The Forgotten Garden (24 page)

‘Stop immediately.’

All sound evaporated as Eliza, Mrs Swindell and the two Misses Sturgeon turned to see whence the words came. Standing in the open doorway was a man dressed all in black. Behind him, a shiny carriage.

Children were gathered around it, touching the wheels and marvelling at the glowing lanterns up front. The man allowed his gaze to pass over the tableau before him.

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‘Miss Eliza Makepeace?’

Eliza nodded in a jerky fashion, unable to find words. Too dismayed that her point of escape was now blocked to wonder at the identity of this stranger who knew her name.

‘Daughter of Georgiana Mountrachet?’ He handed a photograph to Eliza. It was Mother, much younger, dressed in the fine clothing of a lady. Eliza’s eyes widened. She nodded, confused.

‘I am Phineas Newton. On behalf of Lord Linus Mountrachet of Blackhurst Manor, I have come to collect you. To bring you home to the family estate.’

Eliza’s jaw dropped, though not so low as those belonging to the Misses Sturgeon. Mrs Swindell collapsed onto a chair, victim of a sudden bout of apoplexy. Her mouth opened and closed like a mudflat fish as she bleated confusedly: ‘Lord Mountrachet . . . ? Blackhurst Manor . . . ? Family estate . . . ?’

Old Miss Sturgeon straightened. ‘Mr Newton, I’m afraid I cannot let you walk in here and take this girl without seeing some sort of order.

We at the Parish take our responsibilities—’

‘All should be contained herein.’ The man presented a piece of paper.

‘My employer has applied for and been granted wardship of this minor.’

He turned to Eliza, barely flinched at her unusual outfitting. ‘Come then, miss. There’s a storm approaching and we’ve a way to go.’

It took but a split second for Eliza to decide. Never mind that she had never heard of Linus Mountrachet or Blackhurst estate. Never mind that she had no idea whether this Mr Newton spoke the truth.

Never mind that Mother had remained resolutely tight-lipped about her family, that a dark shadow had fallen across her face whenever Eliza pressed her for further mention. Anything was better than the workhouse. And in going along with this man’s story, escaping the clutches of the Misses Sturgeon, waving goodbye to the Swindells and their cold, lonely rooftop room, it seemed to Eliza that she was helping to rescue herself just as surely as if she’d managed to break free and sprint out of the door.

She hurried towards Mr Newton, stood behind his cloaked arm and sneaked a glance at his face. At such close range, he was not so large as he had seemed when silhouetted in the doorway. He was barrel-shaped and of medium height. His skin was ruddy and beneath 163

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his tall black hat Eliza could see a small amount of hair that the years were bleaching from brown to silver.

While the Misses Sturgeon were scrutinising the wardship order, Mrs Swindell finally regained her composure. She pushed forward, thrusting a thin, ropy finger in the direction of Mr Newton’s chest, punctuating every third word. ‘This is nothing but a trick and you, sir, are a trickster.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what it is you want with the girl, though I can imagine well enough, but you won’t steal her from me by your wicked tricks.’

‘I assure you, madam,’ said Mr Newton, swallowing a lump of rather apparent distaste, ‘there is no trick afoot.’

‘Oh no?’ Her brows leapt and her lips stretched around a salivary smile. ‘Oh no?’ She turned triumphantly towards the Misses Sturgeon.

‘It’s lies, all lies, and he a nasty liar. This girl ain’t got no family, she’s an orphan, she is. An orphan. And she’s mine, mine to do with as I please.’ Her lip took on a victorious curl as she reached a position she thought unassailable. ‘She were left me when the girl’s mother died because there were nowhere else for her to go.’ She paused triumphantly.

‘That’s right, the girl’s own ma told me herself: she had no family to speak of. Not one mention of no family in the thirteen years I knowed her. This man’s a shyster.’

Eliza glanced upwards at Mr Newton who emitted a short sigh and raised his eyebrows. ‘Though it surprises me little that Miss Eliza’s mother failed to divulge the details of her family’s existence, it does not alter the fact that it is so.’ He nodded at the old Miss Sturgeon. ‘It’s all in those papers.’ He stepped outside and held the carriage door wide.

‘Miss Eliza?’ he said, indicating that she should climb inside.

‘I’ll call my husband,’ said Mrs Swindell.

Eliza hesitated, hands opening and closing.

‘Miss Eliza?’

‘My husband’ll set you right.’

Whatever the truth about her family, Eliza realised the choice was simple: carriage or workhouse. She had no further control over her own destiny, not at this point. Her only option was to throw herself upon the mercy of one of the people gathered here. With a deep breath, she took a step towards Mr Newton. ‘I have nothing packed . . .’

‘Someone fetch Mr Swindell!’

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Mr Newton smiled grimly. ‘I can think of nothing here that could possibly have a place at Blackhurst Manor.’

A small crowd of neighbours had gathered now. Mrs Barker stood to one side, mouth agape, basket of wet laundry nursed across her middle; little Hatty leaned her snotty cheek against Sarah’s dress.

‘If you would be so kind, Miss Eliza.’ Mr Newton stood to the side of the door and swept his hand before the open space.

With a final glance at the panting Mrs Swindell and the two Misses Sturgeon, Eliza climbed up the small ladder that had folded down to meet the gutter and disappeared into the dark cavity of the carriage.

c

It wasn’t until the door was closed behind her that Eliza realised she wasn’t alone. Sitting across from her, in the dark fabric folds of the other side, was a man she recognised. A man wearing pince-nez and a neat suit. Her stomach lurched. She knew instantly that this was the Bad Man that Mother had warned them about, and she knew she had to escape. But as she turned desperately towards the closed door, the Bad Man hit the wall behind him and the carriage lurched forward.

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PA RT • T W O

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21

The road to Cornwall, 1900

Cornwall, England, 1900

As they hurtled along Battersea Church Road, Eliza studied the carriage door. Perhaps if she turned one of the knobs, pressed one of the grooves, it would spring open and she could tumble to safety.

The quality of that safety was dubious; if she survived the fall, she’d then have to find a way to avoid the workhouse, but it was better, surely, than being spirited away by the man who’d terrified Mother.

Heart fluttering like a trapped sparrow within her rib cage, she reached out carefully, closed her fingers around the lever and—

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’

She looked up sharply.

The man was watching her, eyes magnified behind the lenses of his pince-nez. ‘You’ll fall beneath the carriage and the wheels will slice you through.’ He smiled thinly, revealing a gold tooth. ‘And how would I explain that to your uncle? Thirteen years of hunting only to deliver you in halves?’ He made a noise then, rapid sucking sounds that Eliza took for laughter only by the upturned corners of his mouth.

As quickly as it started, the noise stopped and the man’s mouth rearranged itself along sour lines. He brushed his bushy moustache, which sat like the tails of two small squirrels above his lips. ‘Mansell is my name.’ He leaned back and closed his eyes. Folded together his pale, damp-looking hands on the polished top of a dark cane. ‘I work for your uncle, and I sleep very lightly.’

The carriage wheels danced metallic down one cobblestone laneway after another, brick buildings fled by, grey and grey as far as the eye could see, and Eliza sat stiffly, desperate not to wake the sleeping Bad Man. She tried to match her own breathing to the thuds of the galloping 169

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horses. Willed her spinning thoughts to straighten. Concentrated on the seat’s cold leather beneath her. It was all she could do to stop her legs from shaking. She felt transported, like a character who’d been cut from the pages of one story, where rhythm and context were known, and glued rather carelessly into another.

When they reached the speckled outskirts of London and emerged finally from the forest of buildings, Eliza was able to see the angry sky.

The horses were doing their best to outrun the dark grey clouds, but what chance horses against God’s own wrath? The first drops of rain spat spitefully on the carriage roof and the world outside was soon blanketed in white. It lashed against the windows and dripped through the thin gaps at the top of the carriage doors.

They drove on thus for hours and Eliza sought refuge in her thoughts, until suddenly they rounded a bend in the road and a trickle of icy water landed on her head. She blinked through waterlogged lashes, looked down at the drenched patch on her shirt. Felt a strong urge to cry. Strange that in a day of tumult, it should be something so innocuous as a dribble of water that prompted a person to tears. But she wouldn’t let herself cry, not here, not with the Bad Man sitting just across the way. She swallowed the hard lump from her throat.

Without seeming to open his eyes, Mr Mansell plucked a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it towards Eliza. Motioned for her to take it.

She patted her face dry.

‘Such a fuss,’ he said, in a voice so thin his lips were barely parted.

‘Such a lot of fuss.’

Eliza thought at first that he referred to her. It seemed unfair as she had made very little fuss, but she didn’t dare say as much. ‘So many years devoted,’ he continued, ‘so little reward.’ His eyes opened, cool and appraising; her skin tightened. ‘To such lengths will a broken man go.’

Eliza wondered who the broken man was, waited for Mr Mansell to make his meaning clear. But he did not speak again. Merely took back his handkerchief and held it between two pallid fingers before discarding it on the seat beside him.

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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 they arrived? Eliza looked out of the window but she could see no house. Only a vast, sodden field, and beside it a small stone building with a rain-battered sign above the door. MacCleary’s Inn, Guildford.

‘I have other business,’ said Mr Mansell, as he disembarked. ‘Newton will take you further.’ Rain almost obscured his next command, but as the door slammed shut, Eliza heard him shout: ‘Deliver the girl to Blackhurst’.

c

A sharp turn and Eliza was thrown against the hard, cold door. Shocked from sleep, it took her some moments to remember where she was, why she was alone in a darkened carriage being spirited towards an unknown destiny. Patchily, heavily, it all came back to her. The summons of her mysterious uncle, escape from the clutches of Mrs Swindell’s Do-Gooders, Mr Mansell . . . She wiped condensation from the window and peered outside. Since she’d boarded the carriage they’d sped through day and night, stopping only occasionally to change the horses, and now it was almost dark again. Evidently she had been asleep for some time; just how long, she couldn’t tell.

It was no longer raining and a smattering of early stars were visible beyond the low cloud. The carriage lights were no match for the thick dusk of the countryside, quivering as the coachman navigated the bumpy road. In the dim, damp light Eliza saw the shapes of large trees, black branches scribbled along the horizon, and a set of tall iron gates.

They entered a tunnel of huge brambles and the wheels bumped along the ditches, tossing sprays of muddy water against the window.

All was dark within the tunnel, the tendrils so dense that none of the dusk light was permitted entry. Eliza held her breath, waiting to be delivered. Waiting for her first glimpse of what must surely lie ahead.

Blackhurst. She could hear her heart, a sparrow no longer but a raven with large, powerful wings, beating within her chest.

Suddenly, they emerged.

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A stone building, the biggest Eliza had ever seen. Bigger even than the hotels in London where the toffs came and went. It was shrouded in dark mist, with tall trees and branches laced together behind it.

Lamplight flickered yellow in some of the lower windows. Surely this could not be the house?

Movement and her gaze was drawn to a window near the top.

A distant face, bleached by candlelight, was watching. Eliza moved closer to the window to get a better look, but when she did the face was gone.

And then the carriage passed the building, metal wheels continuing to clack along the driveway. They went beneath a stone arch and the carriage jerked to a halt.

Eliza sat alert, waiting, watching, wondering whether she was supposed to climb out of the carriage, find her own way inside.

Suddenly the door opened and Mr Newton, drenched despite his raincoat, held out his hand. ‘Come then, miss, we’re late enough already.

No time for dithering.’

Eliza took the proffered hand and scrambled down the carriage steps.

They’d outrun the rain while she was sleeping, but the sky promised it would catch them up. Dark grey clouds drooped towards the earth, heavy with intention, and the air beneath was thick with fog, a different fog from that in London. Colder, less greasy; it smelled like salt and leaves and water. There was a noise, too, which she couldn’t place. Like a train rushing repeatedly by. Whoosha . . . whoosha . . . whoosha . . .