The Forgotten Garden (62 page)

Clara fetched a third 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 eased herself into the armchair by the fire. ‘’Bout time I gave my poor old feet a rest. Been on them all day, organising the stalls for the harbour festival.’

‘Thanks for seeing me,’ said Cassandra. ‘This is my friend Christian.’

Christian reached across the seachest to shake Clara’s hand and she blushed.

‘Pleasure to meet you, I’m sure.’ She took a sip of tea, then nodded towards Cassandra. ‘The museum lady, Ruby, told me about your grandma,’ she said. ‘The one what didn’t know who her parents were.’

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‘Nell,’ said Cassandra. ‘That was her name. My great-grandfather Hugh found her when she was a little girl, sitting on top of a white suitcase on the Maryborough wharf. He was port master and a ship—’

‘Maryborough, you say?’

Cassandra nodded.

‘Now that’s a coincidence, that is. I’ve got family in a place called Maryborough. In the Queen’s land.’

‘Queensland.’ Cassandra leaned forward. ‘Which family?’

‘My mum’s brother moved there when he was a young fellow.

Raised his children, my cousins.’ She cackled. ‘Mum used to say they’d settled there for her name’s sake.’

Cassandra glanced at Christian. Was that why Eliza had put 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 people recognise her as Ivory Mountrachet, had she opted for Mary’s faraway brother? Cassandra suspected that Clara held the answer, all she needed was nudging in the right direction.

‘Your mother, Mary, used to work at Blackhurst Manor, didn’t she?’

Clara swallowed a large gulp of tea. ‘Worked there until she was given her marching orders, 1909 that was. She’d been there since she was but a girl, near on ten years. Let go for being in the family way.’

Clara lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Wasn’t married, you see, and in those days that wasn’t the done thing. But she wasn’t a bad girl, my mum. She was straight as a pound of candles. She and my dad were 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 rectangular book from beside the tea tray.

The cover was decorated with wrapping paper and fabric and buttons, and when Clara opened it Cassandra realised it was a photo album.

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 again, that was the nature of photos: the longer Cassandra looked, the more she seemed to see something of Aunt Phylly about the nose and eyes!

She handed the album to Christian and smiled at Clara. ‘She was very pretty, wasn’t she?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Clara with a saucy wink. ‘Quite the looker was my mum. Too pretty for service.’

‘Did she enjoy her time at Blackhurst, do you know? Was she sorry to leave?’

‘She was glad to leave the house, but sad to leave her mistress.’

This was new. ‘She and Rose were close?’

Clara shook her head. ‘I don’t know about no Rose. It was Eliza 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 dead place.’

‘Why did she think it a dead place?’

‘Those that lived there were like the dead, my mum said. All gloomy for one reason or another. All wanting things they 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 cousin Eliza, provided only one voice in a house that must’ve echoed with others. That was the nature of history, of course: notional, partial, unknowable, a record made by the victors.

‘Her bosses, the lord and lady, were each as nasty as the other according to my mum. They got theirs in the end though, didn’t they.’

Cassandra frowned. ‘Who did?’

‘Him’n’her. Lord and Lady Mountrachet. She died a month or two after her daughter, poisoning of the blood, it was.’ Clara shook her head and lowered her voice conspiratorially, almost gleefully. ‘Very nasty.

My mum heard tell from the servants that she was a fright 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 keys in hand, locking all the doors and raving about some secret 446

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that no one must know. Mad as a hatter she was in the 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 lowered her voice. ‘Voodoo places. They say he brought back 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 none there to find him for days.’ Clara smiled so that her eyes concertinaed shut. ‘Eliza got away though, didn’t she, and that’s the thing. Travelled across the sea, my mum said. She was always so 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 finger. ‘That’s where those sketches came from, the ones the museum lady was so taken with. They were hers, Eliza’s. They were amongst her things.’

It was on the tip of Cassandra’s tongue to ask whether Mary had taken them from Eliza, when she caught herself. Realised that it might be construed as bad manners to suggest this woman’s dearly departed mother had thieved valuable artwork from her employer.

‘Which things?’

‘The boxes my mum bought.’

Now Cassandra really was confused. ‘She bought some boxes from Eliza?’

‘Not from Eliza. Of Eliza’s. After she was gone.’

‘Who did she buy them from?’

‘It was a big sale. I remember it myself. My mum took me when I was a girl. It was 1935 and I was fifteen years old. After the old lord finally died, a distant family member from up Scotland 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 the 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 good to see where she’d started out. Make me thankful that I wasn’t in service, 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. First time I’d seen anything like it. I’d no idea there were 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 towards the ceiling. ‘Now, where was I?’

‘You were telling us about the boxes,’ prompted Christian. ‘The ones your mother bought from Blackhurst.’

She lifted a quivering finger. ‘That’s right, from the manor up Tregenna way. You should’ve seen the look on her face when she saw 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 like she couldn’t get enough air. I actually started to worry, thought I should get her to a chair, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

She seized upon those boxes. It was like she was frightened to walk away in case someone else should buy them. Didn’t seem likely to me—as I already said, they didn’t look like much—but beauty’s in the 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 recollect it. Mum was so happy to buy them, but when we got home she had my dad carry them upstairs for her, put them in the attic, and that was the last I heard of them. Not that I thought much of it then. I was fifteen. Probably had my eye on a local lad and couldn’t care less about some old boxes my mum had bought. Until she moved in here with me, that is, and I noticed that the boxes came with her. Now that was funny, and really showed what they meant to her, because she didn’t bring much. And it was when we were here together that she finally told me what 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 boxes, never to be seen? She swallowed. ‘Did you ever look inside?’

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Clara took a sip of tea, surely cold by now, and fiddled with the cup’s handle. ‘I must admit I did.’

Cassandra’s heart was thumping; she shifted forward. ‘And?’

‘Books mainly, a lamp, like I said.’ She paused, and a crimson flush cherried her cheeks.

‘Was there something else?’ Gently, oh so gently.

Clara moved the toe of her slipper 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 the shock of my life. I’d never thought of Mum as a writer.’

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 seems my mum must’ve sent off one of Eliza’s stories. From what I could tell from the letter, she must’ve found it in the box, amongst Eliza’s things, and figured it deserved reading. Turns out Eliza’d written it just before she left on her adventure.

Nice story it was, full of hope and happy endings.’

Cassandra thought of the photocopied article in Nell’s notebook.

‘“The Cuckoo’s Flight”,’ she said.

‘That’s the one,’ said Clara, as pleased as if she’d written the story herself. ‘You’ve read it then?’

‘I’ve read of it, but I haven’t seen the story itself. It was published years after the rest.’

‘That’d be right. It was 1936 according 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 gone and that’s a fact.’

Cassandra nodded, she could almost taste the solution to Nell’s mystery. ‘They had a bond, didn’t they?’

‘That they did.’

‘What do you think it was that tied them together like that?’ She bit her lip, paced herself.

Clara knotted her gnarled fingers in her lap and lowered her voice. ‘The two of them were party to something that no one else knew about.’

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Something inside Cassandra released. Her voice was faint. ‘What was it? What did your 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 you think she meant?’

‘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 any more. But she went on and on. “It’s all in the story,” 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 head sadly at Cassandra. ‘Rose Mountrachet wasn’t the mother of that little girl, of your grandmother.’

Cassandra sighed with relief. Finally, the truth. ‘I know,’ she said, taking Clara’s hands. ‘Nell was Mary’s baby, the pregnancy that got her fired.’

Clara’s expression was difficult to read. She looked between Christian and Cassandra, eyes twitching at the corners, blinked confusedly then started to laugh.

‘What?’ said Cassandra, with some alarm. ‘What’s so funny? Are you all right?’

‘My mum was pregnant, that’s right enough, but she never had a baby. Not then. She lost it around twelve weeks.’

‘What?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Nell wasn’t Mum’s baby, she was Eliza’s.’

c

‘Eliza was pregnant.’ Cassandra unwrapped her scarf and put it on top of her bag on the floor of the car.

‘Eliza was pregnant.’ Christian tapped his gloved hands on the steering wheel.

The car heating was turned on and the radiator whirred and ticked as they left Polperro behind them. The fog had come in while they 450

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