Exclusive extract from The Forgotten Garden by Kate Morton, the Great Read in the July issue of The Australian Women’s Weekly.
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, Mrs. 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 has 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 dust 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.
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 window. 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 behind 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 her 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…
‘You’re late. The mistress expected the girl at half two.’ A man was standing in the doorway, dressed a little like a toff. He spoke like one too, and yet Eliza knew that he wasn’t. His rigidity gave him away, the vehemence of his superiority. No one born to quality ever needed try so hard.
‘Couldn’t be helped, Mr Thomas ,’ said Newton. ‘Wretched weather the whole way. Lucky we made it all, what with the Tamar rising like it is.’
Mr Thomas was unmoved. He snapped closed his pocket watch.
‘The mistress is greatly displeased. Little doubt she’ll request an audience on the morrow.’ br> The coachman’s voice turned lemon sour: ‘Yes, Mr Thomas. Little doubt. Sir.’ Mr Thomas turned to take in Eliza. Swallowed a barbed kernel of displeasure. ‘What is this?’
‘The girl, sir. Just like I was told to fetch.’
‘That isn’t any girl.’
‘Yes sir, she’s the one.’
‘But its hair…its clothes…’
‘I only do what I’m instructed, Mr Thomas. If you have 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 that the coachman had given her many hours ago…Her lips grew dry from sudden hunger.
The smell was stronger as they walked through a huge steamy kitchen. A cluster of maids and a fat cook stopped their conversation to observe. As soon as Eliza and Mr Thomas had passed, 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 women with a face made stiff by exactitude 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.
