The Forgotten Garden Part 6
But plans could be canceled, would have to be canceled. For now that they knew there was someone looking for Nell, well, that changed things, didn't it?
He knew what Lil would say to that: they didn't deserve Nell, these people, this man, Henry Mansell, who had lost her. She'd beg him, plead with him, insist they couldn't possibly hand Nell over to someone who could be so careless. But Hugh would make her see 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 anymore, her own name was looking for her.
When he climbed the front stairs that afternoon, Hugh stood for a moment, collecting his thoughts. As he breathed the acrid smoke 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 the vague sense of standing on a threshold, the crossing of 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 wet strands as Lil combed it.
"Pa!" said Nell, excitement animating a face already pink with warmth.
Lil smiled at him over the top of the little one's head. 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? It was before the babies, he knew. The babies of theirs that refused to be born right.
Hugh met Lil's smile, then set down his bag, reached inside his pocket where the letter was burning its hole, felt its smoothness beneath his fingertips. He turned towards the range where the biggest pot was steaming. "Dinner smells good." Blasted frog in his throat.
"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 tickle," said Hugh. "No need for 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 contentment that poked at his heart so that he had to turn away.
ALL THROUGH dinner the letter sat heavy in Hugh's pocket, refusing to be forgotten. Like metal to a magnet, his hand was drawn. He couldn't put his knife down to rest without his fingers slipping into his coat, 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- dinner the letter sat heavy in Hugh's pocket, refusing to be forgotten. Like metal to a magnet, his hand was drawn. He couldn't put his knife down to rest without his fingers slipping into his coat, 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 the lines from his memory and scanned them through for evidence. The flood of cool relief was instant. There was nothing, nothing in the letter that suggested for certain it was truth. There were any number of queer people out there engaged in all kinds of complicated schemes. There was a market for little girls in some countries, he knew that, white slavers were always on the lookout for little girls to sell- But it was ridiculous. Even as he clutched desperately at such possibilities he knew how unlikely they were.
"Hughie?"
He looked up quickly. Lil was watching him in a funny way.
"You were away with the fairies." She laid a warm palm against his forehead. "Hope you're not coming down with a fever."
"I'm fine." Sharper than he intended. "I'm fine, Lil love."
She pressed her lips together. "I was just saying. I'm going to take this little lady in to bed. She's had a big day, all tuckered out."
As if on cue, Nell surrendered to a huge yawn.
"Good night, Pa," she said contentedly when the yawn was done 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 never before of the roughness of his skin, the whiskers on his cheeks. He folded his arms around her birdlike back and closed his eyes.
"Good night, Nellie love," he whispered into her hair.
He watched them disappear then, into the other room. His family. For in some way that he couldn't explain, even to himself, this child, their Nell, with her two long plaits, lent a solidity to him and Lil. They were a family now, an unbreakable unit of three, not just two souls who'd decided to put their lot in together.
And here he was, considering breaking it apart- A sound in the hall and he looked up. Lil, framed beneath the wooden fretwork, watching him. Some trick of the light drew red from her dark hair and planted a glow deep within her eyes, black moons beneath their long lashes. A thread of feeling tugged at the corner where her lips met, pulling her mouth into the sort of smile that described an emotion too powerful to be expressed verbally.
Hugh smiled back tentatively and his fingers slipped once more into his pocket, ran silently across the surface of the letter. His lips parted with a soft click, tingled with the words he didn't want to speak but wasn't sure he could stop.
Lil was by his side then. Her fingers on his wrist sent hot shocks to his neck, her warm hand on his cheek. "Come to bed."
Ah, were there ever words as sweet as those? Her voice contained a promise and-like that-his mind was made up.
He slipped his hand into hers, held it firm and followed as she led.
As he pa.s.sed the fireplace he tossed the paper on top. It sizzled as it caught, burned a brief reproach on his peripheral vision. But he didn't stop, he just kept walking and never looked back.
TEN.
BRISBANE, 2005.
LONG before it was an antique center, it had been a theatre. The Plaza Theatre, a grand experiment in the 1930s. Plain from the outside, a huge white box cut into the Paddington hillside, its interior was another story. The vaulted ceiling, midnight blue with cutout clouds, had been backlit 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 flourished in the valleys, but though it had prevailed against such fierce adversaries as fire and flood, it had fallen victim softly and swiftly to television in the 1960s. before it was an antique center, it had been a theatre. The Plaza Theatre, a grand experiment in the 1930s. Plain from the outside, a huge white box cut into the Paddington hillside, its interior was another story. The vaulted ceiling, midnight blue with cutout clouds, had been backlit 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 flourished in the valleys, but though it had prevailed against such fierce adversaries as fire and flood, it had fallen victim softly and swiftly to television in the 1960s.
Nell and Ca.s.sandra's stall was directly below the proscenium arch, stage left. A rabbit warren of shelves obscured by countless pieces of bric-a-brac, odds and ends, old books and an eclectic a.s.sortment of memorabilia. Long ago the other dealers had started calling it Aladdin's as a joke and the name had stuck. A small wooden sign with gold lettering now proclaimed the area Aladdin's Den. Aladdin's Den.
Sitting on a three-legged stool, deep within the maze of shelves, Ca.s.sandra was finding it difficult to concentrate. It was the first time she'd been inside the center since Nell's death and it felt strange to sit among the treasures they'd a.s.sembled together. Odd that the stock should still be here when Nell was gone. Disloyal of it, somehow. Spoons that Nell had polished, price tickets with her indecipherable spider's-web scrawl across them, books and more books. They'd been Nell's weakness, every dealer had one. In particular, she loved books written at the end of the nineteenth century. Late Victorian with glorious printed texts and black-and-white ill.u.s.trations. If a book bore a message from giver to recipient, so much the better. A record of its past, a hint as to the hands it had pa.s.sed through in order to make its way to her.
"Morning."
Ca.s.sandra looked up to see Ben holding out a takeout coffee.
"Sorting stock?" he said.
She brushed a few fine strands of hair from her eyes and took the proffered drink. "Moving things from here to there. Back again most times."
Ben took a sip of his own coffee, eyed her over his cup. "I've got something for you." He reached beneath his knitted vest to withdraw a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket.
Ca.s.sandra opened the page and flattened out its creases. Printer paper, white, a patchy black-and-white picture of a house at the center. A cottage, really, stone from what she could make out, with blotches-creepers perhaps?-across the walls. The roof was tiled, a stone chimney visible behind the peak. Two pots balanced precariously at its top.
She knew what this house was, of course, didn't need to ask.
"Been having a bit of a dig," said Ben. "Couldn't help myself. My daughter in London managed to make contact with someone in Cornwall and sent me this photo over the e-mail."
So this was what it looked like, Nell's big secret. The house she'd bought on a whim and kept to herself all this time. Strange, the picture's effect on her. Ca.s.sandra had left the deed on the kitchen table all weekend, had looked at it each time she walked past, thought 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 Ca.s.sandra, had thought she'd understand why.
"Ruby's always had a knack for finding things out, so I set her to chasing up information about past owners. I thought if we knew who your grandma bought the house from, it might shed a little light on why." Ben pulled a small spiral notebook from his breast pocket and angled his gla.s.ses to best observe the page. "Do the names Richard and Julia Bennett mean anything to you?"
Ca.s.sandra shook her head, still looking at the picture.
"According to Ruby, Nell bought the property from Mr. and Mrs. Bennett, who themselves bought it in 1971. They bought the nearby manor house, too; turned it into a hotel. The Blackhurst Hotel." He looked at Ca.s.sandra hopefully.
Again she shook her head.
"You sure?"
"Never heard of it."
"Ah," said Ben, shoulders seeming to deflate. "Ah, well, then." He 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 suppose." He scratched his beard. "Typical of Nell to leave a mystery like this. It's the darnedest thing, isn't it, a secret house in England?"
Ca.s.sandra smiled. "Thanks for the picture, and thank your daughter for me."
"You can thank her yourself when you're over on that side of the pond." He shook his takeout cup, then eyed the sipping hole to check that it was empty. "When do you think you'll go?"
Ca.s.sandra's eyes widened. "You mean to England?"
"A picture's all well and good, but it's not the same as really seeing a place, is it?"
"You think I should 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 lying plain on her table, Ca.s.sandra had been so preoccupied with the theoretical fact of Nell's cottage, she'd completely failed to consider it in practical terms: there was a cottage in England waiting for her. She scuffed at the dull wooden floor, then peered through her fringe at Ben. "I guess I should sell it."
"Big decision to make without setting foot inside." Ben tossed his cup into the overflowing trash bin by the cedar desk. "Wouldn't hurt to take a look, eh? It obviously meant a lot to Nell, to have kept it all this time."
Ca.s.sandra considered this. Fly to England, by herself, out of the blue. "But the stall..."
"Pah! Center staff'll take care of your sales, and I'll be here." He indicated the laden shelves. "You've got enough stock to last through the next decade." His voice softened. "Why not go, Ca.s.s? It wouldn't hurt to get away for a bit. Ruby's living in a s...o...b..x in South Kensington, working at the V&A. She'll show you around, look after you."
Look after her: people were always offering to look after Ca.s.sandra. 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 nothing to lose, no one to lose. Ca.s.sandra was suddenly weary of the topic. She hoisted a slight, yielding smile and added an "I'll think about it" for good measure.
"There's a girl." He patted her shoulder and made to leave. "Oh, almost forgot, I did turn up another interesting little t.i.tbit. Sheds no light on Nell and her house, but it's a funny coincidence all the same, what with your art background, all those drawings you used to do."
To hear years of one's life, one's pa.s.sion, described so casually, relegated so absolutely to the past, was breathtaking. Ca.s.sandra managed to keep a weak smile afloat.
"The estate that Nell's house is on used to be owned by the Mountrachet family."
The name meant nothing and Ca.s.sandra shook her head.
He raised an eyebrow. "The daughter, Rose, married a certain Nathaniel Walker."
Ca.s.sandra frowned. "An artist...An American?"
"That's the one, portraits mostly, you know the sort of thing. Lady So-and-So and her six favorite poodles. According to 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 best work, that they were a bit lifeless."
"It's been a while since I..."
"She preferred his sketches. That's Ruby, though, always happiest when she's swimming against the current of popular opinion."
"Sketches?"
"Ill.u.s.trations, magazine pictures, black-and-white."
Ca.s.sandra inhaled sharply. "The Maze and Fox drawings."
Ben lifted his shoulders and shook his head.
"Oh, Ben, they were incredible, are are incredible, amazingly detailed." It had been so long since she'd thought about art history; it surprised her, this surge of ownership. incredible, amazingly detailed." It had been so long since she'd thought about art history; it surprised her, this surge of ownership.
"Nathaniel Walker came up briefly in a cla.s.s I took on Aubrey Beardsley and his contemporaries," she said. "He was controversial, but I can't recall why."
"That's what Ruby said. You're going to get on well with her. When I mentioned him she was very excited. She said they have a few of his ill.u.s.trations in the new exhibition at the V&A. Evidently they're very rare."
"He didn't do many," said Ca.s.sandra, remembering now. "I suppose he was too busy with the portraits, the ill.u.s.trations were more of a hobby. All the same, those he did were very well regarded." She started. "I think we might have one of them here, in one of Nell's books." She climbed onto an upturned milk crate and ran her index finger along the top shelf, stopped when she reached a burgundy spine with faded gold lettering.
She opened it, still standing on the crate, and flicked carefully through the color plates in the front. "Here it is." Without taking her eyes from the page, she stepped down. "The Fox's Lament."
Ben came to stand by her, adjusted his gla.s.ses away from the light. "Intricate, isn't it? Not my cup of tea, but that's art for you. I can see what you admire about it."
"It's beautiful and somehow sad."
He leaned closer. "Sad?"
"Full of melancholy, yearning. I can't explain better than that, 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 sandwich at lunchtime and then he was gone. Shuffling in the direction of his stall, more particularly the customer at his stall who was juggling the pieces of a Waterford chandelier.
Ca.s.sandra continued to study the picture, wondering how it was she felt so sure about the fox's sorrow. That was the artist's skill, of course, the ability through precise positioning of thin black lines to evoke so clearly such complex emotions...
Her lips tightened. The sketch reminded her of the day she'd found the book of fairy tales, when she'd been filling time beneath Nell's house as upstairs her mother prepared to leave her. Looking back, Ca.s.sandra realized she could trace her love of art to that book. She'd opened the front cover and fallen inside the wonderful, frightening, magical ill.u.s.trations. She'd wondered what it must feel like to escape the rigid boundaries of words and speak instead with such a fluid language.
And for a time, as she grew older, she had known: the alchemical pull of the pen, the blissful sensation of time losing meaning as she conjured at her drawing board. Her love of art had led her to study in Melbourne, had led her to marry Nicholas, and to everything else that had followed. Strange to think that life might have been completely different had she never seen the suitcase, had she not felt the curious compulsion to open it and look inside- Ca.s.sandra gasped. Why hadn't she thought of it before? Suddenly she knew exactly what she had to do, where she had to look. The one place where she might uncover the necessary clues to Nell's mysterious origins.
THAT NELL might have rid herself of the suitcase occurred to Ca.s.sandra, but she pushed the notion aside with some certainty. For one thing, her grandmother was an antiques dealer, a collector, a bowerbird of the human species. It would have been completely out of character for her to destroy or discard something old and rare. might have rid herself of the suitcase occurred to Ca.s.sandra, but she pushed the notion aside with some certainty. For one thing, her grandmother was an antiques dealer, a collector, a bowerbird of 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 mere historical artefact: it was an anchor. It was all Nell had that linked her to her past. Ca.s.sandra understood the importance of anchors, knew all too well what happened to a person when the rope that tied them to their life was cut. She had lost her own anchor twice. The first time as a ten-year-old when Lesley had left her, the second as a young woman (was it really a decade ago?) when, in a split second, life as she knew it had changed and she'd been cast adrift once more.
Later, when she looked back upon events, Ca.s.sandra knew it was the suitcase that found her, just as it had done the first time.
After a night spent combing through Nell's cluttered spare rooms, becoming distracted, despite her best 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 weariness of fairy tales, a magical desire to surrender herself to sleep.
Rather than go downstairs to her own room, she curled up beneath Nell's bedspread, still in her clothes, and let her head sink into the downy pillow. The smell was breathtakingly familiar-lavender talc.u.m powder, silver polish, Palmolive laundry flakes-and she felt as if she were resting her head on Nell's chest.