THE FORGOTTEN GARDEN Also by Kate Morton The House at Riverton ATRIA BOOKS A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 This book is a work of fiction Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental Copyright © 2008 by Kate Morton Originally published in Australia in 2008 by Allen & Unwin Published by arrangement with Allen & Unwin Pty Ltd All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever For information address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 ATRIA BOOKS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com Map by Ian Faulkner Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Morton, Kate, date The forgotten garden: a novel / Kate Morton p cm Abandoned children—Australia—Fiction English—Australia—Fiction Country homes—England—Cornwall (County)—Fiction Grandmothers —Fiction Inheritance and succession—Fiction Domestic fiction I Title PR9619.4.M74F67 2009 823'.92—dc22 2009003071 ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-7206-0 ISBN-10: 1-4165-7206-6 Visit us on the World Wide Web: http://www.SimonSays.com For Oliver and Louis More precious than all the spun gold in Fairyland CONTENTS PART ONE ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX FIFTY-ONE CLIFF COTTAGE, 2005 AS Cassandra stared into the deep hole, into Eliza’s grave, she felt surrounded by a strange calm It was as if with the discovery the garden had breathed a great sigh of relief: the birds were quieter, the leaves had stopped rustling, the curious restlessness had gone The long-forgotten secret the garden had been forced to keep had now been told Christian’s gentle voice, as if from somewhere distant: “Well, aren’t you going to open it?” The clay pot, heavy now in her hands Cassandra ran her fingers along the old wax that sealed the rim She glanced at Christian, who nodded encouragement, then she pressed and twisted, snapped the seal so that the lid could be prised open There were three items inside: a leather pouch, a swatch of red-gold hair and a brooch The leather pouch contained two old coins, a pale yellow color, stamped with the familiar jowly profile of Queen Victoria The dates were 1897 and 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 left it smooth and soft, very fine Cassandra wondered whose it was, then remembered the entry in Rose’s early notebook, written when Eliza first came to Blackhurst A litany of complaint about the little girl whom Rose described as “little better than a savage.” The little girl whose hair had been cut off as short and jagged as a boy’s The brooch Cassandra turned to last It was round and sat neatly in the palm of her hand The border was ornate, decorated with gems, while the center contained a pattern, a little like tapestry But it wasn’t tapestry Cassandra had worked long enough among 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 it The treasure for which Eliza had returned to the Swindells’ house, whose price had been an encounter with a strange man An encounter responsible for the separation of Eliza and Ivory, for all that had come afterwards, for Ivory becoming Nell “What is it?” Cassandra looked at him “A mourning brooch.” He frowned “The Victorians used to have them made from the hair of family members This one belonged to Georgiana Mountrachet, Eliza’s mother.” Christian nodded slowly “Explains why it was so important to her Why she went to retrieve it.” “And why she didn’t make it back to the boat.” Cassandra studied Eliza’s precious items in her lap “I just wish Nell had seen them She always felt abandoned, never knew that Eliza was her mother, that she was loved It was the one thing she longed to learn: who she was.” “But she did know who she was,” Christian said “She was Nell, whose granddaughter Cassandra loved her enough to cross the ocean to solve her mystery for her.” “She doesn’t know that I came here.” “How you know what she does and doesn’t know? She might be watching you right now.” He raised his brows “Anyway, of course she knew you’d come Why else would she have 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 own past in order to move beyond it, had seen in Cassandra a kindred spirit A fellow victim of circumstance “She knew I’d come.” Christian was nodding “She knew you loved her enough to finish what she’d started It’s like in ‘The Crone’s Eyes,’ when the fawn tells the princess that the crone didn’t need her sight, that she knew who she was by the princess’s love for her.” Cassandra’s eyes stung “That fawn was very wise.” “Not to mention handsome and brave.” She couldn’t help smiling “So now we know Who Nell’s mother was Why she was left alone on the boat What happened to Eliza.” She also knew why the garden was so important to her, why she felt 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 couldn’t explain Nell was here, too As was Eliza And she, Cassandra, was the guardian of both their secrets Christian seemed to read her mind “So,” he said, “still planning on selling it?” Cassandra watched as the breeze tossed down a shower of yellow leaves “Actually, I thought I might stay around a bit longer.” “At the hotel?” “No, here in the cottage.” “You won’t be lonely?” It was so unlike her, but in that moment Cassandra opened her mouth and said exactly what she was feeling Gave no pause for second- guessing and worry “I don’t think I’ll be alone Not all the time.” She felt the hot-cold sensation of an impending blush and hurried on “I want to finish what we’ve started.” He raised his eyebrows The blush found her “Here In the garden, I mean.” “I know what you mean.” His gaze held hers As Cassandra’s heart began to hammer against her ribs, he let his shovel drop, reached out to cup her cheek He leaned nearer and she closed her eyes A sigh, heavy with years of weariness, escaped her And then he was kissing her, and she was struck by his nearness, his solidity, his smell It was of the garden and the earth and the sun When Cassandra opened her eyes, she realized she was crying She wasn’t sad, though, these were the tears of being found, of having come home after a long time away She tightened her grip on the brooch Past Future Family Her own past was filled with memories, a lifetime of beautiful, precious, sad memories For a decade she had moved among them, slept with them, walked with them But something had 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 beautiful garden that Eliza had made and Nell had reclaimed, Cassandra had found herself Christian smoothed her hair and looked at her face with a certainty that made her shiver “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said finally Cassandra took his hand in hers She had been waiting for him, too EPILOGUE GREENSLOPES PRIVATE HOSPITAL, BRISBANE, 2005 COOL against her eyelids; tingles like tiny feet, those of ants, walking back and forth A voice, blessedly familiar “I’ll get a nurse—” “No!” Nell reached out, still couldn’t see, grasped for anything she could find “Don’t leave me!” Her face was wet, recycled air cold against it “It’s all right, Grandma I’m getting help I’ll be back soon I promise.” Grandma That’s who she was, now she remembered She’d had many names in her lifetime, so many she’d forgotten a few, but it wasn’t until she acquired her last, Grandma, that she’d known who she really was A second chance, a blessing, a savior Her granddaughter And now Cassandra was getting 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 fading The lights were being turned down Dimming, like the lights in the Plaza Theatre, before the feature presentation Patrons shifting in their seats, whispering, waiting… Black Silence And then she was somewhere else, somewhere cold and dark Alone Sharp things, branches, either side of her A sense that walls were pushing in on both sides, tall and dark The light was returning; not much, but sufficient that she could crane her neck and see the distant sky Her legs were moving She was walking, hands out to the sides brushing against the leaves and branch ends A corner She turned More leafy walls The smell of earth, rich and moist Suddenly, she knew The word 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 Somewhere she needed to be Somewhere safe where she could rest She reached a fork Turned She knew the way She remembered She had been here before Faster now, she went faster Need pushing in her chest, certainty She must reach the end Light ahead She was almost there Just a little 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 stepped aside and Nell saw that she had reached the gate The end of the maze “Where am I?” “You’re home.” With a deep breath, Nell followed the Authoress across the threshold and into the most beautiful garden she had ever seen And at last, the wicked Queen’s spell was broken, and the young woman, whom circumstance and cruelty had trapped in the body of a bird, was released 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 fly With the cool sea breeze of her homeland buffeting the undersides of her wings, she soared over the cliff edge and across the ocean Towards a new land of hope, and freedom, and life Towards her other half Home —From “The Cuckoo’s Flight” by Eliza Makepeace ACKNOWLEDGMENTS FOR helping to bring The Forgotten Garden into the world, I’d like to thank: My Nana Connelly, whose story first inspired me; Selwa 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 for answering questions of vernacular For research assistance— archaeological, entomological and medical—I’m grateful to Dr Walter Wood, Dr Natalie Franklin, Katharine Parkes and, especially, Dr Sally Wilde; and, for help with specific details, many thanks to Nicole Ruckels, Elaine Wilkins and Joyce Morton I am fortunate to be published worldwide by extraordinary people and I’m thankful to everyone whose efforts have helped to turn my stories into books For their sensitive and tireless editorial support on The Forgotten Garden, I’d like to make special mention of Catherine Milne, Clara Finlay and the wonderful Annette Barlow at Allen & Unwin, Australia; and Maria Rejt and Liz Cowen at Pan Macmillan UK I’m much obliged to Julia Stiles and Lesley Levene for their fine attention to detail I would also like to pay tribute here to authors who write for children To discover early that behind the black marks on white pages lurk worlds of incomparable terror, joy and excitement is one of life’s great gifts I am enormously grateful to those authors whose works fired my childhood imagination, and inspired in me a love of books and reading that has been a constant companion The Forgotten Garden is, in part, an ode to them Finally, as always, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my husband, Davin Patterson, and my two sons, Oliver and Louis, to whom this story belongs * See Thomas R Collins, Sketching the Past (Hamilton Hudson, 1959) and Reginald Coyte, Famous Illustrators (Wycliffe Press, 1964) Table of Contents Cover Also by Kate Morton Title Page Copyright Dedication CONTENTS PART ONE ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE The Crone’s Eyes THIRTEEN FOURTEEN FIFTEEN SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN EIGHTEEN NINETEEN TWENTY PART TWO TWENTY-ONE TWENTY-TWO TWENTY-THREE TWENTY-FOUR TWENTY-FIVE TWENTY-SIX TWENTY-SEVEN TWENTY-EIGHT TWENTY-NINE THIRTY The Changeling THIRTY-ONE THIRTY-TWO THIRTY-THREE THIRTY-FOUR THIRTY-FIVE THIRTY-SIX PART THREE THIRTY-SEVEN THIRTY-EIGHT THIRTY-NINE FORTY FORTY-ONE FORTY-TWO FORTY-THREE FORTY-FOUR The Golden Egg FORTY-FIVE FORTY-SIX FORTY-SEVEN FORTY-EIGHT FORTY-NINE FIFTY FIFTY-ONE EPILOGUE ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Table of Contents Cover Also by Kate Morton Title Page Copyright Dedication CONTENTS PART ONE ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE The Crone’s Eyes THIRTEEN FOURTEEN FIFTEEN SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN EIGHTEEN NINETEEN TWENTY PART TWO TWENTY-ONE TWENTY-TWO TWENTY-THREE TWENTY-FOUR TWENTY-FIVE TWENTY-SIX TWENTY-SEVEN TWENTY-EIGHT TWENTY-NINE THIRTY The Changeling THIRTY-ONE THIRTY-TWO THIRTY-THREE THIRTY-FOUR THIRTY-FIVE THIRTY-SIX PART THREE THIRTY-SEVEN THIRTY-EIGHT THIRTY-NINE FORTY FORTY-ONE FORTY-TWO FORTY-THREE FORTY-FOUR The Golden Egg FORTY-FIVE FORTY-SIX FORTY-SEVEN FORTY-EIGHT FORTY-NINE FIFTY FIFTY-ONE EPILOGUE ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ... about the lady She knew who she was, she’d heard Grandmamma talking about her The lady was called the Authoress and she lived in the little cottage on the far side of the estate, beyond the maze The. .. visit the Authoress in the cottage on the far side of the estate “Aha!” A voice by her ear “Found you!” The barrel was heaved aside and the little girl squinted up into the sun Blinked until the. .. must have slept then, because the next thing she knew the hospital’s mood had changed again They’d been drawn further into the tunnel of night The hall lights were dimmed and the sounds of sleep