me. Then realisation struck: I knew exactly whose garden this had been— 312


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‘“Oh, Liza,” I said quickly. “You must be careful, we must be careful. We m ust le ave t his p lace a nd n ever c ome ba ck. I f Father wer e t o f ind out—” ‘“He already knows.” ‘I loo ked a t h er s harply, m ore s harply t han I i ntended. “W hat do you mean?” ‘“It was U ncle Linus wh o i nstructed D avies t hat I s hould h ave t he garden. He had Davies clear the last part of the maze and told him that we should give the garden new life.” ‘“But Father forbade anyone going inside the walled garden.” ‘Eliza shrugged, that gesture of hers that comes so readily and which Mamma so de spises. “He must have had a c hange of heart.” ‘A change of heart. How uneasily the sentiment sat w ith my image of Father. It was the word “heart” that did it. Except for the one time in his study, when I was h idden beneath the desk and heard him weep for his sister, his poupee, I cannot think that I have ever seen Father behave in a wa y that suggested a hea rt. Suddenly, I k new, and I f elt a s trange heaviness in the v ery b ase of m y stomach . “I t i s b ecause y ou a re he r daughter.” ‘But Eliza did not hear me. She had left m y side and was d ragging the propagating pot towards a la rge hole by the wall. ‘“This is our first new tree,” she called. “We’re going to have a ceremony. That’s wh y i t was so i mportant t hat yo u be h ere t oday. Th is t ree w ill continue to grow, no matter where our lives take us, and it will remember us always: Rose and Eliza.” ‘Davies was b y my s ide t hen, h olding out a sm all sp ade. “It’s M iss Eliza’s wish that you should be t he first to toss dirt onto the roots of the tree, Miss Rose.” ‘Miss Eliza’s wish. Who was I t o argue with so g reat a f orce? ‘“What sort of tree is it?” I asked. ‘“An apple tree.” ‘I should have known. Eliza has always had an eye to symbolism and apples are, after all, the first fruit.’ Julia lo oked up f rom t he s crapbook and a t ear slipped f rom e yes that were brimming. She snuffled and smiled. ‘I just love Rose so much. Can’t you feel her her e with us? ’ 313


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Cassandra smiled bac k. S he had e aten a n a pple f rom a tr ee her grandmother had hel ped to plant, nearly a h undred years before. She blushed slig htly as t houghts o f t he apple b rought bac k ec hoes o f t he strange dr eam. All w eek as she ’d w orked c lose b y Chr istian, she ’d managed to block it out. She had t hought she was r id of it. ‘And now you’re cleaning up the same garden all over again. What lovely symmetr y. What would Ros e s ay if she kne w? ’ Julia plucked a tissue from a ne arby box and blew her nos e. ‘Sorry,’ she s aid, dabbing mascara from beneath each eye. ‘It’s just so romantic.’ She laughed. ‘It’s a shame you don’t have a D avies to help you.’ ‘He’s no t a D avies, b ut I do ha ve s omeone hel ping me ,’ s aid Cassandra. ‘ He’s b een e very a fternoon t his w eek. I met him a nd his brother Michael when they came to clear a fallen tree from the cottage. You kno w t hem, I t hink. Rob yn J ameson s aid t hey do t he ga rdens here too.’ ‘The B lake b oys. The y most cer tainly do, a nd I m ust s ay I en joy watching t hem. Tha t M ichael’s e asy o n t he e ye, isn’t he? Qui te t he charmer, t oo. I f I w ere s till wri ting, i t’d be M ichael B lake I ’d p icture when I was des cribing my ladies’ man.’ ‘And Christian?’ Despite her best attempt at nonchalance, Cassandra felt her c heeks warm up. ‘Oh, he’d def initely b e t he sma rter, y ounger, q uieter b rother w ho surprises everyone by saving the day and winning the heroine’s heart.’ Cassandra smiled. ‘I’m not even going to ask w ho I’d be.’ ‘And I have no doubts who I’d be,’ Julia said with a sigh. ‘The ageing beauty who doesn’t have a chance with the hero so channels her energy into helping the heroine realise her fate.’ ‘Life’d b e a lo t e asier if i t were like a fa irytale,’ s aid C assandra, ‘ if people belonged to stock character types.’ ‘Oh but people do, they only think they don’t. Even the person who insists such things don’t exist is a cliché: the drear pedant who insists on his own uniqueness!’ Cassandra t ook a si p o f wine . ‘ You do n’t t hink t here’s a ny suc h thing as uniq ueness?’ ‘We’re all uniq ue, just never in t he ways we imagine.’ Julia smiled, then waved her hand, bangles clattering. ‘Listen to me. What a dreadful absolutist I a m. Of co urse there are variations in c haracter. Take your 314


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Christian Blake for instance, he’s not a ga rdener by trade, you know. He works at a hospital in Oxford. That is, he did. Some kind of doctor, I forget the proper name, they’re so long and confusing, aren’t they?’ Cassandra sat up straighter. ‘What’s a do ctor doing lopping trees?’ ‘What’s a do ctor doing lopping trees? ’ Julia echoed me aningfully. ‘My point exactly. When Michael told me his brother was starting with him I didn’t ask questions, but I’ve been curious as the proverbial ever since. What makes a y oung man swap vocations, just like that?’ Cassandra shook her he ad. ‘Change of heart?’ ‘Pretty big change, I’d say.’ ‘Maybe he r ealised he didn’t enjoy it.’ ‘Possible, but you’d think he mig ht have got the hint at some time during t he in terminable y ears o f st udy.’ J ulia smiled enigma tically. ‘I think it’s likely far more interesting than that, but then I was a writer and old habits die hard. I can’t stop my imagination running away with me.’ She p ointed a gin-c lutching f inger at C assandra. ‘ That, my de ar, is what makes a c haracter interesting, their secrets.’ Cassandra t hought of Nell and t he s ecrets she’d kept. How could she have stood it, finally discovering who she really was and not telling a s oul? ‘ I wish m y gra ndmother had s een t he s crapbooks b efore she died. They would have meant so much to her, the closest thing possible to hearing her mo ther’s voice.’ ‘I’ve b een t hinking a bout y our gra ndmother all w eek,’ s aid J ulia. ‘Ever since you told me what happened I’ve been wondering what made Eliza take her.’ ‘And? What do y ou reckon?’ ‘Envy,’ said Julia. ‘I come back to it every time. It’s a bloody powerful motivator, and Lord knows there was enough to envy about Rose: her beauty, her t alented h usband, her b irthright. Thr oughout t heir childhoods E liza m ust ha ve s een Ros e as t he li ttle girl w ho had everything, particularly the things she didn’t have. Wealthy parents, a beautiful house, a kind nature that people admired. Then, in adulthood, to see Rose marry so quickly, and to a ma n who must’ve been quite a catch, t hen fall p regnant, ha ve a b eautiful ba by girl . . . H ell, I fe el jealous of Rose! Imagine what it was like for Eliza—a bit of an odd bird by all accounts.’ She drained her drink, put the glass down emphatically. 315


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‘I’m no t ex cusing w hat she did , no t a t all , I ’m j ust s aying i t do esn’t surprise me.’ ‘It’s the most obvious answer, isn’t it?’ ‘And the most obvious answer is usually the right one. It’s all there in the scrapbooks—well, it’s all t here if you know what you’re looking for. From the moment Rose found out she had a baby on the way, Eliza grew more distant. There’s very little mention of Eliza after Ivory was born. It must’ve plagued Rose—Eliza was like a sister, and suddenly, in such a sp ecial time , she wi thdrew. P acked u p a nd t ook her self a way from Blackhurst.’ ‘Where did she g o?’ said Cassandra, surprised. ‘Overseas s omewhere, I t hink.’ J ulia f rowned. ‘ Though no w y ou mention i t, I ’m no t sur e t hat Ros e ac tually s ays—’ she wa ved her hand—‘and it’s beside the point, really. The fact is, she went away while Rose was p regnant a nd didn’t co me bac k until a fter Ivory was b orn. Their friendship was ne ver the same again.’

c Cassandra yawned and readjusted her p illow. Her eyes were tired but she was almost a t t he end o f 1907 a nd it s eemed a sha me to put t he scrapbook aside wi th o nly a ha ndful o f pag es lef t t o g o. B esides, t he sooner she r ead t hem, t he b etter: w hile J ulia had kindl y agr eed t o the loan, Cassandra suspected that the separation would only be borne for a short time. Thankfully, where Nell’s writing was s crawled, Rose’s hand was steady and considered. Cassandra took a sip of tea, lukewarm now, and passed over pages filled with fabric, ribbon samples, wedding tulle, and flourished autographs reading: Mrs Rose Mountrachet Walker, Mrs W alker, M rs Ro se W alker. S he smiled—cer tain t hings ne ver changed—and turned to the last pag e. I have just finished re-reading Tess of the D’Urbervilles. It is a perplexing novel, and one which I c annot truly say that I en joy. There is so m uch that is b rutal in Hardy’s fiction. It is t oo w ild, I s uppose, for my tastes: I am my mother’s daughter, after all, despite my best intentions. Angel’s conversion to Christianity, his marriage to Liza-lu, the death of poor baby Sorrow: these occurrences bother me, all. Why should Sorrow have been 316


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deprived of a Christian burial—babies aren’t to blame for the sins of their parents, s urely? D oes H ardy a pprove o f A ngel’s c onversion o r is h e a Sceptic? And how could Angel transfer his affections so simply from Tess to her sister? Ah we ll, s uch is sues h ave per plexed g reater m inds t han m ine, a nd my purpose in turning again to the sad tale of poor, tragic Tess was n ot literary c riticism. I confess I con sulted Mr T homas Hardy in the hop es that he might offer some insight into what I might expect when Nathaniel and I are wed. More particularly, what might be expected of me. Oh! how it heats my cheeks even to think such questions in my mind! Certainly I could never find words to speak them. (Imagine Mamma’s face!) Alas, Mr Hardy did not provide the answers I so h opefully sought. I had r emembered i ncorrectly, Tess’s de filement i s co vered i n no g reat detail. So there it is. U nless I c an think of somewhere else I m ight turn (not Mr James, I t hink, nor Mr Dickens), I w ill have little choice but to go blind into that dark abyss. My greatest fear is that Nathaniel will have cause to look upon my stomach. Surely it won’t be so? Vanity is indeed a great sin, but alas I cannot help myself. For my marks are so ugly, and he so fond of my pale skin. Cassandra read the last f ew lines o ver. What were these marks of which Rose spoke? Birthmarks perhaps? Scars? Had she read anything else in the scrapbooks that might elucidate the entry? Try as she might, Cassandra co uldn’t r emember. It was t oo la te a nd she t oo tir ed, her thoughts as b lurred as her visio n. She yawned aga in, r ubbed at her e yes a nd c losed t he s crapbook. Probably she ’d ne ver kno w, a nd in all lik elihood i t didn ’t ma tter. Cassandra ran her fingers again over the worn cover, just as Rose must have done many times before her. She placed the book on her bedside table and switched off the light. Closed her eyes and slid into a familiar dream about long grass, a n endless field and, suddenly, unexpectedly, a cottage on the edge of an ocean cliff.

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36 Pilchard Cottage, 1975 1975

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ell wa ited b y t he do or, w ondering w hether she sho uld kno ck again. She’d been standing on the doorstep for over five minutes and had b egun t o susp ect t hat William M artin kne w no thing o f her impending a rrival a t his dinner t able, t hat t he invitation mig ht ha ve been li ttle mo re t han a p loy o f Rob yn’s t o smo oth t he wa ters a fter their previous enco unter. Rob yn s eemed t he typ e f or w hom s ocial unpleasantness, no ma tter w hat i ts ca use o r co nsequence, mig ht b e intolerable. She knocked again. Affected an expression of blithe dignity for the benefit o f a ny o f W illiam’s neig hbours w ho mig ht b e w ondering a t the strange w oman o n his do orstep w ho s eemed co ntent t o kno ck all night. It was William himself who finally unhooked the latch. Tea towel over his knobb ly sho ulder, w ooden sp oon in ha nd, he s aid, ‘ I he ar you’ve gone and bought yourself that cottage.’ ‘Good news travels fast.’ He pressed his lips together, regarding her. ‘You’re a bloody-minded lass, I co uld tell that a mile a way.’ ‘As God made me , I’m afraid.’ He no dded, ga ve a li ttle h uff. ‘ Come o n, t hen. You’ll ca tch y our death out there.’ Nell peeled off her waterproof jacket and found a peg on which to hang i t. S he f ollowed W illiam t hrough t he ma in do or a nd in to t he sitting room. The air was heavy, damp with steam, the smell at once nauseating and delicious. Fish and salt and something else. 318


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‘Got a p ot o f m y mo rgy b roth o n t he st ove,’ s aid W illiam, disappearing at a shuffle into the kitchen. ‘Couldn’t hear you knocking over t he b loody sp its a nd sp urts.’ A rac ket o f p ots a nd pa ns, a gr uff curse. ‘Robyn’ll be along shortly.’ Another clatter. ‘Got held u p a time with that fellow of hers.’ The last he u ttered with some distaste. Nell followed him into the kitchen and watched as he stirred the lumpy broth. ‘You don’t approve of Robyn’s fiancé?’ He le aned his ladle o n t he b enchtop, r eplaced t he s aucepan lid and p icked u p his p ipe. Pl ucked a lo ne stra nd o f t obacco f rom t he rim. ‘ Nothing wr ong wi th t he lad . N othing ba r t he fac t he ’s no t perfect.’ H and su pporting t he small o f his s tooped bac k, he he aded for the sitting room. ‘You have children? Grandchildren? ’ he s aid as he passed Nell. ‘One of each.’ ‘Then you know what I’m talking about.’ Nell smiled gr imly to herself. Twelve days had pass ed since she ’d left Australia; she w ondered whether Lesley had no ticed her a bsence. It was unlik ely—all t he s ame i t s truck N ell t hat she mig ht s end a postcard. The girl w ould like that, Cassandra. Children liked that sort of thing, didn’t they? ‘Come on then, lass.’ William’s voice from the sitting room. ‘Keep an old man company.’ Nell, creature of habit, chose the same velvet chair as she had o n the previous occasion. She nodded at William. He nodded back. They s at for a min ute or s o, in a p erformance of companionable silence. The wind had p icked up outside and the windowpanes rattled periodically, accentuating the dearth of conversation within. Nell indicated the painting above the fireplace, a f isherman’s boat with a red and white striped hull and her name printed in black along the side. ‘That’s yours? The Piskie Queen?’ ‘’Tis indeed,’ said William. ‘Love of my life, I sometimes think. Saw each other through some mighty storms, she a nd I.’ ‘You still have her?’ ‘Not for a f ew years now.’ 319


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Another silence stretched out between them. William patted his shirt pocket, then withdrew a p ouch of tobacco, started refilling his pipe. ‘My father was port master,’ said Nell. ‘I grew up around ships.’ She had a sudden image of Hugh, standing on the Brisbane wharf sometime after the war, the sun behind him and he in eclipse, long Irish legs and large strong hands. ‘Gets into your blood, doesn’t it?’ ‘That it does.’ The windowpanes chattered again and Nell exhaled. Enough was enough, it was no w or never, and numerous other handy clichés: the air needed c learing a nd Nell was t he o ne t o do i t, t here was o nly s o much small talk she was prepared to make. ‘William,’ she said, leaning forward to rest her elb ows on her knees, ‘ about the other night, what I said. I didn’t mean to—’ He raised a w ork-hardened palm, slig htly shaky. ‘No matter.’ ‘But I sho uldn’t have—’ ‘’Twas nothing.’ He clamped his p ipe b etween his bac k teeth and thereby closed the matter. He struck a match. Nell leaned back into her c hair: if t hat was t he way he wa nted it, so be it, but she was determined, this time, not to leave without another piece o f t he p uzzle. ‘ Robyn s aid t here was s omething y ou wa nted t o tell me.’ The sw eet s cent o f f resh t obacco as W illiam suc ked a co uple o f times, then puffed to get his pipe smoking. He nodded slightly. ‘Should have told you the other night, only—’ he was f ocused on something beyond her a nd Nell f ought t he ur ge t o t urn a nd s ee w hat i t was— ‘only, you caught me b y sur prise. It’s b een a lo ng time since I he ard her name spoke.’ Eliza M akepeace. The un spoken sib ilant shimmer ed i ts sil ver wings b etween them. ‘Been more than sixty y ears since last I s aw her, but I ca n picture her r ight eno ugh, co ming do wn t he c liff f rom t he co ttage u p t here, striding into the village, hair loose behind her.’ His eyelids had c losed as he spoke, but now he opened them and eyeballed Nell. ‘I expect that doesn’t me an m uch t o y ou, b ut bac k t hen—well, i t wasn’t o ften t hat one o f t he f olk f rom t he gra nd ho use lo wered t hemselves t o mix amongst t he villag ers. E liza, t hough,’ he c leared his t hroat a li ttle, 320


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repeated t he f orename, ‘ Eliza b ehaved as if i t w ere t he most na tural thing in t he world. She wasn’t like the rest of them.’ ‘You met her? ’ ‘Knew her well, as well as one could know the likes of her. Met her when she was j ust eig hteen. M y li ttle sist er, M ary, w orked u p a t t he house and brought Eliza with her f or one of her a fternoons off.’ Nell fought hard to contain the thrill. Finally to be speaking with someone w ho had kno wn E liza. B etter y et, t o ha ve his des cription confirm t he illici t s ense t hat f lirted o n t he r im o f her o wn pa tchy memories. ‘What was she lik e, William?’ He pressed his lips together and scratched at his chin: the whiskery sound caught Nell by surprise. For a split second she was five years old again, si tting o n H ugh’s la p, he ad r esting aga inst his b ristled c heek. William smiled b roadly, teeth large and rimmed with tobacco brown. ‘Like no o ne you’ve met b efore, an original. We all o f us a round here like t o t ell st ories, b ut her s w ere s omething els e. S he was f unny, courageous, unexpected.’ ‘Beautiful?’ ‘Yes, and beautiful.’ His eyes met her s fleetingly. ‘She had t his red hair. Long it was, all t he way to her wa ist. Strands that turned golden in the sun.’ He indicated with his p ipe. ‘She liked to sit on that black rock in the cove, looking out to sea. On a clear day, we’d be able to see her as w e w ere co ming bac k t o p ort. S he’d lif t her ha nd a nd wa ve, looking for all t he world like the Queen of the Piskies.’ Nell smiled. The Piskie Queen. ‘Like your boat.’ William p retended fas cination wi th t he co rduroy gr ooves o f his trousers, grunted a little. Realisation crowned: this was no co incidence. ‘Robyn sho uld b e her e s oon.’ He didn’t g lance at t he do or. ‘ We’ll have us s ome tea.’ ‘You named your boat for her? ’ William’s lips parted, closed again. He sighed, the sigh of a young man. ‘You were in love with her.’ His shoulders sagged. ‘Course I was,’ he said. ‘Just like every fellow who e ver laid e yes on her. I t old you, she was dif ferent f rom anyone 321


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you’d ever met. The t hings that govern the rest of us didn’t matter one whit to her. She did as she f elt, and she f elt a gr eat deal.’ ‘And did she , were you and she e ver—’ ‘I was en gaged t o s omeone els e.’ H is a ttention shif ted t o a photograph on the wall, a young couple in wedding clothes, she sitting, he standing behind. ‘Cecily and I, we’d been steady for a couple of years by then. A village like this, that’s what happens. You grow up next door to a girl, and one day you’re kids rolling stones off the cliff, next thing you know y ou’re t hree y ears ma rried wi th a nother ba by o n t he way.’ He sig hed s o t hat his sho ulders def lated a nd his w oollen sw eater seemed too large. ‘When I met E liza the world shifted. Can’t describe it better than that. Like a magic sp ell, she was all I co uld think of.’ He shook his head. ‘I was that fond of Cec, loved her true, but I’d have left her in a mo ment.’ H is gaze met N ell’s b efore shif ting q uickly a way. ‘Doesn’t make me proud to say that, sounds awful disloyal. And it was, it was.’ He lo oked a t Nell. ‘ But y ou ca n’t b lame a y oung ma n f or his honest feelings, can you?’ His eyes searched hers and Nell felt something inside her b uckle. She understood: he’d been seeking absolution a long time. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, you can’t.’ He breathed a sig h, spoke so softly that Nell had t o turn her he ad to the side t o hear. ‘Sometimes the body wants things the mind ca n’t explain, ca n’t e ven accep t. M y e very f oolish t hought was o f E liza, I couldn’t help myself. It was lik e a, lik e an—’ ‘Addiction?’ ‘Just lik e t hat. I f igured I co uld o nly e ver b e ha ppy if i t w ere with her.’ ‘Did she f eel the same way?’ He ra ised his b rows a nd smiled r uefully. ‘ You know, f or a time I thought she did . S he had a wa y a bout her, a n in tensity. A ha bit o f making y ou f eel t hat t here was no where she’d ra ther b e a nd no o ne she’d rather be with.’ He laughed, a little unkindly. ‘Soon enough learned my error.’ ‘What happened?’ He pressed his lips together and for an awful second Nell thought the story had dried up. She breathed a sigh of relief when he continued. ‘A spring night, it was. M ust’ve b een 1908 o r 1909. I ’d had a b ig day 322


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on the boats, brought in a huge haul and I’d been out celebrating with some of the other lads. I’d got a bit of Dutch courage into me and on my way home I found myself heading up along the cliff edge. Foolhardy thing t o do—i t was j ust a na rrow pa th bac k t hen, hadn’t y et b een turned into a road and was barely fit for a mountain goat, but I didn’t care. I’d got it into my head that I was g oing to ask her t o marry me.’ His voice quivered. ‘But when I got near the cottage I saw through the window . . .’ Nell leaned forward. He sat back. ‘Well, you’ve heard this tale before.’ ‘She was wi th someone else?’ ‘Not j ust a ny s omeone els e.’ H is li ps tr embled a li ttle a round t he words. ‘One that was fa mily to her.’ William rubbed at the edge of his eye, c hecked his f inger f or a p hantom ir ritant. ‘ They w ere . . .’ H e glanced at Nell. ‘Well, you can imagine r ight enough.’ A no ise o utside a nd a b urst o f co ol a ir. Rob yn’s v oice dr ifted in from t he hall way. ‘ It’s gr own co ld o ut t here.’ S he st epped in to t he sitting r oom. ‘Sorry I ’m la te.’ S he lo oked ho pefully b etween t he tw o of them, running her hands over mist-damp hair. ‘Everything all right in here?’ ‘Couldn’t b e b etter, m y girl ,’ s aid W illiam, wi th a q uick g lance at Nell. Nell no dded slig htly. S he had no in tention o f di vulging a n o ld man’s secret. ‘Just about to dish up my broth,’ said William. ‘Come and give your Gump’s sore old eyes a sig ht of you.’ ‘Gump! I t old you I’d fix the tea. I b rought everything with me.’ ‘Humph,’ he gr umbled, p ushing him self o ut o f t he c hair a nd catching his bala nce. ‘Once y ou a nd t hat f ellow g et g oing, t here’s no telling w hen y ou’ll r emember y our o ld G ump, if a t all . F igured if I didn’t look out for myself I st ood a g ood chance of going hungry.’ ‘Oh, G ump,’ she s colded as she ca rried her sho pping bag t o t he kitchen. ‘Really, you are the limit. When have I e ver forgotten you?’ ‘It’s not you, my dear.’ He shuffled after her. ‘It’s that fellow of yours. Like all lawyers, he’s a windbag.’ While the two of them argued familiarly about w hether or not it was beyond William’s physical abilities to cook and dish up broth, Nell 323


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sorted mentally through all that William had told her. She understood now why he was so adamant about the cottage being tainted somehow, sad; and no doubt for him it was. But William had become sidetracked by his o wn confession and it was u p to Nell to steer him bac k in t he direction she needed t o g o. And no ma tter her o wn c uriosity as t o whom E liza had b een wi th t hat nig ht, i t was b eside t he p oint a nd pushing William would only cause him to withdraw. She couldn’t risk that, no t b efore she f ound o ut w hy E liza mig ht have t aken her f rom Rose a nd N athaniel Walker, w hy she’d b een s ent t o Australia a nd a completely different life. ‘Here w e g o.’ Rob yn a ppeared ca rrying a tra y loaded wi th t hree steaming bowls. William followed, somewhat sheepishly, and eased himself into his chair. ‘I still make the best morgy broth this side of Polperro.’ Robyn raised her eyebrows at Nell. ‘No one’s disputing that, Gump,’ she said, handing a b owl across the coffee table. ‘Just my ability to carry it from kitchen to table.’ Robyn sighed theatrically. ‘Let us help you, Gump, that’s all we ask.’ Nell gr ound her t eeth; she needed t o k eep t his a rgument f rom escalation, she couldn’t risk losing William again to pique. ‘Delicious,’ she s aid lo udly, t asting t he b roth. ‘Perfect a mount o f Worcestershire sauce.’ William a nd Rob yn b oth b linked a t her, s poons ho vering a t halfmast. ‘What?’ Nell looked between them. ‘What is i t?’ Robyn o pened her mo uth, c losed i t aga in lik e a f ish. ‘ The Worcestershire sauce.’ ‘It’s o ur s ecret in gredient,’ s aid W illiam. ‘ Been in t he fa mily f or generations.’ Nell shrugged apologetically. ‘My mum used to make morgy broth, so did her mum. They always used Worcestershire sauce. I guess it was our secret ingredient, too.’ William inhaled slo wly t hrough wide nostr ils a nd Rob yn b it her li p. ‘It’s delicious t hough,’ s aid Nell t aking another slurp. ‘Getting t he amount right, that’s the trick.’ 324


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‘Tell me, Nell,’ said Robyn, clearing her throat, assiduously avoiding William’s e yes. ‘ Was t here a nything o f us e in t hose pa pers I ga ve you?’ Nell smiled gra tefully. Rob yn t o t he r escue. ‘ They w ere v ery interesting. I enjoyed the newspaper article about the Lusitania launch.’ Robyn beamed. ‘It must have been so exciting, an important launch like that. Terrible to think of what happened to that beautiful ship.’ ‘Germans,’ said Gump, through a mouthful of broth. ‘Sacrilege that was, a mig hty act of barbarism.’ Nell imagined t he G ermans f elt m uch t he s ame wa y a bout t he bombing of Dresden but now was neither the time nor the place, and William not the person with whom to have such a discussion. So she bit her t ongue a nd ca rried o n p leasant, p ointless co nversation wi th Robyn a bout t he hist ory o f t he villag e a nd t he ho use a t B lackhurst until, finally, Robyn excused herself to clear the plates and fetch some pudding. Nell watched her b ustle from the room, then, aware that it might be her last c hance t o sp eak wi th W illiam alo ne, she s eized t he opportunity. ‘William,’ she s aid, ‘there’s something I have to ask y ou.’ ‘Ask away.’ ‘You knew Eliza—’ He sucked on his p ipe, nodded once. ‘—so w hy do y ou t hink she t ook me? Did she wa nt a c hild, do you think?’ William exhaled s o t hat smo ke p lumed. He c lenched t he pipe in his bac k t eeth a nd sp oke a round i t. ‘ Doesn’t s ound r ight t o me . S he was a f ree spirit. Not the s ort to welcome domestic responsibility, let alone steal it.’ ‘Was there any talk in t he village? Did a nyone have a t heory?’ ‘We all b elieved that the child, that you, had fallen t o the scarlet fever. N o o ne q uestioned t hat pa rt.’ H e shr ugged. ‘As f or E liza’s disappearance, no one thought much of that either. It wasn’t the first time.’ ‘No?’ ‘She’d done the same a few years before.’ He glanced quickly towards the kitchen and lowered his voice, avoided Nell’s eyes. ‘Always blamed myself a bit for that. It was soon after—soon after the other thing I was 325


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telling you about. I co nfronted her, told her w hat I’d s een; called her all manner of names. She made me promise not to tell anyone, told me that I didn’t understand, that it wasn’t as it seemed.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘All the usual t hings a w oman says when caught in suc h a si tuation.’ Nell nodded. ‘I did as she asked, though, and kept her secret. Not long after that I learned in t he village that she’d gone away.’ ‘Where did she g o?’ He shook his head. ‘When she finally got back—a year or so later, it was—I ask ed her over and over, but she ne ver would say.’ ‘Pudding’s up,’ came Robyn’s voice from the kitchen. William le aned f orward, p ulled his p ipe f rom his mo uth a nd pointed it at Nell. ‘That’s why I had Rob yn ask you here tonight, that’s what I wanted to tell you: find out where Eliza went, and I reckon you’ll be some of the way to figuring out your riddle. Because I can tell you something, wherever it was she disappeared to, she was different when she came back.’ ‘Different how?’ He shook his head at the memory. ‘Changed, less herself somehow.’ He clenched his t eeth on his p ipe. ‘There was s omething missing and she was ne ver the same again.’

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PA RT • T H R E E


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37 Blackhurst Manor, 1907 Blackhurst Manor, Cornwall, 1907–1908

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n the morning scheduled for Rose’s return from New York, Eliza went ea rly t o th e hidden ga rden. Th e N ovember s un wa s s till shrugging off sleep a nd t he way was dim, lig ht just enough to reveal the grass, sil ver with dew. She went quickly, arms wrapped across her front against the chill. It had rained overnight and puddles lay all about; she st epped a round t hem as b est she co uld, t hen cr eaked o pen t he maze ga te a nd s tarted thr ough. I t wa s da rker s till wi thin th e thic k hedge walls, b ut Eliza could have navigated the maze in her sleep . Ordinarily she lo ved t he b rief mo ment o f twilig ht as nig ht anticipated dawn, but today she was t oo distracted to pay it any heed. Ever since she ’d r eceived Ros e’s let ter a nnouncing her en gagement, Eliza had ba ttled her emo tions. The spiked barb of envy had lo dged in her s tomach a nd r efused t o gra nt her r est. E ach da y, w hen her thoughts turned to Rose, when she re-read the letter, felt her imaginings slide towards the future, fear prickled her insides. Filled her with their dread poison. For with Rose’s letter, the colour of Eliza’s world had changed. Like the kaleidos cope in t he n ursery t hat had s o delig hted her w hen she first came to Blackhurst, one twist and the same pieces had rearranged to cr eate a vast ly dif ferent p icture. W here a w eek ag o she had f elt secure, enveloped in t he certainty that she a nd Rose were irrevocably tied, now she f eared herself alone again. By the time she en tered the hidden ga rden, early light was sif ting through t he a utumn-sparse ca nopy. E liza t ook a deep b reath. S he’d come to the garden b ecause it was t he place in w hich she al ways felt settled, and today more than ever she needed i t to work its magic. 329


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She ran her ha nd along the little iron seat, beaded with rain, and perched on its damp edge. The apple tree was fruiting, shiny globes of orange and pink. She could pick some for Cook, or perhaps she should tidy the borders, or trim the honeysuckle. Apply herself in s ome way that would take her mind from Rose’s arrival, the resistant fear that her cousin would be somehow changed when she r eturned. For in t he days since Ros e’s letter, as E liza had gra ppled with her envy, she had realised that it wasn’t the man, Nathaniel Walker, whom she feared; it was Rose’s love for him. The marriage she could bear, but not a shift in Rose’s affection. Eliza’s greatest worry was that Rose, who had al ways lo ved her b est, had f ound a r eplacement a nd w ould no longer need her co usin most o f all. She f orced her self t o str oll casuall y a nd a ppraise her p lants. The wisteria was sheddin g i ts f inal le aves, t he jasmine had lo ng lost i ts flowers, but the autumn had been mild and the pink roses were still in bloom. Eliza went closer, took a half-o pened bud between her f ingers and smiled at the perfect raindrop caught within its inner p etals. The thought was sudden and complete. She must make a bouquet, a w elcome-home gif t f or Ros e. H er co usin was f ond o f f lowers, b ut more than that, Eliza would s elect plants that were a sym bol of their bond. There must b e ivy for f riendship, pink rose for happiness, and some of the exotic oak-leaved geranium for memories . . . Eliza chose each sprig carefully, making sure to pick only the finest stems, t he most p erfect b looms, t hen she ga thered t he li ttle b ouquet together with a pink satin ribbon torn from her hem. She was tightening the bow when she he ard the familiar sound of metal wheels jangling on the distant driveway stones. They were back. Rose was ho me. With her he art in her t hroat, Eliza hitched up her damp-hemmed skirts, clutched t he b ouquet, and b egan to r un. Z igzagging back and forth t hrough t he maze . S he sp lashed t hrough p uddles in her hast e, pulse hammering apace with the horses’ hooves. She emerged f rom t he gates just in time t o s ee t he carriage draw to a st op in t he turning circle. Paused a mo ment to catch her b reath. Uncle Linus was sitting, as always, on the garden seat by the maze gate, his li ttle b rown ca mera b eside him. B ut w hen he called t o her, E liza pretended not to hear. 330


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She arrived at the turning circle as Newton was opening the carriage door. H e wink ed a nd E liza wa ved bac k. P ressed her li ps t ogether as she waited. Since receiving Rose’s letter, long days had bled into longer nights, and now the moment was f inally upon her. Time seemed to slow: she was aware of her hurried breaths, her pulse still racing in h er ears. Did she imagine the change in Rose’s facial expression, the shift in her bearing? The bouquet slipped from Eliza’s fingers and she picked it up from the wet lawn. The motion must have caught in t heir peripheral vision, for both Rose and Aunt Adeline turned; one smiled, the other did no t. Eliza raised her ha nd slowly and waved. Lowered it again. Rose’s eyebrows lifted with amusement. ‘Well, aren’t you going to welcome me ho me, Cousin?’ Relief spread instantly beneath Eliza’s skin. Her Rose was back and all w ould sur ely b e w ell. S he st arted f orward, b egan t o r un, a rms outstretched. Wrapped Rose in a n embrace. ‘Stand back, girl,’ said Aunt Adeline. ‘You’re covered in mud splatter. You’ll mark Rose’s dress.’ Rose smiled and Eliza felt the sharp edges of her worry retract. Of course Ros e was unal tered. S he had b een a way o nly tw o a nd a half months. Eliza had allowed fear to conspire with absence and effect an impression of change where there was no ne. ‘Cousin Eliza, how wonderful it is t o see you!’ ‘And you, Rose.’ Eliza presented the bouquet. ‘How delightful!’ Rose lifted it to her nos e. ‘From your garden?’ ‘It’s ivy for friendship, oak-leaved geranium for memories—’ ‘Yes, yes, and rose, I s ee. How darling of you, Eliza.’ Rose held t he bouquet o ut t owards Newton. ‘ Have M rs Hopkins f ind a vas e, w on’t you, Newton?’ ‘I’ve so much to tell you, Rose,’ said Eliza. ‘You’ll never guess what’s happened. One o f my stories—’ ‘Goodness me! ’ Ros e la ughed. ‘ I ha ven’t e ven r eached t he f ront door and my Eliza is t elling me fa irytales.’ 331


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‘Stop tiring your cousin,’ said Aunt Adeline sharply. ‘Rose needs to rest.’ S he g lanced t owards her da ughter a nd a q uaver o f hesi tation entered her v oice. ‘You should consider lying down.’ ‘Of course, Mamma. I intend to retire directly.’ The change was sub tle, but Eliza noted it nonetheless. There was something unusually tentative in Aunt Adeline’s suggestion, something less pliant in Ros e’s response. Eliza was still pondering this slight shift when Aunt Adeline started into t he house a nd Ros e le aned c lose, w hispered in E liza’s e ar: ‘Now come upstairs, dearest. There’s so much I have to tel l you.’

c And t ell Ros e did . S he r ecounted e very mo ment sp ent in N athaniel Walker’s co mpany a nd, mo re t ediously, t he a nguish o f e ach mo ment spent away from him. The epic tale began that afternoon and continued through nig ht a nd da y. I n t he b eginning E liza was a ble t o f eign interest—indeed, a t t he v ery f irst she had b een in terested, f or t he feelings Ros e des cribed w ere lik e no ne she’d e ver f elt her self—but as the days wore on, grouped themselves into weeks, Eliza began to flag. She tr ied t o in terest Ros e in o ther t hings—a visi t t o t he ga rden, t he newest st ory she had wr itten, e ven a tr ip t o t he cove—but Ros e had ears only for tales of love and forbearance. Specifically, her own . . . So i t was, as t he w eeks co oled t owards mid winter E liza s ought more frequently the cove, the hidden ga rden, the cottage. Places in to which she co uld dis appear, w here s ervants w ould t hink twice b efore bothering her with their dreaded messages, always the same: Miss Rose requires Miss Eliza’s presence immediately on a matter of dire import. For i t s eemed t hat no ma tter ho w sp ectacularly E liza fa iled t o grasp the vir tues o f o ne w edding dr ess o ver a nother, Ros e ne ver tir ed o f tormenting her. Eliza t old her self t hat all w ould s ettle do wn, t hat Ros e was j ust excited: she had al ways loved fashions and decorations, and here was her c hance t o p lay t he fa iry p rincess. E liza j ust needed t o b e patient and all w ould return to normal between them. Then i t was sp ring aga in. The b irds r eturned f rom t he b right beyond, N athaniel a rrived f rom N ew York, t he w edding was u pon 332


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them, a nd next E liza kne w she was wa ving a t t he r ear o f N ewton’s carriage as it drew the happy couple towards London and a ship to the Continent.

c Later that night, as she lay in her own bed in the bleak house, Eliza felt Rose’s absence sharply. The knowledge formed clearly and simply: Rose would never again come to her r oom at night, neither would Eliza go to Rose. They would no lo nger lie t ogether and giggle and tell stories while the rest of the house slept. A sp ecial room was b eing prepared for the newlyweds in a dist ant wing of the house. A larger room, with a vie w of t he cove, far more b efitting a ma rried couple. E liza turned onto her side . In the darkness she g limpsed finally how unbearable it would b e t o know her self b eneath t he s ame r oof as Ros e a nd y et b e unable to seek her o ut. Next day, Eliza sought her aunt. Found her in the morning room, writing at the narrow desk. Aunt Adeline made no acknowledgement of Eliza’s presence, but Eliza spoke regardless. ‘I w ondered, A unt, w hether cer tain i tems mig ht no t b e spa red from the attic.’ ‘Items?’ said Aunt Adeline, without shifting her attention from the letter she was p enning. ‘It is o nly a desk a nd chair that I r equire, and a b ed—’ ‘A b ed? ’ D ark e yes narrowed as her gaze sw ept side ways to meet Eliza’s. In the clarity of night, Eliza had realised that it was better to make changes f or o neself t han tr y t o mend ho les t orn b y t he decisio ns o f others. ‘ Now t hat Ros e is ma rried, i t o ccurs t o me t hat my p resence might be less required in the house. That I might take up residence in the cottage.’ Eliza’s expectations were low: Aunt Adeline drew particular pleasure from the issuing of denials. S he watched as her a unt signed her let ter with a careful signature, then scratched sharp fingernails on her hound’s head. Her lips stretched into what Eliza took to be a smile, albeit slight, then she st ood and rang the bell. 333


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c The f irst nig ht in her ne w a bode E liza s at b y t he u pstairs windo w, watching the ocean swelling and subsiding like a great drop of mercury beneath the moon’s lambent light. Rose was across that sea, somewhere on the other side. Once more her cousin had travelled by ship and Eliza had been left behind. Some day, though, Eliza would set sail on her own journey. The magazine didn ’t pa y m uch f or her fa irytales, b ut if she kept writing and saved for a year, then surely she would be able to afford the voyage. And there was the brooch, of course, with its coloured gems. Eliza had ne ver f orgotten M other’s b rooch, t ucked a way in side t he Swindells’ fireplace. One d ay, somehow, she intended to r etrieve it. She thought of the advertisement she’d seen in t he newspaper the week before. People wanted to travel to Queensland, it had s aid. Come and be gin a n ew l ife. M ary had o ften s pun t ales o f her b rother’s adventures in t he town of Maryborough. To hear her t ell 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 al ways imagined t hat she a nd Ros e mig ht tra vel t ogether, they had sp oken o f i t ma ny times. Or had t hey? L ooking bac k, she realised Rose’s voice had b een quiet when conversation touched upon such imagined ad ventures. Eliza stayed at the cottage every night. She bought her own produce from the market in t he village; her y oung 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 b owl o f C ook’s s oup, s ome co ld me at f rom t he l uncheon roast, and news from the house. Apart from such visits, for the first time in her lif e Eliza was tr uly alone. In the beginning, unfamiliar sounds, nocturnal sounds, disturbed her, but as the days passed she came to know them: soft-pawed animals in t he e aves, t he ticking of t he warming range, f loorboards 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 t he r ocking c hair list ening t o t hem. And la te a t nig ht, w hen t hey were all asleep, she w ould spin their stories into her own tales. One morning in t he fourth week, Eliza took her wr iting pad in to the garden and sat in her fa vourite spot, the tuft of soft grass b eneath 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 a nd wicked land w here da nger t hrived. E liza was j ust a bout t o s end her her oine into the webbed cave of a particularly spiteful piskie, when a bird flew to perch in t he branch above her a nd began to sing. ‘Is that so?’ said Eliza, laying down her p en. The bird sang again. ‘I agr ee, I ’m ra ther p eckish m yself.’ S he p lucked o ne o f t he f ew 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 pa used mid-cr unch a nd s at v ery still , s taring a t t he p lace where the bird had b een. ‘I sho uld ha ve b rought m y o wn, o nly I didn ’t t hink I ’d b e her e so long.’ She scanned the garden, and blinked when she s aw a ma n sitting on the iron garden seat. He was s o utterly out of context that, though they’d met b efore, it took her a mo ment to place him. The da rk hair and e yes, t he e asy smi le . . . E liza inhaled sha rply. I t was N athaniel Walker, who had ma rried Rose. Sitting in her garden. ‘You cer tainly lo ok to b e enjoying your apple,’ he s aid. ‘Watching you is a lmost as s atisfying as having one myself.’ ‘I don’t like to be watched.’ He smiled. ‘Then I shall a vert my eyes.’ ‘What are you doing here?’ Nathaniel held u p a p ristine no vel. ‘ Little Lo rd F auntleroy. E ver read i t? ’ She shook her he ad. ‘Neither ha ve I, desp ite ho urs o f tr ying. And I ho ld y ou pa rtly to b lame, C ousin E liza. Your ga rden is t oo distrac ting. I ’ve b een 335


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sitting her e all mo rning a nd still I ha ven’t v entured m uch b eyond the f irst 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 ho me?’ ‘Of co urse.’ H e smiled o penly. ‘ I ho pe y ou do n’t sug gest I mig ht have lost my wife to the Italians!’ ‘But when did she—’ E liza swiped loose strands of hair f rom her forehead, tried to understand. ‘When did y ou arrive back?’ ‘Monday afternoon. A mig htily 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 r ight?’ ‘Never b etter. The M editerranean c limate agr eed wi th her. We’d have st ayed t he f ull w eek, o nly she wa nted t o b e in volved wi th t he garden pa rty.’ H e ra ised his b rows wi th a ffectionate t heatricality. ‘ To hear Ros e and her mo ther sp eak, I f ear it’s going to b e s omething of an extravaganza.’ Eliza hid her co nfusion behind another bite of apple, then tossed the core away. She’d heard mention of a garden party but had presumed it was o ne of Adeline’s society things: nothing to do wi th Rose. Nathaniel lifted the book again. ‘Hence my choice of reading matter. Mrs Hodgson Burnett will b e in a ttendance.’ 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 p iece of writing paper b etween her thumb and forefinger, didn’t meet his e yes. ‘Yes . . . I exp ect so.’ A note of apology curled the edges of his v oice. ‘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 a round the margin of her pag e. Rose knew she did no t care for parties, that’s all i t was. Tho ughtful Rose, sparing Eliza the agony of Aunt Adeline’s society. Nathaniel’s v oice was g entle. ‘ Rose sp eaks o ften o f y ou, C ousin Eliza. I f eel t hat I kno w you myself.’ He gestured with his ha nd. ‘She told me of your garden, that’s why I came today. I had to see for myself whether it was r eally as b eautiful as she pa inted it with words.’ Eliza met his e yes briefly. ‘And?’ 336


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‘It is everything she said and more. As I say, I blame the garden for distracting me f rom m y r eading. Ther e is s omething in t he wa y t he light falls t hat makes me wa nt to render it on paper. I ha ve scribbled all o ver m y b ook’s f rontispiece.’ H e smiled . ‘ Don’t t ell M rs H odgson Burnett.’ ‘I planted the garden for Rose and myself.’ Eliza’s voice was odd to her own ears, she had b ecome used to being alone. She felt ashamed, too, of the transparent sentiments she was exp ressing, and yet had no power to stop herself speaking them. ‘So that we might have a s ecret place, a place where no one else could find us. Where Rose might have an outside place to sit even when she was un well.’ ‘Rose is fortunate indeed to have a cousin who cares for her as you do. I m ust ext end my et ernal gratitude t hat y ou k ept her s o w ell f or me. We are something of a t eam, you and I, a re we not?’ No, E liza t hought, we are not. Ros e and I a re a pa ir, a t eam. You are additional. Temporary. He st ood, b rushed o ff his tr ousers a nd held t he b ook b efore his heart. ‘And now I must bid you fond farewell. Rose’s mother is one for rules and I susp ect will not gladly tolerate my tardy appearance at the dinner table.’ Eliza, w ho had f ollowed him t o t he ga te, wa tched him g o. S he closed it behind him, then sat on the edge of the seat. Shifted along so as not to sit where he had lef t the metal warm. There was no thing 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 co nfidence in t he quality of her a ffection. The gra titude he had ext ended t o E liza, t hough p erfectly kindl y exp ressed, lef t her in little do ubt t hat he co nsidered her a n ad junct. And no w, t o ha ve penetrated her ga rden, 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 tr y as she mig ht, E liza’s en thusiasm had f led a nd t aken her inspiration with it. A plot that had filled her with glee when she began was now revealed as f limsy 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 p rince?

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 mo re ex otic sp ecies wi th w hich t o gild t he a rrangements. The nocturnal sho wer t hat had k ept A deline a wake a nd a nxious had succeeded only in adding sparkle to the garden, so that each leaf looked to ha ve b een p olished sp ecially, a nd acr oss t he sp ill o f ne w-pressed lawn, c ushioned chairs were artfully p erched. Hired waiters st ood in lines by t he st airs, mo dels of calm a nd control, w hile in t he kitchen, far from sight and mind, Cook and her t eam worked apace. The guests had been arriving in the turning circle for the past quarter hour, and Adeline had b een on hand to greet them and usher t hem in the direction of the lawn. How grand they looked in t heir fine hats— though none so fine as Ros e’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; S ir Ar thur Mornington si pping t ea b y t he cr oquet s et while t he y oung Ch urchills la ughed a nd p layed; L ady S usan H euser involved in a t ête-à-tête with Lady Caroline Aspley. Adeline smiled t o her self. S he had do ne w ell. N ot o nly was t he garden party a f itting 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 f inest, and later, w hen tea had b een s erved, she p lanned to usher s elect guests t hrough. In this way would her ne w son-in-law be introduced as sub ject 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 c harmed Rose. Adeline scanned the group and spotted her daughter si tting wi th N athaniel a nd t he Amer ican, M rs H odgson Burnett. Adeline had debated inviting Mrs Hodgson Burnett, for where one divorce was unfortunate, two seemed terribly close to godlessness. 338


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But the writer was ind ubitably well connected on the Continent, and therefore, A deline had decided , h er p otential assist ance o utweighed her infamy. Rose la ughed a t s omething t he w oman s aid a nd wa rm wa ves o f satisfaction w elled in side A deline. Ros e was lo oking sp ectacularly beautiful t oday, as radia nt as t he wall o f r oses t hat p rovided her a glorious bac kdrop. S he lo oked jo yous, A deline t hought, as a y oung woman o ught w hen ma rriage s at ne wly u pon her, a nd t he v ows o f commitment had o nly shortly crossed her li ps. Her daughter laughed again and Nathaniel pointed in the direction of t he maze . A deline ho ped t hey w eren’t wastin g p recious time discussing the walled ga rden or some other of Eliza’s nonsense when they sho uld b e sp eaking o f N athaniel’s p ortraiture. F or, o h, w hat a n unexpected gift from providence, the removal of Eliza! During t he w eeks o f pa rty p reparation, A deline had la in a wake 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 ma naged t o k eep v eiled t he jo y she f elt. E liza s afely 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 kne w was t here. Indeed, o ne o f t he f irst t hings t he de ar girl did u pon r eturning f rom her ho neymoon was t o enq uire a bout 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 s aid—and r esolved t o call o n E liza f irst t hing t he following day. Such a visit was unthinkable, of course, if Adeline’s small deception was to play out as p lanned. So it was, immedia tely after breakfast the following mo rning, t hat A deline s ought o ut Ros e in her ne w r oom, 339


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where she was b usy ass embling a delica te a rrangement o f f lowers. While Rose plucked a cream clematis from amongst the others, Adeline asked, casuall y a nd calml y: ‘Do y ou t hink E liza sho uld b e invited t o attend the garden party?’ Rose turned, the clematis dripping water from the end o f its stalk. ‘But of course she must come, Mamma. Eliza is my dearest friend.’ Adeline p ressed her li ps t ogether: i t was t he r esponse she had anticipated and thus she was prepared. The appearance of capitulation is al ways a calc ulated r isk, a nd A deline dep loyed i t kno wingly. 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 b e. We will have no f urther discussion o n t he ma tter.’ Onl y a fter s uch g enerous a nd sw eeping concession did she allo w herself a wistf ul little sigh. Rose had her bac k turned, a sp rig of gardenia in her ha nd. ‘What is it, Mamma?’ ‘Nothing at all, dearest.’ ‘Mamma?’ Carefully, carefully. ‘I was merely thinking of Nathaniel.’ This drew Rose’s gaze, sparked a b lush. ‘Nathaniel, Mamma?’ Adeline stood, smoothing the front of her skirt. She smiled brightly at Rose. ‘Never mind. I’m sure things will go just as well for him with Eliza in attendance.’ ‘Of course they will.’ Rose hesitated before rethreading the gardenia into t he arrangement. She didn’t lo ok again at Adeline but she didn ’t need to. Adeline could picture the uncertainty that creased her p retty face. S ure eno ugh, t he ca utious q uestion ca me: ‘ Whyever sho uld Nathaniel benefit from Eliza’s absence?’ ‘Only t hat I had ho ped t o dir ect a cer tain a mount o f a ttention towards Nathaniel a nd his a rtworks. E liza, b lessed girl , has a wa y o f stealing the focus. I was hoping the day might belong to Nathaniel, and to you, my darling. But of course you shall have Eliza there if you think it b est.’ She laughed then—a lig ht, gay laugh, practised to p erfection. ‘Besides, I da re say once Eliza learns you’re home early she’ll be over here s o often t hat one of t he s ervants will b e b ound to let sli p about the party. And despite her aversion to society, her devotion to you, my dear, is suc h that she’ll insist upon attending.’ 340


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Adeline had lef t Rose then, had smiled t o herself when she no ted the stiff set to her daughter’s shoulders. A clear sign t hat the shot had reached its mark. Sure enough, Rose had appeared at Adeline’s boudoir later the same day, had suggested that seeing as Eliza didn’t enjoy parties, perhaps she might b e spa red a ttendance o n t his o ccasion. S he’d co ntinued in a quieter v oice, s aid t hat she’d t hought b etter o f callin g o n her co usin today. She’d wait until after the garden party, when things had s ettled down and the two could have a lo nger visit.

c An eruption of applause at the croquet drew Adeline’s attention. She clapped her g loved hands and called up a gregarious smile, made her way back across the lawn. As she approached the settee, Mrs Hodgson Burnett st ood a nd o pened a w hite pa rasol. S he no dded fa rewell t o Rose a nd N athaniel, a nd st arted o ff in t he dir ection o f t he maze . Adeline ho ped she didn ’t in tend t o en ter; t he maze ga te had b een closed e arlier as a n obvious dis couragement, b ut i t was j ust li ke a n American to form her own ideas. Adeline increased her pace a little— searching for a lost guest had no p lace in her p lans for the day—and intercepted M rs H odgson B urnett b efore she ma naged t o ac hieve a great distance. She bestowed on her guest a most gracious smile. ‘Good day, Mrs Hodgson Burnett.’ ‘Why, good day, Lady Mountrachet. And w hat a f ine day it is t oo.’ That accent! Adeline smiled indulgently. ‘We couldn’t have wished for better. And I s ee you’ve met t he happy couple.’ ‘Monopolised, more like. Your daughter is a most g lorious creature.’ ‘Thank you. I’m rather partial to her.’ Polite laughter on both sides. ‘And her h usband clearly dotes,’ said Mrs Hodgson Burnett. ‘Isn’t young love grand?’ ‘I was delighted b y t he ma tch. S uch a t alented g entleman—’ t he shadow of a pause—‘of course, Nathaniel mentioned his p ortraits?’ ‘He did no t. I da re say I didn’t give him a c hance. I was t oo busy quizzing t hem on t he s ecret garden t hey s ay is hidden o n t his grand estate of yours.’ 341


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‘A trifle of a t hing.’ Adeline smiled t hinly. ‘A plot of flowers with a wall surrounding. There’s one like it on every estate in En gland.’ ‘Not with such romantic tales attached, I’m sure. A ga rden raised from ruins to help bring a delicate young lady back to health!’ Adeline laughed with brittle cheer. ‘Goodness! It would appear my daughter and her h usband have told you quite a fa irytale. Ros e owes her health to the efforts of a fine physician, and I must assure you the garden really is v ery ordinary. Nathaniel’s portraits, on the other—’ ‘Nonetheless, I should love to see it. The garden, I mean. My interest has been piqued.’ There was little Adeline could say to that. She nodded with as much grace as she co uld muster and cursed beneath her smile .

c Adeline was all set to give Nathaniel and Rose a stern talking-to, when in her peripheral vision she caught a flurry of white fabric through the maze ga tes. S he t urned, j ust in time t o s ee E liza o pen t he ga te r ight into Mrs Hodgson Burnett. Her ha nd le apt t o her mo uth, ca ught t he shr iek b efore i t was launched. Of all t he da ys a nd o f all t he mo ments. Tha t girl: al ways rushing, regrettably attired, certainly unwelcome. With her rude good health, flushed cheeks, tangled hair, ungainly hat, and—Adeline noted with horror—bare hands. Small mercy, she was w earing shoes. Mouth tightening at the sides like that of a wooden puppet, Adeline glanced about, trying to assess the extent of the disturbance. A servant was at Mrs Hodgson Burnett’s side, helping her t o a ne arby chair. All else seemed calm, t he day was not yet lost. Indeed, only Linus, sitting beneath the maple tree ignoring old Lord Appleby’s conversation, had paid t he a rrival a ny no tice, lif ting his b oxy li ttle p hotographic contraption to point it at Eliza. Eliza, for her part, was staring in Rose’s direction, her face a study in consternation. Surprised, no doubt, to see her cousin home from the Continent so soon. Adeline t urned q uickly, det ermined t o spa re her da ughter u pset. But Rose and Nathaniel were oblivious to the intrusion, too absorbed, each with the other. Nathaniel had shifted to the edge of his chair and was seated so that his knees reached almost to touch (or did they make 342


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slight contact? Adeline couldn’t tell) Rose’s own. Between two fingertips he held one of Davies’s hothouse strawberries by its stalk, was twirling the f ruit t his wa y a nd t hat, b ringing i t c lose t o Ros e’s li ps b efore withdrawing it once more. Each time Ros e laughed, her c hin tilted so that dappled sunlight stroked her ba re throat. Flushing, Adeline lifted her fan to block the sight. Such unsuitable display! What would people think? She could just imagine that gossip Caroline Aspley setting pen to paper as s oon as she a rrived home. Adeline knew it was her d uty to head off such wanton behaviour, and yet . . . She lowered her fa n once more, blinked over its rim. Try as she mig ht, she co uldn’t turn away. Such ripeness! The f reshness of the imag e was magnetic. E ven t hough she kne w E liza was ca using havoc b ehind her, e ven t hough her h usband was b ehaving wi th no thought f or propriety, it was as if t he w orld had slo wed a nd Adeline stood alo ne a t i ts cen tre, a ware o nly o f her o wn he artbeat. H er skin tingled, her legs grew unexpectedly weak, her breath was shallow. The thought was hers before she had t he chance to stop it: what must it be like, to be so loved?

c The smell o f mer cury va pour f illed his nos e a nd L inus b reathed i t deeply. He held i t in, f elt his mind expa nd, his e ardrums burn, before finally exhaling. Alone in his da rkroom, L inus was six f oot t all, e ach leg as straight and as strong as the other. Using his silver tongs, he slid the photographic paper back and forth, watched closely as t he image began to materialise. She would never consent to pose. In the beginning he had insisted, then he had p leaded, then in time he had dis cerned the nature of her game. She enjoyed t he chase, and it had b een up to L inus to rethink his tactics. Rethink them he had. Mansell had been dispatched to London for a K odak-Eastman B rownie—an ug ly li ttle t hing, t he p rovince o f unskilled amateurs, photographic quality nothing on his Tourograph, but it was lig ht and portable and that was t he thing. S o long as E liza continued her t easing, Linus knew it was t he only way to catch her. 343


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Her removal to the cottage was a bold step and one for which Linus gave her cr edit. He had gif ted her t he garden so that she mig ht come to love it as her mo ther had b efore her—nothing had p ut light in his poupee’s eyes quite like the walled garden—but Linus had not foreseen this r ecent r epatriation. E liza hadn’t b een ne ar t he ho use f or w eeks. Day after day he waited by the maze gates, but she continued to torment him with her a bsence. And no w, t o co mplicate ma tters f urther, L inus f ound he had a n adversary. Three mornings ago, while maintaining his vigil , he’d been confronted with a most unpleasant sight. While he awaited Eliza, what had he seen coming through the maze gates in her stead but the painter, the new husband. Linus had been shocked, for what did the man think he was do ing, pas sing t hrough t hose ga tes? Treading b oldly w here Linus himself could never bear to go. Linus simmered with questions: had he s een her? S poken wi th her? L ooked in to her e yes? I t was unthinkable, the painter sniffing about his p rize. But L inus had w on in t he end . Today, f inally, his pa tience had paid o ff. He inhaled. The imag e was coming. With only the small red light to see by, Linus leaned close. Dark surrounds—the maze hedges—but paler in the middle where she had faltered into frame. She had noticed him straightaway and Linus had felt his neck warm with pleasure. Her wide eyes, parted lips, like an animal unexpectedly cornered. Linus s quinted into t he pan of de veloping lotion. There she was. The white of her dress, the narrow waist—oh, how he longed to lay his fingers around it, feel her light breaths fluttering fearfully beneath her rib cage. And that neck, the pale, pale neck, its pulse flecking just like her mother’s before her. Linus closed his e yes briefly and pictured his poupee’s nec k wi th t he r ed slice acr oss i t. S he had tr ied t o le ave him, t oo. He’d been in t he darkroom when she’d come that final time. He’d been c utting bac king ca rd in o rder t o mo unt his ne west s election o f prints: grasshoppers of the West Country. He’d been excited about the photographs, had e ven co nsidered askin g F ather w hether he mig ht permit a li ttle exhib ition, a nd w ould ha ve t olerated v ery f ew interruptions. But Georgiana was a n exception to most r ules. 344


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How ethereal, how perfect she’d looked, framed in his doorway, the lamp’s flame enlivening her features. She’d lifted a finger to her lips and bade him catch his words before he spoke them, eased the door closed behind her. H e’d wa tched her walkin g slo wly t owards him, a slig ht smile animating her li ps. Her secrecy was o ne of the things that most excited him, b eing alone with his poupee provoked a t antalising sense of collusion, rare for Linus, who had li ttle time f or others. For whom others had li ttle time. ‘You’ll help me, won’t you, Linus?’ she’d said, eyes wide a nd clear. And then she’d started speaking about a ma n she’d met, a s ailor. They were in love, going to be together, a secret from Mother and Father, he would help her, wouldn’t he? Those eyes, imploring, uncomprehending of his pain. Time had stretched out between them, her words swirling in his mind , gr owing a nd shr inking, lo uder a nd s ofter. A lif etime o f loneliness had gathered in a n instant. Without thinkin g twice , h e’d lift ed hi s h and, s till c lutching th e penknife, a nd dra wn i t swif tly al ong her milky skin, made his pa in her own . . .

c Linus used his tweezers to hold the print closer to the light. Squinted, blinked. Damnation! Where Eliza’s face should be was only white light, grey-flecked. She had mo ved at the precise moment he dep ressed the shutter. He hadn’t b een quick enough and she had va nished b eneath his fingertip. Linus clenched his fist. Brought to mind, as he always did in spots of bother, that little girl w ho’d sat by him on the library floor, offered u p her do lly a nd wi th i t t he p romise o f her self. B efore she disappointed him. Never matter. A mer e setback, that’s all i t was, a t emporary twist in t he ga me t hey w ere p laying, t he ga me he had p layed wi th her mother. He had lost that time: after the incident with the penknife his Georgiana had va nished, ne ver to return. But t his time he w ould b e more careful. Whatever i t t ook, ho wever lo ng he had t o wa it, L inus w ould prevail. 345


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c Rose plucked petals from the white daisy until none was left: boy, girl, boy, girl, boy, girl. She smiled and closed her fingers around the daisy’s golden he art. A li ttle da ughter f or N athaniel a nd her self, a nd t hen perhaps a s on, and then another of each. Ever since she co uld remember, Rose had wa nted a fa mily of her own. A family very different from the cold and lonely arrangement she had known as a c hild, b efore E liza came to Blackhurst. There would be c loseness a nd, y es, lo ve b etween t he pa rents, a nd ma ny c hildren, brothers and sisters who would always look after one another. Though t hese w ere her desir es, Ros e had b een p rivy t o eno ugh discussions b y gr own-up ladies t o ha ve g leaned t hat w hile c hildren were a blessing, the act of begetting them was a trial. Consequently, on the night of her wedding she had expected the worst. When Nathaniel unpeeled her dress, removed the lace that Mamma had ordered specially, Rose held her breath, watched his face carefully. She was very nervous. Fear of t he unknown combined with w orry over her ma rks, a nd she sat holding her breath. Waiting for him to speak yet frightened that he might. He cast aside her dress and shift, still silent. Did n ot meet her gaze. L ooked her o ver slowly and c losely as o ne mig ht a p iece of art that one had always longed to see. His dark eyes were focused, his lips slightly parted. He lifted his hand and Rose shivered in anticipation; a fingertip traced lig htly alo ng her la rger ma rk. The t ouch s ent c hills across Rose’s stomach, down her inner t highs as w ell. Later they made love, and Rose discovered that the ladies had been right, it was pa inful. But Rose was no stra nger to pain, was q uite able to st ep o utside her self s o t hat t he exp erience b ecame s omething she observed rather than felt. She concentrated instead on the curious fact of his face, so close to her own—his closed eyes, smooth dark lids; full mouth held in a n attitude she’d rarely glimpsed before; breaths grown quick and heavy—and Rose realised she was powerful. In all her years of ill health she had never identified herself as possessing strength. She was poor Rose, delicate Rose, weak Rose. But in Nathaniel’s face Ros e read desire, and that made her str ong. 346


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While on honeymoon, time had seemed to drop away. Where once there had been hours and minutes, now only days and nights, sun and moon, exist ed. I t was a sho ck w hen t hey r eturned t o En gland a nd found the increments of time a waiting them. A sho ck, too, resuming life at Blackhurst. Rose had become used to privacy in Italy, and found that she no w resented the presence of others. The s ervants, Mamma, even E liza, s omeone was al ways l urking a round co rners, s eeking t o steal her a ttention from Nathaniel. Rose would have liked a ho use of their own, where no one would ever disturb them, but she knew there would be time enough for that. And she understood that Mamma was right: Nathaniel was better able to meet the right people from Blackhurst, and t he ho use i tself was la rge eno ugh f or tw enty men t o li ve comfortably. Just as w ell. Ros e la id her ha nd g ently acr oss her st omach. S he suspected they would have need o f a n ursery before much longer. All morning Ros e had f elt c urious, lik e o ne in p ossession o f a s pecial secret. She was sure that such a momentous event should be like that, a w oman a ware in stantly o f t he mirac le o f ne w lif e in side her b ody. Clutching t he da isy’s g olden cen tre, Ros e he aded bac k t o t he ho use, sun g lorious o n her bac k. S he w ondered w hen she sho uld sha re t he secret wi th Nathaniel. S miled a t t he t hought. H ow ex cited he w ould be! For when they had a c hild, then they would be complete.

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A

nd finally it seemed autumn had r ealised it was S eptember. The last lingering days of summer had b een pushed off st age and in the hidden garden long shadows stretched towards winter. The ground was littered with spent leaves, orange and pale green, and chestnuts in spiky coats sat proudly on the fingertips of cold branches. Cassandra a nd Chr istian had w orked all w eek in t he co ttage— untangling cr eepers, s crubbing mo uld-spotted walls, mendin g r otten floorboards. B ut b ecause i t was F riday, b ecause e ach was as k een as the other, t hey’d agr eed t hat t he hidden ga rden sho uld ha ve s ome attention. Christian was dig ging a ho le w here t he s outhern ga te had b een, trying to reach t he b ottom of exceptionally large s andstone footings, and Cassandra had been crouched by the northern wall for two hours, pulling b racken f rom w hat m ust o nce ha ve b een a ga rden b ed. The task r eminded her o f c hildhood w eekends sp ent hel ping N ell p ull weeds from her ga rden in P addington, and Cassandra felt infused by a comforting sense of familiarity. She’d assembled a decent pile of leaves and roots behind her, but her pace was slo wing. It was dif ficult not to be distracted in t he hidden ga rden. Sliding beneath the wall was lik e entering a place outside time. It was the walls that did it, she supposed, though t he s ense o f enc losure w ent b eyond t he p hysical. Thin gs sounded dif ferent in her e: t he b irds w ere lo uder a nd t he le aves whispered in t he b reeze. S mells w ere str onger—damp f ertility, sw eet apples—and t he a ir was c learer. The lo nger she s pent in t he ga rden, the mo re cer tain C assandra was t hat she’d b een r ight. This ga rden wasn’t sleeping, it was v ery much awake. 348


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The sun moved slightly, casting shafts of streaky light through the creepers overhead, and a sho wer of tiny yellow confetti leaves rained from a nearby tree. Watching them flutter, gold in the ribbons of light, Cassandra was s eized by an overwhelming urge to sketch, to capture on pa per t his magical co ntrast b etween lig ht a nd da rk. H er f ingers twitched, imagining t he strokes necess ary to render t he shafts line ar, the shadin g r equired t o co nvey tra nsparency. The desir e t o sk etch caught her o ff guard. ‘Tea break? ’ On t he other side o f the garden Christian tossed his shovel aga inst t he wall . L ifted t he b ottom o f his faded T -shirt a nd wiped the sweat from his f orehead. ‘Sounds g ood.’ S he pa tted her g loved ha nds aga inst her je ans t o shake f ree t he dir t a nd f ern f lecks, tr ied no t t o st are a t his exp osed stomach. ‘Your boil or mine? ’ ‘Mine.’ H e knel t in t he pa tch t hey’d c leared in t he middle o f t he garden, a nd f illed a s aucepan wi th t he r emaining wa ter f rom his drink bottle. Cassandra sat gingerly. A week of cleaning had lef t her calves stiff and her t highs s ore. N ot t hat she minded . C assandra dr ew p erverse pleasure f rom her ac hing b ody. It was t he indisp utable p roof o f her own physicality. She no longer felt invisible or fragile; she was heavier, far less likely to blow away on the breeze. And at night she fell quickly through the thick layers of sleep, woke to find night lying behind her in one solid dreamless drift. ‘How’s the maze been going?’ she said as Christian set the saucepan on the little camping stove he’d brought. ‘Over at the hotel?’ ‘Not bad. Mike reckons we’ll have it cleared by winter.’ ‘Even with you spending so much time her e?’ Christian smiled . ‘ Predictably M ike’s g ot q uite a lo t t o s ay a bout that.’ He tossed the residue of morning tea from the mugs and dangled a fresh bag over each rim. ‘I hope you’re not in a ny trouble for helping me? ’ ‘Nothing I ca n’t handle.’ ‘I really appreciate how much you’ve done, Christian.’ ‘It’s nothing. I made a p romise to help and I me ant it.’ ‘I know, and I’m really glad.’ She pulled her g loves off slowly. ‘All the same, I’ll understand if y ou’re too busy with other things.’ 349


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‘With my real job, you mean?’ He laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Mike’s still getting his p ound of flesh.’ His r eal job . And t here i t was, t he t opic C assandra had b een wondering about but hitherto found herself unable to broach. Somehow though, being in the garden today, she felt infused by an unusual spirit of come-what-may. A s pirit something like Nell’s. She drew an arc in the dirt with her heel . ‘Christian?’ ‘Cassandra?’ ‘I was just wondering,’ she drew over the arc, added an echo beneath, ‘there’s s omething I ’ve b een me aning t o ask y ou, s omething J ulia Bennett mentioned.’ She met his gaze b ut didn’t hold it for long. ‘Why are you here in Tregenna working for Michael instead of being a doctor in Oxford?’ When Christian didn’t answer she da red look at him aga in. His expression was difficult to read. He shrugged a little, smiled slightly. ‘Why a re y ou her e in T regenna r enovating a ne w ho use wi thout your husband? ’ Cassandra inhaled sha rply, sur prised as m uch as a nything els e. Without t hinking, her f ingers b egan t heir ha bitual w orrying o f her wedding band. ‘I . . . I’m . . .’ Any number of e vasive answers p opped like bubbles on the tip of her tongue, then she heard a voice, not quite her o wn: ‘ I do n’t ha ve a h usband. I did o nce, I j ust . . . there was a n accident, Nick was—’ ‘Sorry. Look, you don’t have to, I didn’t mean to—’ ‘It’s okay, I—’ ‘No. It’s not.’ Christian r uffled his o wn hair, held o ut the palm o f his hand. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’ ‘It’s all r ight. I ask ed f irst.’ And in a stra nge wa y t hat C assandra couldn’t articulate, even to herself, some small part of her was g lad to have s aid t he w ords. To have sp oken Nick’s na me was a r elief, made her f eel les s guil ty s omehow, t hat she was s till her e and he was no t. That she was her e, now, with Christian. The s aucepan was jig gling o n t he st ove t op, t he wa ter sp itting. Christian tipped it sideways to fill the mugs, then tossed a teaspoon of sugar into each and stirred quickly. He handed one to Cassandra. ‘Thanks.’ She wrapped her f ingers around the warm tin a nd blew gently across its surface. 350


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Christian took a si p, wincing as he b urned his t ongue. Noisy silence str etched b etween t hem and C assandra c lutched at topical threads to weave the conversation back together. Caught none that seemed suitable. Finally Chr istian sp oke. ‘ I t hink y our gra ndma was l ucky no t t o know her past.’ Cassandra us ed t he ti p o f her li ttle f inger t o drag a fallen le af fragment from her t ea. ‘It’s a gift, don’t you reckon, to be able to look forward and not back?’ She pretended interest in t he rescued leaf. ‘In some ways.’ ‘In most ways.’ ‘Awful to forget the past entirely though.’ ‘Why?’ She g lanced side ways, tr ying t o as certain w hether o r no t he was being s erious. No h umour l urked in his exp ression. ‘ Because t hen i t would be like it never happened.’ ‘But it did, nothing can change that.’ ‘Yeah, but you wouldn’t remember it.’ ‘So?’ ‘So . . .’ S he f licked t he le af aside a nd shr ugged lig htly. ‘ You need memories to keep things from the past ali ve.’ ‘That’s what I’m saying. Without memories everyone could just get on with it. Move on.’ Cassandra’s cheeks f lared and she hid b ehind a gul p of tea. Then another. Chr istian was coac hing her o n t he importance of relegating the past t o history. She expected it from Nell and Ben, had le arned to nod sombrely when any of the aunts expressed similar sentiments, but this was dif ferent. S he had b een f eeling s o p ositive, s o m uch lig hter than usual, her outlines clear where they were usually smudged. She’d been enjoying her self. S he w ondered w hen p recisely he’d p egged her as a los t cause in need o f hel p. S he f elt em barrassed a nd, mo re t han that, disappointed somehow. She took another sip of tea and sneaked a glance at Christian. His attention was occupied by a stick he was threading with dried autumn leaves, and his expression was dif ficult to read. Preoccupied certainly, but more than that: distracted, distant, lonely. ‘Christian—’ 351


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‘I met Nell once, you know.’ She was caught off guard. ‘My grandma, Nell?’ ‘I presume it was her. Can’t think who else it would have been, and the dates s eem about r ight. I was ele ven, s o it must’ve b een 1975. I ’d come up here to get away, and I was j ust disappearing under t he wall when someone grabbed my foot. I didn’t realise it was a person at first, I thought for a second that my brothers had been telling the truth when they said the cottage was haunted, that some ghost or witch was going to t urn me in to a t oadstool.’ H is li ps twi tched in to half a smile , a nd he cr unched a le af in his f ist, sprinkling t he debris onto t he ground. ‘But it wasn’t a g host, it was a n old woman with a stra nge accent and a sad face.’ Cassandra pictured Nell’s face. Had it b een s ad? Formidable, yes, not gi ven t o unnecess ary wa rmth, b ut s ad? S he co uldn’t t ell; i ts familiarity made suc h critique impossible. ‘She had sil ver hair,’ he s aid, ‘tied up high.’ ‘In a kno t.’ He no dded, smiled slig htly t hen ti pped his m ug u pside do wn t o empty t he dregs. Tossed his t hreaded stick aside. ‘Are you any closer to solving her mystery for her? ’ Cassandra exhaled slowly; there was definitely something unsettled about Christian this afternoon. His mood reminded her o f the shafts of light filtering through the creepers. It was ungraspable, shimmering, changeable somehow. ‘Not really. Rose’s scrapbooks didn’t contain the revelation I ho ped they might.’ ‘No en try en titled: “ why E liza mig ht s omeday t ake m y c hild”? ’ He smiled. ‘Unfortunately not.’ ‘At least you’ve had s ome interesting bedtime reading.’ ‘If only I didn’t fall asleep as s oon as my head hit the pillow.’ ‘It’s the sea air,’ said Christian, standing up and fetching his shovel once again. ‘It’s good for the soul.’ That f elt tr ue eno ugh. C assandra st ood t oo. ‘Christian,’ she s aid, shaking her g loves, ‘about the scrapbooks.’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘There’s s omething I ho ped y ou mig ht b e a ble t o hel p me wi th. A sort of mystery.’ 352


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‘Oh yeah? ’ She glanced at him, a li ttle wary given his e arlier avoidance of the subject. ‘It’s a medical q uestion.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘Rose men tions s ome ma rks o n her st omach. F rom w hat I ca n gather they’re quite large, noticeable enough that they embarrass her, and e arly o n she has a co uple o f co nsultations a bout t hem wi th her doctor, Ebenezer Matthews.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘Skin wasn’t really my specialty.’ ‘What was? ’ ‘Oncology. D oes Ros e gi ve you anything more t o go on? C olour, size, type, quantity?’ Cassandra sho ok her he ad. ‘ She wr ote in eu phemisms f or t he most part.’ ‘Typical Victorian prudery.’ He walked t he shovel back and forth on the ground while he thought. ‘They could be anything really. Scars, pigmentation marks—does she mention any surgery?’ ‘Not that I ca n remember. What sort of surgery?’ He lif ted o ne ha nd t o t he side . ‘ Well, o ff t he t op o f m y he ad, i t could have been appendicitis, her kidne ys or lungs may have needed operating on.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Hydatids maybe. Is it likely she’d been near any farms?’ ‘There were farms on the estate.’ ‘It’s definitely the most common reason a Victorian child would’ve had abdominal surgery.’ ‘What is i t exactly?’ ‘A parasite, tapeworm. It lives in dogs b ut has a pa rt of its cycle in humans or sheep. It usually settles in the kidney or liver, but sometimes winds up in the lungs.’ He looked up at her. ‘It fits, but I’m afraid, short of asking her o r finding more information in t he scrapbooks, I do ubt you’ll ever know for sure.’ ‘I’ll have another look this afternoon, see if I miss ed something.’ ‘And I’ll keep thinking about it.’ ‘Thanks. B ut do n’t g o t o a ny tr ouble, i t’s r eally j ust a c uriosity.’ She p ulled her g loves o n, lo cked t he jo ins o f her f ingers t ogether t o tighten them. 353


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Christian dug the shovel into the dirt a f ew times. ‘ There was t oo much death.’ Cassandra looked at him. ‘My job, oncology; it was too relentless. The patients, the families, the loss. I t hought I’d be able to handle it, but it builds up, you know? Over time? ’ Cassandra t hought o f N ell’s last da ys, t he g hastly st erile smell o f the hospital, the cold, blank gaze o f the walls. ‘I was ne ver cut out for it, really. I f igured that much when I was still at university.’ ‘You didn’t think of changing your degree?’ ‘I didn’t want to disappoint my mum.’ ‘She wanted you to be a do ctor?’ ‘I don’t know.’ His eyes met her s. ‘She died w hen I was a kid .’ And t hen C assandra under stood. ‘Cancer.’ Understood, t oo, w hy he was s o keen to forget the past. ‘I’m so sorry, Christian.’ He nodded, watched as a black bird flew low overhead. ‘Looks like rain. When the rooks swoop like that, there’s rain coming.’ He smiled shyly, as if t o apologise for the swift change of topic. ‘Meteorology has nothing on Cornish folklore.’ Cassandra picked up her gardening fork. ‘I reckon we work another half-hour then call it a day.’ Christian lo oked a t t he gr ound suddenl y, a nd st ubbed his b oot against the earth. ‘You know, I was g oing to get a dr ink at the pub on the way home.’ He glanced at her. ‘I don’t suppose, that is, I w onder if you’d like to come?’ ‘Sure,’ she he ard herself say. ‘Why not?’ Christian smiled and his face s eemed to relax. ‘Great. That’s great.’ A f resh, mo ist gust o f s alty b reeze b rought a n elm le af dr ifting down to land on Cassandra’s head. She brushed it off and returned her attention to her bracken patch, dug the little gardening fork beneath a long thin root and tried to wrestle it from the ground. And she smiled to herself, though she wasn’t quite sure why.

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A band had b een playing at the pub so they’d stayed and ordered pies and chips. Christian told self-deprecating stories about b eing back at home wi th his dad a nd st epmum, a nd C assandra di vulged s ome o f Nell’s eccentricities: her refusal to use a potato peeler because it couldn’t trim as c lose as she co uld wi th a knif e, her ha bit o f ado pting o ther people’s cats, the way she’d had C assandra’s wisdom teeth set in sil ver and turned into a p endant. Chr istian had la ughed, and t he s ound s o pleased Cassandra that she f ound herself laughing too. It was da rk when he f inally dropped her bac k at the hotel, the air thick with mist s o that the car’s headlights glowed yellow. ‘Thank you,’ said Cassandra as she hopped out. ‘I had a good time.’ And she had . An unexp ectedly good time. Her ghosts had b een with her, as e ver, but they hadn’t sat so close. ‘I’m glad you came.’ ‘Yeah. M e t oo.’ C assandra smiled aga inst her sho ulder, wa ited a moment, t hen c losed t he do or. Waved as his ca r dis appeared in to the f og. ‘Phone mess age,’ s aid Sa mantha, wa ving a small sli p o f pa per as Cassandra entered the foyer. ‘Been out, have you?’ ‘The p ub, y eah.’ C assandra t ook t he pa per, igno red Sa mantha’s raised brows. Phone ca ll f rom R uby D avies, i t r ead. Coming t o Co rnwall o n Monday. B ooked to sta y a t the Bl ackhurst H otel. E xpecting pr ogress report! Cassandra f elt a wa ve o f g enuine p leasure. S he w ould b e a ble t o show R uby t he co ttage a nd t he s crapbooks a nd t he hidden ga rden. Ruby, she knew, was someone who would understand how special they all were. She would like Christian, too. ‘Someone dropped you home then, did they? Looked like Christian Blake’s car.’ ‘Thanks for the message,’ said Cassandra with a smile . ‘Not t hat I g ot m uch o f a lo ok,’ Sa mantha called as C assandra disappeared up the stairs. ‘I wasn’t spying or anything.’ Back in her r oom, C assandra ran a ho t, deep ba th and t ossed in some lavender salts Julia had found for her sore muscles. She took the scrapbooks with her a nd la id t hem on a dr y t owel spread across t he tiled floor. Careful to keep her left hand dry for page turning, she eased 355


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into the tub, sighing with pleasure as t he silky wa ter surrounded her, then leaned against the porcelain side and opened the first scrapbook, hopeful that some missed detail about Rose’s marks would jump out. By the time the water was tepid and Cassandra’s feet were pruned, she’d found little of any use. Just the same veiled mention by Rose of ‘marks’ that embarrassed her. But she had f ound s omething els e in teresting. U nrelated t o t he marks, but curious nonetheless. It wasn’t just the words themselves, but the t one o f t he en try t hat str uck C assandra. S he co uldn’t shak e t he feeling that it meant far more than it appeared to say. April 1909. W ork h as s tarted o n t he wa ll a t t he c ottage. Mamma f elt, and rightly, that it was be st to do i t while Eliza is Away. The cottage is too vulnerable. It was all well and good for it to remain exposed in olden times when its use was m ore nefarious, but it no longer needs to signal out to sea. Quite the contrary: there is n one among us n ow who wishes exposure. And one can never be t oo careful, for where there is m uch to gain, there is ever m uch to lose.

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ose was weeping. Her cheek was warm and her pillow wet, but still she wept. She clenched her eyes against the sneaking winter light and cried as she hadn’t since she was a v ery little girl. Wicked, wicked morning! H ow da re t he sun s o sur ely r ise t o g loat o ver her mis ery? How dare other p eople go about their business as if G od were in his heaven, w hen yet again Ros e had w oken to s ee t he end t o her ho pes writ in blood? How much longer, she wondered, how many more times must she t olerate this monthly despair? In some ghastly way it was better to know, for surely the worst days were t hose in b etween. The lo ng days in w hich Ros e allowed herself to imagine, to dream, to hope. Hope, how she had gr own to hate the word. It was an insidious seed planted inside a person’s soul, surviving covertly o n li ttle t ending, t hen f lowering s o sp ectacularly t hat no ne could hel p b ut c herish i t. I t was ho pe, t oo, t hat p revented a p erson taking co unsel f rom exp erience. F or e ach mo nth, a fter her b leeding week, Ros e f elt a r esurgence o f t he f oul cr eature, a nd her sla te o f experience was wiped clean. No matter that she promised herself that this time she w ouldn’t p lay alo ng, w ouldn’t fall p rey t o t he cr uel, propitious whispers, she always did. Because desperate people cling to hope like sailors to their wreck. In the course of a year there had been one small reprieve from the terrible cycle. A mo nth when the bleeding hadn’t come. Dr M atthews had been duly summoned, had conducted an examination and uttered the blessed words: she was wi th child. What bliss to hear one’s dearest wish sp oken s o calml y, wi th s o li ttle t hought f or t he mo nths o f disappointment that had come before, with steadiness and confidence 357


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that all w ould continue. Her stomach would swell and a ba by would be born. Eight days she had nursed the precious news, whispered words of love to her flat stomach, walked and spoken and dreamed differently. And then, on the ninth day— A knock at the door but Rose didn’t stir. Go away, she thought, go away and leave me be. The do or cr eaked a nd s omeone entered, t ook inf uriating ca re t o be quiet. A noise—something being placed on the bedside table—and then a s oft voice by her e ar. ‘I brought you some breakfast.’ Mary again. As if i t wasn’t enough that Mary had s een the sheets, marked with their dark reproach. ‘You must keep your spirits up, Mrs Walker.’ Mrs Walker. The w ords made Ros e’s st omach tig hten. How she’d longed to be Mrs Walker. After she’d met Nathaniel in New York, had arrived at dance after dance with her heart pulsing in her chest, scanned the room until she spied him, held her b reath until their eyes met and his lips spread into a smile , just for her. And now the name was hers yet she had p roved herself unworthy of it. A wife who couldn’t perform the most basic of a married woman’s functions. Couldn’t provide her h usband with the very things a g ood wife must. Children. Healthy, happy children to run across the estate, turn cartwheels along the sand, hide f rom their governess. ‘You mustn’t cry, Mrs Walker. It’ll happen for you in g ood time.’ Each well-meant word was a b itter barb. ‘Will it, Mary?’ ‘Of course, ma’am.’ ‘What makes you so sure?’ ‘It’s bound to, ain’t it? A woman can’t avoid it if she tries. Not for long. There’s many I know would be glad to escape it if way were known.’ ‘Ungrateful wr etches,’ s aid Ros e, face ho t a nd w et. ‘ Such w omen don’t deserve the blessing of children.’ Mary’s e yes c louded wi th s omething Ros e t ook f or p ity. R ather than sla p t he s ervant’s p lump, he althy c heeks, she t urned a way a nd curled up beneath her covers. Nursed her grief deep within her stomach. Surrounded herself with the dark and empty cloud of loss.

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Nathaniel could have drawn it in his sleep. His wife’s face was so familiar to him he sometimes thought he knew it better than his own hand. He finished t he line he was sk etching a nd sm udged i t slig htly wi th his thumb. S quinted a nd tilted his he ad. S he was b eautiful, he had b een right in t hat. The da rk hair and pale skin, p retty mouth. And y et he took no pleasure from it. He filed the portrait sketch in his p ortfolio. She would be glad to receive i t as she al ways was. H er r equests f or ne w p ortraits w ere s o desperate he co uld never say no. If he didn’t present a ne w one every few days she was likely to weep and beg him for assurances of love. He drew her f rom memory now, rather than from life. The latter was t oo painful. H is Ros e had va nished in side her o wn s orrow. The y oung woman he had met in N ew York had b een eaten away, revealing this shadow Rose, with darkened eyes from lack of sleep, worry-faded skin, agitated limbs. Had any poet adequately described the wretched ugliness of a loved one turned inside out with grief? Night after nig ht she p resented herself to him a nd he co nsented. But Nathaniel’s desire had vanished. What had once excited him filled him now with dread and, worse, guilt. Guilt that when they made love he could no longer bear to look at her. Guilt that he could not give her what she wanted. Guilt that he did not want the baby as desperately as she did. Not that Rose would believe that. No matter how many times Nathaniel assured her t hat she was eno ugh f or him, Ros e w ould no t be convinced. And now, most mortifying of all, her mother had come to see him in his st udio. H ad p erused his p ortraits s omewhat w oodenly, b efore sitting in t he c hair by his e asel a nd launching her o ration. Ros e was delicate, she started, had always been so. The animal drives of a husband were likely to cause her gr eat harm and it would b e b est for all if he could desist f or a time . S o dis quieting was i t t o co nduct suc h a conversation wi th his mo ther-in-law, N athaniel had b een una ble t o find words or inclination to explain his own position. Instead he had nodded his accession and taken to seeking solitude in t he est ate ga rden, rather t han his st udio. The gazeb o had b ecome his workplace. It was still cool in M arch, but Nathaniel was only too willing to forgo comfort. The w eather made i t less lik ely that anyone else would seek his co unsel. Finally, he co uld be at ease. Being inside 359


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the house over winter, with Rose’s parents and her s uffocating needs, had been oppressive. Her sorrow and disappointment had p ermeated the walls, the curtains, the carpets. It was the house of the dead: Linus locked away in his da rkroom, Ros e in t he b edroom, Adeline lurking in the corridors. Nathaniel le aned f orward, a ttention ca ught b y t he sp ill o f w eak sunlight t hrough t he rho dodendron b ranches. H is f ingers twi tched, longed t o ca pture t he lig ht a nd shade . B ut t here was no time . The canvas of Lord Mackelby sat before him on the easel, beard painted in, blush-shot c heeks, lined f orehead. Onl y t he e yes r emained. I t was always the eyes that let Nathaniel down in o il. He s elected a b rush a nd removed a lo ose ha ir. Was a bout t o p ut paint to canvas when he felt his arms tingle, the strange sixth sense of solitude retreating. He looked over his shoulder. Sure enough a servant stood behind him. A gitation bristled. ‘For goodness sake, man,’ said Nathaniel. ‘Don’t sneak up like that. If there’s something you’d like to say, come, stand before me and say it. There’s no need , surely, for such stealth.’ ‘Lady Mountrachet sends advice that luncheon is to be served early, sir. The ca rriage f or Tremayne H all will depa rt a t tw o o’clock t his afternoon.’ Nathaniel cursed silently. He had f orgotten about Tremayne Hall. Yet another of Adeline’s wealthy friends looking to dress their walls in their own image. Perhaps, if he were very lucky, his subject would insist he also feature her t hree tiny dogs! To think he had once been thrilled by such introductions, had felt his status rising like the sail on a ne w ship. He had b een a b lind fool, ignorant to the cost t hat such success w ould claim. His commissions had grown, b ut his cr eativity had b een reduced co mmensurately. He was p umping o ut p ortraits j ust as sur ely as o ne o f t he ne w massproduction factories of which men in b usiness were always speaking, rubbing t heir shin y ha nds t ogether wi th g lee. N o time t o pa use, t o improve, t o va ry his met hod. H is w ork was no t t hat o f a cra ftsman, there was no lo nger dignity or humanity in his str okes. Worst of all, w hile he was b usy producing p ortraits, t he time f or sketching, his t rue passio n, was sli pping t hrough his f ingers. S ince arriving a t B lackhurst he had ma naged o nly o ne pa nel sk etch a nd a 360


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clutch of studies of the house and its inhabitants. His hands, his skills, his spirits had all b een stunted. He had made t he wrong c hoice, he s aw t hat now. If only he had heeded Ros e’s r equests a nd s ought a ne w ho me f or t hem a fter t heir marriage, p erhaps t hings w ould ha ve t urned o ut dif ferently. Perhaps they would be blissfully content, children at her feet, creative satisfaction at his f ingertips. Then again, perhaps all w ould be the same. He and she f orced to endure simila r t orture in r educed cir cumstances. And t hat was t he rub. How was a b oy who’d tasted poverty ever expected to choose the poorer road? And now Adeline, like Eve herself, had started whispering about a possible sitting with the King. And though he was tired of portraiture, though he hated himself for having forsaken so completely his passion, Nathaniel’s skin p rickled at the mere suggestion. He laid down his brush and rubbed at a paint stain on his thumb. Was a bout t o he ad in f or l uncheon w hen his p ortfolio snag ged his attention. With a g lance back towards the house, he p ulled the secret sketches f rom wi thin. H e’d b een w orking a t t hem o n a nd o ff f or a fortnight no w, e ver since he ’d co me acr oss C ousin E liza’s fa irytales amongst Rose’s things. Though they were written for children, magical stories of bravery and morality, they had made t heir way beneath his skin. The characters had seeped inside his mind and come alive, their simple wisdom a balm f or his swirlin g mind, his ug ly adult troubles. He had f ound himself in mo ments of distraction scribbling lines t hat had t urned t hemselves in to a cr one a t a sp inning w heel, t he fa iry queen wi th her lo ng t hick p lait, t he p rincess b ird tra pped in her golden cage. And w hat b egan as s cribbles he was no w t urning in to sk etches. Darkening t he shadin g, f irming t he lines, accen tuating t he facial features. H e lo oked t hem o ver, tr ied no t t o no tice t he em bossed parchment Rose had b ought for him w hen they were newly married, tried not to think of happier times. The sketches were not yet finished but he was p leased with them. Indeed, it was t he only project that seemed to bring him pleasure any more, gra nt him es cape f rom t he tr ial his lif e had b ecome. W ith a quickening heart, Nathaniel clipped the pieces of parchment to the top 361


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of his easel. After luncheon he was going to allow himself to sketch, to draw without purpose as he had o nce done as a b oy. Lord Mackelby’s gloomy eyes could wait.

c Finally, with Mary’s help Rose was dressed. She had been sitting in her convalescent chair all mo rning but had decided e ventually to venture from her room. When had she last left its four walls? Two days before? Three? W hen she st ood she almost f ell. S he was lig ht-headed a nd weak-stomached, fa miliar s ensations f rom her c hildhood. B ack t hen Eliza had b een a ble t o ho ist her sp irits hig h aga in wi th fa iry st ories, and t ales drag ged bac k f rom t he co ve. I f o nly t he r emedy f or ad ult affliction were so simple. It had b een s ome time since Ros e had s een E liza. S he sp ied her occasionally from the window, stalking through the garden or standing on t he c liff t op, a dist ant sp eck with long red ha ir streaming b ehind her. Once o r twice M ary had co me t o t he do or wi th a mess age t hat Miss Eliza was downstairs requesting an audience, but Rose always said no. She loved her co usin, but t he battle she was wagin g against gr ief and ho pe t ook all t he ener gy she co uld m uster. And E liza was s o spirited, s o f ull o f vi tality, p ossibility, he alth. It was mo re t han Ros e could endure. Weightless as a g host, Ros e dr ifted along t he carpeted hall, hand resting o n t he dado ra il t o k eep her bala nce. This a fternoon, w hen Nathaniel returned from his meeting at Tremayne Hall, she would join him outside in t he gazebo. It would be cold, of course, but she w ould have Mary wrap her wa rmly, Thomas could move the day bed and a blanket for her comfort. Nathaniel must be lonely out there, he would be glad to have her by his side o nce more. He would be able to sketch her reclining. Nathaniel did so like to draw her, and it was her duty as a wife to offer comfort to her husband. Rose had almost reached the stairs when she heard voices floating along the draughty corridor. ‘She says she a in’t going to say nothing, that it’s no o ne’s business but hers.’ The words were punctuated by the striking of a broom’s head against the skirting board. 362


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‘The mistress won’t be pleased when she f inds out.’ ‘The mistress won’t find out.’ ‘If she’s g ot e yes in her he ad she will . Ther e’s no t ma ny ca n’t t ell when a girl gr ows fat with child.’ Rose p ressed a co ld ha nd aga inst her mo uth, cr ept q uietly alo ng the hall, strained to hear further. ‘She says all the women in her fa mily carry small. She’ll be able to hide it beneath her unif orm.’ ‘Let’s just hope for her sake she’s right, else she’ll be out on her ear.’ Rose a rrived a t t he t op o f t he st airs j ust in time t o s ee D aisy disappearing in to t he s ervants’ hall . Sall y was denied suc h f ortunate reprieve. The s ervant gasp ed a nd her c heeks f lushed in most un becoming blotches. ‘Sorry, ma’am.’ A fumbled curtsy, broomstick tangled in skirts. ‘I didn’t see you there.’ ‘Of whom do y ou speak, Sally?’ The blotches spread to the tips of the girl’s ears. ‘Sally,’ said Rose, ‘I demand you answer me. Who is wi th child?’ ‘Mary, ma’am.’ Little more than a w hisper. ‘Mary?’ ‘Yes, ma’am.’ ‘Mary is with child?’ The girl nodded quickly, the lines of her face des cribing an urgent desire to disappear. ‘I see.’ A deep black hole had opened in the centre of Rose’s stomach and threatened to pull her inside out. That stupid girl with her hideous, cheap fertility. Flaunting it for all t o see, cooing over Rose, telling her everything w ould b e w ell, t hen la ughing b ehind her bac k. And she unwed! Well, no t in t his ho use. B lackhurst M anor was a ho use o f ancient a nd st urdy mo ral st anding. I t was u p t o Ros e t o mak e sur e standards were observed.

c Adeline ra n t he b rush t hrough her ha ir, str oke b y str oke b y str oke. Mary was g one a nd t hough t hat lef t t hem w oefully sho rt-staffed f or the co ming w eekend pa rty, t he girl ’s a bsence w ould j ust ha ve t o b e 363


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managed. W hile o rdinarily A deline didn’t enco urage Ros e t o mak e decisions about staff without due consultation, these were exceptional circumstances a nd M ary q uite t he li ttle sne ak. An unma rried sne ak, which made ma tters even more disgraceful. No, Rose had b een right in her in stincts, if no t her met hod. Poor de ar Ros e. Dr M atthews had b een t o s ee Adeline e arlier in the week, had s at across from her in t he morning room and adopted his low voice, the one he al ways donned in times o f worry. Rose was not well, he had s aid (as if A deline couldn’t see as m uch for herself), and he was gra vely concerned. ‘Unfortunately, Lady Mountrachet, my fears are not limited to her apparent dec line. Ther e a re . . .’ he co ughed lig htly in to his ne at f ist, ‘. . . other things.’ ‘Other things, Dr Matthews?’ Adeline handed him a c up of tea. ‘Emotional matters, Lady Mountrachet.’ He smiled primly and took a sip of tea. ‘When questioned on the physical aspects of her marriage, Mrs Walker confessed to what would be considered, in my professional opinion, an unhealthy tendency towards physicality.’ Adeline f elt her l ungs expa nd, she ca ught her b reath a nd f orced herself to exhale calml y. For want of something else to say or do, she stirred an additional lump of sugar into her own tea. Without meeting his eyes she bade Dr M atthews continue. ‘Be co mforted, L ady M ountrachet. W hile cer tainly i t’s a s erious condition, y our da ughter is no t alo ne. I ca n r eport a ra ther hig h incidence of heightened physicality among young ladies currently, and feel certain it is a co ndition she will o utgrow. More concerning to me is m y susp icion t hat her p hysical t endency is co ntributing t o her repeated failures.’ Adeline cleared her t hroat. ‘Continue, Dr Matthews.’ ‘It is m y sincer e medical o pinion t hat y our da ughter m ust ce ase physical r elations un til her p oor b ody has had time adeq uately t o recover. For ’tis all related, Lady Mountrachet, ’tis all related.’ Adeline lif ted her c up t o her mo uth a nd t asted t he b itterness o f fine china. She nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘The L ord works in m ysterious ways. S o too, t hrough his design, the human body. It is reasonable to hypothesise that a young lady with heightened . . . appetites,’ he smiled apologetically, eyes narrowed, 364


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‘would present a less than ideal maternal model. The body knows such things, Lady Mountrachet.’ ‘You a re sug gesting, Dr M atthews, t hat wi th f ewer a ttempts, m y daughter may have greater success? ’ ‘It is w orth consideration, Lady Mountrachet. Not to mention the benefits such temperance will have for her general heath and wellbeing. Picture, if y ou will, Lady Mountrachet, a winds ock.’ Adeline arched her brows, wondered—not for the first time—why she had r emained loyal to Dr Matthews all t his time. ‘If a winds ock is lef t susp ended f or y ears o n end , wi thout opportunity for rest or repair, the harsh winds will invariably tear holes in its fabric. So too, Lady Mountrachet, your daughter must be allowed time t o r ecuperate. M ust b e shielded f rom t he str ong winds t hat threaten to rend her asunder.’ Windsocks aside, a certain sense had lurked behind Dr Matthews’s words. Rose was weak and unwell and without allowing herself proper time t o he al co uld no t b e exp ected t o mak e a f ull r ecovery. And y et her fierce longing for a child consumed her. Adeline had agonised over how b est t o co nvince her da ughter t o p ut her o wn he alth f irst, a nd finally she had realised it would be necessary to enlist Nathaniel in the attempt. Awkward t hough suc h a co nversation p romised t o b e, his obedience had b een assured. Over the past tw elve months, Nathaniel had learned to toe Adeline’s line, and now, with a royal portrait in the offing, there’d been little doubt he’d see things her way. Although A deline ma naged t o k eep a calm v eneer, o h ho w she raged in private. Why should other young women be granted children when Rose must go without? Why should she be blighted when others were made strong? How much more would Rose’s weak body be forced to endure? In her darkest moments, Adeline wondered whether it was something she had done. Whether maybe God was punishing her. She had been too proud, gloated one too many times a bout Rose’s beauty, her fine manners, her sw eet nature. For what worse punishment than to see a b eloved child suffering? And now, t he t hought of Mary, t hat g hastly he althy girl wi th her broad, b eaming face , her nest o f unk empt ha ir, t hat she sho uld b e carrying a child. An unwanted child when others who craved so deeply were continually denied. There was no justice. Little wonder Rose had 365


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snapped: it was her turn. The happy news, the child, should belong to Rose. Not Mary. If o nly s ome wa y co uld b e f ound t o gra nt Ros e a c hild wi thout physical toll. Of co urse, it was im possible. Women would be lined u p if such a met hod existed— Adeline pa used mid-str oke. L ooked a t her r eflection b ut s aw nothing. H er mind was els ewhere, co ntemplating t he t opsy-turvy image o f a he althy girl wi th no ma ternal in stinct, b eside a delica te woman whose body failed her willin g heart . . . She laid down the brush. Pressed cold hands together in her la p. Was it possible such contrariness might be righted? It would not be easy. First, Rose must be convinced that it was for the b est. Then t here was t he girl. She would need t o b e made t o s ee that it was her d uty. That she owed it to the Mountrachet family, after so many years of goodwill. Difficult certainly. But not impossible. Slowly A deline st ood. L aid t he b rush lig htly o n t he dr essing table. M ind s till h oning h er idea, s he s tarted do wn th e h all t owards Rose’s room.

c The key to grafting roses was the knife. Razor sharp it had to be, said Davies, sha rp eno ugh t o gi ve t he ha irs o n y our a rm a c lean sha ve. Eliza had found him in the hothouse and he’d been only too happy to help her with the hybrid she was planning for her garden. He’d shown her where to make the cut, how to ensure that there were no splinters or b umps o r im perfections t hat mig ht p revent t he s cion b inding t o the ne w stock. In t he end, she’d st ayed all mo rning and helped with the r epotting f or sp ring. I t was s uch a p leasure t o sink o ne’s ha nds into the warm earth, to feel at one’s fingertips the possibilities of the new season. When she lef t, Eliza walked the long way back. It was a co ol day, thin clouds skimming quickly in the upper atmosphere, and she relished the chill breeze on her face a fter the muggy hothouse. Being so near, her thoughts turned as they always did to her cousin. Mary had reported that Ros e was lo w in sp irits la tely, a nd t hough E liza s uspected she 366


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wouldn’t b e gra nted admis sion, she co uldn’t b ear t o co me s o c lose without tr ying. S he kno cked o n t he side do or a nd wa ited un til i t opened. ‘Good day, Sally. I’ve come to see Rose.’ ‘You ca n’t, M iss E liza,’ s aid Sall y, a sullen exp ression on her face . ‘Mrs Walker is otherwise engaged and unavailable to guests.’ The lines had the melody of those learned by rote. ‘Come now Sally,’ Eliza said, smile stra ining, ‘I hardly qualify as a guest. I’m sure if y ou just let Ros e know that I a m here—’ From the shadows, Aunt Adeline’s voice. ‘Sally is q uite right. Mrs Walker is otherwise engaged.’ The dark hourglass drifted into view. ‘We are about to begin luncheon. If you care to leave a callin g card, Sally will ensure that Mrs Walker knows you requested an audience.’ Sally’s he ad was b owed a nd her c heeks f lushed. N o do ubt s ome fuss had o ccurred amongst the staff and Eliza would hear all a bout it from Mary later. Without Mary and her r egular reports, E liza would have little idea what went on at the house. ‘I have no card,’ said Eliza. ‘Let Rose know I called, won’t you Sally. She knows where to find me.’ With a no d in her a unt’s direction, Eliza set off once more across the la wn, pa using o nly o nce t o gaze a t t he windo w o f Ros e’s ne w bedroom, where early spring light bleached the surface to white. With a shiver, her t houghts turned to Davies’s grafting knife: the ease with which a sha rp enough blade mig ht s ever a p lant s o t hat no e vidence of the former bond remained. Around the sun dial and further across the lawn, Eliza came to the gazebo. N athaniel’s pa inting eq uipment was s et u p in side as i t o ften was these days. He was nowhere to be seen, had probably gone inside for luncheon, but his w ork had b een left pegged to the easel— Eliza’s thoughts fled. The sketches on top were unmistakeable. She suffered the odd displacement of seeing figments from her own imagination b rought t o lif e. Cha racters, hi therto t he p rovince o f her own mind , t urned as if b y magic t o p ictures. An unexp ected r ipple passed beneath her skin, ho t and cold all at once. Eliza w ent c loser, u p t he st airs o f t he gazeb o, a nd exa mined t he sketches. She smiled, couldn’t help herself. It was lik e dis covering an 367


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imaginary f riend had ga ined co rporal exist ence. The y w ere simila r enough to her own imaginings to be instantly recognisable, yet different somehow. His hand was d arker t han her mind, she r ealised, and she liked it. Without thinking, she unc lipped them. Eliza hurried back: along the maze, across her garden, through the southern do or, all t he wa y m ulling t he sk etches o ver in her mind . Wondering w hen he had dra wn t hem, w hy, w hat he in tended t o do with t hem. I t wasn’t un til she was ha nging her coa t a nd ha t in t he hallway of t he cottage t hat her t houghts t urned t o t he let ter she had recently r eceived f rom t he p ublisher in L ondon. M r H obbins had opened by paying Eliza a co mpliment regarding her st ories. He had a little da ughter, he s aid, w ho a waited e ach E liza M akepeace fa irytale with bated breath. Then he had sug gested Eliza might like to consider publishing an illustrated collection, and to b ear him in mind if suc h time arose. Eliza had b een f lattered b ut unco nvinced. F or s ome r eason t he concept hadn’t progressed in her imagina tion from the abstract. Now, however, having seen Nathaniel’s sketches, she found she could envisage such a book, could almost feel its weight in her hands. A bound edition containing her fa vourite st ories, a v olume f or c hildren t o p ore o ver. Just like the book she had dis covered in M rs Swindell’s rag a nd bone shop, all t hose years ago. And t hough M r H obbins’s let ter had no t b een exp licit a bout remuneration, surely Eliza could expect payment more handsome than that she had r eceived thus far? For an entire book must be worth far more t han a sin gle st ory. Perhaps she sho uld f inally have t he money necessary to travel across the sea . . . A fierce knocking at the door drew her attention. Eliza p ushed aside t he ir rational s ense t hat i t was N athaniel she would see waiting for her on the other side, come for his sketches. Of course it wasn’t. He ne ver came to t he cottage, and b esides, it would be hours before he r ealised they were missing. All t he s ame, E liza r olled t hem u p a nd t ucked t hem wi thin her coat pocket. She o pened t he do or. M ary st ood t here, c heeks st ained wi th tidelines of tears. ‘Please, Miss Eliza, help me.’ 368


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‘Mary, what is i t? ’ Eliza ushered the girl in side, glancing over her shoulder before closing the door. ‘Are you hurt?’ ‘No, Miss Eliza.’ She swallowed a s ob. ‘’Tis nothing like that.’ ‘Then tell me, what has happened?’ ‘It’s Mrs Walker.’ ‘Rose?’ Eliza’s heart hammered against her c hest. ‘She’s t urned me o ut,’ M ary inhaled w etly, ‘ told me t o f inish u p immediately.’ Relief t hat Ros e was unha rmed ba ttled wi th sur prise. ‘ But M ary, whatever for?’ Mary collapsed onto a chair and wiped the back of her wrist across her eyes. ‘I don’t know how to say it, Miss Eliza.’ ‘Then speak plainly, Mary, I implore you, and tell me what on earth has happened.’ Fresh tears began to fall. ‘I’m with child, Miss Eliza. I’m going to have a baby, and though I thought I kept it hid, Mrs Walker has found out and now says I’m not welcome.’ ‘Oh, Mary,’ said Eliza, sinking onto the other chair, taking Mary’s hands between her own. ‘Are you sure about the baby?’ ‘There’s no do ubting t he fac t, M iss E liza. I didn ’t me an f or i t t o happen, but it did.’ ‘And who is t he father?’ ‘A lad w hat li ves in t he neig hbouring str eet t o o urs. Ple ase, M iss Eliza, he’s not a bad f ellow, and he s ays he wa nts to marry me, but I need to earn some money first else there’ll be naught to feed nor clothe the babe. I can’t lose my position, not yet Miss Eliza, and I know I can still perform it well.’ Mary’s face was so desperate that Eliza could answer no other way. ‘I’ll see what I ca n do.’ ‘Will you speak with Mrs Walker?’ Eliza f etched a g lass o f wa ter f rom t he p itcher a nd ha nded i t t o Mary. ‘I’ll endeavour to do s o. Though you know as w ell as I do t hat an audience with Rose is no t easy to obtain.’ ‘Please Miss Eliza, you’re my only hope.’ Eliza smiled wi th a co nfidence she didn’t feel. ‘I will gi ve it a f ew days, enough time for Rose to settle down, and then I shall speak with her on your behalf. I’m certain she will b e made t o see reason.’ 369


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‘Oh t hank y ou, M iss E liza. You kno w I didn ’t wish f or t his t o happen, I’ve gone and made a mess o f everything. I only wish I co uld turn the weeks back and have it undone.’ ‘We have all wished for similar power at times,’ said Eliza. ‘Go home now, Mary dear, and try not to worry. Things will w ork out, I’m sure. I will s end word when I have spoken with Rose.’

c Adeline kno cked lig htly o n t he b edroom do or a nd p ushed i t o pen. Rose was si tting in t he window seat, attention focused on the ground below. H er a rms w ere s o f rail, her p rofile s o ga unt. The r oom had grown listless in sympathy to its owner, cushions flat, curtains sagging in despondence. Even the air seemed to have staled within the streams of weak light. Rose gave no indication that she noticed or minded the intrusion, so Adeline went to stand behind her. She looked through the window to see what it was t hat held her da ughter’s attention. Nathaniel was s eated a t his e asel in t he gazeb o, sif ting t hrough pages from his leather portfolio. There was an agitation in his manner, as if he had misp laced a vi tal tool. ‘He will le ave me, Mamma.’ Rose’s voice was pale as t he sunlight. ‘For what reason would he stay?’ Rose turned then, and Adeline tried not to let her face r eflect her daughter’s gr ey a nd t errible st ate. S he la id a ha nd o n Ros e’s b ony shoulder. ‘All will b e well, my Rose.’ ‘Will it?’ Her tone was s o bitter that Adeline winced. ‘Of course.’ ‘I don’t see how that can be, for it seems I a m unable to make of him a ma n. Again and again I fa il to give him a n heir, a c hild of his own.’ Ros e turned back to t he window. ‘Of course he will le ave. And without him I will fade a way to nothing.’ ‘I have spoken with Nathaniel, Rose.’ ‘Oh, Mamma . . .’ Adeline lifted a finger to Rose’s lips. ‘I have spoken with Nathaniel and I am confident that he, as I, wants nothing more than your return 370


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to good health. Children will come when you are well, and for that you must be patient. Allow yourself the time t o recover.’ Rose was shakin g her he ad, her nec k so thin that Adeline wanted to st op t he g esture les t she da mage her self. ‘ I ca nnot wa it, M amma. Without a c hild I ca nnot go on. I w ould do a nything for a ba by, even at my own cost. I w ould rather die t han wait.’ Adeline sat gently on the window seat and took her daughter’s pale, cool hands between her own. ‘It need no t come to that.’ Rose b linked la rge e yes a t A deline; wi thin t hem f lickered a pale flame of hope. Hope that a c hild never quite loses, faith that a pa rent can put things to right. ‘I am your mother and I m ust look after your health, even if y ou won’t, thus have I given your plight much thought. I believe there may be a way for you to have a c hild without endangering yourself.’ ‘Mamma?’ ‘You ma y b e r eluctant a t f irst, b ut I b eg o f y ou, cast aside y our doubts.’ Adeline lowered her voice. ‘Pray listen carefully now, Rose, to all I h ave to say.’

c In the end, it was Ros e w ho made co ntact with Eliza. Five days after Mary’s visi t, E liza r eceived w ord t hat Ros e w ould lik e t o meet. E ven more sur prising, Ros e’s let ter sug gested t hat t he tw o sho uld meet in Eliza’s hidden ga rden. When she s aw her co usin, E liza was g lad she’d t hought t o f etch cushions f or t he ir on s eat. F or de ar Ros e was r educed in e very wa y. Mary had hinted at a decline but Eliza had never imagined such extreme diminishment. Tho ugh she f ought t o k eep her face f rom r egistering shock, Eliza knew she must have failed. ‘You are sur prised by my appearance, C ousin,’ s aid Ros e, smiling so her c heekbones turned to blades. ‘Not at all,’ Eliza blustered. ‘Of course not, I mer ely, my face—’ ‘I know you well, my Eliza. I can read your thoughts as if they were my own. It is all r ight. I have been unwell. I have weakened. But I will recover as I al ways do.’ Eliza nodded, felt a wa rm shot stinging behind her e yes. 371


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Rose smiled , a smile all t he s adder f or i ts a ttempt a t cer titude. ‘Come,’ she gestured, ‘sit by me, Eliza. Let me have my dear cousin by my side. Do you remember the day you first brought me to the hidden garden, and together we planted the apple tree?’ Eliza took Rose’s thin, cold hand. ‘Of course I do. And just look at it now, Rose, look at our tree.’ The sapling stem had t hrived so that the tree now reached almost to t he t op o f t he wall . G raceful nak ed b ranches sw ept side ways, a nd willowy offshoots pointed towards the sky. ‘It’s b eautiful,’ s aid Ros e wistf ully. ‘ To t hink t hat w e needed o nly plant it in t he earth and it knew just what to do.’ Eliza smiled g ently. ‘It has do ne only what nature intended for it.’ Rose b it her li p, lef t a r ed ma rk. ‘ Sitting her e, I almos t b elieve myself eig hteen aga in, o n t he v erge o f m y tr ip t o N ew York. F illed with excitement and anticipation.’ She smiled a t Eliza. ‘It feels like an age since w e’ve s at t ogether, j ust y ou a nd I, as w e us ed t o w hen w e were girls.’ A wave of nostalgia washed away the year of envy and disappointment. Eliza clasped Rose’s hand tightly. ‘Indeed, it does, Cousin.’ Rose coughed a little and her frail body shook with the effort. Eliza was about to offer a shawl for her shoulders when Rose started speaking again: ‘I wonder, have you had ne ws from the house lately?’ Eliza a nswered ca utiously, w ondering a t t he sudden c hange o f topic. ‘I have seen Mary.’ ‘Then y ou kno w.’ Ros e met E liza’s gaze , held i t f or a time b efore shaking her he ad s adly. ‘She lef t me no c hoice, C ousin. I under stand that you and she were fond of each other, but it was unthinkable that she should be kept on at Blackhurst in suc h a st ate. You must see that.’ ‘She is a good and loyal girl, Rose,’ said Eliza gently. ‘She has behaved imprudently, I do n’t den y t hat. B ut sur ely y ou mig ht r elent? S he is without income and the baby she is gr owing will have needs she m ust fulfil. Please think about Mary, Rose. Imagine her p light.’ ‘I assure you, little else has b een in my thoughts.’ ‘Then perhaps you will s ee—’ ‘Have you ever longed for something, Eliza, something you wanted so much that without it you knew you could live no lo nger?’ 372


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Eliza thought of her imagined sea voyage. Her love for Sammy. Her need for Rose. ‘I want a child more than anything. My heart aches, as do my arms. Sometimes I can feel the weight of the child I long to cradle. The warm head in t he crook of my elbow.’ ‘And surely one day—’ ‘Yes, yes. One da y.’ Rose’s faint smile b elied her o ptimistic words. ‘But I ha ve str uggled a nd do ne wi thout f or s o lo ng. Twelve mo nths, Eliza. T welve mo nths, a nd t he r oad has b een f illed wi th suc h disappointment a nd denial . Now Dr M atthews in structs me t hat my health ma y let me do wn. You m ust imagine , E liza, ho w M ary’s li ttle secret made me f eel. That she sho uld have by accident the very thing I crave. That she, with nothing to offer, shall ha ve that w hich I, wi th everything, ha ve b een denied . W hy, sur ely y ou ca n s ee i t isn’t r ight? Surely God does not intend such contrary occurrences?’ Rose’s devastation was so complete, her frail appearance so at odds with her f ierce desire, that suddenly Mary’s wellbeing was t he least of Eliza’s concerns. ‘How can I hel p you, Rose? Tell me, what can I do? ’ ‘There is something, Cousin Eliza. I need you to do something for me, something that will in t urn help Mary, too.’ Finally. As Eliza had always known she must, Rose had realised that she needed Eliza. That only Eliza could help her. ‘Of course, Rose,’ she said. ‘Anything. Tell me w hat you need a nd so shall it be.’

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T

he w eather ca me in la te F riday nig ht, a nd f og sulk ed gr ey a nd general acr oss t he villag e all w eekend. G iven suc h r esolute inclemency, C assandra decided her w eary lim bs co uld do wi th a r est and t ook a w ell-earned b reak f rom t he co ttage. S he sp ent Sa turday curled up in her r oom with cups of tea and Nell’s notebook, intrigued by her grandmother’s account of the detective she’d consulted in Truro. A man named Ned Morrish whose name she’d plucked from the local telephone book after William Martin suggested that she’d figure out her riddle if she le arned where Eliza had dis appeared to in 1909. On Sunday Cassandra met wi th Julia for afternoon tea. Rain had fallen steadily all morning, but by midafternoon the deluge was reduced to drizzle, and fog had been allowed to settle in the gaps. Through the mullioned windows, Cassandra could make out only the sober green of t he dr enched la wn; all els e was mist, ba re b ranches visib le occasionally, like hairline fractures in a wall o f white. It was t he sort of da y N ell had lo ved. C assandra smiled , r emembering ho w p ulling on a ra incoat a nd gum boots had inf used her gra ndmother wi th enthusiasm. Perhaps, from somewhere deep inside, Nell’s heritage had been calling her. Cassandra le aned b ack in to t he c ushions o f her a rmchair a nd watched the flames flickering in t he grate. People were gathered in all corners of the hotel lounge—some playing board games, others reading or eating—and the room was dense with the comforting low voices of the warm and dry. Julia dropped a sp oonful of cream onto her ja m-laden s cone. ‘So why the sudden interest in t he cottage wall? ’ 374


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Cassandra’s fingers flattened warm around her mug. ‘Nell believed that if she f ound o ut w here E liza w ent in 1909, she ’d dis cover t he answer to her own mystery.’ ‘But what’s that got to do with the wall? ’ ‘I don’t know, maybe nothing. But something in Ros e’s scrapbook got me t hinking.’ ‘Which bit?’ ‘She mak es a n en try in A pril 1909 t hat s eems t o link E liza’s tr ip with the building of the wall.’ Julia licked cream f rom her f ingertip. ‘I remember,’ she s aid. ‘She writes that bit about being careful because when there’s a lo t to gain, there’s also a lo t to lose.’ ‘Exactly. I j ust wish I kne w what she me ant.’ Julia bit her li p. ‘How rude of her no t to elaborate for the benefit of t hose o f us w ho’d b e r eading o ver her sho ulder s ome ninety years later!’ Cassandra smiled absently, played with a thread coming loose from the chair’s arm. ‘Why would she have said that, though? What was there to ga in, w hat was she s o w orried a bout losin g? And w hat do es t he security of the cottage have to do wi th any of it?’ Julia t ook a b ite o f her s cone a nd c hewed i t slowly, t houghtfully. She pa tted her li ps wi th a ho tel s erviette. ‘ Rose was p regnant a t t he time, right?’ ‘According to that entry in t he scrapbook.’ ‘So maybe it was hormones. That can happen, can’t it? Women get all emotional and such? Maybe she was missing Eliza and worried that the cottage would be robbed or vandalised. Maybe she felt responsible. The two girls were still close at that point.’ Cassandra thought about this. Pregnancy could account for some pretty crazy mo od swin gs, b ut was i t eno ugh o f a n a nswer? E ven allowing for a ho rmonal narrator, there was s omething curious about the entry. What was ha ppening at the cottage that made Ros e feel so vulnerable? ‘They say it’s going to clear up tomorrow,’ said Julia, laying her knife across a crumb-laden plate. She leaned back into her armchair, pulled the curtain edge aside and gazed into the misty glare. ‘I suppose you’ll be back at work in t he cottage?’ 375


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‘Actually, no. I’ve got a f riend coming to stay.’ ‘Here at the hotel?’ Cassandra nodded. ‘Lovely! You just let me kno w if t here’s anything I ca n do t o help.’

c Julia was right, by Monday afternoon the mist had finally begun to lift and a tremulous sun promised to break through the clouds. Cassandra was wa iting in t he lo unge w hen R uby’s ca r p ulled in to t he ca r pa rk outside. She smiled when she saw the little white hatchback, packed up the scrapbooks and hurried into the foyer. ‘Phew!’ Ruby took a st ep inside and dropped her bags. Then she pulled o ff her ra in ha t a nd sho ok her he ad. ‘ Talk a bout a g ood o ld Cornish w elcome! N ot a dr op o f ra in a nd I ’m s till soakin g w et.’ S he stopped still and stared at Cassandra. ‘Well now, look at you!’ ‘What? ’ C assandra pa tted her ha ir do wn. ‘ What’s t he ma tter with me?’ Ruby grinned so that her e yes pleated at the corners. ‘Nothing at all, that’s what I b loody well mean. You look fabulous.’ ‘Oh. Well thanks.’ ‘The Cornish air must agree with you, you’re hardly the same girl I met at Heathrow.’ Cassandra st arted t o la ugh, sur prising Sa mantha, w ho was eavesdropping from the main desk. ‘ It’s really good to see you, Ruby,’ she said, picking up one of the bags. ‘ Let’s get rid of these and go for a walk, c heck out the cove after all t his rain.’

c Cassandra closed her eyes, tilted her face skyward and let the sea breeze tickle her e yelids. G ulls en gaged in conversation f urther alo ng t he beach, an insect flew close by her ear, gentle waves lapped rhythmically against the coast. S he felt an enormous sense of calm des cend as she matched her b reath to t hat of t he s ea: in a nd out, in a nd out, in a nd out. The recent rain had stirred up the ocean brine and the strong smell laced the wind. She opened her eyes and looked slowly about the cove. 376


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The line of ancient trees atop the ridge, the black rock at the cove’s end, the tall grassy hills t hat hid her co ttage. She exhaled; deep p leasure. ‘I feel just like I’ve stumbled into Five Go to Smugglers’ Top,’ c alled Ruby from further along the beach. ‘I keep expecting Timmy the dog to co me r unning do wn t he s and wi th a mess age-filled b ottle in his mouth—’ her e yes widened—‘or a human bone; some nefarious thing he’s dug up!’ Cassandra smiled . ‘I us ed t o love t hat b ook.’ S he st arted walkin g along the pebbles towards Ruby and the black rock. ‘When I was a kid, reading it on hot Brisbane days, I’d have given anything to be growing up on a f oggy coast wi th smugglers’ caves.’ When they reached the end of the beach where pebbles met grass, the steep coastal hill t hat bounded the cove rose before them. ‘Good lord,’ said Ruby, craning to see the top. ‘You actually intend for us t o climb that, don’t you?’ ‘It’s not as st eep as i t looks, I p romise.’ Time and traffic had w orn a na rrow path, barely visible amongst the long silvery grasses and little yellow flowers, and they went slowly, stopping every so often for Ruby to catch her b reath. Cassandra relished the clear, rain-stirred air. The hig her they got, the cooler it became. Each swirl o f breeze was f lecked with moisture, swept f rom t he s ea t o p epper t heir faces. A s she ne ared t he t op, Cassandra reached out to grasp the long pale strands of grass, felt them slide through her closed hands. ‘Nearly there,’ she called back to Ruby. ‘It’s just over this crest.’ ‘I feel like a von Trapp,’ Ruby said between puffs. ‘But fatter, older, and with absolutely no ener gy for singing.’ Cassandra r eached t he summi t. A bove her , t hin c louds f leeted across the sky, chased by strong autumn winds. She wandered towards the cliff edge and looked out across the broad and moody sea. Ruby’s v oice f rom b ehind. ‘ Oh t hank g od. I ’m ali ve.’ S he was standing with her hands on her knees, catching her breath. ‘I’ll let you in on a s ecret. I was no t confident this moment would ever arrive.’ She righted herself, shifted her hands to the small of her back and came t o st and b y C assandra. H er exp ression lig htened as her e yes scanned the horizon. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Cassandra. 377


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Ruby was shakin g her he ad. ‘It’s amazing. This is w hat birds must feel like when they’re sitting in t heir nests.’ She took a st ep back from the c liff edg e. ‘ Except p ossibly a li ttle mo re s ecure, gi ven t hey ha ve wings in t he event of a fall .’ ‘The co ttage us ed t o b e a lo okout. B ack in t he da ys o f t he smugglers.’ Ruby no dded. ‘ I ca n b elieve t hat w ell eno ugh. N ot m uch y ou wouldn’t see from up here.’ She turned, expecting to catch sight of the cottage. Frowned. ‘Shame about that great big wall. It must block a lot of the view.’ ‘Yeah, from downstairs it does. But it wasn’t always there, it went up in 1909.’ Ruby wandered over towards the gate. ‘Why on earth would anyone wall it up like that?’ ‘Security.’ ‘Against what?’ Cassandra followed Ruby. ‘Believe me, I’d love to know.’ She pushed open the creaky iron gate. ‘Friendly.’ Ruby pointed at the sign t hreatening trespassers. Cassandra smiled thoughtfully. Keep out or the risk be all yours. She had pass ed b y t he sign s o o ften in r ecent w eeks t hat she’d st opped seeing it. Now, in tandem with Rose’s scrapbook entry, the words took on new significance. ‘Come on, C ass.’ Ruby was st anding at t he other end o f t he path by the cottage door, stamping her little feet. ‘I went along with the hike with barely a co mplaint, surely you don’t expect me t o scale the walls and find a window to climb through?’ Cassandra smiled and held up the brass key. ‘Never fear. No more physical challenges. Not for today, anyway. We’ll save the hidden garden for tomorrow.’ She inserted the key in the lock and turned it to the left with a c lunk, then pushed open the door. Ruby stepped across the threshold and made her way along the hall towards t he ki tchen do orway. I t was m uch lig hter in side no w t hat Cassandra and Christian had cleared the windowpanes of creepers and washed a century of grime from the glass. ‘Oh my,’ Ruby whispered, eyes wide as she t ook in the kitchen, ‘it’s unspoiled!’ 378


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‘That’s one way of putting it.’ ‘No one’s destroyed it under t he guise of modernisation. What an incredibly rare find.’ She turned to Cassandra. ‘It has a w onderful feel about it, doesn’t it? Enveloping, warm somehow. I ca n almost f eel the ghosts of the past moving about among us.’ Cassandra smiled. She had kno wn Ruby would feel it too. ‘I’m so glad you could come, Ruby.’ ‘I w ouldn’t ha ve miss ed i t,’ she s aid, cr ossing t he r oom. ‘ Grey’s just a bout t aken t o w earing e arplugs w hen w e meet, he ’s s o b loody sick of my talking about your Cornish cottage. Plus I had b usiness in Polperro s o t he w hole t hing co uldn’t ha ve w orked o ut b etter.’ R uby leaned against the rocking chair to peer through the front window. ‘Is that a p ond out there?’ ‘Yeah, just a li ttle one.’ ‘Cute statue, wonder if he’s cold?’ She let go of the rocking chair so that it was set in gentle motion. The treads squeaked softly against the floorboards. Ruby continued her inspection of the room, running her fingers lightly along the rim of the range shelf. ‘What was y our business in Polperro?’ Cassandra sat cross-legged on the kitchen table. ‘My exhibition ended last w eek and I was r eturning the Nathaniel Walker sketches to their owner. Just about broke my heart to part with them, I ca n tell you.’ ‘No wa y she ’d co nsider gi ving t hem t o t he m useum o n p ermanent loan?’ ‘That’d b e nice .’ R uby’s he ad had dis appeared in to t he b ricked range alcove and her v oice was m uffled. ‘Perhaps you can sweet t alk her for me.’ ‘Me? I’ve never met her.’ ‘Well no t y et, o f co urse y ou haven’t. B ut I men tioned y ou t o her when I was there. Told her all about your grandma being related to the Mountrachets, ha ving b een b orn her e a t B lackhurst, ho w she ca me back and bought the cottage. Clara was most in terested.’ ‘Really? Why would she ca re?’ Ruby stood up, bumping her head on the range shelf. ‘Bugger,’ she rubbed the spot furiously. ‘Always the bloody head.’ ‘Are you all r ight?’ 379


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‘Yes, y es, I ’m f ine. H igh pa in t hreshold.’ S he st opped r ubbing, blinked her e yes c lear. ‘ Clara’s m um us ed t o w ork a t B lackhurst remember, as a do mestic? Mary, the one who ended u p making black puddings with her b utcher husband?’ ‘Yeah, I remember now. So how did you know Clara was interested in Nell? What did she s ay?’ Ruby resumed her inspection of the range, opening the grate door. ‘She s aid t here was s omething she wa nted t o t alk t o y ou a bout. Something her mum had t old her b efore she died .’ The skin o n Cassandra’s neck prickled. ‘What was i t? Did she s ay anything else?’ ‘Not to me, and don’t go getting too excited. Knowing the reverence in w hich she held her o ld m um, i t ma y w ell b e she t hinks y ou’ll b e pleased to learn that Mary spent the best years of her life in service at the grand old house. Or that Rose once paid her a compliment on her silver polishing.’ Ruby closed the grate door, turned towards Cassandra. ‘I don’t suppose the range still works?’ ‘It does, actually. We couldn’t believe it.’ ‘We?’ ‘Christian and I.’ ‘Who’s Christian?’ Cassandra ra n her f ingertips alo ng t he t able’s r im. ‘Oh, a f riend. Someone who’s been helping with the clean-up.’ Ruby’s brows arched. ‘A friend, huh?’ ‘Yeah.’ Cassandra shrugged. Tried to seem nonchalant. Ruby smiled kno wingly. ‘Nice to have friends.’ She made her wa y to the back of the kitchen, past t he window with the broken pane, to the antique spinning wheel. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll get to meet him? ’ She reached out and turned the wheel. ‘Careful,’ said Cassandra. ‘Don’t prick your finger.’ ‘No indeed.’ Ruby let her fingers skim the top of the turning wheel. ‘I don’t want to be responsible for putting us both to sleep for a hundred years.’ She bit her bottom lip, eyes twinkled. ‘Though it would give your friend an opportunity to rescue us.’ Cassandra f elt her c heeks f lush. S he p retended cas ualness w hile Ruby took in the exposed beams of the ceiling, the blue and white tiles 380


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around the stove, the wide f loorboards. ‘So,’ she s aid finally, ‘what do you think?’ Ruby rolled her eyes. ‘You know what I think, Cass, I’m jealous as hell! It’s fabulous!’ She came to lean against the table. ‘Still planning to sell it?’ ‘Yeah, I guess s o.’ ‘You’re s tronger t han I a m.’ R uby sho ok her he ad. ‘ I w ouldn’t b e able to part with it.’ From no where, a f lash o f p ossessive p ride. C assandra q uelled i t. ‘I have to. I ca n’t just leave it sitting here. The ma intenance would be too m uch, es pecially wi th me all t he wa y o n t he o ther side o f t he world.’ ‘You could keep it as a ho liday house, rent it out when you’re not using it. Then we’ll always have somewhere to stay when we need some seaside.’ S he la ughed. ‘ That is, you’ll ha ve s omewhere t o st ay.’ S he nudged C assandra wi th her sho ulder. ‘ Come o n, sho w me w hat’s upstairs. I’ll bet there’s a killer vie w.’ Cassandra led the way up the narrow stairs, and when they reached the bedroom Ruby leaned against the windowsill. ‘Oh Cass,’ she s aid, as t he wind p lucked w hite tips on t he sur face of t he s ea, ‘ you’d have people lined u p t o ho liday her e. I t’s un spoiled, c lose eno ugh t o t he village for supplies, far enough away to feel private. It must be glorious at sunset, and then at night when the distant lights of the fishing boats sparkle like little stars.’ Ruby’s comments b oth excited and f rightened C assandra, for she had given voice to Cassandra’s secret wish, a sentiment she hadn’t even realised she felt until she’d heard it expressed by someone else. She did want to keep t he cottage, no ma tter t hat she kne w t he s ensible t hing was to sell it. The a tmosphere of the place had made i ts way beneath her skin. Ther e was i ts co nnection t o Nell, b ut t here was s omething more. A s ense t hat all was w ell w hen she was in t he co ttage a nd i ts garden. Well with the world, and well within herself. She felt whole and solid for t he f irst time in t en years. L ike a cir cle complete, a t hought without dark edges. ‘Oh my god!’ Ruby turned and clutched Cassandra’s wrist. ‘What!’ Cassandra’s stomach lurched. ‘What is i t?’ 381


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‘I’ve just had the most brilliant idea.’ She swallowed, motioned with her hand as she ca ught her b reath. ‘A sleep o ver,’ she s quealed finally. ‘You and me, tonight, here in t he cottage!’

c Cassandra had already been to the market and was leaving the hardware shop wi th a ca rdboard b ox f ull o f ca ndles a nd ma tches, w hen she bumped into Christian. It had been three days since they’d had supper at t he p ub—there’d b een fa r t oo m uch ra in t o e ven co ntemplate returning to the hidden garden over the weekend—and she hadn’t seen or spoken to him since . She felt oddly ner vous, could feel her c heeks flushing. ‘Going camping?’ ‘Sort of. A f riend has co me to visit and wants to spend a nig ht in the cottage.’ He raised his e yebrows. ‘Don’t let t he ghosts bite.’ ‘I’ll try.’ ‘Or the rats.’ He gave a lo psided smile. She smiled t oo, t hen p ressed her li ps t ogether. The silence dr ew out like a rubber band, threatened to snap back. She started shyly: ‘Hey, you know . . . You could come up and have a b ite of dinner wi th us? Nothing fa ncy b ut i t’ll b e f un; if y ou’re f ree, I me an? I kno w R uby would love to meet y ou.’ Cassandra f lushed and cursed the thread of query t hat had lif ted t he end o f her s entences. ‘ It’ll b e f un,’ she s aid again. He nodded, seemed to be considering. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Sure. Sounds good.’ ‘Great.’ Cassandra felt a ripple beneath her skin. ‘Seven o’clock? And no need t o bring anything—as you can see, I’m well stocked.’ ‘Oh, hey, give me t hat.’ Christian took Cassandra’s cardboard box. She shif ted t he ha ndles o f her p lastic gr ocery bag f rom a round her wrist and scratched the red imprints they’d made. ‘I’ll give you a lift up the cliff walk,’ he s aid. ‘I don’t want to put you out.’ ‘You’re not. I was o n my way to s ee you anyway, about Ros e and her marks.’ 382


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‘Oh, I co uldn’t find anything else in t he scrap—’ ‘It do esn’t ma tter, I kno w w hat t hey w ere a nd I kno w ho w she got t hem.’ He g estured t owards his ca r. ‘Come o n, w e ca n t alk w hile I drive.’ Christian manoeuvred his car out of the tight parking spot by the water’s edge and drove along the main street. ‘So what is i t?’ said Cassandra. ‘What did y ou find?’ The windows had fogged up and Christian reached out to wipe the windscreen with his palm. ‘ When you were telling me about Rose the other da y t here was s omething fa miliar. I t was t he do ctor’s na me, Ebenezer Matthews. I co uldn’t for the life of me r emember where I’d heard i t, t hen e arly Saturday mo rning i t ca me t o me . At uni versity I took a course on medical ethics, and as part of the assessment we had to write a paper on historical uses of new technologies.’ He slowed the car at a T-intersection and fiddled with the heating. ‘Sorry, it plays up sometimes. Should be warm in a minute.’ He pushed the dial f rom blue to red, indicated lef t and st arted up t he steep cliff road. ‘One o f t he b enefits o f li ving bac k ho me is t hat I ’ve g ot r eady access to the boxes my life was packed into when my stepmum turned my room into a g ym.’ Cassandra smiled, remembering the boxes of embarrassing highschool memorabilia she’d uncovered when she moved back in with Nell after the accident. ‘Took me a w hile, but f inally I f ound t he ess ay, and sure enough there was his na me, Ebenezer Matthews. I’d included him b ecause he was from the same village I’d grown up in.’ ‘And? Was there something in t he essay about Rose?’ ‘Nothing like that, but after I realised who Rose’s Dr Matthews was, I emailed a friend up at Oxford who works in the medical library. She owed me a fa vour and agreed to s end me a nything she co uld on t he doc’s patients between 1889 a nd 1913. Ros e’s lifetime.’ A f riend. S he. C assandra p ushed aside t he unexp ected sur ge o f envy. ‘And?’ ‘Doc Matthews was quite a busy boy. Not at first: for someone who rose to such lofty heig hts, he ca me f rom humble b eginnings. D octor in a small t own in C ornwall, do ing all t he t hings y oung do ctors in small t owns do. H is b ig b reak, f rom w hat I ca n gather, was meetin g 383


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Adeline Mountrachet of Blackhurst Manor. I don’t know why she would have c hosen a y oung do ctor lik e him w hen her li ttle girl was sic k, aristocrats w ere m uch mo re lik ely t o call u pon t he s ame o ld g host who’d treated Great-Uncle Kernow w hen he was a b oy, but w hatever the case Ebenezer Matthews was s ummoned. He and Adeline must’ve hit i t o ff, t oo, b ecause a fter t hat f irst co nsultation he b ecame Ros e’s regular do ctor. S tayed t hat wa y all t hroughout her c hildhood, e ven after she was ma rried.’ ‘But ho w do y ou kno w? H ow did y our f riend f ind t hat s ort o f information?’ ‘A lot of doctors back then kept surgery logs. Records of the patients they saw, who owed them money, treatments they prescribed, articles they p ublished, t hat s ort o f t hing. M any o f t he logs w ound u p in libraries. They were donated, or sold, usually by the doctor’s family.’ They’d reached the end of the road where gravel gave way to grass and Christian pulled the car over onto the narrow parking strip by the lookout. Outside, the wind was buffeting the cliff and the tiny cliff birds huddled t ogether g lumly. He switched off t he ignition, t urned in his seat t o face C assandra. ‘In t he last decade o f t he ninet eenth century, Dr Matthews b egan to make a b it of a na me for himself. It s eems he wasn’t content with his lot as a country GP, even though his patient list was b eginning t o r esemble a w ho’s w ho o f lo cal s ociety. H e st arted publishing on various medical matters. It wasn’t very difficult to crossreference his publications with his log to find out that Rose appears as Miss RM. She becomes a f requent entry after 1897.’ ‘Why? What happened then?’ Cassandra realised she was ho lding her breath, her t hroat was tig ht. ‘When Rose was eig ht she swallowed a s ewing thimble.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Well I do n’t know, accident I exp ect, and it’s b eside t he p oint. It wasn’t a b ig de al—half t he B ritish c urrency has s at in side a c hild’s stomach at one point or another. They pass through without too much difficulty if t hey’re left alone.’ Cassandra exhaled suddenly. ‘But it wasn’t left alone. Dr Matthews performed an operation.’ Christian shook his he ad. ‘Worse than that.’ Her stomach lurched. ‘What did he do? ’ 384


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‘He o rdered a n X-ray, a co uple o f X-rays, a nd t hen he p ublished the p ictures in t he Lancet.’ Chr istian r eached t o t he bac k s eat a nd pulled out a p hotocopied piece of paper, handed it to her. She g lanced a t t he a rticle, shr ugged. ‘ I do n’t g et i t, w hat’s t he big deal?’ ‘It’s not t he X-ray itself, it’s t he exp osure.’ He p ointed to a line a t the top of t he page. ‘Dr Matthews had t he photographer t ake a sixty minute exposure. I guess he wa nted to be sure he g ot his p icture.’ Cassandra could feel the cold outside her glass window, shimmering against her c heek. ‘But what does it mean? A sixty min ute exposure?’ ‘X-rays are radiation—haven’t you ever noticed the way your dentist sprints from the room before pushing the X-ray button? An exp osure of sixty min utes me ans t hat b etween t hem Dr M atthews a nd t he photographer fried her ovaries and everything inside them.’ ‘Her o varies? ’ C assandra st ared a t him. ‘ Then ho w did she conceive?’ ‘That’s what I’m saying. She didn’t, she couldn’t. That is, she certainly couldn’t ha ve ca rried a he althy ba by t o t erm. A s o f 1897, Ros e Mountrachet was, t o all intents and purposes, infertile.’

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D

espite a ten day delay before contracts were due to be exchanged, young Julia Bennett had been most obliging. When Nell requested early access t o t he cottage, she’d handed over t he key with a wa ve of her jewellery-laden wrist. ‘Doesn’t worry me a b it,’ she’d said, bangles clacking. ‘You make yourself at home. Lord knows, the key’s so heavy I’ll be happy to have it off my hands!’ The key was heavy. It was big and brass, with intricate swirls at one end, blunt teeth at the other. Nell looked at it, almost the length of her palm. She laid it on t he wooden t able in t he kitchen. The ki tchen of her cottage. Well, almost her co ttage. Ten days to go. Nell wouldn’t be in Tregenna when she ex changed. Her flight left London in four days time and when she’d tried to change the booking she’d been told that such late alterations were possible only at exorbitant cost. S o she’d decided t o g o home t o Australia as p lanned. The lo cal solicitors ha ndling her p urchase o f Clif f C ottage w ere happy t o ho ld the k ey f or her un til she r eturned. It w ouldn’t b e lo ng, she’d assur ed them, she j ust needed time t o s ort o ut her t hings a nd t hen she’d b e back for good. For Nell had decided she was g oing home to Brisbane for the last time. What had she t here to keep her? A f ew friends, a da ughter who didn’t need her , sist ers she p erplexed. H er a ntiques sho p she w ould miss, but perhaps she co uld start afresh here in C ornwall? And w hen she was her e, wi th mo re time , N ell w ould g et t o t he b ottom o f her mystery. She would learn why Eliza stole her a nd put her o n the boat to Australia. All li ves needed p urpose, a nd t his w ould b e N ell’s. F or otherwise, how would she e ver know herself? 386


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Nell walked slowly about the kitchen, making a mental inventory. The first thing she in tended to do w hen she g ot back was t o give the cottage a thorough clean. Dirt and dust had long been allowed free rein and every surface was coated. There would be repairs to make, too: the skirting boards would need r eplacing in s ections, there was b ound to be w ood r ot, t he ki tchen w ould ha ve t o b e b rought t o w orking order . . . Of course a village like Tregenna would have any number of local tradesmen available to help, but Nell balked at the idea o f employing strangers to work in her co ttage. Although made o f stone and wood, it was more than a house to Nell. And just as she had t ended Lil when she was d ying, had r efused to pass r esponsibility into t he hands of a kindly stranger, Nell knew she m ust tend the cottage herself. Use the skills that Hugh had t aught her all t hose years before when she was a little girl, wide-eyed with love for her dad . Nell st opped b y t he r ocking c hair. A li ttle shr ine in t he co rner caught her a ttention. S he w ent c loser. A half-em pty dr ink b ottle, a packet o f dig estive b iscuits, a co mic called Whizzer a nd Ch ips. The y had certainly not been there when Nell made her purchasing inspection, which could only me an t hat s omeone had b een in her co ttage since. Nell flicked through the comic book: a y oung someone, by the looks. A moist breeze brushed Nell’s face a nd she lo oked to the back of the kitchen. The windo w was missin g a pa ne of glass from one of its four square frames. Making a mental note to bring plastic and tape to mask it b efore she lef t Tregenna, Nell p eered t hrough. A h uge hedge ran parallel to the house, blunt and even, almost like a wall. A flash of colour and Nell thought she saw movement at the corner of her vision. When she lo oked aga in t here was no thing. A b ird p robably, o r a squirrel. Nell had no ticed on t he map s ent to her b y t he s olicitor t hat t he property ext ended q uite a wa y b eyond t he ho use. Tha t me ant, presumably, that whatever lay on the other side of the tall, thick hedge was hers too. She decided t o take a lo ok. The path that wound around the side of the house was narrow, and dim from lack of sun. Nell went cautiously, pushing long weeds aside as she went. At the back of the cottage, brambles had grown between the house and the hedge and Nell had to pick her way through the tangle. 387


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Midway along, she sensed movement again, right by her. Nell looked at the ground. A pair of shoe-clad feet and skinny legs protruded from beneath the wall. Either the wall had fallen f rom the sky, à la Wizard of Oz, and crushed some poor unfortunate Cornish dwarf, or she had found the small p erson who’d been trespassing in her co ttage. Nell gra bbed ho ld o f t he skinny a nkle. The legs f roze. ‘Come o n then,’ she s aid. ‘Out with you.’ Another m oment o f s tillness, th en th e legs b egan s crambling backwards. The b oy t hey w ere a ttached t o lo oked t o b e a bout t en, though Nell had ne ver been particularly good at guessing the ages of children. He was a s crap of a lad wi th sandy brown hair and knobbly knees. Bruises up and down his b ony shins. ‘I presume you’re the young monkey who’s been making free with my cottage?’ The b oy b linked da rk b rown e yes a t N ell b efore lo oking t o t he ground at her fe et. ‘What’s your name then? Out with it.’ ‘Christian.’ So soft she a lmost hadn’t heard. ‘Christian who?’ ‘Christian Blake. Only I wasn’t doing any harm. My dad works over at t he b ig est ate, a nd s ometimes I j ust lik e t o co me a nd visi t t he walled—your walled ga rden.’ Nell glanced at the bramble-covered wall. ‘So that’s a garden behind there, is i t? I had w ondered.’ She looked back at the boy. ‘And tell me, Christian, does your mother know where you are?’ The boy’s shoulders slumped. ‘I haven’t got a mo ther.’ Nell’s eyebrows raised. ‘She went away to hospital in t he summer, and then . . .’ The heat of Nell’s ill temper cooled on a sigh. ‘I see. Well. And what are you, nine? Ten?’ ‘Nearly eleven.’ Healthy indignation sent his hands into his pockets, his elbows out to the side. ‘Of course, I s ee that now. I have a granddaughter about your age.’ ‘Does she lik e gardens too?’ Nell blinked at him. ‘I’m not sure.’ Christian tilted his he ad to the side, frowned at her a nswer. 388


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‘That is, I imagine she do es.’ Nell f ound her self skir ting apology. Chastised herself. She needn’t feel contrite just because she didn’t know Lesley’s daughter’s mind. ‘I don’t see her o ften.’ ‘Does she li ve a lo ng way from you?’ ‘Not really, no.’ ‘Then why don’t you see her much?’ Nell eyed the boy, tr ying to decide w hether his im pertinence was charming or not. ‘Sometimes that’s just the way things are.’ By the look on the boy’s face, this explanation sounded as weak to him as i t did t o her . B ut t here w ere s ome t hings t hat didn’t need explanation, esp ecially t o stra nge li ttle b oys tr espassing o n o ne’s property. Nell reminded herself that the little scamp was ne wly motherless. There w ere no ne imm une t o p oor j udgement w hen t heir cer tainties had been pulled from under t hem, Nell knew that as w ell as a nyone. Life could be so bloody cruel. Why should this boy grow up motherless? Why should some poor woman go to an early grave, leaving her lad to make his wa y in t he w orld without her? L ooking at t he b oy’s skinny limbs, Nell felt something inside her tig hten. Her voice was gr uff but kind: ‘What is i t you said you were doing in my garden anyway?’ ‘I wasn’t doing any harm, honest. I j ust like to sit inside.’ ‘And this is how you get in? Under the bricks?’ He nodded. Nell e yed t he ho le. ‘ I do n’t t hink I ’ll f it b eneath t here. W here’s the gate?’ ‘There isn’t one. At least not on this wall.’ Nell frowned. ‘I have a ga rden with no entrance?’ He nodded again. ‘There used to be one, you can see from inside where it was patched up.’ ‘Why would anyone patch up the entrance?’ The boy shrugged and Nell made an addition to her mental list of necessary im provements. ‘ Perhaps y ou ca n t ell me w hat I ’m missin g then?’ she said. ‘Seeing as I’m not going to be able to take a look myself. What it is t hat brings you all t he way up here?’ ‘It’s my favourite place in t he w hole world.’ Chr istian blinked his earnest brown eyes. ‘I like to sit inside and talk to my mum. She loved gardens, she lo ved y our walled ga rden s pecially. S he’s t he o ne w ho 389


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showed me how to get inside, we were going to try and fix it up. Then she got sick.’ Nell p ressed her li ps t ogether. ‘ I’m g oing ho me t o Australia in a couple of days but I’ll b e back in a mo nth or two. I w onder w hether you might not keep an eye on my garden for me, Christian?’ He nodded gravely. ‘I can do t hat.’ ‘I’ll be glad to know I’ve left it in capable hands.’ Christian stood tall. ‘And when you come back, I’ll help you fix it all up. Like my dad do es over at the hotel.’ Nell smiled. ‘I might well hold you to that. I don’t accept help from just anyone, but I ha ve a f eeling that in t his case you’re the right man for the job.’

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R

ose gathered the shawl around her shoulders and crossed her arms against a chill that wouldn’t be warmed away. When she’d decided to seek sun in the garden, Eliza had been the last person she’d expected to s ee. A s Ros e had s at makin g no tes in her s crapbook, lo oking u p occasionally to see Ivory fluttering and swooping around the flowerbeds, there’d b een no indica tion t hat t he day’s p eace was t o b e s o horridly shattered. Some peculiar sense had made her g lance towards the maze gates, and there had been the sight that chilled Rose’s blood. How had Eliza known that she w ould find Rose and Ivory alone in t he garden? Had she b een watching, waiting for just such a time w hen she mig ht catch Ros e o ff gua rd? And w hy now? W hy a fter t hree y ears had she materialised t oday? L ike a nig htmare sp ectre cr ossing t he la wn, wretched parcel in her ha nd. Rose g lanced side ways. There it s at, mas querading as a ha rmless thing. But it wasn’t. Rose knew that. She didn’t need t o look beneath the b rown pa per wra pping t o kno w w hat l urked wi thin, a n o bject representing a p lace, a time , a unio n Rose wanted so much to forget. She ga thered her skir ts a nd smo othed t hem aga inst her t high, trying to create some distance between herself and it. A flock of starlings took flight and Rose looked towards the kidney lawn. M amma was co ming t owards her, t he ne w ho und, H elmsley, stalking close to her dark skirts. A wash of relief left Rose light-headed. Mamma was a n a nchor bac k t o t he p resent, t o a s afe w orld w here everything was as i t sho uld b e. A s A deline dr ew ne ar, Ros e co uld contain her anxiety no longer. ‘Oh Mamma,’ she said quickly. ‘She was here, Eliza was her e.’ 391


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‘I saw it all from the window. What did she say? Did the child hear anything she sho uld not?’ Rose ra n t he enco unter bac k t hrough her mind , b ut w orry had conspired with fear to wrinkle the edges of her memory and she could no lo nger t ease lo ose t he p recise w ords t hat had b een sp oken. S he shook her he ad miserably. ‘I don’t know.’ Adeline g lanced a t t he pa rcel, t hen lif ted i t f rom t he b ench, cautiously, as if i t were hot to the touch. ‘Don’t open it, Mamma, please. I ca nnot bear to see inside.’ Rose’s voice was almost a w hisper. ‘Is it . . . ? ’ ‘I’m quite sure it is.’ Rose pressed cold fingers against her cheek. ‘She said it was for Ivory.’ Rose looked at her mother and a fresh wave of panic surged beneath her skin. ‘ Why would she bring it, Mamma? Why?’ Mamma’s lips tightened. ‘What did she me an by it?’ ‘I b elieve t he time has co me t hat y ou m ust p ut s ome dist ance between y ourself a nd y our co usin.’ Adeline s at b eside Ros e, a nd la id the parcel across her lap. ‘Distance, Mamma?’ Rose’s cheeks cooled, her v oice dropped to a terrified whisper. ‘You don’t think she mig ht . . . might come again?’ ‘She has p roven today that she ho lds no r espect for the rules that were laid out.’ ‘But Mamma, surely you don’t think—’ ‘I t hink only t hat I wish f or y our continued w ellbeing.’ As Ros e’s daughter fluttered beneath the dappled light, Adeline leaned close, so close t hat Ros e f elt a smo oth u pper li p aga inst her e ar. ‘ We m ust remember, my darling,’ she whispered, ‘that a secret is never safe when it is known by others.’ Rose nodded slightly. Mamma was right of course. It had been folly to think all mig ht continue indefinitely. Adeline st ood a nd r olled her wr ist, mo tioning H elmsley t o heel . ‘Thomas is about to serve luncheon. Don’t be long. You needn’t compound the day’s unpleasantness by catching a c hill.’ She returned the parcel to the seat and lowered her voice. ‘And have Nathaniel dispose of that.’

c 392


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Racing f ootsteps e very w hich wa y o verhead a nd A deline winced . I t mattered not how many times she delivered the well-worn diatribe on young ladies a nd f itting b ehaviour, t he c hild w ould no t b e t aught. It was to be expected, of course: no matter the pretty wrapping in which Rose clad her, the girl was co mmon born, there was no es caping that. Cheeks that glowed too pink, laughter that echoed along the halls, curls that escaped her r ibbons, she was as unlik e Rose as was p ossible. And y et, Ros e ado red t he girl . Th us had A deline accep ted her, schooled her self t o smile a t t he c hild, meet her im pertinent gaze , tolerate her noise. What wouldn’t Adeline do for Rose, what hadn’t she already do ne? B ut A deline under stood, t oo, t hat i t was her d uty t o maintain a stern and ready hand, for the child would need firm guidance if she w ere to escape the pitfalls of her b irth. The circle of those who knew the truth was small a nd so must it remain: to allow otherwise was to invite the hideous spectre of scandal. It was imperative therefore that Mary and Eliza be properly managed. Adeline had w orried at first that Rose might not understand, that the inno cent girl mig ht imagine all co uld continue as b efore. But on that count she had b een pleasantly surprised. The mo ment Ivory was placed in Ros e’s arms, a c hange had co me over her: she was s eized by a f ierce ma ternal desir e t o p rotect her c hild. Ros e had agr eed wi th Adeline that certainly Mary and Eliza must stay away: sufficient distance to p reclude a da ily p resence, y et c lose eno ugh t o r emain wi thin t he sphere of Adeline’s influence. Only in that way could it be ensured that neither divulged what they knew about the child at Blackhurst Manor. Adeline had assisted Mary in the purchase of a little house in Polperro, and Eliza had been permitted tenure at the cottage. Although a part of Adeline lamented the permanent proximity to Eliza, it was t he lesser of two evils, and Rose’s happiness was pa ramount. Dear Rose. She’d looked so pale, sitting alone on the garden seat. Had barely touched her l uncheon afterwards, merely moved it about the plate, this way and that. She was resting now, warding off the return of a migra ine that had haunted her all w eek. Adeline opened t he f ist w hich had clenched itself in her la p, and flexed her fingers thoughtfully. She had made conditions perfectly clear when all was a rranged: nei ther girl was t o s et f oot aga in o n t he Blackhurst estate. The stipulation was simple, and to this date each had 393


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complied. The win gs of security had c losed over the secret and life at Blackhurst had ado pted a p eaceful rhythm. What then was E liza thinking, breaking her w ord now?

c In the end, Nathaniel waited until Rose was in b ed resting her ner ves and Adeline was out visiting. That way, he reasoned, neither need ever learn the method by which he ensured Eliza’s continued absence. Ever since he’d heard what had happened, Nathaniel had been mulling over how best to set things right. To see his wife in such a state was a chilling reminder t hat desp ite t he dist ance t hey had tra velled, t he b lessed reversal a fter I vory was b orn, t he o ther Ros e, w orry-worn, t ense, erratic, was never far beneath the surface. He had known instantly that he must speak with Eliza. Find a way to make her understand that she could never come again. Some time had pass ed since his last v enture t hrough, a nd he’d forgotten ho w da rk i t was wi thin t he b ramble walls, ho w b riefly t he sun’s rays were permitted entry. He went carefully, trying to remember which turns to make. A far cry from the time, four years ago, when he had torn hotly through the maze in pursuit of his sketches. He’d arrived at t he co ttage, b lood p ulsing, sho ulders he aving f rom t he un usual exertion, and had dema nded the sketches’ return. They were his, he’d said, t hey w ere important t o him, he needed t hem. And t hen, w hen he’d r un o ut o f t hings t o s ay, he’d st ood, catching his b reath, wa iting for Eliza to respond. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected—a confession, an apology, a handover of the sketches, all of these things perhaps—but she had given none. Rather she’d surprised him. After a moment spent regarding him in t he way one mig ht a mino r c uriosity, she’d blinked those pale, changeable eyes that he itched to draw, and asked whether he would care to contribute illustrations for a b ook of fairytales— A noise and the memory fled. Nathaniel’s heart stepped up its beat. He t urned a nd g lanced t hrough t he dim s pace b ehind him. A lo ne robin blinked at him b efore flying away. Why was he s o jumpy? He had t he frayed nerves of a guil ty man, a ridiculous state as there was nothing inappropriate in his actions. He intended only to speak with Eliza, request that she resist breaching the 394


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maze gates. And his missio n, after all, was for Ros e’s s ake; it was his wife’s health and wellbeing that were uppermost in his mind . He w ent fast er, r eassuring him self t hat he was ma nufacturing danger where there was no ne. His mission might be secret but it was not illicit. There was a dif ference. He had agreed to illustrate the book. How could he resist, and why should he ha ve? To sketch was his de arest wish, a nd to illustrate her fairytales allowed him t o slip inside a w orld that didn’t recognise the particular regrets in his own life. It had been a lifeline, a secret pursuit that made t he lo ng da ys o f p ortraiture t olerable. A t meetin gs wi th wealthy, titled dullards, w hen Adeline pressed him f orward yet again and he was r equired t o smile a nd p erform co nvivially lik e a tra ined hound, he had nursed to himself the secret knowledge that he was also bringing to life the magical w orld of Eliza’s tales. He’d ne ver had a f inished copy of his o wn. Publication had b een delayed, for one reason or another, and by the time the book was finally printed it was clear to him how unwelcome such would be at Blackhurst. Once, in t he early days of the project, he’d committed the grave error of mentioning t he b ook to Ros e. He had t hought she mig ht b e g lad, might appreciate the union of her husband and her dearest cousin, but he had been mistaken. Her expression was one he would never forget, shock and anger mixed together with b ereavement. He had b etrayed her, she s aid, he didn’t love her, he wanted to leave her. Nathaniel had been at a loss as t o how to understand. He had do ne what he al ways did o n suc h o ccasions, r eassured Ros e a nd ask ed w hether he mig ht sketch her portrait for his collection. And he kept the project to himself from that day forward. But he didn’t give it up. He couldn’t. After Ivory was b orn and Ros e was r estored, t he trailing t hreads of his life had plaited slowly back together. Strange the power of a tiny baby to bring life to a dead place, to lift the black pall that had covered everything—Rose, their marriage, Nathaniel’s own soul. It hadn’t been instant, o f co urse. To b egin wi th w here t he c hild was co ncerned, Nathaniel had tr odden cautiously, taken his le ad f rom Ros e, mindful always o f t he p ossibility t hat t he ba by’s o rigins mig ht p rove insurmountable. Only when he saw that she loved the girl as a daughter, never a cuckoo, did he allow the walls of his own heart to weaken. He permitted t he ba by’s di vine inno cence t o p ermeate his tir ed a nd 395


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wounded sp irit, a nd he em braced t he co mpletion o f his li ttle fa mily, the strength it gained as i ts membership grew from two to three. And by and by, he forgot about the book and the joy its illustrations had given him. H e devoted himself to toeing the Mountrachet family line—ignored E liza’s exist ence a nd, w hen Adeline ask ed him t o al ter John S inger Sa rgent’s p ortrait t hus, b ore willin gly, if no t ha ppily, t he dishonour at having tampered with the great man’s work. It seemed to Nathaniel t hat b y t hen he’d cr ossed s o ma ny lines o f p rinciple o nce presumed inviolable, that one more wouldn’t hurt . . . Nathaniel reached the clearing at the centre of the maze and a pair of peacocks appraised him b riefly before continuing on their way. He went ca refully t o a void t he met al r ing t hat t hreatened t o tr ip a ma n up, t hen entered t he narrow straight t hat b egan t he way towards t he hidden garden. Nathaniel f roze. B ranches b reaking, lig ht f ootfalls. H eavier t han those belonging to the peacocks. He st opped, t urned q uickly. Ther e—a f lash o f w hite. Ther e was someone following him. ‘Who is i t? ’ H is v oice was rasp ier t han he’d exp ected. H e f orced some steel into it. ‘I insist that you come out from hiding.’ A moment’s pause, then his p ursuer was revealed. ‘Ivory!’ Relief was followed quickly by consternation. ‘What are you doing here? You know you’re not permitted beyond the maze gates.’ ‘Please P apa,’ s aid t he li ttle girl . ‘ Take me wi th y ou. D avies s ays there’s a ga rden at maze end w here all t he world’s rainbows begin.’ Nathaniel couldn’t help but admire the image. ‘Does he now?’ Ivory nodded with the sort of childlike earnestness that captivated Nathaniel. H e co nsulted his p ocket wa tch. A deline w ould b e bac k within t he ho ur, e ager t o c heck his p rogress o n L ord H aymarket’s commission. Ther e wasn’t time t o t ake Ivory ho me a nd t hen r eturn, and w ho kne w w hen o pportunity w ould p resent i tself aga in. H e scratched his e ar and sighed. ‘Come then, little one.’ She followed closely, humming a tune that Nathaniel recognised as ‘Oranges a nd L emons’. L ord kne w f rom w hom she’d le arned i t. N ot from Ros e, w ho had a t errible memo ry f or l yrics a nd melo dy; no r Adeline, for w hom music had li ttle me aning. One o f t he s ervants no doubt. For want of a proper governess, his daughter was passing much 396


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of her time wi th t he B lackhurst s taff. W ho co uld guess w hat o ther questionable skills she was acq uiring as a co nsequence. ‘Papa?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I made a nother picture in my mind.’ ‘Oh? ’ N athaniel p ushed a t horny b ramble aside s o t hat I vory could pass. ‘It was the ship with Captain Ahab on it. And the whale swimming just by.’ ‘What colour was t he sail?’ ‘White of course.’ ‘And the whale?’ ‘Grey like a st orm cloud.’ ‘And what did y our ship smell lik e?’ ‘Salty water and Davies’s dirty boots.’ Amused, Nathaniel ra ised his e yebrows. ‘ I imagine i t did .’ It was one of their favourite games, played often on the afternoons Ivory had taken to spending in his studio. It had surprised Nathaniel to discover that he s o en joyed t he c hild’s co mpany. S he made him s ee t hings differently, more simply, in a way that brought new life to his portraits. Her frequent questions as to what he was doing and why he was doing it required him to explain things he had long ago forgotten to appreciate: that one must draw what one sees, not what one imagines is there; that every image is comprised merely of lines and shapes; that colour should both reveal and conceal. ‘Why are we going through the maze, Papa?’ ‘There is s omeone on the other side w hom I must see.’ Ivory digested this. ‘Is it a p erson, Papa?’ ‘Of course it’s a person. Do you think your Papa might be meeting with a b east?’ They t urned a co rner, t hen a nother in q uick successio n, a nd Nathaniel was put in mind of a marble slipping through the twists and turns of t he r un Ivory had co nstructed in t he nursery. Following t he bends a nd stra ights wi th li ttle co ntrol o ver i ts o wn destin y. A sill y notion, of course, for what were his actions today if not those of a man taking charge of his own fate? 397


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They made a f inal t urn a nd a rrived a t t he do or t o t he hidden garden. Nathaniel stopped, knelt down and cupped his daughter’s bony shoulders g ently in his ha nds. ‘ Now I vory,’ he s aid ca refully, ‘ I ha ve brought you through the maze t oday.’ ‘Yes, Papa.’ ‘But you must never come again, and certainly not alone.’ Nathaniel pressed his li ps t ogether. ‘And I b elieve i t w ould b e b est if . . . if t his trip of ours today . . .’ ‘Don’t worry, Papa. I w on’t tell Mamma.’ Within t he p it o f N athaniel’s st omach, r elief mix ed wi th t he uncomfortable s ensation o f ha ving co lluded wi th his c hild aga inst his wife. ‘Nor Grandmamma neither, Papa.’ Nathaniel nodded, smiled w eakly. ‘It’s best that way.’ ‘A secret.’ ‘Yes, a s ecret.’ Nathaniel pushed open the door to the hidden garden and ushered Ivory through. He had half expected to see Eliza, sitting like the Queen of the Fairies on the tuft of grass beneath the apple tree, but the garden was still and silent. The only movement came from a robin—the same one? —who co cked his he ad a nd wa tched almost p roprietorially as Nathaniel made his wa y along the zigzag path. ‘Oh, Papa,’ said Ivory, staring in w onder at the garden. She gazed upward, taking in the creepers that snaked their way back and forth, from the top of one wall t o the top of the other. ‘It’s a magical garden.’ How o dd t hat a c hild sho uld p erceive suc h a t hing. N athaniel wondered w hat i t was a bout E liza’s ga rden t hat made o ne f eel suc h splendour could not have come naturally. That some bargain had been struck with spirits on t he other side o f t he veil t o procure suc h wild abundance. He guided I vory t hrough t he s outhern do or a nd do wn t he pa th that hugged the side o f the cottage. Despite the hour, it was co ol and dark in t he f ront garden, courtesy of the stone wall t hat Adeline had had built. Nathaniel laid a ha nd between Ivory’s shoulder blades, her fairy win gs. ‘ Now list en,’ he s aid. ‘ Papa is g oing in side b ut y ou must wait here in t he garden.’ ‘Yes, Papa.’ 398


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He hesitated. ‘Don’t go wandering now.’ ‘Oh no, Papa.’ Said so innocently, as if to wander where she shouldn’t was the furthest thing from her mind . With a no d, Nathaniel went to t he do or. He kno cked and waited for Eliza to come, straightened the cuff of his slee ve. The door opened and there she was. As if he’d last seen her yesterday. As if t he four years hadn’t passed between.

c While Nathaniel sat on a c hair by the table, Eliza stood on the other side, fingers resting lightly on its rim. She was lo oking at him in t hat singular way she had . Empty of the usual s ocial nicety t hat suggested she was pleased to see him. Was it vanity that had made him think she might b e p leased t o s ee him? S omething wi thin t he co ttage lig ht conspired t o turn her ha ir brighter red t han usual . Flints of sunlig ht played within its tangles, made it look as if it really had been spun from fairies’ gold. Nathaniel chided himself—he was allowing his knowledge of her st ories t o p ermeate his visio n of t he w oman her self. He kne w better than that. A stra ngeness s at b etween t hem. Ther e was m uch t o b e s aid y et nothing he could think to say. It was t he first time he’d seen her since the arrangements had b een made. He cleared his t hroat, reached out as if t o t ake her ha nd. C ouldn’t s eem t o hel p him self. S he lif ted her fingers suddenly, and turned her attention to the range. Nathaniel leaned back against his chair. He wondered how to begin, what words to wrap his mes sage in. ‘ You know w hy I ha ve come,’ he said finally. Without turning. ‘Of course.’ He watched her f ingers, such narrow fingers, as she p ut the kettle on the stove. ‘You know then what I have to say.’ ‘Yes.’ From outside, riding lightly on the breeze that swept through the window, came a voice, the sweetest voice: ‘Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement’s . . .’ Eliza’s back stiffened so that Nathaniel could see the small knots at her nape. Like a c hild’s spine. She turned sharply. ‘The girl is her e?’ 399


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Nathaniel was perversely pleased by the expression on Eliza’s face, that of an animal on the unexpected brink of capture. He longed to put it on paper, t he widened e yes, paled c heeks, tig htened mouth. K new he would attempt to do s o as s oon as he r eturned to his st udio. ‘You brought the child here?’ ‘She followed me. I didn’t realise until it was t oo late.’ The sick lo ok left Eliza’s face, transmuted into a w eak smile. ‘She has stealth.’ ‘Some would say mischief.’ Eliza s at lig htly on t he chair. ‘It pleases me t o t hink t he girl lik es games.’ ‘I don’t know that her mother is so pleased by Ivory’s adventurous streak.’ Her smile was im possible to read. ‘And certainly her gra ndmamma is no t.’ The smile b roadened. Nathaniel met i t briefly, t hen lo oked away. He sighed her name—‘Eliza’—and shook his head. Started what he had come to say: ‘The other day—’ ‘I was g lad, the other day, to see that the child is w ell.’ She spoke quickly, anxious, it seemed, to prevent his line o f conversation. ‘Of course she is w ell, she wa nts for nothing.’ ‘The appearance of plenty can be deceptive, it doesn’t always mean a person is w ell. Ask your wife.’ ‘That’s needlessly cruel.’ A sha rp no d. S imple agreement, no t a shr ed o f regret. Nathaniel found himself wondering whether perhaps she had no morality, but he knew t hat wasn’t s o. S he gazed un blinkingly at him. ‘ You have come about my gift.’ Nathaniel lowered his v oice. ‘It was f oolish of you to bring it. You know how Rose feels.’ ‘I do . Onl y I t hought, w hat ha rm co uld t he deli very o f s uch a n item cause?’ ‘You know what sort of harm, and I know you, as a friend to Rose, would no t wish t o ca use her a nguish. A s a f riend t o me . . .’ H e f elt suddenly foolish, looked towards the ground, the floorboards, as if for support. ‘ I m ust b eg y ou no t t o co me aga in, E liza. Ros e suf fered dreadfully after your visit. She doesn’t like to be reminded.’ 400


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‘Memory is a cr uel mistr ess wi th w hom w e all m ust le arn t o dance.’ Before N athaniel co uld s culpt a r eply, E liza t urned her a ttention back to the range. ‘Would you like tea?’ ‘No,’ he said, feeling somewhat bested, though he wasn’t sure how. ‘I must get back.’ ‘Rose doesn’t know you’re here.’ ‘I must get back.’ He returned his ha t to his he ad and st arted for the kitchen door. ‘Did you see it? It turned out well I t hink.’ Nathaniel paused but did no t turn. ‘Goodbye, Eliza. I will no t see you aga in.’ H e t hrust his a rms in to his coa t a nd p ushed aside t he niggling, unnameable doubts. He was almost a t the door when he heard Eliza in the hall behind him. ‘Wait,’ she s aid, some of her co mposure shed. ‘Allow me a c loser look at the girl, at Rose’s daughter.’ Nathaniel p ressed his f ingers aga inst t he co ol o f t he met al do orknob. Clenched his bac k teeth together as he p ondered her r equest. ‘It will be my last.’ How could he r efuse such a sim ple appeal? ‘A lo ok. Then I m ust take her bac k, take her ho me.’ Together they went through the front door into the garden. Ivory was si tting b y t he edg e o f t he small p ond, ba re t oes c urled o ver t he bank so that they kissed the water, singing to herself as she p ushed a leaf along the surface. As the child looked up, Nathaniel placed his hand gently on Eliza’s arm and pushed her f orward.

c The wind had picked up and Linus had to lean against his cane to avoid losing his f ooting. D own in t he co ve, t he usuall y mild s ea had b een agitated so that small waves with white tips rushed towards the shore. The sun was hidin g b ehind a b lanket o f c louds—a fa r cr y f rom t he perfect summer’s days he had o nce spent in t he cove with his poupee. The li ttle w ooden b oat had b een G eorgiana’s, a gif t f rom Father, but she had been glad to share it with him. Hadn’t thought for a moment 401


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that his weak leg made him any less of a man, never mind what Father said. On a fternoons w hen t he a ir was wa rm a nd sw eet, t hey had paddled out together to the centre of the cove. Sat, while waves lapped gently against the base of the boat, neither of them caring for anything but the other. Or s o Linus had t hought. When she’d lef t, she’d t aken wi th her t he f rail s ense o f s olidarity that he had nursed. The sense that, though Father and Mother judged him a foolish boy with neither worth nor function, he had s omething to o ffer. Without G eorgiana he was us eless aga in, p urposeless. Th us had he det ermined she must be returned. Linus had hir ed a ma n. H enry M ansell, a da rk a nd shado wy character w hose na me was w hispered in t he inn s o f C ornwall a nd passed on to Linus by the valet of a local earl. It was said he knew how to take care of matters. Linus told Mansell of Georgiana and the harm done to him by the fellow who stole her, told him als o that the man worked on the ships in and out of London. The next L inus kne w, t he s ailor was de ad. An acciden t, M ansell said, face r egistering no emo tion, a most unf ortunate accident. It was a stra nge s ensation t hat a nimated L inus t hat a fternoon. A man’s life had b een extinguished at his will . He was p owerful, able to inflict his inc lination on others; it made him wa nt to sing. He’d given Mansell a g enerous payment, then the man had t aken his leave, headed off in search of Georgiana. Linus had been filled with hope, f or sur ely t here w ere no limi ts t o w hat Mansell co uld ac hieve. His poupee w ould b e home presently, grateful for her r escue. Thin gs would be as t hey had b een before . . . The black rock looked angry today. Linus felt his heart lurch as he remembered Georgiana sitting on its top. He reached into his p ocket and pulled out the photograph, smoothed it gently with his t humb. ‘Poupee.’ Half thought, half w hisper. No matter how Mansell had hunted, he’d ne ver f ound her. H e’d s coured t he C ontinent, f ollowed leads across London, all to no avail. Linus had heard nothing until late in 1900, when word had come that a child had been found in London. A child with red hair and her mo ther’s eyes. 402


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Linus’s gaze lif ted f rom t he s ea, swept side ways t o t he t op of t he cliff t hat b ound t he lef t-hand side o f t he cove. From w here he st ood he could just make out the corner of the new stone wall. How he had r ejoiced a t ne ws o f t he c hild. H e’d b een t oo la te t o recover Georgiana, but through this girl w ould she b e returned. But things had no t played out as he’d expected. Eliza had r esisted him, had ne ver understood that he had s ent for her, brought her here so that she mig ht know she b elonged to him. And now her presence tormented him, locked away in that accursed cottage. So close, and yet . . . Four years, it had b een. Four years since she had s et foot on this side of the maze. Why was she s o cruel? Why did she deny him over and again? A sudden gust o f wind a nd L inus felt his ha t lif t at t he sides. H e reached, from instinct, to stop it and, as he did , his gr ip loosened on his photograph. On the current of the hilltop breeze, while Linus stood helplessly, his poupee was b lown from his reach. Down and up, fluttering on the wind, shining white beneath the glare of the clouds, hovering, teasing him, before being swept further away. Landing finally on the water and being carried out to sea. Away from Linus, slipping through his f ingers once more.

c Ever since E liza’s visi t, Ros e had b een w orrying. Tying her mind in knots as she s ought a pa th t hrough t his dilemma. W hen E liza had made her a ppearance t hrough t he maze ga tes, Ros e had suf fered t he peculiar sho ck o f a p erson w ho co mes suddenl y t o under stand t hat they are in danger. Worse, that they have been in danger for some time without realising it. She’d felt a sudden onset of light-headedness and panic. Relief t hat s o fa r no thing had ha ppened, a nd dr ead cer tainty that such luck could not hold. For all Rose had weighed up the options, there was o nly one t hing she kne w for sure: Mamma was r ight, t hey needed to put a dist ance between themselves and Eliza. Rose pulled the thread gently through her needlepoint and schooled her v oice in to a t one o f p erfect no nchalance: ‘ I ha ve b een t hinking again of the visit from the Authoress.’ 403


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Nathaniel looked up from the letter he was penning. Chased quickly the concern f rom his gaze . ‘As I s aid b efore, my de ar, t hink no mo re upon it. It won’t happen again.’ ‘You can’t b e sure of t hat, for w ho among us p redicted t his most recent visit?’ Sterner now. ‘She will no t come again.’ ‘How do y ou know?’ Nathaniel’s c heeks f lushed. The c hange was o nly slig ht, b ut Ros e noticed. ‘Nate? What is i t?’ ‘I have spoken with her.’ Rose’s heart tapped faster. ‘You saw her? ’ ‘I had t o. F or y ou, de arest. You w ere s o u pset b y her visi t, I did what was needed t o ensure it won’t happen again.’ ‘But I didn ’t me an f or y ou t o s ee her.’ This was w orse t han Ros e had imagined. A surge of heat beneath her skin and she was filled with an even stronger certainty that they must get away. All o f them. That Eliza m ust b e extr icated f orever f rom t heir li ves. Ros e slo wed her breath, s chooled her face t o r elax. I t w ouldn’t do t o ha ve N athaniel think she was unwell, was making decisions without reason. ‘Speaking with her is no t enough, Nate. Not any more.’ ‘What else can be done? Surely you don’t suggest we lock her in the cottage?’ He’d been trying to make her laugh but she didn’t flinch. ‘I’ve been thinking about New York.’ Nathaniel’s brows raised. ‘We ha ve sp oken b efore o f s pending time acr oss t he A tlantic. I think we should bring forward our plans.’ ‘Leave England?’ Rose nodded, slightly but certainly. ‘But I ha ve co mmissions. W e sp oke o f en gaging a g overness for Ivory.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ Rose said impatiently. ‘But it is no lo nger safe.’ Nathaniel said nothing in return but he didn’t need to, his expression spoke v olumes. The li ttle ice c hip in side Ros e ha rdened. H e w ould come around to her wa y of t hinking, he al ways did. Esp ecially w hen he feared that she teetered atop the slide to despair. It was regrettable, using Nathaniel’s devotion against him, but Rose had little other choice. Motherhood and family life were all Ros e had dr eamed of; she didn’t 404


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intend to lose them now. When Ivory was born, placed in Rose’s arms, it was as if t hey had all b een granted a f resh start. She and Nathaniel were happy again, they never spoke of the time b efore. It didn’t exist any longer. Not so long as E liza stayed away. ‘I ha ve t he en gagement in C arlisle,’ s aid N athaniel. ‘ I’ve alr eady started.’ In his v oice, Rose perceived the cracks that she w ould widen until his r esistance crumbled. ‘And of course you must be able to complete it,’ she s aid. ‘We will bring forward the Carlisle engagement, sail directly after we return. I have three tickets for the Carmania.’ ‘You’ve booked already.’ A st atement rather than a q uestion. Rose softened her voice. ‘It is best, Nate. You must see that. It’s the only way we will e ver be safe. And t hink what such a tr ip will do f or your career. Why, the New York Times may even report it. A triumphant homecoming for one of the city’s most accomplished sons.’

c Pressed beneath Grandmamma’s favourite sprung chair, Ivory whispered the w ords t o her self. ‘ New York.’ Ivory kne w w here York was. Once , when they were travelling north to Scotland, she and Mamma and Papa had stopped for a time in York, at the house of one of Grandmamma’s friends. A v ery o ld lad y wi th wir y sp ectacles a nd e yes t hat lo oked always to be weeping. But Mamma wasn’t speaking of York, Ivory had heard her c learly. New York, she’d s aid, t hey m ust g o s oon t o New York. And I vory kne w w here t hat city was. I t was fa r across t he s ea, the place in w hich Papa had b een born, about which he had t old her stories f ull o f skys crapers a nd m usic a nd mo tor ca rs. A ci ty w here everything gleamed. A clump of dog ha irs tickled Ivory’s nos e and she f ought to hold in a sneeze. It was one of her most im pressive skills, the ability to halt sneezes in t heir trac k, a nd pa rt o f w hat made her suc h a n ex cellent hider. Ivory so enjoyed hiding that sometimes she did s o for no other reason t han t o p lease her self. Alo ne in a r oom she w ould co nceal herself for the pure pleasure of knowing that even the room itself had forgotten she was t here. 405


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Today, t hough, I vory had hidden wi th p urpose. G randpapa had been in odd spirits. Usually he could be counted upon to keep himself to himself, but lately he’d appeared wherever Ivory was, calling her his own. Always with his little brown camera, trying to take photos of her with t hat broken do lly of his. I vory didn’t like t he broken do lly with her horrid blinking e yes. S o although Mamma s aid she sho uld do as Grandpapa asked, that it was a gr eat honour to have one’s photograph taken, Ivory preferred to hide. Thoughts of the dolly made her skin p rickle, so she tr ied to think of something else. Something that made her ha ppy, like the adventure she’d b een o n wi th P apa, t hrough t he maze . I vory had b een o utside playing when she’d seen Papa emerge from the side door of the house. He’d walked quickly and at first she had t hought he mig ht be taking a carriage to paint s omebody’s p ortrait. Only he didn ’t have any of his equipment wi th him, no r was he dr essed in q uite t he s ame wa y he usually was when he had an important meeting. Ivory had watched him stride across the lawn, drawing closer to the maze gate, and then she’d known exactly what he was do ing, he wasn’t good at pretending. Ivory hadn’t thought twice. She’d hurried after Papa, followed him through the maze ga tes and into the dark, narrow tunnels. For Ivory knew t hat t he lad y wi th t he r ed ha ir, t he o ne w ho had b rought t he parcel for her, lived on the other side. And no w, a fter her visi t wi th P apa, she kne w w ho t he lad y was. Her name was the Authoress, and though Papa said she was a p erson, Ivory knew better. She’d suspected it the day the Authoress had co me through the maze, but after looking into her eyes in the cottage garden, Ivory had known for certain. The Authoress was magical. Witch or fairy, she wasn’t sure, but Ivory knew the Authoress wasn’t a p erson like any other she’d seen before.

406


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O

utside, t he wind w orried t he tr eetops a nd t he o cean b reathed heavily in the cove. Moonlight streamed through the windowpane, casting f our sil very s quares acr oss t he w ooden f loor, a nd t he wa rm tomato smell o f s oup and toast had im pregnated t he walls, t he f loor, the very air. Cassandra, Christian and Ruby sat around the table in the kitchen, the range glowing on one side, a kerosene heater on the other. Candles w ere lined alo ng t he t able a nd a t va rious p oints a bout t he room, b ut t here w ere s till spaces in t he da rk, lo nely co rners w here candlelight failed to reach. ‘I still don’t understand,’ said Ruby. ‘How do y ou know Rose wa s infertile from that journal article?’ Christian spooned a mouthful of soup. ‘The X-ray exposure. There’s no way her eg gs would have survived.’ ‘Wouldn’t she ha ve kno wn t hough? I me an, s urely t here’d ha ve been a sign t hat something was wr ong.’ ‘Like what?’ ‘Well, did she still . . . you know . . . get her periods?’ Christian shrugged his sho ulders. ‘I guess s o. The f unction of her reproductive system would have been unaffected, she still would have released a n eg g e ach mo nth, i t’s j ust t he eg gs t hemselves t hat w ould have been damaged.’ ‘So damaged she co uldn’t conceive?’ ‘Or if she did, there’d have been so much wrong with the baby that she would most lik ely have miscarried. Or gi ven birth to a c hild with massive deformities.’ 407


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Cassandra pushed the last o f her s oup aside. ‘That’s terrible. Why did he do i t?’ ‘He p robably j ust wa nted t o b e a mongst t he f irst t o mak e us e o f the shin y ne w t echnology, en joy t he g lory o f p ublication. Ther e was certainly no medical reason to take an X-ray, the kid had only swallowed a thimble.’ ‘Who hasn’t?’ said Ruby, wiping a crust of bread around her already smeared-clean bowl. ‘But why a o ne hour exposure? Surely that wasn’t necessary?’ ‘Of co urse i t wasn’t,’ s aid Chr istian. ‘ But p eople didn’t kno w t hat then, those sorts of exposure times w ere common.’ ‘I suppose they figured if you got a good image in fifteen minutes, you’d get an even better one in a n hour,’ said Ruby. ‘And i t was b efore t hey kne w t he da ngers. X-ra ys w ere o nly discovered in 1895, s o Dr M atthews was b eing p retty c utting edg e using t hem. P eople ac tually t hought t hey w ere g ood f or y ou in t he beginning, t hat t hey co uld c ure ca ncer a nd skin lesio ns a nd o ther disorders. The burns were obvious enough, but it was years before the full extent of the negative effects was realised.’ ‘That’s what Rose’s marks were,’ said Cassandra. ‘Burn scars.’ Christian nodded. ‘Along with frying her ovaries, the X-ray exposure would certainly have burned her skin.’ A gust o f wind s et thin branches to tracing noisy patterns on the windowpanes, and candlelight flickered as a co ol ribbon of air slipped beneath the skirting board. Ruby placed her b owl inside Cassandra’s, swiped a na pkin across her mo uth. ‘So if Ros e was inf ertile, who was Nell’s mother?’ ‘I know the answer to that,’ said Cassandra. ‘You do? ’ She nodded. ‘It’s all there in the scrapbooks. In fact, I reckon that’s what Clara wants to tell me.’ ‘Who’s Clara?’ said Christian. Ruby inhaled. ‘You think Nell was Mary’s baby.’ ‘Who’s Mary?’ Christian looked between them. ‘Eliza’s f riend,’ s aid C assandra. ‘ Clara’s m um. A do mestic a t Blackhurst who was dismissed in early 1909 when Rose discovered she was pregnant.’ 408


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‘Rose dismissed her? ’ Cassandra nodded. ‘In the scrapbook she writes that she can’t bear to t hink t hat s omeone s o undes erving should have a c hild w hen she has been continually denied.’ Ruby swallowed a slurp of wine. ‘But why would Mary have given her child to Rose?’ ‘I doubt she j ust gave her t he child.’ ‘You think Rose bought the baby?’ ‘It’s possible, right? People have done worse to secure a c hild.’ ‘Do you think Eliza knew?’ said Ruby. ‘Worse than that,’ said Cassandra. ‘I think she helped. I think that’s why she went away.’ ‘Guilt?’ ‘Exactly. She helped Ros e us e her p osition of p ower to wrangle a child f rom s omeone w ho needed mo ney, E liza ca n’t ha ve b een comfortable with that. She and Mary were close, Rose says so.’ ‘You’re presuming that Mary wanted the child,’ said Ruby. ‘Didn’t want to give her up.’ ‘I’m presuming the decision to give up a baby is never clean. Mary may have needed money, a baby may have been inconvenient, she may even ha ve t hought her c hild was g oing t o a b etter ho me, b ut I s till reckon it must’ve been devastating.’ Ruby lifted her e yebrows. ‘And Eliza helped her.’ ‘Then she went away. That’s what makes me think the baby wasn’t given up happily. I think Eliza went away because she couldn’t bear to stay a nd wa tch Ros e wi th M ary’s ba by. I t hink t hat w hen i t ca me t o separating mother and child it was tra umatic and it played on Eliza’s conscience.’ Ruby nodded slowly. ‘That would explain why Rose refused to see much of Eliza after Ivory was born, why the two of them drifted apart. Rose must’ve known how Eliza felt and worried that she’d do something to upset her ne wfound happiness.’ ‘Like take Ivory back,’ said Christian. ‘Which she did in t he end.’ ‘Yes,’ said Ruby, ‘which she did in the end.’ She raised her eyebrows at Cassandra. ‘So when do y ou see Clara?’ ‘She invited me t o visit tomorrow, eleven o’clock.’ 409


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‘Bugger. I’m leaving around nine. Bloody work. I would’ve loved to come, I co uld’ve given you a lif t.’ ‘I’ll t ake y ou.’ This was Chr istian. H e’d b een p laying wi th t he knobs on the heater, turning the flame up, and the smell o f kerosene was strong. Cassandra avoided Ruby’s grin. ‘Really? Are you sure?’ He smiled as he met her gaze , held it for a moment before looking away. ‘You know me. Always happy to help.’ Cassandra smiled in r eply, t urned her a ttention t o t he t able surface as her c heeks warmed. S omething about Chr istian made her feel t hirteen aga in. And i t was suc h a y outhful, nost algic f eeling— displacement t o a time a nd p lace w hen lif e was y et t o ha ppen t o her—that she lo nged to cling to it. To push aside t he guilty sense that by en joying C hristian’s co mpany she was s omehow b eing dislo yal to Nick and Leo. ‘So w hy do y ou t hink E liza wa ited un til 1913? ’ Chr istian lo oked from Ruby t o C assandra. ‘ To t ake Nell bac k, I me an. W hy no t do i t earlier?’ Cassandra ran her hand lightly along the top of the table. Watched the candlelight dapple across her skin. ‘ I think she did i t because Rose and Nathaniel died in the train crash. My guess is that despite her mixed feelings she was willin g to stand back while Rose was made ha ppy.’ ‘But once Rose was de ad . . .’ ‘Exactly.’ H er e yes met his. S omething in t he s eriousness o f his expression b rought a shi ver t o her sp ine. ‘ Once Ros e was de ad, she could no longer bear for Ivory to remain at Blackhurst. I think she took the little girl a nd intended to give her bac k to Mary.’ ‘Then w hy didn ’t she? W hy did she p ut her o n t he b oat t o Australia?’ Cassandra exhaled and the nearby candle’s flame wavered. ‘I haven’t quite worked that bit out.’ Neither had she worked out how much, if anything, William Martin had known when he met with Nell in 1975. Mary was his sister, wouldn’t he have known if she ’d b een p regnant? If she’d gi ven b irth t o a ba by she didn’t then raise? And surely if he’d known she was p regnant, had known the part Eliza played in t he unofficial adoption, he’d have said as much to Nell? After all, if Mary was Nell’s mother, then William was 410


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her uncle. C assandra couldn’t imagine t hat he’d have remained silent if a lo ng-lost niece t urned up on his do orstep. Yet there was no mention in Nell’s notebook of any such recognition from William. Cassandra had p ored over the pages, looking for hints she might have missed. William had neither said nor done anything to suggest that Nell was fa mily to him. It was p ossible, of course, t hat William hadn’t realised Mary was pregnant. C assandra had he ard o f suc h o ccurrences, in magazines and o n Amer ican t alk sho ws, girls w ho co ncealed t heir p regnancies the full nine mo nths. And i t made s ense that Mary would have done so. I n o rder f or t he ex change t o w ork, Ros e w ould ha ve in sisted o n discretion. She couldn’t have had the small village aware that her baby wasn’t her o wn. But was i t really likely that a girl co uld fall p regnant, get engaged to her boyfriend, lose her job, give the baby away, resume her life, and no one know anything about it? There was s omething Cassandra was missing, there must be. ‘It’s kind o f like Eliza’s fairytale, isn’t it?’ Cassandra looked up at Christian. ‘What is? ’ ‘The w hole t hing: Ros e, E liza, M ary, t he ba by. D oesn’t i t r emind you of “The Golden Egg”?’ Cassandra shook her he ad. The na me was no t familiar. ‘It’s in Magical Tales for Girls and Boys.’ ‘Not in my copy, we must have different editions.’ ‘There was o nly one edition. That’s why they’re so rare.’ Cassandra lifted her sho ulders. ‘I’ve never seen it.’ Ruby flapped her ha nd. ‘Enough, who gives two hoots how many editions there were? Tell us about the story, Christian. What makes you think it’s about Mary and the baby?’ ‘It’s a n o dd o ne ac tually, “ The G olden E gg”; I al ways f elt t hat. Different to the other fairytales, sadder and with a shakier moral frame. It’s about a wicked Queen who coerces a young maiden into giving up a magical golden egg to heal the ailing Princess of the land. The maiden resists at first because it’s her life’s work to guard the egg—her birthright, I t hink, is ho w she des cribes it—but t he Queen w ears her do wn and in the end she consents because she’s convinced that if she doesn’t, the Princess will suf fer eternal sorrow and the kingdom will b e cursed to 411


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an endless winter. There’s a character who plays the go-between in the transaction, t he ha ndmaiden. S he w orks f or t he P rincess a nd t he Queen, but when it comes down to it she tries to convince the maiden not to part with the egg. It’s as if she r ealises that the egg is a pa rt of the maiden, that without it the maiden will have no purpose, no reason to live. Which is exac tly what happens: she ha nds over the egg and it ruins her lif e.’ ‘You think the handmaiden was E liza?’ said Cassandra. ‘It fits, doesn’t it?’ Ruby leaned her c hin on her f ist. ‘Let me g et this straight, you’re saying the egg was t he child? Nell?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And Eliza wrote the story as a wa y to assuage her guil t?’ Christian shook his he ad. ‘Not guilt. The st ory doesn’t feel guilty. It’s more like sadness. For herself and for Mary. And for Rose, in a way. The characters in t he story are all do ing w hat t hey t hink is r ight, it’s just that it can’t have a happy ending for all o f them.’ Cassandra b it her li p t houghtfully. ‘ You r eally t hink a c hildren’s fairytale might be autobiographical?’ ‘Not autobiographical exactly, not in a literal sense, unless she had some pretty wacky experiences.’ He raised his eyebrows at the thought. ‘I just reckon Eliza probably processed bits of her o wn life by turning them into fiction. Isn’t that what writers do? ’ ‘I don’t know. Do they?’ ‘I’ll b ring “ The G olden E gg” with m e t omorrow,’ sa id Ch ristian. ‘You can judge for yourself.’ The wa rm ochre candlelight accented his cheekbones, made his skin g low. He smiled sh yly. ‘ Her fa irytales a re the only voice Eliza has a ny more. Who knows what else she’s tr ying to tell us?’

c After Chr istian lef t t o mak e his wa y bac k t o t he villag e, R uby a nd Cassandra laid their sleeping bags out on the foam mattress he’d brought for them. They’d decided to stay downstairs so they could take advantage of the still-warm range, and had pushed the table aside to make room. Wind from the sea blew gently through cracks beneath the doors, up 412


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between the gaps in t he floorboards. The ho use had a smell o f damp soil, more so than Cassandra had no ticed in t he daytime. ‘This is t he part where we tell each other ghost stories,’ whispered Ruby, rolling over heavily to face Cassandra. She grinned, face shadowy in the f lickering light. ‘What fun. Have I t old you how lucky you are to have a haunted cottage on the edge of a c liff?’ ‘Once or twice.’ She gave a cheeky smile. ‘What about how lucky you are to have a “friend” like Christian, who’s handsome, clever and kind? ’ Cassandra concentrated on the zip of her sleeping bag, drew it up with a p recision and attention to detail far outweighing the task. ‘A “friend” who obviously thinks the sun shines o ut of you.’ ‘Oh, Ruby,’ Cassandra shook her he ad, ‘he do es not. He just likes helping in t he garden.’ Ruby raised her eyebrows, amused. ‘Of course, he likes the garden. That’s w hy he’s gi ven u p t he b etter pa rt o f a f ortnight t o w ork f or nothing.’ ‘It’s true!’ ‘Of course it is.’ Cassandra bit back a smile a nd adopted a slig htly indignant tone. ‘Whether you believe it or not, the hidden garden is very important to Christian. He used to play in it as a kid .’ ‘And t hat in tense passio n f or t he ga rden m ust exp lain w hy he’s taking you to Polperro tomorrow.’ ‘He’s just being nice, he’s a nice p erson. It’s nothing to do with me, with how he f eels about me. He certainly doesn’t “like” me.’ Ruby nodded sagely. ‘You’re right, of course. I mean, what’s to like?’ Cassandra glanced side ways, smiled desp ite herself. ‘So,’ she s aid, biting her b ottom lip, ‘you think he’s handsome?’ Ruby grinned. ‘Sweet dreams, Cassandra.’ ‘Goodnight, Ruby.’ Cassandra b lew o ut t he ca ndle, b ut a f ull mo on me ant t hat t he room wasn’t completely dark. A silvery film spilled across every surface, smooth and dull like wax g one cool. She lay in t he half-light running pieces of the puzzle through her mind: Eliza, Mary, Rose, then every so often, out of place, Christian, meeting her gaze b efore looking away. 413


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Within a co uple o f min utes, R uby was sno ring s oftly. C assandra smiled t o her self. S he mig ht have guess ed Ruby was a n e asy sleep er. She closed her own eyes and each lid ga ined weight. As t he s ea swirled a t t he bas e of t he c liff, and t he trees overhead whispered in the midnight wind, Cassandra, too, drifted into sleep . . . . . . S he was in t he ga rden, t he hidden ga rden, si tting b eneath the apple tree on the softest grass. The da y was v ery warm and a b ee droned around the apple blossoms, hovering near before floating away on the breeze. She was t hirsty, longed for a dr ink of water, but none was ne arby. She reached out her hand, tried to push herself to standing but couldn’t. Her stomach was h uge and swollen, t he skin tig ht and itchy b eneath her dress. She was p regnant. As soon as she r ealised, the sensation became familiar. She could feel her he art pumping heavily, the warmth of her skin, t hen the baby started to kick . . . ‘Cass.’ . . . kicked so hard, enough force that her stomach lurched on one side, she la id her ha nd on her b ump, tried to catch the little foot . . . ‘Cass.’ Her eyes opened. Moonlight on the walls. The tic king of the range. Ruby was p ropped up on one arm, tapping her sho ulder. ‘Are you all right? You were groaning.’ ‘I’m fine.’ Cassandra sat up suddenly. Felt her stomach. ‘Oh my god. I had the strangest dream. I was pregnant, very pregnant. My stomach was huge and tight, and everything was so vivid.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘I was in t he walled garden and the baby started to kick.’ ‘It’s all that talk earlier, of Mary’s baby, and Rose, and golden eggs, all getting mixed up together.’ ‘Not to mention the wine.’ Cassandra yawned. ‘But it was s o real, it felt exactly like the real thing. I was s o uncomfortable, and hot, and when the baby kicked it was s o painful.’ ‘You paint a lovely picture of pregnancy,’ said Ruby. ‘You’re making me glad I ne ver tried it.’ 414


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Cassandra smiled . ‘It’s not much f un in t he f inal months, but it’s worth it in t he end . That moment w hen y ou f inally ho ld a tin y ne w life in y our arms.’ Nick had cr ied in t he delivery room, but C assandra hadn’t. She’d been too present, too much a part of the powerful moment, to react in such a wa y. To cr y would have necessitated a s econd le vel of feeling, an ability to step outside events and view them within a larger context. Cassandra’s experience had been too immediate for that. She’d felt fired from within by a s ort of dizzy j ubilation. As if she co uld he ar b etter, see better than she ever had before. Could hear her own pulse pumping, the lights humming above, her ne w baby’s breaths. ‘Actually, I was pregnant once,’ said Ruby. ‘But only for about five minutes.’ ‘Oh, Ruby.’ Cassandra was awash with sympathy. ‘You lost the baby?’ ‘In a ma nner of speaking. I was y oung, it was a mist ake, he a nd I agreed it was st upid to go through with it. I f igured there was p lenty of time la ter for all t hat.’ She lifted her sho ulders, then smoothed her sleeping bag across her legs. ‘Only problem was, by the time I was ready I no lo nger had t he necessary ingredients at my disposal.’ Cassandra leaned her he ad to the side. ‘Sperm, m’dear. I don’t know whether I spent my entire thirties with PMT, but for whatever reason the greater population of menfolk and I failed to see eye to eye. By the time I met a b loke I co uld live with, the baby ship had s ailed. We tried for a w hile but—’ she shr ugged— ‘well, you can’t fight nature.’ ‘I’m sorry, Ruby.’ ‘Don’t be. I’m doing all right. I have a job I love, good friends.’ She winked. ‘And come on, you’ve s een my f lat. I’m onto a winner t here. No room to swing a cat, but hey—I haven’t got a cat to swing.’ Cassandra smiled. ‘You mak e a lif e o ut o f w hat y ou ha ve, no t w hat y ou’re missin g.’ Ruby lay down again and snuggled into her sleeping bag. She pulled it up around her sho ulders. ‘Nightie-night.’ Cassandra continued to sit for a w hile, watching shadows dance along the walls as she t hought about what Ruby had said. About the life that she, Cassandra, had b uilt out of the things, the people, she was missin g. Was t hat w hat N ell had do ne t oo? F orsaken t he lif e 415


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and t he fa mily she’d b een gi ven, t o f ocus in stead o n t he o ne she’d been wi thout? C assandra la y do wn a nd c losed her e yes. L et t he night-time s ounds dr own o ut her dis quieting t houghts. The s ea breathing, wa ves crashin g aga inst t he gr eat b lack r ock, tr eetops shushing in t he wind . . . The cottage was a lo nely place, is olated by day but e ven more s o once darkness fell. The r oad didn’t extend all t he way up the cliff, the entrance to the hidden ga rden had b een closed off, and beyond it lay a maze whose route was difficult to follow. It was the sort of place one might live in a nd never see another soul. A sudden t hought and C assandra gasp ed. Sat upright. ‘Ruby,’ she said, then louder, ‘Ruby.’ ‘Asleep,’ came the slurred response. ‘But I j ust figured it out.’ ‘Still asleep.’ ‘I know why they built the wall, why Eliza went away. That’s why I had the dream—my unconscious figured it out and was tr ying to let me know.’ A sigh. Ruby rolled over and propped herself on a b ent arm. ‘You win, I’m awake. Just.’ ‘This is where Mary stayed when she was pregnant with Ivory, with Nell. H ere, in t he co ttage. Tha t’s w hy W illiam didn’t kno w she was pregnant.’ C assandra le aned c loser t o R uby. ‘ That’s w hy E liza w ent away: Mary was here instead. They kept her hidden in the cottage, built the wall s o that no one would accidentally catch sight of her.’ Ruby rubbed her e yes and sat up. ‘They turned this cottage into a cag e until the baby was b orn and Rose was made a mo ther.’

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he a fternoon b efore she was d ue t o le ave Tregenna, Nell w ent a last time t o Clif f C ottage. S he t ook t he w hite sui tcase wi th her, filled with the documents and research she’d collected during her visit. She wanted to look over her no tes and the cottage seemed as g ood a place as a ny in w hich t o do s o. At le ast t hat’s w hat she’d t old her self when she’d decided t o make her wa y up the steep cliff road. It wasn’t true o f co urse, no t co mpletely. For al though she had wa nted t o lo ok over the notes, that wasn’t why she’d come to the cottage. She’d come simply because she co uldn’t stay away. She unlocked the door and pushed it open. Winter was approaching and the cottage was co ol: stale air sat thick and heavy in t he hallway. Nell took the suitcase upstairs to the bedroom. It pleased her t o look out over the silver sea, and on her last visit she’d spied a little bentwood chair in t he co rner o f t he r oom t hat w ould s erve her p urposes v ery well. The ca ne had unra velled f rom t he bac k b ut t hat was no impediment. Nell p ositioned t he chair by t he window, s at tentatively and opened the white suitcase. She le afed t hrough t he pa pers in side: Rob yn’s no tes o n t he Mountrachet family, the contact details of the detective she’d hired to look into E liza’s w hereabouts, s earches and correspondence f rom t he local solicitors about her purchase of Cliff Cottage. Nell found the letter relating t o t he p roperty b oundaries a nd f lipped i t o ver t o st udy t he surveyor’s map. She could see quite clearly now the area young Christian had t old her was a ga rden. S he wondered w ho on e arth had b ricked up the gate, and why. 417


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As she pondered, the paper slipped from Nell’s hand and fluttered to the ground. She reached down to pick it up and something caught her eye. Damp weather had buckled the skirting board, pulled it loose from t he wall. A p iece of paper was w edged b ehind. Nell caught t he corner between her f ingers and retrieved it. A small piece of card, spotted with foxing, on which a woman’s face had been drawn, framed by an arch of brambles. Nell recognised her from t he p ortrait she’d s een in t he galler y in L ondon. I t was E liza Makepeace, but there was something different about this sketch. Unlike the N athaniel W alker p ortrait in L ondon t hat made her lo ok untouchable, this one was s omehow more intimate. Something in t he eyes sug gested t hat t his a rtist had b een b etter acq uainted wi th E liza than had N athaniel. B old lines, cer tain c urves, a nd t he exp ression: something in her e yes both compelled Nell and confronted her. Nell smoothed over the top of the card. To think it had been lying there in wa it f or s o lo ng. S he p ulled t he b ook o f fa irytales f rom t he suitcase. She hadn’t been precisely sure why she’d brought it with her to the cottage, only that there seemed a pleasant symmetry in bringing the stories home, back to the very place in which Eliza Makepeace had written them. Undoubtedly silly, embarrassingly sentimental, but there you are. Now Nell was glad she had. She opened the cover and slipped the sketch inside. That would keep it safe. She leaned back against the chair and ran her fingers over the book’s cover, the smooth leather and raised centre panel with its illustration of a maiden and a fawn. It was a beautiful book, as beautiful as any that had passed through Nell’s antiques shop. And it was so well preserved, decades spent in Hugh’s care had done it no ha rm. Though i t was e arlier times she s ought t o r ecall, N ell f ound her mind r eturning o ver a nd aga in t o H ugh. I n pa rticular, t he nig hts he’d r ead her b edtime st ories f rom t he fa irytale b ook. L il had b een concerned, worried they might be too scary for a li ttle girl, but Hugh had understood. In t he e venings, after dinner, w hen L il was c learing the da y a way, he w ould co llapse bac k in to his wic ker c hair a nd Nell would c url u p in his la p. The p leasant w eight o f his a rms wra pped around her to grasp the edges of the book, the faint smell of tobacco on his shirt, the rough whiskers on his wa rm cheek catching her ha ir. 418


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Nell sighed steadily. Hugh had do ne well by her, he a nd Lil both. All the same, she blanked them out and willed her mind bac k further. For t here was a time b efore H ugh, a time b efore t he b oat tr ip to Maryborough, t he time o f B lackhurst a nd t he co ttage a nd t he Authoress. There—a white cane garden chair, sun, butterflies. Nell closed her eyes and clutched the memory’s tail, let it drag her into a warm summer’s day, a ga rden w here shade s pilled co ol acr oss a sp rawling la wn. Air filled with the scent of sunbaked flowers . . . The little girl was p retending to be a butterfly. A woven wreath of flowers encir cled her he ad a nd she was ho lding her a rms o ut t o t he sides, r unning in cir cles, f luttering a nd sw ooping w hile t he sunlig ht warmed her wings. She felt so grand as the sun turned the white cotton of her dr ess to silver. ‘Ivory.’ At f irst the little girl did no t hear, for butterflies do no t speak the languages of men. The y sing in sw eetest tone with words so beautiful grown-up ears cannot hear them. Only children notice when they call. ‘Ivory, come quickly.’ There was a st ernness t o M amma’s v oice no w s o t he li ttle girl swooped and fluttered in t he direction of the white garden chair. ‘Come, come,’ said Mamma, reaching out her arms, beckoning with the pale tips of her f ingers. With a wa rm happiness spreading beneath her skin, t he little girl climbed u p. M amma wra pped her a rms a round t he li ttle girl ’s wa ist and pressed cool lips against the skin b eneath her e ar. ‘I’m a b utterfly,’ the little girl s aid, ‘this chair is my cocoon—’ ‘Shh. Quiet now.’ Mamma’s face was still pressed close and the little girl realised she was looking at something beyond. The little girl turned to see what it was t hat held Mamma’s attention so. A lady was co ming towards them. The li ttle girl s quinted into the sun to make some sense of this mirage. For this lady was different from the others who came to visit Mamma and Grandmamma, the ones who stayed for te a and games o f bridge. This l ady lo oked s omehow like a girl stretched to grown-up height. She wore a dress of white cotton and her red hair was o nly loosely tied in p lace. 419


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The little girl looked about for the carriage that must have brought the lad y u p t he dr ive, b ut t here was no ne. I t s eemed t hat she had materialised from thin air, as if b y magic. Then t he li ttle girl r ealised. S he ca ught her b reath, f illed wi th wonder. The lady was not walking from the direction of the entrance, she had co me from inside the maze. The little girl was f orbidden to enter t he maze. It was o ne of t he first and sternest rules; both Mamma and Grandmamma were always reminding her t hat the way was da rk and f illed with untold dangers. So serious was t he decree that even Papa, who could usually be relied upon, dared not disobey. The lad y wa s s till h urrying dir ectly t owards th em, h alf walkin g, half ski pping. S he had s omething wi th her , a b rown-paper pa rcel, under her a rm. Mamma’s own arms tightened around the little girl’s middle so that pleasure slipped towards discomfort. The lady stopped before them. ‘Hello Rose.’ The little girl kne w this was Mamma’s name and yet Mamma said nothing in r eturn. ‘I know I’m not supposed to come.’ A sil very voice, like a s pider’s thread, w hich t he li ttle girl w ould ha ve lik ed t o ho ld b etween her fingers. ‘Then why have you?’ The lady held out her parcel, but Mamma did not take it. Her grip tightened again. ‘I want nothing from you.’ ‘I don’t bring it for you.’ The lad y put the parcel on the seat. ‘It is for your little girl.’

c The parcel had contained the book of fairytales, Nell remembered that now. There had been a discussion later, between her mother and father: she had insisted on the book’s banishment, and he had eventually agreed, taken it with him. Onl y he hadn’t thrown it away. He had p ut it in his studio, next t o the battered copy of Moby-Dick. And he had r ead it to Nell, when she s at with him, w hen her mother was ill a nd unaware. 420


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Thrilled b y t he memo ry, Nell str oked t he f ront co ver aga in. The book had b een a gif t f rom Eliza. She opened it carefully to the place where the ribbon bookmark had lain for sixty years. It was deep plum, only slig htly f rayed w here t he w eave had b egun t o unra vel, a nd i t marked the beginning of a st ory called ‘ The Crone’s Eyes’. Nell began to read about the young princess who didn’t know she was a p rincess, who journeyed across the sea to the land of lost t hings to bring back the cr one’s missin g sig ht. It was dist antly fa miliar, as a fa voured t ale from childhood ought to be. Nell placed the bookmark in its new spot and closed the book, laid it back on the windowsill. She frowned and leaned closer. There was still a ga p in th e spine where the ribbon had b een. Nell opened the book again; the pages fell automatically once more to ‘The Crone’s Eyes’. She ran her f inger down the inside of the spine— There w ere pag es missin g. N ot ma ny, o nly f ive o r six, ba rely noticeable, but missing all t he same. The excision was neat. No rough edges, tight up against the binding. Done with a p enknife, perhaps? Nell c hecked t he pag e n umbers. The y j umped f rom f ifty-four t o sixty-one. The gap fell perfectly between two stories . . .

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THE GOLDEN EGG By Eliza Makepeace By Eliza Makepeace

long time ago, when seeking was finding, there lived a young maiden in a tiny cottage on the edge of a large and prosperous kingdom. The maiden had few means and her cottage was hidden so deeply within the dark woods as to be obscured from common view. There had been those, long ago, who knew of the little cottage with its stone fireplace, but such folk had long since passed and Mother Time had drawn a veil of forget around the cottage. Aside from the birds who came to sing on her windowsill, and the woodland animals who came in search of her warm hearth, the maiden was alone. Yet was she never lonely or unhappy, for the maiden of the cottage was too busy to pine for company she’d never had. Deep within the heart of the cottage, behind a special door with a shiny lock, there was a very precious object. A golden egg whose glow was said to be so brilliant, so beautiful, that those whose eyes alit upon it were rendered instantly blind. The Golden Egg was so old that no one could properly remember its age, and for countless generations the maiden’s family had been charged with its protection. The maiden did not question this responsibility, for she knew it to be her destiny. The egg must be kept safe and well and hidden. Most importantly, the egg’s existence must be kept secret. Many years before,

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when the kingdom was new, great wars had erupted over the Golden Egg, for legend told that it had magical powers and could grant its possessor his heart’s desire. So it was the maiden kept her vigil. By day she sat at her little spinning wheel in the cottage window, singing happily with the birds who gathered to watch her work. By night she offered shelter to her animal friends and slept in the warmth of the cottage, heated from within by the glow of the Golden Egg. And she remembered always that there was naught more important than protecting one’s birthright. Meanwhile, far away across the land, in the kingdom’s grand castle, there lived a young Princess who was good and fair but very unhappy. Her health was poor and no matter that her mother, the Queen, had scoured the land for magic or medicine, nothing could be found to make the Princess well. There were those who whispered that when she was but a babe a wicked apothecary had cursed her to eternal ill health, but no one dared utter such sentiment aloud. For the Queen was a cruel ruler whose wrath her subjects wisely feared. The Queen’s daughter, however, was the apple of her mother’s eye. Each morning the Queen paid a visit to her bedside but alas, each morning the Princess was the same: pale, weak and weary. ‘It is all I wish, Mother,’ she would whisper, ‘the strength to walk through the castle gardens, to dance at the castle balls, to swim in the castle waters. To be well is my heart’s desire.’ The Queen had a magic looking glass from which she gleaned the comings and goings of the kingdom, and day after day she asked: ‘Mirror of mine, favoured friend, show me the healer who will bring this horror’s end.’ But each day the mirror gave the same answer: ‘There is no one, my Queen, in all the land, who can make her well by his healing hand.’ Now one day it happened that the Queen was so upset by her daughter’s condition that she forgot to ask the 423


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looking glass her usual question. Instead she began to sob, crying: ‘Mirror of mine, that I so admire, show me how to grant my daughter’s heart’s desire.’ The mirror was silent for a moment, but within its glassy centre an image began to form, a tiny cottage in the middle of a deep dark wood, smoke pluming from a little stone chimney. Inside the window sat a young maiden, spinning at a wheel and singing with the birds on the sill. ‘What is this you show me?’ gasped the Queen. ‘Is this young woman a healer?’ The mirror’s voice was low and sombre: ‘In the dark woods on the kingdom’s edge lies a cottage. Inside is a golden egg with the power to grant its holder their heart’s desire. The maiden you see is the guardian of the Golden Egg.’ ‘How will I get the egg from her?’ said the Queen. ‘She does what she does for the kingdom’s good,’ said the mirror, ‘and will not easily consent.’ ‘Then what must I do?’ But the magic looking glass had no more answers, and the image of the cottage faded so that only glass remained. The Queen lifted her chin and stared down her long nose, holding her own gaze until a slight smile formed on her lips. Early the next morning, the Queen summoned the Princess’s closest handmaiden. A girl who had lived in the kingdom all her life, and who the Queen knew could be counted on to perform whatever task was necessary in order to ensure the Princess’s health and happiness. The Queen instructed the handmaiden to retrieve the Golden Egg. The handmaiden set off across the kingdom in the direction of the dark woods. For three days and nights she walked east and, as dusk was falling on the third night, she came to the edge of the woods. She stepped over fallen branches and cleared a path through foliage, until finally, 424


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standing in a clearing before her, was a tiny cottage with sweetly scented smoke pluming from its chimney. The handmaiden knocked on the door and waited. When it opened, a young maiden stood on the other side and, although she was surprised to see a visitor on her doorstep, a generous smile spread across her face. She stepped aside and welcomed the handmaiden across the threshold. ‘You are tired,’ said the maiden. ‘You have journeyed far. Come and warm yourself by my hearth.’ The handmaiden followed the maiden inside and sat on a cushion by the fire. The maiden of the cottage brought a bowl of warm broth and sat quietly weaving while her guest ate. The fire crackled on the grate and the warmth in the room made the handmaiden very drowsy. Her desire to slumber was so strong that she would have forgotten her mission had the maiden of the cottage not said, ‘You are very welcome here, stranger, but must forgive me for asking whether there is a purpose to your visit.’ ‘I have been sent by the Queen of the land,’ said the handmaiden. ‘She seeks your assistance in healing her daughter’s ill health.’ The birds of the forest sometimes sang of goings-on within the kingdom, thus had the maiden heard tell of the fair and kind princess who lived inside the castle walls. ‘I will do what I can,’ said the maiden, ‘though I cannot think why the Queen has sent for me as I know not how to heal.’ ‘The Queen has sent me to seek something that you harbour,’ said the handmaiden. ‘An object with the power to grant its bearer her heart’s desire.’ The maiden understood then that it was the Golden Egg of which the handmaiden spoke. She shook her head sadly. ‘I would do anything to help the Princess, except that which you ask. Protecting the Golden Egg is my birthright, and there is naught more important than that. You may stay here tonight and shelter from the cold and lonely woods, but tomorrow you must return to the 425


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kingdom and tell the Queen that I cannot relinquish the Golden Egg.’ Next day, the handmaiden set off for the castle. She journeyed for three days and nights until finally she arrived at the castle walls where the Queen was waiting for her. ‘Where is the Golden Egg?’ said the Queen, looking at the handmaiden’s empty hands. ‘I have failed in my mission,’ said the handmaiden. ‘For alas, the maiden of the cottage would not be parted from her birthright.’ The Queen drew herself to her full height and her face turned red. ‘You must return,’ she said, pointing a longtaloned finger at the handmaiden, ‘and tell the maiden it is her duty to serve her kingdom. If she fails, she will be turned to stone and left to stand in the kingdom courtyard for all eternity.’ So the handmaiden headed east once more, journeyed for three days and nights until she found herself again at the door to the hidden cottage. She knocked and was greeted happily by the maiden, who welcomed her inside and fetched her a bowl of broth. The maiden sat weaving while the handmaiden ate her supper, until finally she said, ‘You are very welcome here, stranger, but must forgive me for asking whether there is a purpose to your visit.’ ‘I have been sent once more by the Queen of the land,’ said the handmaiden. ‘She seeks your assistance in healing her daughter’s ill health. Your duty is to serve your kingdom. If you refuse, the Queen says you will be turned to stone and made to stand in the kingdom courtyard for all eternity.’ The maiden smiled sadly. ‘Protecting the Golden Egg is my birthright,’ she said. ‘I cannot relinquish it to you.’ ‘Do you wish to be turned to stone?’ ‘I do not,’ said the maiden, ‘and neither shall I be. For I serve my kingdom when I watch over the Golden Egg.’ 426


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And the handmaiden did not argue, for she saw that what the maiden of the cottage said was true. Next day, the handmaiden set off for the castle and, when she arrived, the Queen was once again waiting for her at the castle walls. ‘Where is the Golden Egg?’ said the Queen, looking at the handmaiden’s empty hands. ‘Again have I failed in my mission,’ said the handmaiden. ‘For alas, the maiden of the cottage would not be parted from her birthright.’ ‘Did you not tell the maiden that it was her duty to serve the kingdom?’ ‘I did, Your Majesty,’ said the handmaiden, ‘and she said that by guarding the Golden Egg she was serving the kingdom.’ The Queen glowered and her face turned grey. Clouds gathered in the sky and the ravens of the kingdom flew for cover. The Queen remembered then the mirror’s words—‘she does what she does for the kingdom’s good’—and her lips curled into a grin. ‘You must return once more,’ she said to the handmaiden, ‘and this time you will tell the maiden that if she fails to relinquish the Golden Egg she will be responsible for the Princess’s eternal sorrow, which will cast the kingdom into an endless winter of grief.’ So the handmaiden headed east for a third time, journeying for three days and nights, until she found herself once more at the door to the hidden cottage. She knocked and was greeted happily by the maiden, who welcomed her inside and fetched her a bowl of broth. The maiden sat weaving while the handmaiden ate her supper, until finally she said, ‘You are very welcome here, stranger, but must forgive me for asking whether there is a purpose to your visit.’ ‘I have been sent once more by the Queen of the land,’ said the handmaiden. ‘She seeks your assistance in healing her daughter’s ill health. Your duty is to serve 427


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your kingdom; if you fail to relinquish the egg, the Queen says you will be responsible for the Princess’s eternal sorrow and the kingdom will be cast into an endless winter of grief.’ The maiden of the cottage sat still and silent for a long time. Then she nodded slowly. ‘To spare the Princess and to spare the kingdom, I will relinquish the Golden Egg.’ The handmaiden shivered as the dark woods grew quiet and an ill wind slipped beneath the door to worry the hearth fire. ‘But there is nothing more important than protecting your birthright,’ she said. ‘It is your duty to the kingdom.’ The maiden smiled. ‘But what use is such duty if my actions sink the kingdom into an endless winter? An endless winter will freeze the land—there will be no birds or animals or crops. It is because of my duty that I now relinquish the Golden Egg.’ The handmaiden looked sadly at the maiden. ‘But there is naught more important than protecting your birthright. The egg is a part of you, yours to protect.’ But the maiden had already taken a large golden key from around her neck and was fitting it in the lock of the special door. As she turned it, there was a groan from deep within the floor of the cottage, a settling of the hearth stones, a sigh from the ceiling rafters. Light faded in the cottage as a glow appeared from inside the secret room. The maiden disappeared then appeared once more, holding in her hands a shrouded object, so precious that the air around it seemed to hum. The maiden walked the handmaiden out of the cottage and when the two reached the edge of the clearing, she handed over her birthright. When she turned back towards her cottage, she saw that it was darker. Light had disappeared, unable suddenly to penetrate the thick surrounding woods. Inside, the rooms grew cold, no longer warmed from within by the glow of the Golden Egg. 428


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Over time, the animals stopped coming and the birds flew away, and the maiden found that she had no purpose. She forgot how to spin, her voice faded to a whisper and, finally, she felt her limbs grow stiff and heavy, immobile. Until one day she realised that a layer of dust had coated the cottage and her own frozen form. She allowed her eyes to close, and felt herself falling through the cold and the silence. Some seasons later, the Princess of the kingdom was riding with her handmaiden on the edge of the dark woods. Though once she had been very ill, the Princess had recovered miraculously and was now married to a fine prince. She lived a full and happy life: walked and danced and sang, and enjoyed all the vast riches of health. They had a dear baby girl who was much loved and ate pure honey and drank the dew from rose petals and had beautiful butterflies for playthings. As the Princess and her handmaiden rode by the dark woods on this day the Princess felt an odd compulsion to enter the woods themselves. She ignored the handmaiden’s protestations and steered her horse across the border and into the cold, dark forest. All was silent in the woods, neither bird nor beast nor breeze stirred the still, cool air. The horses’ hooves made the only sound. By and by, they came across a clearing in which a tiny cottage had been devoured by foliage. ‘Why, what a dear little house,’ said the Princess. ‘I wonder who lives here.’ The handmaiden turned her face away, shivering against the strange chill of the clearing. ‘No one, my Princess. Not any more. The kingdom thrives, but there is no life in the dark woods.’

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45 Cliff Cottage, 1913 Cliff Cottage, Cornwall,

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liza kne w she w ould miss t his coast line, t his s ea, w hen she lef t. Though she w ould come t o know another, it would b e dif ferent. Other birds and other plants, waves whispering their stories in foreign tongues. Yet it was time. She’d waited long enough and with little cause. What was done was done and no matter her present feeling, the remorse that crept upon her in the dark, held sleep at bay while she tossed and turned and cursed her pa rt in t he deception, she had li ttle choice but to move forward. Eliza went the final way down the narrow stone steps to the pier. One fisherman was still loading up for the day’s work, stacking woven baskets a nd r olls o f line in to his b oat. A s she dr ew c loser, t he le an, muscular limbs and sun-brushed features came into focus, and E liza realised i t was W illiam, M ary’s b rother. Youngest in a lo ng line o f Cornish f ishermen, he’d distin guished him self a mongst a host o f t he brave and the foolhardy so that tales of his f eats spread like sea grass along the coast. He and Eliza had o nce enjoyed a f riendship and he had k ept her in thrall with his wild stories of life on the sea, but a cool distance had grown between them for some years now. Ever since Will had witnessed that which he should not, had challenged Eliza and insisted she explain the inexplicable. It had been a long time since t hey’d spoken and Eliza had miss ed his co mpany. Knowledge t hat she w ould s oon b e le aving Tregenna filled her with determination to put the past behind her, and with a st eady exhala tion she made her a pproach. ‘ You’re la te t his morning, Will.’ 430


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He lo oked u p, s traightened his ca p. A b lush s pread acr oss his weather-hardened cheeks and he a nswered stiffly. ‘And you’re early.’ ‘I’m g etting a he ad st art o n t he da y.’ E liza was b y t he b oat no w. Water lapped gently against its side a nd the air was t hick with brine. ‘Any word from Mary?’ ‘Not since last week. She’s still happy there in P olperro, quite the butcher’s wife she is too.’ Eliza smiled. It was a genuine pleasure to hear that Mary was well. After all she had been through, she deserved nothing less. ‘That is good news, Will. I must write her a let ter this afternoon.’ William f rowned a li ttle. His gaze f ell t o his b oots as he st ubbed the rock wall of the pier. ‘What is i t?’ said Eliza. ‘Have I s aid something odd?’ William shooed away a pair of greedy gulls, swooping for his bait. ‘Will?’ He g lanced side ways a t E liza. ‘ Nothing o dd, M iss E liza, o nly—I must say, while I’m glad to see you well, I’m a li ttle surprised.’ ‘Why is that?’ ‘We were all sorry to hear the news.’ He lifted his chin and scratched the whiskers that lined his sharp jaw. ‘About Mr and Mrs Walker, about them . . . leaving us.’ ‘New York, y es. The y le ave next mo nth.’ N athaniel had b een t he one to tell Eliza. He’d come to see her in the cottage again, Ivory in tow once more. It was a rainy afternoon and thus the child had been brought inside t o wa it. S he’d g one u pstairs t o E liza’s r oom, w hich was j ust as well. When Nathaniel told Eliza of their plans, his a nd Rose’s, to start afresh on the other side o f the Atlantic, she had b een angry. She’d felt abandoned, us ed. Even more s o t han she had b efore. At t he t hought of Rose and Nathaniel in New York, the cottage had suddenly seemed like the most desolate place in the world; Eliza’s life, the most desolate a person could lead. Soon a fter N athaniel had lef t, E liza had r emembered M other’s advice, t hat she was t o r escue her self, a nd she had decided t he time had come to set her own plans in train. She’d booked passage on a ship that w ould t ake her o n her o wn ad venture, fa r f rom B lackhurst a nd the life she’d led in the cottage. She’d written, too, to Mrs Swindell, said that she was co ming t o L ondon in t he next mo nth a nd w ondered 431


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whether she might pay a visit. She hadn’t mentioned Mother’s brooch— God willing, it was still stowed safely in the clay pot inside the disused chimney—but she intended to get it back. And with Mother’s legacy she would begin a ne w life, all her o wn. William cleared his t hroat. ‘What is i t, Will? You look as if y ou’ve seen a g host.’ ‘Nothing lik e t hat, M iss E liza. It’s j ust . . .’ H is b lue e yes s canned her own. The sun was f ull and heavy on the horizon now and he was forced to squint. ‘Is it possible you don’t know?’ ‘Don’t know what?’ She shrugged lightly. ‘Of Mr and Mrs Walker . . . the train from Carlisle.’ Eliza nodded. ‘They’ve been in C arlisle these past da ys. Due bac k tomorrow.’ William’s li ps set tled in a so mbre lin e. ‘ They’re s till d ue bac k tomorrow, Miss E liza, only not in t he way you t hink.’ He sig hed and shook his head. ‘Word’s all over the village, in the newspapers. To think nobody t old y ou. I ’d ha ve co me m yself o nly . . .’ H e t ook her ha nds, an unexpected g esture, a nd o ne w hich s et her he art t o racin g as all unexpected shows of closeness were wont to do. ‘There was an accident, Miss E liza. One t rain hi t in to a nother. S ome o f t he pass engers—Mr and M rs Walker . . .’ he exhaled , met her gaze . ‘ I’m a fraid t hey w ere both killed, Miss Eliza. Up at a p lace called Ais G ill.’ He continued, but Eliza wasn’t listening. Inside her head a loud red light had spread out over everything, so that all sensation, all noise, all thoughts were blocked. She closed her eyes and was falling, blindfolded, down a deep sha ft without end.

c It was all Adeline could do to keep breathing. Grief so thick it blackened her lungs. The ne ws had come by telephone late Tuesday night. Linus had been locked in t he darkroom so Daisy had b een sent to summon Lady Mountrachet to the receiver. A policeman on the other end, voice crackly with the miles of air that separated Cornwall from Cumberland, had delivered the crushing blow. Adeline had fainted. At least, she presumed that must be what had happened, f or her next memo ry was o f wakin g in her b ed, a he avy 432


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weight u pon her c hest. A s plit s econd o f co nfusion a nd t hen she’d remembered; the horror had b een born afresh. It was as w ell t here was a f uneral t o a rrange, p rocedures t o b e followed, or els e Adeline mig ht not have resurfaced. For ne ver mind that her heart had been hollowed out, leaving but a dr y and worthless husk, there were certain things expected of her. As the grieving mother she could not be seen to shirk her responsibilities. She owed it to Rose, to her de arest one. ‘ Daisy.’ Her v oice was ra w. ‘ Fetch s ome wr iting paper. I need t o prepare a list.’ As D aisy h urried f rom t he dim r oom, A deline b egan her list mentally. The Ch urchills should b e invited of course, L ord and L ady Huxley. The A stors, t he H eusers . . . N athaniel’s p eople she w ould inform la ter. L ord kne w, A deline hadn’t t he str ength t o inco rporate their type at Rose’s funeral. Neither w ould t he c hild b e p ermitted t o a ttend: suc h a s olemn occasion was no p lace for one of her nature. Would that she had b een on t he tra in wi th her pa rents, t hat t he b eginnings o f a co ld had no t kept her ho me in b ed. For what was A deline to do wi th the girl? The last thing she needed was a co nstant reminder that Rose was g one. She stared out of the window towards the cove. The line o f trees, the sea beyond. Stretching forever and forever and forever. Adeline refused t o let her e yes shif t lef t. The co ttage was hidden from view, but knowing it was there was enough. Its horrid pull exerted itself, brought a c hill to her b lood. One thing was cer tain. Eliza would not be told, not until after the funeral. There was no way Adeline could bear to see that girl alive and well when Rose was no t.

c Three days later, while Adeline and Linus and the servants gathered at the cemetery on the far side of the estate, Eliza took a last walk around the cottage. She had already sent a case ahead to the port so there was little for her to carry. Just a small travelling bag with her notebook and some p ersonal i tems. The tra in lef t Tregenna a t midda y a nd D avies, who was co llecting a shi pment of new plants from the London train, 433


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had offered to drive her t o the station. He was t he only one she’d told that she was g oing. Eliza checked her small p ocket watch. There was time f or one last visit to the hidden garden. She had saved the garden until last, purposely limited the time she would have available to spend there, for fear if she granted longer she w ould be unable ever to extricate herself. But so would it be. So must it be. Eliza went around the path and made her way towards the entrance. Where o nce t he s outhern do or had st ood, no w was o nly a n o pen wound, a ho le in t he gr ound a nd a s tack o f h uge s andstone b locks awaiting use. It had ha ppened during t he w eek. E liza had b een w eeding w hen she’d b een sur prised b y a p air o f b urly w orkmen makin g t heir wa y through from the front of the cottage. Her first thought was t hat they were lost, then she realised the absurdity of such a notion. People didn’t stumble upon the cottage accidentally. ‘Lady Mountrachet sent us,’ the taller of the men s aid. Eliza stood, wiping her hands on her skirt. She said nothing as she waited for him t o continue. ‘She says this door wants removing.’ ‘Does it now,’ said Eliza. ‘Funny, it’s never said as much to me.’ The smaller ma n sniggered, the tall man looked sheepish. ‘And why is t he door being removed?’ said Eliza. ‘Is there another replacing it?’ ‘We’re to brick up the hole,’ said the taller man. ‘Lady Mountrachet says there won’t be access needed f rom the cottage no mo re. We’re to dig a ho le and lay new foundations.’ Of course. Eliza should have expected there would be repercussions after her jo urney t hrough t he maze a f ortnight b efore. When all was done a nd decided f our y ears ag o, t he r ules had b een c learly s et o ut. Mary had b een given funds to start afresh in P olperro and Eliza had been forbidden from crossing beyond the hidden garden and into the maze. Yet finally she had b een unable to resist. It was just as well Eliza would be at the cottage no longer. Without access to her garden she didn’t think she could bear life at Blackhurst. Certainly not now that Rose was g one. 434


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She st epped her wa y o ver t he r ubble w here t he do or had o nce stood, around the edge of the hole, and crossed into the hidden garden. The scent of jasmine was still strong, and the apple tree was fruiting. The cr eepers had made t heir wa y r ight acr oss t he t op o f t he ga rden and plaited themselves together to form a le afy canopy. Davies would look in, she kne w that, but it wouldn’t be the same. He had sufficient duties to keep him busy, and the garden took so much of her time a nd love. ‘What will b ecome of you?’ said Eliza softly. She lo oked at t he apple tr ee a nd a sha rp pa in lo dged wi thin her chest, as if some part of her heart had been removed. She remembered the day she had p lanted the tree with Rose. So much hope they’d had then, s o m uch fa ith t hat all w ould t urn o ut w ell. E liza co uldn’t b ear even to contemplate that Rose was no lo nger in t he world. Something ca ught E liza’s e ye t hen. A p iece o f fa bric p rotruding from beneath the foliage of the apple tree. Had she left a handkerchief here last time she ca me? S he knel t do wn a nd p eered t hrough t he leaves. There was a li ttle girl, Rose’s little girl, fast asleep o n the soft grass. As if by the lifting of some enchantment, the child stirred. Blinked open her e yes until her wide gaze f ixed on Eliza. She didn’t j ump o r st artle o r b ehave in a ny wa y t hat mig ht ha ve been exp ected f rom a c hild ca ught una wares b y a n ad ult no t w ell known to them. She smiled, comfortably. Then yawned. Then crawled out from underneath the branch. ‘Hello,’ she s aid, standing before Eliza. Eliza stared at her, surprised and pleased by the girl’s utter disregard for the stifling dictates of manners. ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘Reading.’ Eliza’s brows lifted, the girl was no t yet four. ‘You can read?’ Brief hesitation, then a no d. ‘Show me.’ The little girl dropped to her hands and knees and scurried beneath the apple tree branch. Withdrew her own copy of Eliza’s fairytales. The copy E liza had t aken t hrough t he maze . S he o pened t he b ook a nd launched in to a p erfect r endition o f ‘ The Cr one’s E yes’, tracin g her finger earnestly along the text. 435


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Eliza concealed a smile as she no ticed the fingertip and the voice were not in step. Remembered her own childhood ability to memorise favourite stories. ‘And why are you here?’ she s aid. The girl pa used in her r eading. ‘ Everybody els e has g one a way. I saw them from the window, shiny black carriages crawling down the driveway like a line o f busy ants. And I didn’t want to be alone in t he house. So I came here. I like it here, best of all. In your garden.’ Her gaze flickered towards the ground. She knew that she had cr ossed a line . ‘Do you know who I a m?’ Eliza said. ‘You’re the Authoress.’ Eliza smiled slig htly. The little girl gr ew bolder: tilted her he ad to one side s o that her long plait spilled over her sho ulder. ‘Why are you sad?’ ‘Because I am saying goodbye.’ ‘To what?’ ‘To my garden. To my old life.’ There was a n intensity to the little girl’s gaze t hat E liza f ound b ewitching. ‘I a m g oing on a n ad venture. Do you like adventures?’ The little girl no dded. ‘I’m going on an adventure soon, too, with Mamma a nd P apa. We’re g oing t o N ew York o n a gia nt shi p, b igger even than Captain Ahab’s.’ ‘New York?’ Eliza faltered. Was it possible the little girl didn’t know that her pa rents were dead? ‘We’re g oing acr oss t he s ea a nd G randmamma a nd G randpapa won’t be coming with us. Nor the horrid broken dolly.’ Was t hat t he p oint f rom w hich t here was no r eturn? A s E liza met t he e arnest e yes of a li ttle girl w ho didn’t know t hat her pa rents were de ad, w ho faced a lif e wi th A unt A deline a nd Uncle L inus as guardians? Later, when Eliza looked back, it would seem that no decision had been made, rather that the decision had already been made for her. By some s trange p rocess o f alc hemy, E liza had kno wn in stantly a nd certainly that the girl co uld not be left alone at Blackhurst. She held o ut her ha nd, observed her o wn palm ext ended towards the girl, as if it knew precisely what it did. She pressed her lips together and found her voice. ‘I have heard about your adventure. In fact, I have been sent to collect you.’ The w ords came easily now. As if t hey were 436


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part of a plan made long ago, as if they were truth. ‘I am going to take you some of the way.’ The little girl b linked. ‘It’s all right,’ Eliza said. ‘Come. Take my hand. We’re going to go a special way, a s ecret way that no o ne knows but us.’ ‘Will my mamma be there when we get to the place we’re going?’ ‘Yes,’ said Eliza, without flinching. ‘Your mamma will b e there.’ The little girl considered this. Nodded her head approvingly. Sharp little chin with a dimple in i ts centre. ‘I must bring my book.’

c Adeline felt t he edges of her min d unf url. It had b een midafternoon before the alarm was ra ised. Daisy—stupid girl—had co me knocking at Adeline’s boudoir door, hedging her words, shifting sheepishly from one f oot t o t he o ther, w ondering w hether p erhaps t he mis tress had seen Miss Ivory. Her granddaughter was a known wanderer, so Adeline’s first instinct had been irritation. Just like the wicked girl to choose her timing thus. Today of all days, having buried her darling Rose, consigned her child to the earth, now to have to mount a s earch. It was all A deline could do not to shriek and curse. The servants had been enlisted, sent throughout the house to check the usual nooks, but all to no avail. When an hour had been fruitlessly exhausted, Adeline had been forced to contemplate the possibility that Ivory had g one further afield. Adeline, and Rose too, had wa rned the child against the cove and other areas of the estate, but obedience had not co me e asily f or Ivory as i t had f or Ros e. Ther e was a wilf ulness about her, a dep lorable tra it t hat Ros e had ind ulged b y es chewing punishment. B ut A deline was no t s o lenien t, a nd w hen t he girl was found she w ould be made t o see the error of her ways; she w ould not offend so brazenly again. ‘Excuse me, ma’am.’ Adeline swung around, the folds of her skir t hissing against each other. It was D aisy, returned finally from the cove. ‘Well? Where is she? ’ said Adeline. 437


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‘I couldn’t see her, ma’am.’ ‘You checked all over? The b lack rock, the hills? ’ ‘Oh no, ma’am. I didn’t go near the black rock.’ ‘Whyever not?’ ‘It’s so big and slippery and . . .’ The girl’s silly face turned bright as a ripe peach. ‘They say it’s haunted, is t he great rock.’ Adeline’s hand itched to slap the girl black and blue. If she had just done as in structed in t he f irst place, and ensured the child remained in bed! No doubt she’d been off somewhere, talking to the new footman in the kitchen . . . But it would not do to punish Daisy. Not yet. It might seem as if A deline’s priorities were out of step. Instead, she turned away, swept her skirts behind her and repaired to t he windo w. L ooked o ut acr oss t he da rkening la wn. It was all s o overwhelming. Or dinarily A deline f ound her self adep t a t t he a rt o f social performance, but today the part of the concerned grandmother was proving her undo ing. If only someone would find the girl, dead or ali ve, in jured o r w ell, a nd b ring her bac k. Then A deline co uld close a do or o n t he ep isode a nd co ntinue una bated in her gr ieving for Rose. But i t s eemed t hat suc h a sim ple s olution was no t t o b e. Dusk would be u pon them in th e matter of an hour and still no sign of the child. And Adeline’s pursuit could not be ended until every option was exhausted. The s ervants were watching, her r eactions were no do ubt being reported and dissected in the servants’ hall, so must she continue the hunt. Daisy was ne ar useless and the other staff not much better. She needed D avies. W here was t hat b rute o f a ma n w hen he was needed? ‘It’s his a fternoon off, ma’am,’ said Daisy, when asked. Of course it was. The s ervants were always underfoot yet never to be found. ‘I imagine he’s at home, or visiting in t he village, my Lady. I t hink he said something about fetching some deliveries off the train.’ There was only one other person who knew the estate like Davies. ‘Fetch Miss Eliza then,’ said Adeline, mouth souring as she sp oke the name. ‘And bring her t o me at once.’

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Eliza lo oked across at t he sleeping c hild. L ong lashes d usted smo oth cheeks, pink lips sat plump and pouted, little fists bunched on her lap. How trusting children were, to find sleep at such a time. The trust, the vulnerability, made a pa rt of Eliza want to weep. What had she been thinking? What was she doing here, on a train, heading towards London with Rose’s child? Nothing, she had t hought no thing a t all , a nd t hat’s w hy she had done it. For to think was t o dip the paint-loaded brush of doubt into the clear water of certainty. She had known the child could not be left alone at Blackhurst in the hands of Uncle Linus and Aunt Adeline, thus had she ac ted. She had fa iled Sammy, but she w ouldn’t fail again. What to do with Ivory now was another question, for surely Eliza couldn’t keep her. The child deserved more than that. She should have a father and mother, siblings, a happy home filled with love that would grant her memo ries for a lif etime. And yet Eliza couldn’t see what choice she had. The child must be kept fa r f rom C ornwall, t he r isk o therwise was t oo gr eat t hat she’d be discovered and taken straight back to Blackhurst. No, until Eliza thought of some better alternative, the girl must stay with her. At least for now. There were five days until the ship departed for Australia, f or Maryborough, w here Mary’s b rother li ved, a nd her Aunt Eleanor. Mary had given her an address and when she got there, Eliza intended to contact the Martin family. She would send word to Mary, of course; let her kno w what she had do ne. Eliza alr eady had her tic ket, b ooked under a fals e na me. S uperstitious, but when time had come to make the reservation she had been possessed, suddenly, by an overwhelming sensation that a clean break required a ne w na me. S he didn’t wa nt t o le ave a n im print o f her self at the booking office, a pa th between this world and that. So she had used a ps eudonym. A s troke of luck, as i t turned out. For t hey w ould co me lo oking. E liza kne w t oo m uch a bout t he origins of Rose’s child for Aunt Adeline to let her sli p so easily away. She must b e p repared t o hide . S he w ould f ind a n inn ne ar t he p ort, somewhere that would rent a room to a poor widow and her child, on their way to join family in the New World. Was it possible, she wondered, to purchase a tic ket for t he child at such short notice? Or w ould she find a way to board the girl wi thout drawing attention to her? 439


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Eliza looked across at the scrap of a child, slumbering in the corner of the train carriage. So vulnerable. She reached out slowly and stroked her cheek. Withdrew as t he girl f linched, wrinkled her li ttle nose and nestled her head further into the carriage corner. Ridiculous though it was, Eliza could see some of Rose in the child, in Ivory; Rose as a girl, when Eliza had f irst known her. The child would ask a fter her mother and father, and Eliza would tell her o ne day. Though w hich words she w ould f ind to explain she wasn’t sure. She noticed t hat t he fairy story t hat mig ht have done s o for her was no longer in the little girl’s collection. Someone had removed it. Nathaniel, Eliza suspected. Both Rose and Aunt Adeline would have destroyed t he w hole b ook; o nly N athaniel w ould p luck o ut t he o ne story in w hich he was im plicated, yet preserve the rest. She w ould wa it t o co ntact t he S windells un til t he v ery last, f or though Eliza couldn’t see how they might pose a threat, she knew better than to be too trusting. If an opportunity to profit was g limpsed, the Swindells w ould s eize u pon i t. E liza had co nsidered a t o ne p oint abandoning the visit, wondered whether perhaps the risk outweighed the reward, but she had decided t o t ake t he chance. She would need the gems from the brooch in order to pay her way in t he New World, and the plaited part was p recious. It was her fa mily, her past, her link to her s elf.

c As Adeline waited for Daisy’s return, time dragged slow and heavy like a petulant child at her skirt. It was Eliza’s fault that Rose was dead. Her unsanctioned visi t t hrough t he maze had p recipitated t he pl ans for New York, a nd t hus b rought f orward t he tr ip t o C arlisle. H ad E liza stayed on the other side of the estate as she had promised, Rose would never have been on that train. The door opened and Adeline drew breath. Finally, the servant was back, leaves in her ha ir, mud on her skir t, and yet she was alo ne. ‘Where is she?’ Adeline said. Was she searching already? Had Daisy used her own head for once and sent Eliza straight to the cove? ‘I don’t know, ma’am.’ ‘You don’t know?’ 440


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‘When I g ot to the cottage it were all lo cked up. I lo oked through the windows but there was no sign.’ ‘You should have waited a while. Perhaps she was in the village and would have returned soon.’ The girl was shakin g her in solent he ad. ‘I do n’t t hink s o, ma’am. Only t he f ire wer e ra ked cle an and t he shelves wer e em pty.’ D aisy blinked in t hat bovine way of hers. ‘I think she’s gone too, Ma’am.’ Then A deline under stood. And kno wledge he ated q uickly in to rage, and rage seared beneath her skin, filling her head with sharp red shots of pain. ‘Are you all r ight, my Lady? Should you sit down?’ No, Adeline didn’t need to sit down. Quite the contrary. She needed to see for herself. Witness the girl’s ingratitude. ‘Take me t hrough the maze, Daisy.’ ‘I don’t know my way through, ma’am. No one does. None excepting Davies. I w ent round the road way, up the cliff track.’ ‘Then fetch Newton and the carriage.’ ‘But it’ll be getting dark soon, ma’am.’ Adeline na rrowed her e yes a nd lif ted her sho ulders. En unciated clearly: ‘Fetch Newton now and bring me a la ntern.’

c The cottage was neat but not empty. The kitchen area was still hung with various co oking instruments but t he t able was wi ped clear. The coat hook by the door was bare. Adeline suffered a wave of illness and felt her l ungs contract. It was t hat girl’s lingering presence, thick and oppressive. She took the lantern and started up the narrow stairs. There were two rooms, the larger spartan but clean, containing the bed from the attic, an old quilt pulled tight across its surface. The other housed a desk and chair and a shelf full of books. The objects on the desk had been a rranged in to st acks. A deline p ressed her f ingers aga inst t he wooden top, and leaned forward a li ttle to see outside. The last colour of the day had broken over the sea, and the distant water rose and fell, gold and purple. Rose is go ne. The thought came fast a nd jagged. 441


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Here, alone, finally unobserved, Adeline could briefly stop pretending. She closed her e yes and the knots in her sho ulders dropped. She lo nged t o c url u p o n t he f loor, w ooden b oards smo oth a nd cool and real beneath her cheek, and never have to rise again. To sleep for a hundred years. To have no one looking to her for an example. To be able to breathe— ‘Lady M ountrachet? ’ N ewton’s v oice dr ifted u p t he st airs. ‘’ Tis growing dark, my Lady. The horses will have difficulty getting down if we don’t leave soon.’ Adeline drew a sha rp breath. Shoulders were wrenched back into position. ‘A minute.’ She opened her eyes and pressed a hand against her forehead. Rose was gone and Adeline would never recover, but there was f urther risk now. Though a part of Adeline longed to let Eliza and the girl disappear out of her lif e forever, things were more complicated than that. With Eliza a nd I vory missin g, s urely t ogether, A deline faced t he r isk t hat people mig ht le arn t he tr uth. Tha t E liza mig ht sp eak o f w hat t hey’d done. And that must not be allowed to happen. For Rose’s sake, for her memory, and for the Mountrachet family’s good name, Eliza must be found, returned, and silenced. Adeline’s gaze sw ept o nce mo re acr oss t he desk top a nd li t u pon the edge of a p iece of paper emerging from beneath a st ack of books. A w ord she r ecognised t hough a t f irst co uld no t p lace. S he p lucked the pa per f rom w here i t was lo dged. I t was a list o f s orts, made b y Eliza: things to be done before she lef t. At the bottom of the list was printed Swindell. A na me, A deline t hought, t hough she wasn ’t sur e how she k new. Her heart b eat faster as she f olded the piece of paper and tucked it in her p ocket. Adeline had f ound her link. The girl co uldn’t expect to sli p f rom no tice. S he w ould b e f ound, a nd t he c hild, Ros e’s c hild, brought back where she b elonged. And Adeline knew just whose help to enlist t o make it so.

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46 Polperro, 2005 Polperro, Cornwall, 2005

C

lara’s cottage was small and white, and clung to the edge of a rock sheer, a short walk uphill from a p ub called t he Buccaneer. ‘Want to do t he honours?’ asked Christian when they arrived. Cassandra no dded, b ut she didn ’t kno ck. S he had b een b eset, suddenly, by a wa ve of ner vous excitement. Her grandmother’s longlost sister was on the other side of the door. In just a few moments, the riddle t hat had p lagued N ell f or most o f her lif e w ould b e s olved. Cassandra glanced at Christian and thought again how pleased she was that he had co me with her. After R uby had lef t f or L ondon t hat mo rning, C assandra had waited f or him o n t he f ront st eps o f t he ho tel, c lutching her co py o f Eliza’s fa irytales. H e’d b rought his, t oo, a nd t hey’d dis covered t hat there was indeed a s tory missing f rom C assandra’s b ook. The ga p in the b inding was s o na rrow, t he c ut s o ne at, t hat C assandra hadn’t noticed i t b efore. E ven t he missin g pag e n umbers hadn’t dra wn her attention. The f igures w ere s o swirl y, s o ela borate t hat it w ould have taken a degr ee in p enmanship t o dis cern t he dif ference b etween 54 and 61. On t he dr ive t o Polperro, C assandra had r ead ‘ The G olden E gg’ aloud. A s she did s o, she’d b ecame mo re a nd mo re co nvinced t hat Christian was right, that the story was an allegory for Rose’s acquisition of her daughter. A fact which made her more certain than ever of what it was t hat Clara wished t o tell her. Poor Mary, forced to give up her f irst child then keep it a s ecret. No wonder she’d unburdened herself to her daughter in her final days. A lost c hild followed a mo ther all her lif e. 443


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Leo would be almost twelve now. ‘Are y ou o kay? ’ Chr istian was wa tching her, a f rown o f co ncern narrowing his e yes. ‘Yeah,’ said Cassandra, folding away her memories. ‘I’m okay.’ And, as she smiled a t him, i t didn’t feel so much a lie as usual .

c She lifted her hand and was about to rap on the knocker when the door flew o pen. S tanding in t he lo w a nd na rrow f rame was a p lump o ld woman whose apron, tied a round her middle , gave the impression of a body formed by two balls of dough. ‘I seen y ou standing there,’ she said, gr inning, f inger c urled t o p oint a t t hem, ‘and I s ays t o m yself, “They must be my young guests.” Now come on in, the two of you, and I’ll make us all a nice c up of tea.’ Christian sat beside Cassandra on the floral sofa and they juggled patchwork c ushions b etween t hem t o mak e r oom. H e lo oked s o hopelessly oversized amongst such dainty adornments that Cassandra had to fight the urge to laugh. A y ellow t eapot o ccupied p ride o f p lace o n t he s eachest in t he lounge room, shrouded in a kni tted cosy sha ped like a hen. I t looked remarkably lik e Cla ra, C assandra t hought: small aler t e yes, a p lump body, sharp little mouth. Clara fetched a t hird cup and strained leaf tea into each. ‘My own special blend,’ she said. ‘Three parts Breakfast, one part Earl Grey.’ She peered over her half-glasses. ‘English Breakfast, that is.’ When the milk was added she e ased herself into the armchair by the fire. ‘’Bout time I gave my p oor o ld f eet a r est. B een o n t hem all da y, o rganising t he stalls for the harbour festival.’ ‘Thanks for seeing me,’ said Cassandra. ‘This is my friend Christian.’ Christian r eached acr oss t he s eachest t o shak e Cla ra’s ha nd a nd she blushed. ‘Pleasure t o meet y ou, I ’m s ure.’ S he t ook a si p o f t ea, t hen nodded t owards C assandra. ‘ The m useum lad y, R uby, t old me about y our gra ndma,’ she s aid. ‘ The o ne w hat didn’t kno w w ho her parents were.’ 444


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‘Nell,’ s aid C assandra. ‘ That was her na me. My gr eat-grandfather Hugh f ound her w hen she was a li ttle girl , si tting o n t op o f a w hite suitcase on the Maryborough wharf. He was port master and a ship—’ ‘Maryborough, you say?’ Cassandra nodded. ‘Now that’s a co incidence, that is. I ’ve got family in a p lace called Maryborough. In the Queen’s land.’ ‘Queensland.’ Cassandra leaned forward. ‘Which family?’ ‘My m um’s b rother mo ved t here w hen he was a y oung f ellow. Raised his children, my cousins.’ She cackled. ‘Mum used to say they’d settled there for her na me’s sake.’ Cassandra g lanced at Chr istian. Was t hat w hy E liza had p ut Nell on that particular ship? Was she returning her to Mary’s family, to Nell’s own true family? Rather than take the child to Polperro and risk having local p eople r ecognise her as I vory M ountrachet, had she o pted f or Mary’s fa raway b rother? C assandra susp ected t hat C lara held t he answer, all she needed was n udging in t he right direction. ‘Your mo ther, M ary, us ed t o w ork a t B lackhurst M anor, didn’t she?’ Clara swallowed a la rge gul p o f t ea. ‘ Worked t here until she was given her ma rching orders, 1909 t hat was. S he’d b een there since she was but a girl , ne ar on ten years. L et go for b eing in t he family way.’ Clara lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Wasn’t married, you see, and in those da ys t hat wasn’t t he do ne t hing. B ut she wasn ’t a bad girl , m y mum. S he was stra ight as a p ound of candles. S he and my dad w ere married in the end, right and proper. Would’ve done so before only he was struck down with the pneumonia. Nearly didn’t make it to his own wedding. That’s when they moved here to Polperro, they came into a little bit of money and started the butchery.’ She picked up a small r ectangular b ook f rom b eside t he tea tray. The cover was decorated with wrapping paper and fabric and buttons, and w hen Cla ra o pened i t C assandra r ealised i t was a p hoto alb um. Clara turned to a page that had been marked with a ribbon and handed it across the seachest. ‘That there’s my mum.’ Cassandra looked at the young woman with wild curls and wilder curves, trying to see Nell in her features. There was perhaps something of Nell about the mouth, a smile that played on her lips when she least 445


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intended. Then aga in, t hat was t he na ture o f p hotos: t he lo nger Cassandra lo oked, t he mo re she s eemed t o s ee s omething o f A unt Phylly about the nose and eyes! She handed the album to Christian and smiled a t Clara. ‘She was very pretty, wasn’t she? ’ ‘Oh y es,’ s aid Cla ra with a s aucy wink. ‘ Quite t he lo oker was m y mum. Too pretty for service.’ ‘Did she enjoy her time at Blackhurst, do you know? Was she sorry to leave?’ ‘She was g lad to leave the house, but sad to leave her mistr ess.’ This was ne w. ‘She and Rose were close?’ Clara sho ok her he ad. ‘ I do n’t kno w a bout no Ros e. It was E liza she used to talk about. Miss Eliza this, Miss Eliza that.’ ‘But Eliza wasn’t the mistress of Blackhurst Manor.’ ‘Well not officially, no, but she was always the apple of my mum’s eye. She used to say Miss Eliza was the only spark of life in a de ad place.’ ‘Why did she t hink it a de ad place?’ ‘Those t hat li ved t here w ere lik e t he de ad, m y m um s aid. All gloomy f or one reason or a nother. All wa nting t hings t hey shouldn’t or couldn’t have.’ Cassandra pondered on this insight into life at Blackhurst Manor. It wasn’t the impression she’d formed from reading Rose’s scrapbooks, though certainly Rose, with her focus on new dresses and the adventures of her co usin E liza, p rovided o nly o ne v oice in a ho use t hat must’ve echoed with others. That was the nature of history, of course: notional, partial, unknowable, a record made by the victors. ‘Her b osses, t he lo rd a nd lad y, w ere e ach as nasty as t he o ther according to my mum. They got theirs in t he end t hough, didn’t they.’ Cassandra frowned. ‘Who did? ’ ‘Him’n’her. Lord and Lady Mountrachet. She died a mo nth or two after her daughter, poisoning of the blood, it was.’ Clara shook her head and lo wered her v oice co nspiratorially, almost g leefully. ‘ Very nasty. My mum heard tell from the servants that she was a f right in her last days. Face all contorted so that she looked to be grinning like a ghoul, escaping from her sickbed to lurch along the hallways with a great ring of k eys in ha nd, lo cking all t he do ors a nd ra ving a bout s ome s ecret 446


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that no o ne must know. Mad as a ha tter she was in t he end, and him not much better.’ ‘Lord Mountrachet got blood poisoning too?’ ‘Oh no, no, not him. Lost his fortune making trips to foreign places.’ She lo wered her v oice. ‘ Voodoo p laces. The y s ay he b rought bac k souvenirs that’d make your hair stand on end. Went quite queer by all accounts. The staff left, all but one kitchen maid and a gardener who’d been there all his life. According to my mum, when the old boy finally died there was no ne there to f ind him f or days.’ Clara smiled s o that her eyes concertinaed shut. ‘Eliza got away though, didn’t she, and that’s the t hing. Travelled across t he s ea, my mum s aid. She was al ways s o glad about that.’ ‘Not to Australia though,’ said Cassandra. ‘I don’t know where, truth be told,’ said Clara. ‘I only know what my mum told me: that Eliza got herself away from the horrid house in time. Went away like she’d always planned and never came back.’ She held aloft a f inger. ‘ That’s w here t hose sk etches ca me f rom, t he ones the museum lady was so taken with. They were hers, Eliza’s. They were amongst her t hings.’ It was o n t he ti p o f C assandra’s t ongue t o ask w hether M ary had t aken t hem f rom E liza, w hen she ca ught herself. Re alised t hat it might b e co nstrued as bad ma nners t o sug gest t his w oman’s de arly departed mo ther had t hieved val uable a rtwork f rom her em ployer. ‘Which things?’ ‘The boxes my mum bought.’ Now C assandra r eally was co nfused. ‘ She b ought s ome b oxes from Eliza?’ ‘Not from Eliza. Of Eliza’s. After she was g one.’ ‘Who did she b uy them from?’ ‘It was a b ig s ale. I r emember it myself. My mum took me w hen I was a girl . It was 1935 a nd I was f ifteen years old. After the old lord finally died , a dist ant family member f rom up S cotland way decided to sell the estate, hoping to raise some money during the Depression, I don’t doubt. Anyhow, my mum read about it in t he newspaper and saw that they were planning on selling some of the smaller items, too. I think it gave her pleasure to think she might own a little piece of the place where she’d been treated so poor. She took me along because she 447


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said it’d do me g ood to see where she’d started out. Make me thankful that I wasn’t in s ervice, encourage me to try harder at school so that I might have more than she did. Can’t say it worked, but it certainly did shock me . F irst time I ’d s een a nything lik e i t. I ’d no ide a t here w ere some that lived like that. You don’t see much that’s grand around these parts.’ She gave a nod to signal her approval of this state of affairs, then paused and gazed t owards the ceiling. ‘Now, where was I? ’ ‘You w ere t elling us a bout t he b oxes,’ p rompted Chr istian. ‘ The ones your mother bought from Blackhurst.’ She lif ted a q uivering f inger. ‘ That’s r ight, f rom t he ma nor u p Tregenna way. You should’ve seen the look on her face w hen she s aw them. Sitting on a table with other odds and ends—lamps, paperweights, books and the like. Didn’t look much to me, but Mum knew right away they were Eliza’s. She took my hand, first time in my life, I reckon, and it was almost lik e she co uldn’t g et eno ugh a ir. I ac tually st arted t o worry, thought I should get her t o a c hair, but she w ouldn’t hear of it. She s eized u pon t hose b oxes. It was lik e she was f rightened t o walk away in cas e s omeone els e sho uld b uy t hem. Didn’t s eem lik ely t o me—as I already said, they didn’t look like much—but beauty’s in t he eye of the beholder, isn’t it?’ ‘And the Nathaniel Walker sketches were in the box?’ said Cassandra. ‘In with Eliza’s things?’ Clara nodded. ‘It’s strange, now I r ecollect it. Mum was s o happy to b uy t hem, b ut w hen w e g ot ho me she had m y dad ca rry t hem upstairs for her, put them in t he attic, and that was t he last I he ard of them. Not that I t hought much of it then. I was f ifteen. Probably had my eye on a lo cal lad a nd couldn’t care less a bout some old boxes my mum had b ought. U ntil she mo ved in her e wi th me , t hat is, a nd I noticed that the boxes came with her. Now that was f unny, and really showed what they meant to her, because she didn’t bring much. And it was w hen we were here together that she f inally told me w hat they were, why they were so important.’ Cassandra remembered Ruby’s account of the room upstairs, still full of Mary’s personal items. What other precious clues might be there now, buried in b oxes, never to be seen? She swallowed. ‘Did you ever look inside?’ 448


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Clara t ook a si p o f t ea, sur ely co ld b y no w, a nd f iddled wi th t he cup’s handle. ‘I must admit I did .’ Cassandra’s heart was t humping; she shif ted forward. ‘And?’ ‘Books mainly, a lamp, like I said.’ She paused, and a crimson flush cherried her c heeks. ‘Was there something else?’ Gently, oh so gently. Clara moved the toe of her sli pper across the carpet. She watched its progress before looking up. ‘I found a letter in there too, right near the top. Addressed to my mum it was, written by a publisher in London. Gave me t he sho ck of my life. I’d ne ver t hought of Mum as a wr iter.’ Clara cackled. ‘And she wasn’t, of course.’ ‘What was the letter then?’ said Christian. ‘Why had the publisher written to your mum?’ Clara blinked. ‘Well now, it s eems my mum must’ve s ent off one of E liza’s st ories. F rom w hat I co uld t ell f rom t he let ter, she m ust’ve found i t in t he b ox, a mongst E liza’s t hings, a nd f igured i t des erved reading. Turns out Eliza’d written it just before she left on her adventure. Nice story it was, f ull of hope and happy endings.’ Cassandra t hought of t he p hotocopied article in N ell’s notebook. ‘“The Cuckoo’s Flight”,’ she s aid. ‘That’s the one,’ said Clara, as p leased as if she ’d written the story herself. ‘You’ve read it then?’ ‘I’ve read of it, but I ha ven’t seen the story itself. It was p ublished years after the rest.’ ‘That’d be right. It was 1936 acco rding to the letter sent. My mum would’ve been real pleased with herself about that letter. She would’ve felt she’d done something for Eliza. She missed her after she was g one and that’s a fac t.’ Cassandra no dded, she co uld almos t t aste t he s olution t o N ell’s mystery. ‘They had a b ond, didn’t they?’ ‘That they did.’ ‘What do y ou think it was t hat tied t hem together like that? ’ She bit her li p, paced her self. Clara kno tted her gna rled f ingers in her la p a nd lo wered her voice. ‘ The tw o o f t hem w ere pa rty t o s omething t hat no o ne els e knew about.’ 449


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Something inside C assandra released. Her voice was fa int. ‘What was it? What did y our mum tell you?’ ‘It was in my mum’s last days. She kept saying something awful had been done and those what had done it thought they’d got away with it. She said it over and over.’ ‘And what do y ou think she me ant?’ ‘At first I didn’t think much of it at all. She was often saying strange things towards the end. Insulting our dear old friends. She really wasn’t herself a ny mo re. B ut she w ent o n a nd o n. “ It’s all in t he s tory,” she kept saying. “They took it from the young girl and made her go without.” I didn’t know what she was talking about, what story she was on about. And in the end it didn’t matter, she told me straight.’ Clara drew breath, shook her he ad s adly a t C assandra. ‘ Rose M ountrachet wasn’t t he mother of that little girl, of your grandmother.’ Cassandra sighed with relief. Finally, the truth. ‘I know,’ she s aid, taking Cla ra’s ha nds. ‘ Nell was M ary’s ba by, t he p regnancy t hat g ot her fired.’ Clara’s exp ression was dif ficult t o r ead. S he lo oked b etween Christian and C assandra, e yes twitching at t he corners, blinked confusedly then started to laugh. ‘What? ’ s aid C assandra, with s ome ala rm. ‘ What’s s o f unny? Are you all r ight?’ ‘My mum was p regnant, t hat’s r ight enough, but she ne ver had a baby. Not then. She lost i t around twelve weeks.’ ‘What?’ ‘That’s w hat I ’m tr ying t o t ell y ou. N ell wasn’t M um’s ba by, she was Eliza’s.’

c ‘Eliza was pregnant.’ Cassandra unwrapped her scarf and put it on top of her bag o n the floor of the car. ‘Eliza was p regnant.’ Chr istian t apped his g loved ha nds o n t he steering wheel. The car heating was turned on and the radiator whirred and ticked as t hey lef t P olperro b ehind t hem. The f og had co me in w hile t hey 450


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were visiting Clara, and all t he way along the coast road muffled boat lights bobbed on the ghostly tide. Cassandra st ared b lankly ahe ad, her b rain as f oggy as t he w orld outside t he winds creen. ‘ Eliza was p regnant. S he was N ell’s mo ther. That’s why Eliza took her.’ Perhaps if she said it enough times, it would make more sense. ‘That seems to be about it.’ She leaned her he ad to one side and rubbed her neck. ‘But I don’t understand. It all added u p b efore, w hen i t was M ary. N ow t hat i t’s Eliza . . . I ca n’t see how Rose ended u p with Ivory. Why did E liza let her keep her? And ho w did no o ne ever find out?’ ‘Except Mary.’ ‘Except Mary.’ ‘I suppose they kept it quiet.’ ‘Eliza’s family?’ He nodded. ‘She was single, young, their ward so their responsibility, and then she f ell pregnant. It wouldn’t have looked good.’ ‘Who was t he father?’ Christian shrugged. ‘Some local guy? Did she ha ve a b oyfriend?’ ‘I don’t know. She was friends with Mary’s brother William; it says so in N ell’s no tebook. The y w ere c lose un til t hey had s ome kind o f argument. Maybe it was him.’ ‘Who knows? I suppose it doesn’t really matter.’ He glanced at her. ‘I mean, it does, of course, to Nell and to you, but for the sake of this argument, all t hat matters is t hat she was p regnant and Rose wasn’t.’ ‘So they convinced Eliza to give her ba by to Rose.’ ‘It would have been easier for everyone.’ ‘That’s debatable.’ ‘I mean socially. Then Ros e died—’ ‘And E liza t ook her c hild bac k. Tha t mak es s ense.’ C assandra watched the fog billowing amongst the long grass on the roadside. ‘But why didn’t she g o o n t he shi p t o Australia wi th N ell? W hy w ould a woman take back her c hild, then send her o n a lo ng and treacherous journey to a foreign land, alone?’ Cassandra sighed heavily. ‘It’s like the closer we get, the more tangled the web becomes.’ ‘Maybe she did go with her. Maybe something happened to her en route, illness o f some kind. Clara seemed certain that she w ent.’ 451


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‘But Nell remembered E liza putting her o n t he b oat and telling her t o wa it, le aving a nd t hen no t co ming bac k. I t was o ne o f t he only t hings she was sure a bout.’ C assandra c hewed her t humbnail. ‘How b loody f rustrating. I t hought w e’d b e g etting a nswers t oday, not more questions.’ ‘One thing’s for sure, “ The Golden Egg” wasn’t about Mary: Eliza wrote it about herself. She was t he maiden in t he cottage.’ ‘Poor Eliza,’ said Cassandra, as the gloomy world drifted by outside. ‘The maiden’s life after she gi ves away the egg is s o . . .’ ‘Desolate.’ ‘Yes.’ C assandra shi vered. S he under stood loss t hat t ook a way a person’s very purpose, left her paler, lighter, emptier. ‘No wonder she took N ell bac k w hen she had t he c hance.’ W hat w ouldn’t C assandra have done for a s econd chance? ‘Which b rings us f ull cir cle: if she ’d j ust r eclaimed her da ughter, why didn’t Eliza go with her o n the boat?’ Cassandra shook her he ad. ‘I don’t know. It makes no s ense.’ They drove past the sign welcoming them to Tregenna and Christian turned off the main road. ‘You know what I r eckon?’ ‘What’s that?’ said Cassandra. ‘We should get some late lunch at the pub, talk it over some more. See if w e can’t figure it out. I’m sure beer will hel p us.’ Cassandra smiled . ‘ Yeah, I usuall y f ind b eer j ust t he t hing t o make my mind nim ble. All r ight if w e stop by t he hotel s o I ca n get my jacket?’ Christian took the high road through the woods and turned into the entrance to the Hotel Blackhurst. Fog lurked still and moist in the gullies of the driveway, and he w ent carefully. ‘Back in a s ec,’ said Cassandra, slamming the car door behind her. She ran up t he st airs and into t he foyer. ‘Hi Sam,’ she called , waving at the receptionist. ‘Hiya Cass. There’s someone here to see you.’ Cassandra stopped mid-flight. ‘Robyn J ameson’s b een wa iting in t he lo unge f or t he past half hour or so.’ Cassandra glanced back outside. Christian’s attention was absorbed in t uning his ca r radio . H e w ouldn’t mind wa iting a n extra min ute. 452


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Cassandra co uldn’t t hink w hat Rob yn mig ht have t o t ell her b ut she didn’t imagine i t would take much time. ‘Well hello,’ s aid Rob yn, w hen she noticed C assandra’s a pproach. ‘A li ttle b irdie t ells me y ou’ve sp ent t he mo rning c hatting wi th m y second cousin Clara.’ The netw ork o f co untry g ossip was p retty im pressive. ‘ I ha ve indeed.’ ‘I trust you had a lo vely time.’ ‘I did, thanks. I ho pe you haven’t been waiting too long.’ ‘Not at all. I have something for you. I suppose I could have left it at the desk, b ut I t hought it might require a li ttle explanation.’ Cassandra raised her e yebrows as Robyn continued. ‘I went to visit my dad at the weekend, up at the retirement home. He likes to hear all about the comings and goings in the old village—he was postmaster once, you know—and I happened to mention that you were here, restoring the cottage that your grandma left you, up there on the cliff. Funniest look came across Dad’s face. He may be old, but he’s sharp as a tack, just like his own dad before him. He took my arm and told me t here was a let ter needed t o be returned to you.’ ‘To me?’ ‘To your grandma more properly, but seeing as she’s no longer with us, to you.’ ‘What sort of letter?’ ‘When your grandma left Tregenna, she w ent to see my dad. Told him she’d be returning to take up residence at Cliff Cottage and he was to hold any mail for her. She was very clear about it, he s aid, so when a letter arrived he did as she ask ed and kept it at the post office. Every few months or so he took the letter up the hill, but the old cottage was always des erted. The b rambles gr ew, t he d ust s ettled, a nd t he p lace looked less and less inhabited. Eventually he stopped going. His knees were giving him trouble and he figured your grandma would come and see him w hen she g ot bac k. Or dinarily he’d ha ve r eturned i t t o t he sender, b ut y our gra ndma had b een v ery def inite, s o he t ucked t he letter away and kept it all t hat time. ‘He t old me I was t o g o do wn t o t he cella r w here his t hings a re stored a nd p ull o ut t he b ox o f lost let ters. That in a mongst t hem I ’d 453


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find one addressed to Nell Andrews, Tregenna Inn, received November 1975. And he was r ight. It was t here waiting.’ She reached into her handbag and withdrew a small grey envelope, gave i t t o C assandra. The pa per was c heap, s o t hin i t was almos t transparent. It was addr essed in o ld-fashioned wr iting, rather messy, first t o a ho tel in L ondon, t hen r edirected t o t he T regenna I nn. Cassandra flipped the envelope. There, in the same hand, was written: Sender, Miss Harriet Swindell, 37 Battersea Church Road, London, SW11. Cassandra r emembered N ell’s no tebook en try. H arriet S windell was t he woman she had visi ted in L ondon, t he o ld woman w ho had been b orn a nd gr own u p in t he s ame ho use as E liza. W hy had she written to Nell? Fingers trembling, Cassandra opened the envelope. The thin paper tore softly. She unfolded the letter and began to read. 3rd November 1975 Dear Mrs Andrews, Well I don’t mind saying that ever since you made your visit, asking about the fairytale lady, I’ve been hard-pressed to think of much else. You’ll find it yourself when you get to my age—the past turns into something of an old f riend. Th e so rt wh o a rrives u ninvited a nd r efuses t o le ave. I do remember her, you see, I remember her well, only you caught me unawares with yo ur v isit, t urning u p o n t he doo rstep r ight as i t was o n t eatime. I weren’t sure whether I felt like talking over the old days with a stranger. My niece Nancy tells me that I ought though, that it all happened so long ago it hardly matters now, so I ’ve decided to write to you as yo u asked. For Eliza Makepeace did return to visit with my Ma. Only the once, mind you, but I recall it well enough. I were sixteen at the time, and that’s how I know it must of been 1913. I remember thinking there was something strange about her from the first. She might of had the clean clothes of a lady, but there was something about her that didn’t quite fit. More rightly, there was so mething about her that did fit with us at 35 Battersea Church Road. Something that set her apart from the other fancy Ladies what might be se en in the streets back then. She came through the door and into the shop, a b it agitated 454


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it se emed t o m e, as i f s he was i n a h urry a nd d idn’t wa nt t o be se en. Suspicious, like. She nodded a t my Ma as if they was known, one to the other, and Ma, for her part, gave her a smile, a sight the likes of which I never seen too often. Whoever this lady was, I thought to myself, my Ma must of known she could make a quid off her acquaintance. Her voice, when she spoke, was clear and musical—that was the first sign to me that I might of met her before. It was familiar somehow. That voice was t he sort what children like to listen to, what speaks of fairies and sprites and leaves no doubt in the mind as t o their truth. She thanked my Ma for seeing her and said she was leaving England and wouldn’t be back for some years. I remember she were awful keen to go upstairs and visit the room she used to live in, horrid little room at the top of the house. Cold, it was, w ith a f ireplace what never worked, and da rk, n ot a w indow t o be s poke o f. B ut s he sa id i t was f or o ld times’ sake. It so h appened t hat M a d idn’t h ave a t enant a t t he t ime—nasty dispute about rent owing—so she were glad enough to let the lady make a visit. Ma told her to go upstairs and take her time, even put the kettle on to boil. As unlike my Ma as yo u could find. Ma watched as she climbed those stairs, then she beckoned me quick. Get upstairs after her, Ma said, and make sure she don’t come down too soon. I was use d to Ma’s instructions, and her punishments if I r efused, so I d id what she said and followed the lady upstairs. By th e tim e I g ot to th e l anding, sh e’d pu lled th e d oor to th e r oom closed behind her. I could of just sat where I was and made sure she didn’t decide to return downstairs too fast, but I were curious. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why she’d of closed the door. Like I sa id, there was no windows in that room and the door was t he only way to let light in. There were a h ole in the bottom of that door, eaten by rats, so I la y down on my stomach, f lat as can be, and I watched her. I watched her as she stood in the middle of the room, turning around to take it all in, and I watched as she went to the old, broken fireplace. Sat herself down on the ledge, she did, and reached her arm up inside, then sat like that for what seemed an age. Finally, she withdrew her arm, and in her hand was a small clay pot. I must of made a sound then—I was that surprised— for s he loo ked u p, eye s w ide. I h eld m y b reath a nd a fter a t ime s he returned her attention to the pot, held it to her ear and gave it a l ittle 455


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shake. I could tell by her face she were pleased with what she heard. Then she tuc ked i t i nside a specia l poc ket wha t wer e s ewn i nto her d ress somehow and started towards the door. I hurried down then and told my Ma that she were coming. I was surprised to s ee th at Tom, my lit tle brother, w ere stan ding at th e d oor, heaving great sighs as if he’d run some distance, but I didn’t have time to ask wh ere h e’d be en. M a wer e wa tching t he s tairs, so I d id t he sa me. Down the lady started, thanking my Ma for letting her visit and saying that she couldn’t stay for tea, as time was pressing. Then she reached the bottom and I saw there were a man standing in the shadows at the side of the stairs. A man with funny little spectacles— the type what don’t have arms, just a l ittle bridging piece what pinches the nose. He were holding a sponge in his hand, and when she got to the bottom step he clamped it under her nose and she collapsed. Instant like, crumpled into his arms. I must of hollered out then, because I e arned a slap across the face from my Ma. The man ignored me and dragged the lady to the door. With Pa’s help he lifted her into the carriage, then he nodded at my Ma, handed her an envelope from his breast pocket, and away they went. I go t a c lip a round t he e ars la ter, wh en I t old my Ma a ll wh at I ’d seen. W hy d idn’t yo u t ell m e, yo u s tupid g irl, sa id my Ma. It c ould o f been valuable. We might of had it for our troubles. It wouldn’t of done to remind my Ma that the man with the black horses had already paid her handsome for the lady. As far as my Ma were concerned, there were never enough coin to be had. I n ever se en t he la dy a gain a nd I do n’t k now wh at be come o f h er after she left us. Th ere was a lways things happening on our bend of the river, things what didn’t bear remembering. I don’t know much that this letter will help you with your research, but Nancy said it was as we ll to talk to you as n ot. So that is wh at I’ve done. I hope yo u find what it is you’re looking for. Yours, Miss Harriet Swindell

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T

he Fairyland Lustre vase had al ways been her fa vourite. Nell had found it at a trash a nd treasure stall decades before. Any antiques dealer worth her s alt would have known its worth, but the Fairyland Lustre vase was different. It wasn’t the material value, though that was high enough, it was what it represented: the first time Nell had str uck gold in unlik ely sur roundings. And lik e a g old miner w ho k eeps his first nugget w hatever i ts val ue, Nell had b een unwilling t o pa rt wi th the vase. She kept it wrapped in a t owel, stowed safely in the dark corner at the very top of her linen c upboard, and every so often she would pull it o ut a nd un wrap i t, j ust t o t ake a p eek. Its b eauty, t he deep gr een leaves painted on the side, the gold threads running through the design, the Art Nouveau fairies hidden amongst the foliage, had the power to cool her skin. Nonetheless Nell was r esolute: she had r eached a p oint where she could live without her vase. Could live without all her precious things. She’d made a choice and that was that. She wrapped the vase in another layer of newspaper and placed it gently in the box with the others. Up to the shop on Monday and priced to sell. And if she had twin ges or regrets, she just had to focus on the end result: having sufficient funds to start afresh in Tregenna. She was itching to return. Her mystery grew ever more perplexing. She had heard, finally, from the detective, Ned Morrish. He’d conducted his investigation and sent her a report. Nell had been in the shop when it arrived; a ne w customer, Ben Something-or-other, had b rought the letter in wi th him w hen he ca me. When Nell saw the foreign stamps, 457


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the handwriting on the front, neat and flat at the bottom, as if wr itten along a r uler’s edge, she’d felt a f lush b eneath her skin. I t was all she could do no t t o t ear i t o pen wi th her t eeth, t hen a nd t here. S he’d retained her co mposure t hough, made her ex cuses w hen i t s eemed polite, and taken the letter into the little back kitchenette. The report was b rief, had o nly taken Nell a co uple of minutes to read, a nd i ts co ntents lef t her mo re co nfused t han e ver. A ccording to Mr M orrish’s in vestigations, E liza M akepeace had g one no where in 1909 o r 1910. S he had b een a t t he co ttage t he w hole time . H e’d included various do cuments to support t his ass ertion—an interview conducted with someone who claimed to have worked at Blackhurst, various correspondence she’d had with a publisher in London, all sent and received via Clif f C ottage—but Nell hadn’t read those, not until later. She’d been too surprised by the news that Eliza hadn’t gone away. That she’d been there all along, in the cottage the entire time. William had been so certain. She’d slipped from public sight, he said, for twelve months o r s o. W hen she r eturned she’d b een dif ferent, s ome s park had been missing. Nell couldn’t understand how William’s memories could b e made t o t ally wi th M r Morrish’s dis covery. As s oon as she got back to Cornwall she would speak with William again. See whether he had a ny ideas. Nell wiped the back of her ha nd across her f orehead. A stink er of a day, but that was B risbane in January. The skies mig ht be glistening blue lik e a do me o f f ine, f lawless g lass, b ut t here’d b e a s torm la ter tonight, t here was no do ubting t hat. N ell had li ved lo ng eno ugh t o know when angry clouds were thickening in t he wings. Down in the street, Nell heard a car slow. She didn’t recognise it as one of her neighbours’ vehicles: too loud for Howard’s Mini, too highpitched for the Hogans’ big Ford. There was a dr eadful din as t he car mounted t he kerb t oo sharply. Nell sho ok her he ad, g lad she’d ne ver learned t o dr ive, ne ver had need o f a ca r. The y s eemed t o b ring o ut the worst in p eople. Whiskers sat upright and arched her back. Now the cats Nell would miss. She’d have happily taken them with her, but feeding other people’s cats was o ne thing, abducting them quite another. ‘Hey there nosy,’ said Nell, tickling the cat beneath her chin. ‘Don’t you go worrying about that noisy old car.’ 458


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Whiskers miaowed and leapt from the table, glanced at Nell. ‘What? You t hink t here’s s omeone her e t o s ee us? C an’t t hink who, m’dear. We’re not exactly social central, in cas e the fact escaped your notice.’ The ca t sl unk acr oss t he f loor a nd o ut o f t he bac k do or. N ell dropped t he pile of ne wspaper. ‘Oh, all r ight, mada m,’ she s aid, ‘ you win. I ’ll ha ve a ga nder.’ S he s cratched W hiskers’s bac k as t hey w ent along the narrow concrete path. ‘Think you’re clever, don’t you, bending me to your will—’ Nell s topped a t t he bac k co rner o f t he ho use. The ca r, a st ation wagon, had indeed st opped outside her p lace. Coming up the cement path was a w oman w earing la rge b ronze sun glasses a nd tin y sho rts. Lagging behind was a skinn y child with slumped shoulders. They stood, all t hree, regarding one another for a time . Finally Nell found her voice, if not the words she wished to speak. ‘I thought you agreed to call f irst in f uture.’ ‘Good to s ee you too, Mum,’ L esley s aid, and t hen she r olled her eyes the way she had as a f ifteen year old. It had b een an infuriating habit then, as was i t now. Nell felt the old grievances resurfacing. She’d been a p oor mother to Lesley, she knew that, but it was too late now to make amends. What was do ne was do ne a nd L esley had t urned o ut all r ight. Had t urned out, at any rate. ‘I’m in t he middle o f s orting b oxes for auction,’ s aid Nell, swallowing the lump in her throat. This wasn’t the time to mention the move to England. ‘I’ve things everywhere, there’s no r oom to sit.’ ‘We’ll ma nage.’ L esley f licked her f ingers in t he girl ’s dir ection. ‘Your granddaughter’s thirsty, it’s bloody hot out here.’ Nell lo oked a t t he girl , her gra nddaughter. L ong lim bs, knobb ly knees, head bowed to avoid notice. There was no doubt about it, some children w ere s ent in to t he w orld wi th mo re t han t heir fa ir sha re o f difficulties. Of all t hings, her mind t ossed up an image then of Christian, the little boy she’d discovered in her C ornish garden. The mo therless boy with t he e arnest brown e yes. D oes your granddaughter like gardens? he’d asked, and she, Nell, had no t known how to answer. ‘All right then,’ she s aid, ‘you’d better come inside.’

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H

orses’ hooves thundered against the cold, dry earth, charging west towards B lackhurst, b ut E liza didn’t he ar t hem. M r M ansell’s sponge had done its work and she was los t in a f og of chloroform, her body slumped in t he dark corner of the carriage . . . Rose’s voice, soft and broken: ‘There is so mething I n eed, something only yo u c an do . My bod y f ails m e as i t h as a lways do ne, b ut yo urs, Cousin, is s trong. I n eed you to have a c hild for me, Nathaniel’s child.’ And Eliza, who had waited so long, who wanted so desperately to be needed, who had always known herself a half in search of a double, didn’t have to think. ‘Of course,’ she’d said. ‘Of course I’ll help you, Rose.’ He came every night for a we ek. Aunt Adeline, with Dr M atthews’s counsel, calculated the dates and Nathaniel did as he was bidden. Made his way through the maze, around the side of the cottage, and up to Eliza’s front door. On t he f irst n ight, El iza wa ited i nside, pa cing t he k itchen f loor, wondering whether he would arrive, whether she should have prepared something. Wondering h ow pe ople be haved a t s uch a t ime. S he h ad agreed to Rose’s request without hesitation, and in the weeks that followed had thought little about what the commitment would involve. She had been t oo f ull o f g ratitude t hat Ro se f inally n eeded h er. I t was o nly as the da y d rew n earer t hat s he be gan t o c ontemplate t he h ypothetical becoming actual. And yet, there was nothing she would not do for Rose. She told herself over a nd o ver t hat h er a ctions wo uld c ement t heir bo nd f orever, n o matter how hideous the unknown act might be. I t became a m antra of sorts, an incantation. She and Rose would be tied like never before. Rose 460


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would love her more than she ever h ad, would not dispense with her so easily again. It was a ll for Rose. When t he k nock c ame t hat f irst n ight, El iza r epeated t he m antra, opened the door and let Nathaniel inside. He stood for a ti me i n the hall way, la rger tha n s he r emembered, darker, until Eliza indicated the coat hook. He removed his outer layer, then he smiled at her, almost gratefully. It was t hen that she realised he was as d isquieted as s he. He followed her to the kitchen, g ravitated towards the security, the solidity, of the table, leaned on the back of a c hair. Eliza stood on the other side, w iped clean hands against her skirts, wondered what to say, how to proceed. It was best, surely, to do what was necessary and be do ne w ith it. Th ere was n o point in drawing out t he discomfort. She op ened he r mouth to s ay a s m uch but N athaniel w as already speaking— ‘—thought yo u m ight l ike t o se e. I ’ve be en wo rking o n t hem a ll month.’ She noticed then that he carried with him a le ather satchel. He laid it on the table and slid a stack of papers from within. Sketches, Eliza realised. ‘I started with “ The Fairy Hunt”.’ He thrust a s heet of paper before Eliza, a nd wh en s he t ook i t f rom h im, s he sa w t hat h is h ands wer e quivering. Eliza’s gaze f ell t o t he ill ustration: b lack s trokes, cr oss-hatched shadows. A pale, thin woman reclined on a low bed in a cold, dark turret. The woman’s face had been spun from lean, long lines. She was beautiful, magical, e lusive, j ust as El iza’s f airytale de scribed h er. A nd ye t, i t was something el se in N athaniel’s r endering of th e hun ted fair y’s fa ce th at struck Eliza. The woman in the picture looked like Mother. Not literally, it was something more and less than the curve of her lips, the cool almond eyes, the high cheekbones. In some indescribable way, by some form of magic, Nathaniel had captured Georgiana in his depiction of the fairy’s lifeless lim bs, he r w eariness, the uncha racteristic r esignation in he r features. Strangest of all, it was t he first time Eliza had realised that in her story of the hunted fairy she had been describing her own mother. 461


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She gla nced u p a t h im, sc anned t he da rk eye s t hat h ad loo ked somehow inside her soul. As he held her gaze, the firelight was suddenly warmer between them.

c Circumstance heightened ever ything. Their voices were too loud, their movements too sudden, the air too cool. The act was not hideous as she had feared, nor was i t ordinary. And there was so mething unexpected in its per formance which she couldn’t help but savour. A c loseness, an intimacy o f wh ich s he h ad be en dep rived f or so lo ng. S he f elt pa rt o f a pair. She wasn’t, of course, and it was a betrayal of Rose even to entertain such a n otion, h owever b riefly, a nd ye t . . . His f ingertips o n h er ba ck, her side, her thigh. The warmth where their bare bodies met. His breath on her neck . . . She opened her eyes at one point and watched his face, the expressions and stories arranging themselves on his features. And when his own eyes opened, his gaze locked with hers, she sensed herself suddenly, unexpectedly, as a p hysical being. Anchored, solid, real. And t hen i t was o ver a nd t hey m oved a part, t he bo nd o f p hysical connectedness evaporated. They dressed and she walked him downstairs. Stood beside him by the front door making conversation about the recent high t ide, t he l ikelihood o f ba d we ather i n t he c oming we eks. P olite chatter, as if he had no more than stopped by to borrow a book. Eventually h is h and r eached o ut t o u nlatch t he doo r a nd h eavy silence sa gged be tween t hem. Th e wei ght o f wh at t hey h ad do ne. H e pulled ope n the door, pu shed i t c losed a gain. Turned bac k to face he r. ‘Thank you,’ he said. She nodded. ‘Rose wants . . . Her need is . . .’ She nodded a gain, a nd he s miled slightly. O pened the doo r a nd disappeared into the night.

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As the week wore on, the unusual became usual and they settled into a routine. Nathaniel would arrive with his most recent sketches and together they would d iscuss the stories, the ill ustrations. He b rought h is pencil s too, m ade a lterations as t hey s poke. O ften, wh en t he s ketches wer e complete, their conversation moved to other topics. They spoke, too, as they lay together in Eliza’s narrow bed. Nathaniel told stor ies of the fa mily E liza had b elieved d ead, the ha rdship of h is youth, h is f ather o n t he wh arf a nd h is m other’s h ands, c happed f rom laundry. A nd E liza foun d h erself tel ling him thing s of w hich sh e h ad never s poken, se cret t hings f rom bef ore: a bout M other, a nd t he f ather she’d never known, her dreams of following him across the high seas. Such was the strange and unexpected intimacy of their connection, she even spoke of Sammy. Thus t he we ek pas sed, a nd o n t he f inal n ight N athaniel a rrived earlier. He seemed reluctant to do what they must. They sat on opposite sides of the table as they had the first night, but no words were exchanged. Then s uddenly, w ithout wa rning, N athaniel r eached o ut a nd l ifted a strand of her long hair, red turned to gold by the glow of candlelight. His face as h e looked at the threads between his f ingers was f ocused. D ark hair fell to shadow his cheek and his black eyes widened with unspoken thoughts. Eliza suffered a s udden warm tightness in her c hest. ‘I don’t want it to end,’ he said finally, softly. ‘It’s foolish, I know, but I feel—’ He pa used as El iza l ifted h er f inger a nd p ressed i t t o h is l ips. Silenced him. Her own heart hammered beneath her dress and she prayed he could not t ell. He m ust n ot be a llowed t o f inish h is sen tence—dearly t hough some disloyal part of her lo nged it—for words have power, Eliza knew that be tter t han m ost. Already t hey h ad a llowed t hemselves t o f eel t oo much, and there was no room in their arrangement for feeling. She shook her head lightly and finally he nodded. Ref used to look at her for a time, said no more. And as he set about sketching in silence, Eliza suppressed the burning urge to tell him she had changed her mind. When h e left t hat n ight a nd El iza wen t i nside, t he c ottage wa lls seemed unusually silent and lifeless. She found a piece of card on the table where Nathaniel had been sitting, turned it over and saw her own face. A sketch. And for once she didn’t mind having been captured on paper. 463


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c Eliza knew t hey h ad s ucceeded even bef ore t he f irst m onth pas sed. An inexplicable sense o f having company, even wh en she knew herself to be alone. T hen h er bl eeding stayed away an d sh e kn ew for c ertain. Mary, who h ad lo st h er o wn ba by, h ad be en r einstated a t B lackhurst o n a provisional bas is a nd i nstructed t o l iaise be tween t he h ouse a nd t he cottage. W hen El iza t old h er, ye s, t hat s he be lieved a s mall l ife c lung within her body, Mary sighed and shook her head, then took the message back to Aunt Adeline. A wall was built around the cottage so that when Eliza’s belly began to swell, no one would see. Word spread that she had gone away and the world closed over the cottage. The simplest falsehoods are the strongest and this one performed perfectly. Eliza’s desire to travel was well known. It wasn’t a stretch for people to believe that she had left w ithout a word, would be back when time suited. Mary was sent nightly with provisions and Dr M atthews, Aunt Adeline’s physician, attended ever y two we eks, under night’s black veil, t o ensure the pregnancy’s health. During the months of confinement, Eliza saw few other people and yet she ne ver felt al one. S he s ang to he r sw elling stomach , w hispered stories, had str ange a nd v ibrant dr eams. T he cot tage s eemed to sh rink around her like a wa rm old coat. And the garden, a place where her heart had always sung, was more beautiful t han ever. Th e f lowers s melled s weeter, loo ked b righter, g rew faster. On e da y, wh en s he was s itting ben eath t he a pple t ree, a nd t he warm, s unny a ir m oved h eavily a round h er, s he f ell i nto a de ep s leep. While sh e s oftly slumb ered, a stor y c ame to h er, a s v ividly a s if s ome passing s tranger h ad k nelt b y h er e ar a nd wh ispered t heir t ale. A t ale about a yo ung wo man wh o o vercame h er f ears a nd t ravelled a g reat distance in order to uncover the truth for an ageing loved one. Eliza wo ke s uddenly, g ripped w ith cer tainty tha t the d ream was important, tha t i t m ust be tu rned t o f airytale. U nlike mos t d ream inspirations, t he t ale r equired l ittle m anipulation. Th e c hild, t he ba by inside her, was c entral to the story, too. Eliza couldn’t explain how she knew, but she had the oddes t cer tainty that the ba by was co nnected in 464


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some w ay to the tal e, had he lped he r to receive the stor y s o v ividly, s o completely. Eliza wrote the fairytale that afternoon, named it ‘The Crone’s Eyes’, and throughout the following weeks found herself wondering often about the s ad ol d w oman w hose tr uth had b een stol en f rom he r. T hough she had not seen Nathaniel since the night of their final meeting, Eliza knew he was s till working on the illustrations for her book, and she longed to see those that her new tale inspired. One dark night, when Mary brought her s upplies, El iza as ked a fter h im, k ept h er t one even as s he as ked whether perhaps Mary might let him know that he may visit her sometime soon. Mary only shook her head. ‘Mrs Walker won’t have it,’ she said, lowering her voice, though they were a lone i n t he c ottage. ‘ I h eard h er cr ying t o t he m istress a bout i t, and the mistress was s aying it wasn’t r ight for him to be going through the maze, going to see you. Not any more, not after what has happened.’ She glanced at Eliza’s swelling stomach. ‘Things might become confused, she said.’ ‘But that’s ridiculous,’ said Eliza. ‘What was done was done for Rose. Both Nathaniel a nd I lo ve h er, we d id as s he r equested t o p rovide h er that for which she longs more than anything else.’ Mary, wh o h ad m ade q uite c lear h er o wn o pinions a bout wh at Eliza h ad do ne, wh at s he i ntended t o do a fter t he c hild was bo rn, remained silent. Eliza s ighed, f rustrated. ‘ I w ish o nly t o s peak w ith h im a bout t he illustrations for the fairytales.’ ‘That’s another thing Mrs Walker isn’t too happy about,’ said Mary. ‘She doesn’t like him drawing for your stories.’ ‘Whyever would she mind?’ ‘Jealous, she is, g reen as o ld D avies’s thumb. Can’t bear to think of him spending his time and energy thinking about your stories.’ Eliza stopped waiting for Nathaniel after that; she sent her handwritten version of ‘The Crone’s Eyes’ back to Blackhurst with Mary, who agreed— against h er be tter j udgement, s he sa id—to de liver i t. A g ift a rrived b y courier some days later, a statue for her garden, a little boy with an angel’s face. E liza k new, e ven w ithout r eading the accom panying l etter, tha t Nathaniel h ad sen t i t w ith S ammy i n m ind. I n t he le tter h e h ad a lso apologised for not visiting, made enquiries after her health, then moved 465


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quickly on to how m uch he l oved the ne w stor y, how it s ma gic had overtaken his thoughts, that ideas for the illustrations overwhelmed him so that he could bear to think of nothing else. Rose herself came once a month, but Eliza grew to receive such visits cautiously. Things always started well, Ro se would smile broadly when she saw Eliza, en quire after h er h ealth, and le ap at the opportunity to feel th e b aby m oving b eneath h er skin . But a t s ome p oint in th e v isit, with n either wa rning n or p rovocation, Ro se wo uld r ecoil i nexplicably, knot her hands, and refuse to touch Eliza’s stomach any more, refuse even to meet her eye. Her fingers would pluck instead at her own dress, padded to suggest a pregnancy. After the sixth month, Rose stopped coming altogether. Eliza waited in vain on the allotted day, confused, wondering whether she had mistaken the date somehow. But there it was i n her diary. Her f irst f ear was t hat Ro se h ad t aken ill, f or s urely n othing le ss would keep her from visiting. When Mary next arrived with her basket of supplies, Eliza pounced. Mary laid down the basket and set the kettle on the hot plate. Didn’t answer for a t ime. ‘Mary? ’ sa id El iza, a rching h er ba ck t o s hift t he ba by wh o was pressing a gainst h er s ide. ‘You m ustn’t t ry t o p rotect m e. I f Ro se is unwell—’ ‘It’s nothing like that, Miss Eliza.’ Mary turned from the range. ‘Only Mrs Walker finds it too distressing to visit.’ ‘Distressing?’ Mary didn’t meet Eliza’s eyes. ‘It makes her feel a failure, even more than before. She unable to fall and you looking ripe as a peach. After her visits s he r eturns h ome a nd is u nwell f or da ys. Won’t se e M r Walker, snaps at the mistress, picks at her food.’ ‘Then I loo k forward to the child’s arrival. When I de liver the baby, when Rose is a mother, then she will forget such feelings.’ And like that, they were back in familiar waters: Mary shaking her head and Eliza defending her decision. ‘It isn’t right, Miss Eliza. A mother can’t just give up her child.’ ‘It’s not my child, Mary. It belongs to Rose.’ ‘You might feel differently when the time comes.’ ‘I won’t.’ 466


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‘You don’t know—’ ‘I won’t feel differently, because I can’t. I’ve given my word. If I were to change my mind, Rose would never bear it.’ Mary raised her eyebrows. Eliza forced f urther determination into her voice. ‘I w ill hand over the child, and Rose will be h appy again. We will be h appy together, just as we use d to be lo ng ago. Can’t you see, Mary? This child I c arry w ill return my Rose to me.’ Mary smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps you’re right, Miss Eliza,’ she said, though she didn’t sound as if she believed it.

c Then, after months in which time seemed to pause, the end arrived. Two weeks earlier than expected. Pain, blinding pain, the body like a piece of machinery creaking to life to do that for which it had been created. Mary, who had recognised the signs of impending birth, made sure she was there to help. Her ma had delivered babies all her life and Mary knew how it was done. The birth went smoothly and the child was the most beautiful Eliza had ever seen, a little girl with tiny ears pressed neatly against her head and f ine pa le f ingers t hat s tartled per iodically a t t he sensa tion o f a ir passing between them. Though Mary had been ordered to report to Blackhurst immediately on a ny s ign o f t he ba by’s i mminent a rrival, s he r emained s ilent i n t he days after. Spoke only to Eliza, urging her to reconsider her part in the dreadful pact. For it wasn’t right, Mary whispered over and again, that a woman be as ked to forsake her own child. For three days and nights, Eliza and the baby were alone together. How strange it was t o meet the little person who had lived and g rown inside her body. To stroke the tiny hands and feet that she’d grabbed at as they pushed against her stomach from inside. To watch the little lips, pursed as i f about to s peak. An expression of infinite w isdom, as i f, in those f irst da ys o f l ife, t he s mall perso n r etained t he k nowledge o f a lifetime just passed. Then, in the middle of the third night, Mary arrived at the cottage, stood i n t he doo rway a nd m ade t he d readed a nnouncement. A v isit 467


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from Dr M atthews h ad be en a rranged f or t he f ollowing n ight. M ary lowered h er vo ice a nd c lasped El iza’s h ands: i f t here was a ny pa rt o f her that thought to keep the baby, she must go n ow. She must take the child and run. But although the suggestion of escape knotted itself to Eliza’s heart, tugged s harply a nd w illed h er t o a ction, s he h urriedly u ntied i t. S he ignored t he s harp a che i n h er c hest, a nd r eassured M ary, as s he h ad before, that she knew her own mind. She looked down at her child one last time, stared and stared at the perfect little face, tried to comprehend that s he had made i t, tha t s he had done th is wonde rful th ing, u ntil finally the throbbing in her head, her heart, her soul, was u nbearable. And then somehow, as i f watching herself from afar, she did as s he had promised: handed the tiny girl over and allowed her to be taken. Closed the door after Mary, and returned, alone, to the silent, lifeless cottage. And as da wn c ame t o t he w intry garden, and t he wa lls o f t he c ottage receded again, Eliza realised that she had never known the black ache of loneliness before.

c Though she despised Linus’s man Mansell, had cursed his name when he’d brought Eliza into their lives, Adeline couldn’t dispute that the man knew how to find people. Four days had pass ed since his dispa tch to London, a nd t his a fternoon, as she ’d p retended t o em broider in t he morning room, Adeline had b een summoned to the telephone. Mansell, at the other end o f the line, was mer cifully discreet. One never knew who might be listening on another extension. ‘I telephone, Lady Mountrachet, to let you know that some of the goods you require have now been collected.’ Adeline’s breath caught in her throat. So soon? Anticipation, hope, nerves set her fingertips to tingling. ‘And may I enquire, is it the larger item or the smaller t hat you have in y our possession?’ ‘The larger.’ Adeline’s e yelids fell closed. She flattened t he relief, t he joy, f rom her voice. ‘And when will y ou make delivery?’ ‘We leave London immediately. I will arrive at Blackhurst tomorrow evening.’ 468


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Thus h ad A deline wa ited. Th us wa s s he wa iting s till. P acing th e Turkish rug, smoothing her skir ts, snapping at the servants, as all t he while she p lotted Eliza’s dispense.

c Eliza h ad a greed n ever t o go n ear t he h ouse a nd s he d idn’t. B ut s he watched. And she found that even wh en she had saved sufficient funds to book passage on a ship, travel to distant lands, something stopped her. It was as if, with the birth of the baby, the anchor Eliza had been seeking all her life had lodged into the earth of Blackhurst. The child’s pull was m agnetic, and so s he stayed. But she kept her promise to Rose and avoided the house. Found other places to hide from which t o o bserve. Just as s he h ad as a g irl, l ying o n t he s helf i n M rs Swindell’s tiny upstairs room. Watching as the world moved around her and she remained motionless, outside the action. For with the loss of the child, Eliza found that she had fallen through the c entre o f h er o ld l ife, h er o ld se lf. S he h ad f orsaken h er b irthright and, i n t he p rocess, f orfeited t he p urpose i n h er l ife. S he w rote r arely, only one fairytale that she deemed worthy of inclusion in the collection. A stor y a bout a y oung w oman w ho liv ed al one in a d ark w ood, w ho made t he w rong de cision f or t he r ight r eason a nd de stroyed h erself i n the process. Pale m onths formed long ye ars, then one summer’s m orning in 1913 the boo k o f f airytales a rrived f rom t he p ublisher. El iza t ook i t i nside immediately, tore the packaging to reveal the leather-bound treasure within. She sat in the rocking chair, opened the book and lifted it close to her face. It sm elled of f resh ink an d bin ding g lue, ju st li ke a real b ook. And th ere, inside, were her stories, her dear creations. She turned the thick, fresh pages, tale by tale, until she came to ‘The Crone’s Eyes’. She read it through and as she progressed she remembered the strange, vivid dream in the garden, the a ll-pervasive sense t hat t he c hild i nside h er was i mportant t o t he story. And El iza k new s uddenly tha t t he c hild, her c hild, m ust pos sess a copy of the tale, that the two wer e connected somehow. So she wrapped the boo k i n b rown pa per, a waited h er o pportunity, t hen d id wh at s he 469


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had promised n ot t o: b reached t he ga te a t t he en d o f t he m aze a nd approached the house.

c Dust motes, hundreds of them, danced in a sli ver of sunlight that had appeared between two barrels. The little girl smiled and the Authoress, the c liff, t he maze , Mamma, lef t her t houghts. S he held o ut a f inger, tried to catch a s peck upon it. Laughed at the way the motes came so close before skirting away. The no ises b eyond her hidin g s pot w ere c hanging. The li ttle girl could hear the hubbub of movement, voices laced with excitement. She leaned into the veil of light and pressed her face against the cool wood of the barrels. With one eye she lo oked upon the decks. Legs a nd sho es a nd p etticoat hem s. The t ails o f co loured pa per streamers f licking t his wa y a nd t hat. W ily gulls h unting t he dec ks for crumbs. A lurch and the huge boat groaned, long and low from deep within its belly. Vibrations passed through the deck boards and into the little girl’s fingertips. A moment of suspension and she found herself holding her breath, palms f lat b eside her, t hen t he b oat he aved, pushed itself away f rom t he do ck. The ho rn b ellowed a nd t here was a wa ve o f cheering, cries of ‘Bon voyage!’ They were on their way.

c They arrived in Lo ndon by night. D arkness sagged t hick and h eavy in the f olds o f t he s treet as t hey m ade t heir wa y f rom t he t rain s tation towards the r iver. Th e little g irl was t ired—Eliza h ad h ad to wake h er when they reached their destination—but she didn’t complain. She held Eliza’s hand and followed close to her clipping heels. That night the two shared a supper of broth and bread in their room. They were both tired from the travel and little was s poken, each merely eyed the other, somewhat curiously, over her spoon. The little girl asked once after her mother and father, but Eliza said only that they would be met at the other end of the voyage. It was an untruth, but it was necessary: 470


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time would be required to decide how best to break the news of Rose and Nathaniel’s deaths. After s upper, Ivory f ell quickly t o s leep o n t he room’s o nly be d and Eliza sa t i n t he w indow se at. S he wa tched a lternately t he da rk s treet, jostling w ith b usy wa yfarers, a nd t he s leeping c hild, s tirring l ightly beneath the sheet. As time passed Eliza edged nearer the child, observed the s mall f ace a t ever c loser r ange, u ntil f inally s he k nelt gen tly be side the be d, so c lose t hat s he c ould f eel t he g irl’s b reath i n h er h air, c ould count t he t iny f reckles o n t he s leeping f ace. And wh at a per fect f ace i t was, how glorious the ivory skin and rosebud lips. It was t he same face, Eliza realised, the same wise expression, she had gazed upon in the first days of the child’s life. The same face that she had seen so often since in her nightly dreams. She was g ripped t hen b y a n u rge, a n eed—a lo ve, s he s upposed i t was—so ferocious, that each grain of her self was infused with certainty. It was as i f her own body recognised this child to whom she had g iven life as readily as she recognised her own hand, her own face in a mirror, her own voice in the dark. As carefully as s he could, Eliza lay upon the bed and curled her own body to accommodate the sleeping girl. Just as she had done in another time, another room, against the warm body of her brother Sammy. Finally, Eliza was h ome.

c On the day the ship was d ue to le ave, Eliza and the g irl went e arly in search of supplies. Eliza purchased a f ew items of clothing, a h airbrush, and a s uitcase i n wh ich t o h ouse t hem. At t he bo ttom o f t he c ase s he tucked a n en velope c ontaining so me ba nknotes a nd a p iece o f pa per advising of Mary’s address in Polperro—it was as well to be safe as sorry. The s uitcase was j ust t he r ight s ize f or a c hild t o c arry a nd Ivory was thrilled. She clutched it tightly as El iza led her along the crowded dock. Movement and noise were everywhere: whistling locomotives, billowing steam, cranes lifting baby carriages, bicycles and phonographs on board. Ivory laughed when they passed a procession of bleating goats and sheep being herded into the ship’s hold. She was d ressed in the prettiest of the two d resses El iza h ad bo ught f or h er, a nd loo ked q uite t he pa rt o f t he 471


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wealthy little girl come to see her aunt off on a long sea voyage. When they reached the gangway, Eliza handed her boarding card to the officer. ‘Welcome a board, m adam,’ h e s aid, n odding s o th at hi s unifor m cap bobbed. Eliza nodded in return. ‘It’s a pleasure to have passage booked on your splendid ship,’ she said. ‘My niece has been beside herself with excitement for her aunt. Look, she’s even b rought her own little pretend case.’ ‘You l ike b ig boa ts, do yo u, m iss? ’ Th e o fficer pe ered do wn a t t he little g irl. Ivory nodded and smiled sweetly, but she said nothing. Just as Eliza had instructed. ‘Officer,’ said Eliza, ‘my brother and sister-in-law are waiting further along t he doc k.’ S he wa ved i nto t he g rowing cr owd. ‘ I do n’t s uppose you’d mind if I t ake my little niece on board for a m inute to show her my cabin? ’ The o fficer gla nced a t t he l ine o f pas sengers n ow s naked a long the dock. ‘We shan’t be long,’ said Eliza. ‘Only it would mean so ver y much to the child.’ ‘I’d say it should be all right,’ he said. ‘Just be sure and bring her back.’ He winked at Ivory. ‘I’ve a feeling her parents would miss her if she left home without them.’ Eliza took Ivory’s hand and headed up the gangway. There were people everywhere, busy voices, splashing water, foghorns. The ship’s orchestra played a ja unty tune on deck, while chambermaids scurried in all directions, post boys delivered telegrams and self-important bellboys carried chocolates and gifts for the depa rting passengers. But Eliza didn’t follow the chief steward inside the ship; instead she led Ivory along the deck, stopping only when they reached a set of wooden barrels. El iza us hered t he g irl be hind t hem, a nd cr ouched so t hat h er skirts d raped a cross t he de cking. Th e l ittle g irl was d istracted, s he had never seen such activity, and was moving her head about, this way and that. ‘You m ust wa it h ere,’ sa id El iza. ‘ It is n’t sa fe t o m ove. I ’ll be ba ck soon.’ S he h esitated, gla nced s kyward. G ulls wer e s kimming o verhead, black eyes watchful. ‘Wait for me, do yo u hear?’ The little girl nodded. 472


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‘You know how to hide?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘It’s a game we’re playing.’ As Eliza said the words, Sammy appeared inside her mind and her skin cooled. ‘I like games.’ Eliza p ushed t he i mage as ide. Th is l ittle g irl was n’t S ammy. Th ey weren’t p laying t he R ipper. E verything wo uld be we ll. ‘ I’ll c ome ba ck for you.’ ‘Where are you going?’ ‘There’s someone I have to see. Something I have to collect before the ship leaves.’ ‘What is it?’ ‘My past,’ she said. ‘My future.’ She smiled briefly. ‘My family.’

c As t he ca rriage h urtled t owards B lackhurst, E liza’s f og b egan t o lif t. Awareness seeped slowly: a rocking motion, the muddy thud of hooves, a musty smell. She cracked open her e yes, blinked. Black shadows dissolved into patches of dusty light. A sw ooning sensation as her visio n focused. There was someone with her, a man sitting opposite. His head was tilted aga inst t he le ather s eat a nd a slig ht sno re f lecked his st eady inhalations. He had a bushy moustache, and a pair of armless spectacles perched on the bridge of his nos e. Eliza drew breath. S he was tw elve y ears o ld, b eing drag ged f rom all she kne w towards t he unknown f uture. L ocked in a ca rriage with Mother’s Bad Man. Mansell. And yet . . . it didn’t feel quite right. There was something she was forgetting, a dark humming cloud on the edge of her mind. Something important, something she had t o do. She gasp ed. W here was Sa mmy? H e sho uld b e wi th her, he was hers to protect— Horses’ hooves, thudding on the ground outside. The sound made her frightened, ill, though she knew not why. The dark cloud began to swirl. It was co ming closer. 473


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Eliza’s gaze dropped to her skir t, her hands folded on her lap. Her hands, and yet surely not hers at all. Bright light broke through a hole in the cloud: she wasn’t twelve at all, she was a gr own woman— But w hat had ha ppened? W here was she? W hy was she wi th Mansell? A cottage on a c liff, a ga rden, the sea . . . Her breaths were louder now, sharp in her t hroat. A woman, a ma n, a ba by . . . Free-floating panic plucked at her skin. More light . . . the cloud was fading, coming apart . . . Words, snatches of meaning: Maryborough . . . a ship . . . a child, not Sammy, a li ttle girl . . . Eliza’s throat was ra w. A ho le opened up inside her, filled quickly with black fear. The little girl was her s. Clarity, s o bright it burned: her da ughter was alo ne on a depa rting ship. Panic infused her every pore. Her pulse hammered in her temples. She needed t o get away, get back. Eliza glanced sideways at the door. The carriage travelled quickly but she didn’t care. The ship left dock today and the little girl was o n it. The c hild, her c hild, all alone. Chest aching, head thumping, Eliza reached out. Mansell stirred. His bleary eyes opened, focused quickly on Eliza’s arm, the handle beneath her f ingers. A cruel smile b egan to form on his li ps. She gripped the lever: he l unged to stop her, but Eliza was fast er. Her need was gr eater, after all.

c And she was fallin g, t he cag e do or had o pened a nd she f ell, f ell, f ell towards t he cold dark e arth. Time folded over on itself: all mo ments were one, past was p resent was f uture. Eliza didn’t close her e yes, she watched the earth coming closer, the smell o f mud, grass, ho pe— 474


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—and she was f lying, wings outstretched across the surface of the ground, and hig her now, on t he c urrent of t he breeze, her face co ol, her mind c lear. And E liza knew where she was g oing. Flying towards her da ughter, t owards I vory. The p erson she had sp ent a lif etime seeking, her o ther half. S he was w hole at last, he ading towards home.

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inally, she was in the garden again. Between the bad weather, Ruby’s arrival, a nd t he visi t t o Cla ra’s ho use, i t had b een da ys since Cassandra had been able to slip beneath the wall. She’d been subject to an o dd restlessness t hat had o nly now dissipated. It was stra nge, she thought, e asing a g love o nto her r ight ha nd: she’d ne ver co nsidered herself m uch o f a ga rdener, b ut t his p lace was dif ferent. S he f elt compelled to return, to plunge her hands into the earth and bring the garden back to life. Cassandra paused as she stra ightened the f ingers of t he o ther g love, no ticed aga in t he ba nd o f w hite skin a round her finger, second from the left. She ran her thumb over the strip of skin. It was very smooth, more elastic than that either side, as if i t had b een s oaking in wa rm water. That w hite ba nd was t he y oungest pa rt o f her, f ifteen y ears y ounger than the rest. Hidden from the moment Nick had slipped the ring onto her f inger, it was t he only part t hat hadn’t changed, aged, moved on. Until now. ‘Cold eno ugh f or y ou? ’ Chr istian, w ho had j ust a ppeared f rom beneath the wall, thrust his ha nds deep into the pockets of his je ans. Cassandra pushed the glove on and smiled a t him. ‘ I didn’t think it got cold in Cornwall. All the brochures I read talked about a temperate climate.’ ‘Temperate compared to Yorkshire.’ He returned a lo psided smile. ‘It’s a t aste of the winter ahead. At least you won’t have to suffer that.’ Silence drew out between them. As Christian turned to inspect the hole he’d b een dig ging t he w eek b efore, C assandra p retended t o b e engrossed in her w eeding fork. Her return to Australia was a s ubject 476


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they’d avoided discussing. Over the last few days, whenever conversation threatened to skirt the topic, one of them had b een quick to set it on a new course. ‘I was t hinking some more,’ said Christian, ‘about that letter from Harriet Swindell.’ ‘Yeah? ’ C assandra p ushed aside un settling t houghts o f past a nd future. ‘Whatever i t was in t he c lay p ot, t he o ne E liza p ulled o ut o f t he chimney, it must’ve been important. Nell was alr eady on the boat, so Eliza took a huge risk going back for it.’ They had covered this yesterday. In a warm booth at the pub, with the fire crackling in t he corner, they’d gone over and over the details as they knew them. Seeking a conclusion they both sensed was staring them in t he face. ‘I guess she didn ’t co unt o n t he ma n b eing t here t o a bduct her, whoever he was. ’ C assandra p lunged her f ork in to t he f lowerbed. ‘ I wish Harriet had gi ven us his na me.’ ‘He must’ve been someone sent by Rose’s family.’ ‘You reckon?’ ‘Who else would have been so desperate to get them back?’ ‘Get Eliza back.’ ‘Huh?’ Cassandra glanced over her shoulder at him. ‘ They didn’t get Nell back. Only Eliza.’ Christian paused in his digging. ‘Yeah, that’s odd. I guess she didn’t tell them where Nell was.’ That was t he part that didn’t make sense to Cassandra. She’d lain awake half t he nig ht r unning t he t hreads t hrough her mind , coming always t o t he s ame co nclusion. E liza mig ht no t ha ve wa nted N ell t o remain a t B lackhurst, b ut sur ely w hen she le arned t hat t he shi p had sailed without her she’d have been desperate to stop it. She was N ell’s mother, she’d loved her enough to take her in t he first place. Wouldn’t she have done everything she could to alert people to the fact that Nell was o n a shi p, alo ne? S he w ouldn’t j ust ha ve s aid no thing a nd lef t a treasured daughter to travel by herself to Australia. Cassandra’s fork hit a particularly stubborn root. ‘I don’t think she co uld tell them.’ ‘How do y ou mean?’ 477


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‘Only that if she co uld have, she w ould have. Wouldn’t she? ’ Christian no dded slo wly, ra ised his e yebrows as t he implications of this theory sank in. He heaved his shovel into the hole. The r oot was t hick. C assandra p ulled t he o ther w eeds aside a nd traced it a little higher. She smiled to herself. Though it was worse for wear, de void, f or t he most pa rt, o f le aves, she r ecognised t his p lant; she’d seen similar specimens in N ell’s garden back in B risbane. It was a wir y old rose bush, had lik ely been here for decades. The st em was as thick as her forearm, covered in a ngry thorns. But it was still alive and with some tending would live to flower again. ‘Oh my God.’ Cassandra looked up from her rose. Christian was crouched down, leaning into the pit. ‘What? What is i t?’ she s aid. ‘I’ve f ound s omething.’ The t one o f his v oice was o dd, dif ficult to read. Electricity fired hot beneath Cassandra’s skin. ‘Something scary or something exciting?’ ‘Exciting, I t hink.’ Cassandra w ent t o kneel b y him a nd p eered in to t he ho le. S he followed the direction he was p ointing. Deep do wn a midst t he mo ist s oil, s omething had emer ged f rom the muddy base. Something small, brown and smooth. Christian reached down and eased the object free, withdrew a clay pot, the sort once used to store mustard and other preserves. He wiped the mud from its sides and passed it to Cassandra. ‘I think your garden just gave up its secret.’ The c lay was co ol o n her f ingers, t he p ot sur prisingly he avy. Cassandra’s heart thumped in her c hest. ‘She must have buried it here,’ said Christian. A ‘ fter the man abducted her in L ondon, he must have brought her back to Blackhurst.’ But why would Eliza have buried the clay pot after taking such a risk to reclaim it? Why would she r isk losing it again? And if she had time t o b ury t he p ot, w hy hadn’t she made co ntact wi th t he shi p? Retrieved little Ivory? The r ealisation was sudden. S omething t hat had b een t here all along became clear. Cassandra inhaled sha rply. ‘What?’ 478


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‘I don’t think she b uried the pot,’ Cassandra whispered. ‘What do y ou mean? Who did? ’ ‘No one, I mean, I think the pot was buried with her.’ And for over ninety y ears she had la in her e, wa iting f or s omeone t o f ind her. F or Cassandra to find her a nd unravel her s ecret. Christian stared into the hole, eyes wide. He nodded slowly. ‘That would explain why she didn’t go back for Ivory, for Nell.’ ‘She couldn’t, she was her e all alo ng.’ ‘But w ho b uried her? The ma n w ho a bducted her? H er a unt o r uncle?’ Cassandra sho ok her he ad. ‘ I do n’t kno w. One t hing’s f or sur e, though, whoever it was didn’t intend anyone to know about it. There’s no gravestone, nothing at all t o mark t he sp ot. The y wanted E liza to disappear, the truth about her death to remain hidden forever. Forgotten, just like her ga rden.’

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deline turned from the fireplace, inhaled suddenly so that her waist gathered tightly. ‘What do you mean, things didn’t go to plan?’ Night had fallen and the surrounding woods were converging upon the house. Shadows hung in the corners of the room, candlelight teasing their cold edges. Mr Mansell straightened his pince-nez. ‘There was a fall. She threw herself from the carriage. The ho rses lost co ntrol.’ ‘A physician,’ said Linus. ‘We must telephone a p hysician.’ ‘A physician will be of no assistance.’ Mansell’s steady voice. ‘She is already dead.’ Adeline gasped. ‘What?’ ‘Dead,’ he s aid again. ‘The woman, your niece, is de ad.’ Adeline c losed her e yes a nd her knees b uckled. The w orld was spinning; she was w eightless, pa inless, f ree. H ow was i t t hat suc h burden, suc h w eight, co uld lif t a way s o swif tly? Tha t o ne f ell sw oop could rid her o f the old and constant foe, Georgiana’s legacy? Adeline cared not. Her prayers had been answered, the world had righted i tself. The girl was de ad. G one. Tha t was all t hat ma ttered. For the first time since Rose’s death she could breathe. Warm tendrils of g ladness inf used her e very v ein. ‘ Where? ’ she he ard her self s ay. ‘Where is she? ’ ‘In the carriage—’ ‘You brought her here?’ ‘The girl . . .’ L inus’s voice dr ifted f rom t he armchair in w hich he was enfolded. His breath was q uick and light. ‘Where is t he little girl with the flame-red hair?’ 480


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‘The woman uttered a f ew words b efore she f ell. S he was gr oggy and the words soft, but she spoke about a boat, a ship. She was agitated, concerned to get back in time f or its departure.’ ‘Go,’ s aid A deline sha rply. ‘ Wait b y t he ca rriage. I shal l mak e arrangements, then call f or you.’ Mansell no dded swif tly a nd lef t, t aking t he r oom’s li ttle wa rmth with him. ‘What of the child?’ Linus bleated. Adeline igno red him, her mind b usy racin g t owards s olutions. Naturally, no ne o f t he s ervants co uld kno w. A s fa r as t hey w ere concerned, Eliza had lef t Blackhurst when she le arned that Rose and Nathaniel were relocating to New York. It was a b lessing that the girl had spoken often of her desir e to travel. ‘What of t he c hild? ’ s aid L inus again. His f ingers quivered about his collar. ‘Mansell must find her, find the ship. We must have her back, the little girl must be found.’ Adeline swallowed a lump of thick distaste as she ran her gaze over his crumpled form. ‘Why?’ she said, skin turning cold. ‘Why must she be found? What is she to either of us?’ Her voice was low as she leaned close. ‘Don’t you see? We have been freed.’ ‘She is o ur granddaughter.’ ‘But she is no t of us.’ ‘She is o f me.’ Adeline ignored the pale utterance. There was no need to comment upon suc h s entimentality. N ot no w t hat t hey w ere f inally s afe. S he turned o n her heel a nd paced t he r ug. ‘ We will t ell p eople t hat t he child was f ound on the estate only to be stricken with scarlet fever. It will no t b e q uestioned, t hey a lready b elieve her ill in b ed. We will instruct the servants that I alone shall tend her, that Rose would have wished i t t hat wa y. Then a fter a time , w hen e very a ppearance o f a proper str uggle aga inst t he illness has b een made , w e will ho ld a funeral service.’ And w hile I vory was r eceiving t he b urial b efitting a b eloved granddaughter, Adeline would ensure that Eliza was disposed of quickly and in visibly. S he w ould no t b e b uried in t he fa mily cemet ery, t hat 481


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much was cer tain. The b lessed s oil t hat sur rounded Ros e w ould no t be so polluted. She must be buried where no one would ever find her. Where no o ne would ever think to look.

c The f ollowing mo rning, A deline had D avies sho w her t hrough t he maze. Ghastly damp place. The smell of musty undergrowth that never saw the sun pressed in on Adeline from all sides. Her black mourning skirts swished along the raked ground, fallen leaves catching like burrs in t he hem. S he r esembled a gr eat b lack b ird, her f eathers ga thered around her t o ward off the chill winter of Rose’s death. When they finally arrived at the hidden ga rden, Adeline brushed Davies aside a nd swept along t he narrow path. Clusters of tiny birds took flight when she passed, twittering madly as they fled their hidden branches. S he w ent as q uickly as was p roperly p ermitted, a nxious t o be f ree o f t his b ewitched p lace a nd t he he ady, f ecund f ragrance t hat made her he ad swoon. At the far end o f the garden Adeline stopped. A sharp smile t hinned her li ps. It was j ust as she had ho ped. A co ol shiver and she t urned suddenly on her heels. ‘ I have s een enough,’ she s aid. ‘My granddaughter is gra vely ill a nd I m ust return to the house.’ Davies held her gaze a f raction of a s econd too long and a shi ver of trepidation slipped down her spine. Adeline quashed it. What could he possibly know of the deception she p lanned? ‘Take me bac k now.’ As she f ollowed his la rge, l umbering f orm t hrough t he maze , Adeline kept her distance. She had one hand in the pocket of her dress, fingertips emerging at regular intervals to drop tiny white pebbles from Ivory’s collection, the little jar in t he nursery.

c The afternoon dragged, the night-stretched hours passed, and finally it was midnig ht. Adeline rose from her bed, pulled on her dr ess and laced u p her b oots. T iptoed alo ng t he hall , do wn t he st airs a nd o ut into the night. 482


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The mo on was f ull a nd she w ent q uickly acr oss t he o pen la wn, keeping to the shadowy cool patches by the trees and bushes. The maze gate was c losed, but Adeline s oon had t he clasp undone. She slipped inside and smiled to herself when she saw the first little stone, glistening like silver. From p ebble t o p ebble she w ent, un til f inally she r eached t he second gate, entrance to the hidden ga rden. The garden hummed within its tall stone walls. Moonlight turned the le aves to silver and w hispering breezes made t hem jangle lig htly, like pieces of fine metal. A q uivering harp string. Adeline had t he odd sense that she was b eing watched by a silen t observer. She gazed about the moon-whitened landscape, drew breath when she no ticed a pa ir of wide e yes in t he fork of a ne arby tree. An instant and her mind f illed in t he blanks, the feathers of the owl, his round body and head, sharp beak. And y et she f elt little b etter. There was s omething strange in t he bird’s stare. A w orldliness. Those eyes, watching, judging. She lo oked a way, r efused t o gra nt a mer e b ird t he p ower t o unsettle her. Noise t hen, co ming f rom t he dir ection o f t he co ttage. A deline crouched by the garden seat and watched as two night-draped figures came in to vie w. M ansell she exp ected, b ut w ho was i t he b rought with him? The figures walked slowly, something large strung between them. They laid it down on the other side o f the wall, then one of the men stepped across the hole and into the hidden ga rden. A sizzle as M ansell struck a ma tch, then a f lash of warm light: an orange heart haloed by blue. He held it to the lantern wick and turned the dial s o the light expanded. Adeline stood tall and made her a pproach. ‘Good evening, Lady Mountrachet,’ said Mansell. She pointed at the second man and spoke with a chill voice. ‘Who is this?’ ‘Slocombe,’ said Mansell. ‘My coachman.’ ‘Why is he her e?’ ‘The c liff is st eep, t he pa rcel he avy.’ H e b linked a t A deline, t he lantern flame reflected in the glass of his pince-nez. ‘He can be trusted 483


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not t o sp eak.’ H e swun g t he la ntern side ways a nd t he b ottom o f Slocombe’s face ca me in to vie w. The lo wer ja w, ho rribly disf igured, lumpen nodules and pocked skin w here a mo uth should be. As they started digging, deepening the hole that the workmen had already made , A deline’s a ttention dr ifted t o t he da rk shr oud o n t he ground beneath the apple tree. Finally, the girl was t o be relegated to the earth. She would disappear and be forgotten: it would be as if she’d never existed. And in time p eople would forget that she had . Adeline closed her eyes, blocked out the noise of the wretched birds who had started to twitter keenly, the leaves that were rustling urgently now. S he list ened in stead f or t he b lessed s ound o f lo ose dir t fallin g onto t he s olid sur face b eneath. It w ould s oon b e o ver. The girl was gone and Adeline could breathe— The air moved, cool on her face . Adeline’s eyelids flew open. A dark shape coming towards her, right by her he ad. A bird? A bat? Dark wings beating the night sky. Adeline stepped back. A sudden stin g and her b lood was co ld. Hot. Cold again. As t he o wl coast ed a way, o ver t he wall , A deline’s palm b egan t o throb. She m ust ha ve ex claimed, f or M ansell pa used his sho velling t o swing the lantern near. In the dancing yellow light, Adeline saw that a long thorny rose tendril had wr ested its way free from the f lowerbed to clutch at her. Its thick thorn was lo dged in her palm. With her f ree hand she p lucked it from her skin. A b ead of blood rose to the surface, a p erfect, glistening droplet. Adeline wi thdrew a ha ndkerchief f rom her slee ve. S he p ressed i t to the wound and watched as t he red stain seeped through. It was o nly a t horn. Never mind t hat her b lood was ice b eneath her skin, t he wound would heal and all w ould be well. But that rose bush would be the first item removed when Adeline ordered the garden razed. What business had a r ose now in t he Blackhurst gardens?

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s C assandra st ared in to t he deep ho le, in to E liza’s gra ve, she f elt surrounded b y a s trange calm. I t was as if wi th t he dis covery the garden had b reathed a gr eat sigh of relief: the birds were quieter, the leaves had stopped rustling, the curious restlessness had gone. The long-forgotten s ecret t he ga rden had b een f orced t o k eep had no w been told. Christian’s gentle voice, as if f rom somewhere distant: ‘Well, aren’t you going to open it?’ The clay pot, heavy now in her ha nds. Cassandra ran her f ingers along the old wax t hat sealed the rim. She glanced at Christian, who nodded encouragement, then she pressed and twisted, snapped the seal so that the lid co uld be prised open. There were three items inside: a leather pouch, a swatch of red-gold hair and a b rooch. The le ather p ouch contained two old coins, a pale y ellow colour, stamped with the familiar jowly profile of Queen V ictoria. The da tes were 1897 a nd 1900. The hair was tied with a piece of twine and coiled like a snail’s shell to fit inside the pot. Years of containment had lef t it smooth and soft, very f ine. C assandra w ondered w hose i t was, t hen r emembered t he entry in Ros e’s e arly no tebook, wr itten w hen E liza f irst ca me t o Blackhurst. A li tany o f co mplaint a bout t he li ttle girl w hom Ros e described as ‘li ttle better than a s avage’. The li ttle girl w hose hair had been cut off as sho rt and jagged as a b oy’s. The brooch Cassandra turned to last. It was r ound and sat neatly in the palm of her hand. The border was ornate, decorated with gems, 485


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while the centre contained a pattern, a little like tapestry. But it wasn’t tapestry. Cassandra had worked long enough amongst antiques to know what this brooch was. She turned it over and ran her fingertip over the engraving on the back. For Georgiana Mountrachet, read the tiny print, on the occasion of her sixteenth birthday. Past. Future. Family. This was i t. The tr easure f or w hich E liza had r eturned t o t he Swindells’ ho use, w hose p rice had b een a n enco unter wi th a stra nge man. An enco unter responsible for the separation of Eliza and Ivory, for all t hat had co me afterwards, for Ivory becoming Nell. ‘What is i t?’ Cassandra looked up at him. ‘A mourning brooch.’ He frowned. ‘The Victorians us ed to have t hem made f rom t he hair of family members. This o ne b elonged t o G eorgiana M ountrachet, E liza’s mother.’ Christian nodded slowly. ‘Explains why it was so important to her. Why she w ent to retrieve it.’ ‘And w hy she didn ’t make it back to t he b oat.’ C assandra studied Eliza’s precious items in her la p. ‘I just wish N ell had s een them. She always felt abandoned, never knew that Eliza was her mother, that she was loved. It was t he one thing she lo nged to learn: who she was.’ ‘But she did kno w w ho she was, ’ Chr istian s aid. ‘ She was N ell, whose granddaughter Cassandra loved her eno ugh to cross the ocean to solve her mystery for her.’ ‘She doesn’t know that I ca me here.’ ‘How do you know what she does and doesn’t know? She might be watching you right now.’ He raised his b rows. ‘Anyway, of course she knew you’d come. Why else would she ha ve left you the cottage? And that note on the will, what did it say?’ How odd the note had seemed, how little she had understood when Ben had first given it to her. ‘For Cassandra, who will understand why.’ ‘And? Do you?’ Of course she did. Nell, who had needed so desperately to confront her o wn past in o rder t o mo ve b eyond i t, had s een in C assandra a kindred spirit. A f ellow victim of circumstance. ‘She knew I’d come.’ Christian was no dding. ‘She knew you loved her enough to finish what she’d started. It’s like in “ The Crone’s Eyes”, w hen the fawn tells 486


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the princess t hat t he crone didn’t need her sig ht, t hat she kne w w ho she was by the princess’s love for her.’ Cassandra’s eyes stung. ‘That fawn was v ery wise.’ ‘Not to mention handsome and brave.’ She co uldn’t hel p smilin g. ‘So no w w e kno w. W ho Nell’s mo ther was. Why she was left alone on the boat. What happened to Eliza.’ She also kne w w hy t he ga rden was s o important t o her, w hy she f elt her own roots connecting to its soil, deeper and deeper with each moment she spent within its walls. She was at home in the garden, for in some way she co uldn’t exp lain N ell was her e t oo. A s was E liza. And she , Cassandra, was t he guardian of both their secrets. Christian seemed to read her mind. ‘So,’ he said, ‘still planning on selling it?’ Cassandra watched as t he breeze tossed down a sho wer of yellow leaves. ‘Actually, I t hought I mig ht stay around a b it longer.’ ‘At the hotel?’ ‘No, here in t he cottage.’ ‘You won’t be lonely?’ It was s o unlik e her, b ut in t hat mo ment C assandra o pened her mouth and said exactly what she was feeling. Gave no pause for secondguessing and worry. ‘I don’t t hink I’ll b e alone. Not all t he time.’ She felt t he ho t-cold s ensation o f a n impending b lush a nd hurried o n. ‘ I want to finish what we’ve started.’ He raised his e yebrows. The blush found her. ‘Here. In the garden, I me an.’ ‘I know what you mean.’ His gaze held her s. As Cassandra’s heart began to hammer against her r ibs, he let his sho vel drop, reached out to c up her c heek. He le aned ne arer a nd she c losed her e yes. A sig h, heavy with years of weariness, es caped her. And t hen he was kissin g her, and she was str uck by his ne arness, his s olidity, his smell . It was of the garden and the earth and the sun. When Cassandra opened her eyes, she realised she was crying. She wasn’t sad though, these were the tears of being found, of having come home a fter a lo ng time a way. S he tig htened her gr ip o n t he b rooch. Past. Future. Family. Her own past was filled with memories, a lifetime of b eautiful, p recious, s ad memo ries. F or a decade she had mo ved amongst them, slept with them, walked with them. But something had 487


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changed, she had changed. She had come to Cornwall to uncover Nell’s past, her family, and somehow she had found her own future. Here, in this b eautiful ga rden t hat E liza had made a nd N ell had r eclaimed, Cassandra had f ound herself. Christian smoothed her hair and looked at her face with a certainty that made her shi ver. ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he s aid finally. Cassandra t ook his ha nd in her s. S he had b een wa iting f or him, too.

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Epilogue Greenslopes Hospital, Brisbane, 2005 Greenslopes Hospital, Brisbane, 2005

C

ool against her eyelids; tingles like tiny feet, those of ants, walking back and forth. A voice, blessedly familiar. ‘I’ll get a nurse—’ ‘No.’ N ell r eached o ut, s till co uldn’t see , gra sped f or a nything she co uld f ind. ‘ Don’t le ave me .’ H er face was w et, r ecycled a ir co ld against it. ‘I’ll be back soon. I p romise.’ ‘No—’ ‘It’s all r ight, Grandma. I’m getting help.’ Grandma. Tha t’s w ho she was, no w she r emembered. S he’d had many na mes in her lif etime, s o ma ny she ’d f orgotten a f ew, b ut i t wasn’t un til she acq uired her last, G randma, t hat she’d kno wn w ho she really was. A second chance, a b lessing, a s aviour. Her granddaughter. And now Cassandra was g etting help. Nell’s eyes closed. She was on the ship again. Could feel the water beneath her, the deck swaying this way and that. Barrels, sunlight, dust. Laughter, faraway laughter. It was fadin g. The lig hts were being turned down. Dimming, like the lights in the Plaza theatre, before the feature presentation. Patrons shifting in t heir seats, whispering, waiting . . . Black. Silence. And t hen she was s omewhere els e, s omewhere co ld a nd da rk. Alone. S harp t hings, b ranches, ei ther side o f her. A s ense t hat walls were pushing in on both sides, t all and dark. The lig ht was returning; 489


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not m uch, b ut suf ficient t hat she co uld cra ne her nec k a nd s ee t he distant sky. Her legs w ere mo ving. S he was walkin g, ha nds o ut t o t he sides brushing against the leaves and branch ends. A co rner. S he t urned. M ore le afy walls. The smell o f e arth, r ich and moist. Suddenly, she kne w. The w ord came to her, ancient and familiar. Maze. She was in a maze . Awareness, instant and fully formed: at its end was a most glorious place. S omewhere she needed t o b e. S omewhere s afe w here she could rest. She reached a f ork. Turned. She knew the way. She remembered. She had b een here before. Faster now, she w ent faster. Need pushing in her c hest, cer tainty. She must reach the end. Light ahead. She was almost t here. Just a li ttle further. Then suddenly, out of the shadows and into the light came a figure. The Authoress, holding out her hand. Silvery voice. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’ The Authoress st epped aside a nd N ell s aw t hat she had r eached the gate. The end o f the maze. ‘Where am I?’ ‘You’re home.’ With a deep breath, Nell followed the Authoress across the threshold and into the most b eautiful garden she had e ver seen.

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And at last, t he w icked Que en’s s pell was b roken, and t he young woman, whom circumstance and cruelty had trapped in the body of a b ird, was r eleased from her cage. The cage door opened and the cuckoo bird fell, fell, fell, until finally her stunted wings opened, and she found that she could f ly. With the cool sea breeze of her homeland b uffeting t he u ndersides o f h er w ings, s he soa red o ver the cliff edge and across the ocean. Towards a n ew land of hope, and freedom, and life. Towards her other half. Home. — f r o m ‘ T h e C u c k o o ’s F l i g h t ’ b y E l i z a M a k e p e a c e


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Acknowledgements

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or h elping t o br ing The Forgotten Ga rden into t he w orld, I ’d lik e to t hank: My Nana Connelly, whose story first inspired me; S elwa Anthony for her wisdom and care; Kim Wilkins, Julia Morton and Diane Morton, for reading early drafts; Kate Eady for hunting down pesky historical facts; Danny Kretschmer for providing photos on a deadline; and Julia’s workmates f or a nswering q uestions o f v ernacular. F or r esearch assistance—archaeological, en tomological a nd medical—I ’m gra teful to Dr W alter W ood, Dr N atalie F ranklin, K atharine P arkes, a nd especially Dr Sall y W ilde; a nd, f or hel p wi th sp ecific det ails, ma ny thanks to Nicole Ruckels, Elaine Wilkins and Joyce Morton. I am fortunate to be published worldwide by extraordinary people and I ’m t hankful t o e veryone w hose ef forts ha ve hel ped t o t urn m y stories into books. For their sensitive and tireless editorial support on The Forgotten Ga rden, I ’d lik e t o mak e sp ecial mention o f C atherine Milne, Cla ra F inlay, a nd t he w onderful Annet te B arlow a t Allen & Unwin, Australia; a nd M aria Rej t a nd L iz C owen at Pan M acmillan, UK. I’m much obliged to Julia Stiles and Lesley Levene for their f ine attention to detail. I w ould als o lik e t o pa y tr ibute her e t o a uthors w ho wr ite f or children. To discover early that behind the black marks on white pages lurk worlds of incomparable terror, joy and excitement is o ne of life’s great gif ts. I a m eno rmously gra teful t o t hose a uthors w hose w orks fired my c hildhood imagination, and in spired in me a lo ve of b ooks and reading that has been a constant companion. The Forgotten Garden is, in pa rt, an ode to them. 493


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Finally, as al ways, I o we a h uge debt of gratitude to my husband, Davin Patterson, a nd m y tw o s ons, Oli ver a nd L ouis, t o w hom t his story belongs.

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ALSO FROM ALLEN & UNWIN The Shifting Fog by Kate Morton ‘Full o f lo vely w riting, g rand h ouses, s nobbery, cr uelty a nd pas sion, t his compelling mystery-cum-love story is utterly addictive.’ The Australian Women’s Weekly Summer 1924: o n t he e ve of a g littering s ociety party, by t he lake of a grand En glish co untry ho use, a y oung p oet t akes his lif e. The o nly witnesses, sist ers Hannah a nd Emmelin e Hartford, will ne ver sp eak t o each other again. Winter 1999: Grace Bradley, 98, one-time housemaid of Riverton Manor, is visi ted b y a y oung dir ector makin g a f ilm a bout t he p oet’s suicide . Ghosts a waken a nd memo ries, lo ng co nsigned t o t he da rk r eaches o f Grace’s mind, begin to sneak back through the cracks. A shocking secret threatens t o emer ge; s omething his tory has f orgotten b ut G race ne ver could. Set as t he war-shattered Edwardian summer sur renders to the decadent twenties, The S hifting Fog is a t hrilling m ystery a nd a co mpelling lo ve story. Kate Morton’s debut novel, The Shifting Fog (published as The House at Riverton in the UK and the US), has become an international publishing sensation and a b estseller around the world. ‘Kate captu res the a tmosphere a nd a mbience of the ti me a nd place , the melancholy a nd w istfulness as we ll as t he gl ittering m oments . . . I t’s a haunting and e nthralling book, e xquisite not only in the w riting but al so in the structure.’ Good Reading ISBN 978 1 74175 177 2


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The Forgotten Garden

The Forgotten Garden

The Forgotten Garden