The Forgotten Garden Part 16

"But its hair...its clothes..."

"I only do what I'm instructed, Mr. Thomas. If you have any queries, I suggest you take them up with Mr. Mansell. He was with me when I fetched her."

This news seemed to mollify Mr. Thomas somewhat. He forced a sigh through tight lips. "I suppose if Mr. Mansell was satisfied..."

The coachman nodded. "If that's all, I'll be getting the horses stabled."

Eliza considered running after Mr. Newton and his horses, seeking refuge in the stables, hiding in a carriage and finding her way, somehow, back to London, but when she looked after him he'd already been enveloped by the fog and she was stranded.

"Come," said Mr. Thomas, and Eliza did as she was bade.

Inside was cool and dank, though warmer and drier than outside. Eliza followed Mr. Thomas along a short hallway, trying to keep her feet from clipping on the grey flagstones. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat and Eliza felt her stomach flip over. When had she last eaten? A bowl of Mrs. Swindell's broth two days before, a piece of bread and cheese the coachman had given her many long hours ago...Her lips grew dry with sudden hunger.

The smell was stronger as they walked through a huge, steamy kitchen. A cl.u.s.ter of maids and a fat cook stopped their conversation to observe. As soon as Eliza and Mr. Thomas had pa.s.sed, they erupted in a rush of excited whispering. Eliza could've wept for having been so close to food. Her mouth watered as if she'd swallowed a handful of salt.

At the end of the hall, a skinny woman with a face made stiff by exact.i.tude stepped from a doorway. "This is the niece, Mr. Thomas?" Her direct gaze traveled slowly down Eliza's person.

"It is, Mrs. Hopkins."

"There has been no mistake?"

"Regrettably not, Mrs. Hopkins."

"I see." She drew in a slow breath. "She certainly has the look of London about her."

This, Eliza could tell, was not to her advantage.

"Indeed, Mrs. Hopkins," said Mr. Thomas. "I was of a mind to have her bathed before presenting her."

Mrs. Hopkins's lips tightened. A sharp, decisive sigh. "Though I agree with your sentiment, Mr. Thomas, I'm afraid there isn't time. She She has already let us know of her displeasure at being kept waiting." has already let us know of her displeasure at being kept waiting."

She. Eliza wondered who she she was. was.

A certain agitation crept into Mrs. Hopkins's manner when the word was spoken. She brushed quickly at her already smooth skirts. "The girl is to be taken to the drawing room. She 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." will be along presently. Meanwhile, I'll draw a bath, see if we can't remove some of that horrid London filth before dinner."

So there was to be dinner. And soon. Eliza was light-headed with relief.

A giggle from behind and Eliza turned just in time to see a curly-haired maid disappear back towards the kitchen.

"Mary!" said Mrs. Hopkins, stalking after the maid. "You'll wake one morning and trip over your own ears if you don't learn to stop them flapping..."

At the very end of the hall a set of narrow stairs ran up, then turned towards a wooden door at the top. Mr. Thomas went briskly and Eliza followed, through the door and into a large room.

The floors were covered with pale rectangular flagstones, and a magnificent staircase swept up from the center of the room. A chandelier was suspended from the high ceiling, its candles tossing tissues of soft light onto all below.

Mr. Thomas crossed the entrance foyer and moved towards a door, thick with glistening red paint. He inclined his head and Eliza realized he meant for her to come.

His pale lips quivered as he looked down at her. Little lines puckered. "The mistress, your aunt, will be down to see you in a minute. Mind your p's and q's and call her 'my lady' unless she bids you do otherwise."

Eliza nodded. She She was her aunt. was her aunt.

Mr. Thomas was still looking at her. He shook his head slightly without removing his gaze. "Yes," he said in a quick, quiet voice. "I can can see your mother in you. You're a tatty little wench, no mistake about it, but she's in there somewhere." Before Eliza could try on for size the pleasant notion that she was somehow like Mother, there was a noise at the top of the grand staircase. Mr. Thomas stopped, straightened. He gave Eliza a little prod and she stumbled alone across the threshold into a large room with burgundy wallpaper and a fire raging in the hearth. see your mother in you. You're a tatty little wench, no mistake about it, but she's in there somewhere." Before Eliza could try on for size the pleasant notion that she was somehow like Mother, there was a noise at the top of the grand staircase. Mr. Thomas stopped, straightened. He gave Eliza a little prod and she stumbled alone across the threshold into a large room with burgundy wallpaper and a fire raging in the hearth.

Oil lamps flickered on the tops of tables but despite their best efforts they couldn't hope to light the enormous room. Darkness whispered in the corners, shadows breathed along the walls. Back and forth, back and forth...

A noise behind and the door opened again. A gust of cold air set the fire to spitting in the grate, hurled jagged shadows against the walls.

With a shiver of antic.i.p.ation, Eliza turned.

A TALL, THIN TALL, THIN woman stood in the doorway, her body an elongated hourgla.s.s. Her long dress, blue silk as deep as the midnight sky, clung to her figure. woman stood in the doorway, her body an elongated hourgla.s.s. Her long dress, blue silk as deep as the midnight sky, clung to her figure.

A huge dog-no, not a dog, a hound-stood by her, long legs prancing as he worried close, stalking about the hem of her dress. He lifted his k.n.o.bbled head every so often to rub against her hand.

"Miss Eliza," announced Mr. Thomas, who had hurried in behind the woman and now stood to attention.

The woman did not respond but studied Eliza's face. She was silent for a minute before her lips parted and a flinty voice emerged. "I must speak with Newton tomorrow. She comes later than expected." She spoke so slowly, so surely, that Eliza could feel the sharp corners of her words.

"Yes, my lady," said Thomas, cheeks flaming. "Shall I bring the tea, my lady? Mrs. Hopkins has-"

"Not now, Thomas." Without turning, she gave a vague flutter of her pale, fine hand. "You should know better than that, it's far too late for tea."

"Yes, my lady."

"If word should travel that tea had been taken at Blackhurst Manor after dark-" A tight crystal-breaking laugh. "No, we'll wait for dinner now."

"In the dining room, my lady?"

"Where else?"

"Set for two, my lady?"

"I will dine alone."

"And Miss Eliza, ma'am?"

The aunt inhaled sharply. "A light supper."

Eliza's stomach groaned. Please G.o.d that her meal would contain some warm meat.

"Very good, my lady," said Mr. Thomas, bowing as he left the room. The door sealed glumly behind him.

The aunt drew a long, slow breath and blinked at Eliza. "Come closer, then, child. Let me look at you."

Eliza obeyed, walked towards her aunt and stood, trying to silence breaths that had grown unaccountably quick.

Close up, the aunt was beautiful. It was the type of beauty exemplified in each feature but diminished somehow by the whole. Her face was like that in a painting. Skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, eyes of palest blue. Looking into her eyes was like staring at a mirror with a light shone upon it. Her dark hair was smooth and shiny, swept back from her face and gathered richly at the crown of her head.

The aunt's gaze picked over Eliza's face and her eyelids seemed to flicker slightly. Cold fingers lifted Eliza's chin, all the better to observe her. Eliza, unsure where to look, blinked at those impa.s.sable eyes. The giant dog stood by his mistress, breathing warm, damp air onto Eliza's arms.

"Yes," the aunt said, the s s sound lingering on her lips and a nerve twitching at the side of her mouth. It was as if she answered a question that had not been asked. "You are her daughter. Reduced in all ways, but hers nonetheless." She shivered slightly as a scud of rain hit the windows. The foul weather had finally found them. "We must only hope your nature is not the same. That with timely intervention we can arrest any similar tendencies." sound lingering on her lips and a nerve twitching at the side of her mouth. It was as if she answered a question that had not been asked. "You are her daughter. Reduced in all ways, but hers nonetheless." She shivered slightly as a scud of rain hit the windows. The foul weather had finally found them. "We must only hope your nature is not the same. That with timely intervention we can arrest any similar tendencies."

Eliza wondered what these tendencies might be. "My mother-"

"No," the aunt raised her hand. "No." She steepled her fingers before her mouth, strangled her lips into a thin smile. "Your mother brought shame upon her family's name. Offended against all who live in this house. We do not speak of her here. Ever. This is the first and most important condition of your accommodation at Blackhurst Manor. Do you understand?"

Eliza bit her lip.

"Do you understand?" An unexpected tremor had entered the aunt's voice.

Eliza nodded slightly, more from surprise than agreement.

"Your uncle is a gentleman. He understands his responsibilities." The aunt's eyes flickered in the direction of a portrait by the door. A man of middle years with ginger hair and a foxlike expression. But for his red hair, he was nothing like Eliza's mother. "You must remember always how fortunate you are. Work hard that you might someday deserve your uncle's generosity."

"Yes, my lady," said Eliza, remembering what Mr. Thomas had said.

The aunt turned and pulled a small lever on the wall.

Eliza swallowed. Dared to speak. "Excuse me, my lady," she said softly. "Am I to meet my uncle?"

The aunt's left eyebrow arched. Thin pleats appeared briefly on her forehead before smoothing once more to give the appearance of alabaster. "My husband has been in Scotland, taking photographs of Brechin Cathedral and is not due back until tomorrow." She came close and Eliza was aware of tension emanating from her body. "Although he has offered you accommodation your uncle is a busy man, an important man, a man not given to the interruptions of children." She pressed her lips so tightly that their color was briefly bleached. "You must stay out of his way always. It is kindness enough that he has brought you here, do not be seeking more. Do you understand?" The lips quivered. "Do you understand?"

Eliza nodded quickly.

Then, blessedly, the door was open and Mr. Thomas was there again.

"You rang, my lady?"

The aunt's eyes were still focused on Eliza. "The child needs cleaning."

"Yes, my lady, Mrs. Hopkins has already fetched the water."

The aunt shivered. "Have her put some carbolic in it. Something strong. Sufficient to remove that London grime." She spoke under her breath. "Would that it removed all else with which I fear she's been tainted."

STILL RAW from the scrubbing she'd received, Eliza followed the flickering of Mrs. Hopkins's lantern up a flight of cold wooden stairs and into another hallway. Long-dead men leered at them from heavy gilt frames and Eliza thought how ghastly it must be to have one's portrait painted, to sit still for so long, all so that a layer of oneself could be left forever on a canvas, hung lonely in a darkened corridor. from the scrubbing she'd received, Eliza followed the flickering of Mrs. Hopkins's lantern up a flight of cold wooden stairs and into another hallway. Long-dead men leered at them from heavy gilt frames and Eliza thought how ghastly it must be to have one's portrait painted, to sit still for so long, all so that a layer of oneself could be left forever on a canvas, hung lonely in a darkened corridor.

She slowed. The final painting's subject she recognized. It was different from that in the room downstairs: in this one he was younger. His face was fuller and there was little hint of the fox that would later gnaw its way to the surface. In this portrait, in this young man's face, Eliza saw her mother.

"That there's your uncle," said Mrs. Hopkins without turning. "You'll meet him in the flesh soon enough." The word flesh flesh made Eliza aware of the flecks of pink and cream paint that lingered on the portrait in the grooves of the artist's final strokes. She shivered, remembering Mr. Mansell's pale, moist fingers. made Eliza aware of the flecks of pink and cream paint that lingered on the portrait in the grooves of the artist's final strokes. She shivered, remembering Mr. Mansell's pale, moist fingers.

Mrs. Hopkins stopped before a door at the dim end of the hallway and Eliza hurried after, still clutching Sammy's clothing to her chest. The housekeeper withdrew a large key from a fold in her dress and inserted it into the lock. Pushed open the door and started through, lantern held aloft.

The room was dark; the lantern cast only the dimmest light across its threshold. In the center Eliza could make out a bed of shiny black wood with four posts that looked to have engraved upon them figures 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 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 not to waste a smear.

Mrs. Hopkins, who had been watching with a somewhat stunned expression, made no comment. She continued stiffly, set down the lantern on a wooden box at the foot of the bed and pulled back the heavy blanket. "There you are, then, climb in. I haven't all night."

Eliza did as she was told. The sheets were cold and damp beneath her legs, sensitive after their fierce scouring.

Mrs. Hopkins took the lantern and Eliza heard the door close behind her. And then she was alone in the pitch-dark room, listening as the house's tired old bones creaked beneath its shiny skin.

The darkness of the bedroom had a sound, Eliza thought. A low, distant rumbling. Ever present, always threatening, never coming close enough to be revealed as something harmless.

And then it started to rain again, heavy and sudden. Eliza shivered as a flash of lightning split the sky into two jagged halves and threw light across the world. In those moments of illumination, always followed by a crack of thunder that made the giant house shake, she scanned the room one wall at a time, trying to make out 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 the timbers and rushed along its surface. She climbed onto the window seat that had been built into the nook and looked out across the dark grounds. Angry clouds had shrouded the moon and the garden sat beneath a cloak of troubled night. Needles of driving 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 gla.s.s. She knew, in that moment more than any before, that she was a long way from home.

She went back to bed and slid between the cold, damp, unfamiliar sheets. Placed her head on Sammy's shirt. Closed her eyes and drifted among the reedy fringe of sleep.

Suddenly she sat bolt upright.

Her stomach turned and her heart beat faster.

Mother's brooch. How could she have forgotten? In all the hurry, with all the drama, she had left it behind. High up in the chimney cavity, in Mr. and Mrs. Swindell's house, Mother's treasure waited.

TWENTY-TWO.

CORNWALL, 2005.

Ca.s.sANDRA dropped a tea bag into a cup and switched on the kettle. As it worked itself up to steaming, she gazed towards the window. Her room was at the back of the Blackhurst Hotel, facing out to sea, and though it was dark Ca.s.sandra could still make out some of the rear gardens. A clipped kidney-shaped lawn sloped away from the terrace towards a line of tall trees, blue beneath the moon's silvery light. That was the cliff face, Ca.s.sandra knew, those trees the last line of defense on this particular piece of earth. dropped a tea bag into a cup and switched on the kettle. As it worked itself up to steaming, she gazed towards the window. Her room was at the back of the Blackhurst Hotel, facing out to sea, and though it was dark Ca.s.sandra could still make out some of the rear gardens. A clipped kidney-shaped lawn sloped away from the terrace towards a line of tall trees, blue beneath the moon's silvery light. That was the cliff face, Ca.s.sandra knew, those trees the last line of defense on this particular piece of earth.

Somewhere beyond the cove was the town itself. Ca.s.sandra hadn't seen much of it yet. The train trip had taken most of the day and by the time the taxi wove its way through the back hills of Tregenna, daylight was fading quickly to darkness. Only briefly as the car mounted a crest had she glimpsed a circle of twinkling lights in the cove below, like a fairy village materializing with the dusk.