Part 28 (1/2)

The agent seemed happy enough to be dismissed and, within a minute, Nell saw her appear outside the front gate, huddling into her coat.

Nell watched as the woman did battle with the wind to light a cigarette, then she let her gaze drift down towards the garden. She couldn't see much from up here, had to look through a frayed tapestry of creepers, but she could just make out the stone head of the little-boy statue.

Nell leaned on the dusty window frame, felt the salt-roughened wood beneath her palms. She had been in this cottage before, as a child, she knew that now. She had stood at this very spot, in this room, watching the same sea. She closed her eyes and willed her memory into sharper focus.

A bed had stood where she was now, a single bed, simple, with bra.s.s ends, dulled k.n.o.bs that needed polis.h.i.+ng. From the ceiling, an inverted cone of netting fell, like the white mist that hung from the horizon when storms were stirring the distant sea. A patchwork quilt, cool beneath her knees; fis.h.i.+ng boats bobbing on the tide, flower petals floating on the pond below.

Sitting in this window that jutted out from the rest of the cottage was like hanging from the top of the cliff, like the princess in one of her favorite fairy tales, turned to a bird and left swinging in her golden cage- Raised voices downstairs, her papa and the Auth.o.r.ess.

Her name, Ivory, sharp and jagged like a star cut from cardboard with pointed scissors. Her name as a weapon.

There were other angry words being hurled. Why was Papa shouting at the Auth.o.r.ess? Papa who never raised his voice.

The little girl felt frightened, she didn't want to hear.

Nell clenched her eyes tighter, tried to hear.

The little girl blocked her ears, sang songs in her mind, told stories, thought about that golden cage, the princess bird swinging and waiting.

Nell tried to push aside the child's song, the image of a golden cage. In the cold depths of her mind, the truth was lurking, waiting for Nell to clutch it and drag it to the surface...

But not today. She opened her eyes. Those tendrils were too slippery today, the water around them too murky.

Nell took herself back down the narrow stairs.

The agent locked the gate and together they started in silence down the path to where the car was parked.

”So, what did you think?” said the agent in the perfunctory tone of one who thought she knew the answer.

”I'd like to buy it.”

”Perhaps there's something else I can-” The agent looked up from the car door. ”You'd like to buy it?”

Nell gazed again across the stormy sea, the misty horizon. She enjoyed a bit of inclemency in her weather. When the clouds hung low and rain threatened, she felt restored. Breathed more deeply, thought more clearly.

She had no idea how she'd pay for the cottage, what she'd have to sell in order to do so. But as sure as black and white made grey, Nell knew she had to own it. From the moment she'd remembered that little girl by the fish pond, the little girl who was Nell in a different lifetime, she'd known.

THE AGENT drove all the way back to the Tregenna Inn with breathless promises to walk round with the contracts just as soon as she had them typed up. She had the name of a good lawyer Nell could use, too. Nell closed the car door and went up the steps to the foyer. She was so intent on her attempt to calculate the time difference-was it add three hours and change a.m. to p.m.?-so she could call her bank manager and attempt to explain the sudden acquisition of a Cornish cottage, she didn't see the person coming towards her until they almost collided. drove all the way back to the Tregenna Inn with breathless promises to walk round with the contracts just as soon as she had them typed up. She had the name of a good lawyer Nell could use, too. Nell closed the car door and went up the steps to the foyer. She was so intent on her attempt to calculate the time difference-was it add three hours and change a.m. to p.m.?-so she could call her bank manager and attempt to explain the sudden acquisition of a Cornish cottage, she didn't see the person coming towards her until they almost collided.

”I'm sorry,” said Nell, stopping with a jolt.

Robyn Martin was blinking quickly behind her gla.s.ses.

”Were you waiting for me?” said Nell.

”I brought you something.” Robyn handed Nell a pile of papers clipped together. ”It's research for the article I've been working on about the Mountrachet family.” She s.h.i.+fted awkwardly. ”I heard you asking Gump about them, and I know he wasn't able to...that he wasn't much help.” She smoothed already smooth hair. ”It's an odd a.s.sortment, really, but I thought they might be of interest to you.”

”Thank you,” said Nell, meaning it. ”And I'm sorry if I...”

Robyn nodded.

”Is your grandfather...?”

”Much better. In fact, I was wondering whether you might come to dinner again, one night next week. At Gump's house.”

”I appreciate you asking me,” said Nell, ”but I don't think your grandfather will.”

Robyn shook her head, hair swinging neatly. ”Oh no, you've misunderstood.”

Nell's eyebrows lifted.

”It was his idea,” said Robyn. ”He said there was something he needed to tell you. About the cottage and Eliza Makepeace.”

THIRTY-FOUR.

NEW Y YORK AND T TREGENNA, 1907.

Miss Rose MountrachetCunard Liner, Lusitania LusitaniaMiss Eliza MountrachetBlackhurst ManorCornwall, England9 September 1907My Dearest Eliza,Oh!-What wonder the Lusitania Lusitania! As I write this letter, cousin of mine, I am seated on the upper deck-a dainty little table on the Veranda Cafe-gazing out across the wide blue Atlantic, as our great ”floating hotel” spirits us towards New York.There is an atmosphere of tremendous celebration on board, with everyone positively overbr.i.m.m.i.n.g with hope that the Lusitania Lusitania will take back the Blue Riband from Germany. At the landing stage in Liverpool, as the great s.h.i.+p moved slowly from her moorings & began proper her maiden voyage, the crowd on deck were singing ”Britons never, never, never shall be slaves” & waving flags, so many & so quickly, that even as we pulled further away & the folk ash.o.r.e were diminished into tiny dots, I could see the flags still moving. When the boats bade us farewell by tooting their horns, I confess to goose b.u.mps on my arms & a sensation of swelling pride in my heart. What joy to be involved in such momentous events! Will history remember us, I wonder? I do hope so-to imagine that one might do something, touch an event somehow, & thereby transcend the bounds of a single human lifetime! will take back the Blue Riband from Germany. At the landing stage in Liverpool, as the great s.h.i.+p moved slowly from her moorings & began proper her maiden voyage, the crowd on deck were singing ”Britons never, never, never shall be slaves” & waving flags, so many & so quickly, that even as we pulled further away & the folk ash.o.r.e were diminished into tiny dots, I could see the flags still moving. When the boats bade us farewell by tooting their horns, I confess to goose b.u.mps on my arms & a sensation of swelling pride in my heart. What joy to be involved in such momentous events! Will history remember us, I wonder? I do hope so-to imagine that one might do something, touch an event somehow, & thereby transcend the bounds of a single human lifetime!I know what you will say with regards to the Blue Riband-that it's a silly race invented by silly men trying to prove little more than that their boat can outrun that belonging to even sillier men! But dearest Eliza, to be here, to breathe the spirit of excitement & conquest-Well, I can only say that it's invigorating. I feel more alive than I have done in an age, & though I know you will be rolling your eyes, you must allow me to profess my deepest wish that we do do make the trip in record speed & win back our rightful place. make the trip in record speed & win back our rightful place.The entire s.h.i.+p is appointed in such a way that it is difficult at times to remember that one is at sea. Mamma & I are staying in one of two ”Regal Suites” on board-it comprises two bedrooms, a sitting room, dining room, private bath, lavatory & pantry, & is beautifully decorated, reminding me a little of the pictures of Versailles in Miss Tranton's book, the one she brought to the schoolroom that summer long ago.I overheard a beautifully dressed lady commenting that it is more like a hotel than any s.h.i.+p she has ever before traveled aboard. I do not know who that lady was, but I feel sure she must be Very Important, for Mamma suffered a rare bout of speechlessness when we found ourselves within her orbit. Never fear, 'twas not abiding-Mamma cannot be repressed for long. She quickly found her tongue & has been making up for lost time ever since. Our fellow pa.s.sengers are a veritable who's who of London society, according to Mamma, & thus they must be ”charmed.” I am under strict instructions to be always at my best-thank goodness I have two wardrobes full of armaments with which to dress for battle! For once Mamma & I are of a mind, though certainly not of a taste!-she is forever pointing out a gentleman she considers an excellent match & I am frequently dismayed. But enough-I fear I will lose the audience of my dearest cousin if I tarry too long on such subjects.Back to the s.h.i.+p, then-I have been carrying out certain explorations, sure to make my Eliza proud. Yesterday morning I managed briefly to escape Mamma, & pa.s.sed a lovely hour in the roof garden. I thought of you, dearest, & how amazed you would be to see that such vegetation could be grown on board a s.h.i.+p. There are tubs at every turn, filled with green trees & the most beautiful flowers. I felt quite joyous sitting among them (no one knows better than I the healing properties of a garden) & gave myself over to all kinds of silly daydreams. (You will be able to imagine well enough the paths down which my fancies rambled...)Oh! but how I wish you had relented & come with us, Eliza. I shall make time here for a brief but gentle scold, for I simply cannot understand. It was you, after all, who first raised the notion that the two of us might someday travel to America, witness firsthand the skysc.r.a.pers of New York & the great Statue of Liberty. I cannot think what induced you to forsake the opportunity so that you might stay at Blackhurst with only Father for company. You are, as always, a mystery to me, dearest, but I know better than to argue with you when your mind is made up, my dear, stubborn Eliza. I will say only that I miss you already & find myself frequently imagining how much mischief might be had were you here with me. (How we would wreak havoc on poor Mamma's nerves!) It is strange to think upon a time when you were unknown to me, it seems we have always been a pair & the years at Blackhurst before you arrived but a horrid waiting period.Ah-Mamma is calling. It seems we are expected yet again in the dining room. (The meals, Eliza! I am having to stroll about the deck between times in order to stand any hope at all of making a polite attempt at the next sitting!) Mamma has no doubt managed to harpoon the earl of so-and-so, or the son of some wealthy industrialist as tablemate. A daughter's work is never done, & she is right in this: I shall never meet My Fate if I keep myself locked away.I bid you good-bye, then, my dear Eliza, & close by saying that though you are not with me in person, you most certainly are in spirit. I know that when I first catch sight of the famed lady of Liberty, standing vigilant over her port, it will be my cousin Eliza's voice I hear, saying, ”Just look at her & think of all she's seen.”I remain always, your beloved cousin, Rose ELIZA TIGHTENED her fingers around the brown-paper-wrapped parcel. Standing on the doorstop of the Tregenna general store, she watched as a dark grey blanket of cloud sagged towards the mirror below. Haze on the horizon spoke of storms at sea, and the air in the village vacillated with anxious flecks of moisture. Eliza had brought no bag, as when she'd left the house she hadn't intended a trip to the village. It was sometime during the morning that the story had crept up on her and demanded immediate attention. The five pages left in her current notebook had been sorely inadequate, the need for a new one pressing, thus had she embarked on this impromptu shopping expedition. her fingers around the brown-paper-wrapped parcel. Standing on the doorstop of the Tregenna general store, she watched as a dark grey blanket of cloud sagged towards the mirror below. Haze on the horizon spoke of storms at sea, and the air in the village vacillated with anxious flecks of moisture. Eliza had brought no bag, as when she'd left the house she hadn't intended a trip to the village. It was sometime during the morning that the story had crept up on her and demanded immediate attention. The five pages left in her current notebook had been sorely inadequate, the need for a new one pressing, thus had she embarked on this impromptu shopping expedition.

Eliza glanced once more at the sullen sky and set off quickly along the harbor. When she reached the point where the road forked, she ignored the main branch and started instead up the narrow cliff track. She had never followed it before, but Davies had once told her that a shortcut from the estate to the village ran along the cliff edge.

The way was steep and the gra.s.s long but Eliza proceeded apace. She paused only once to look out across the flat, granite sea, on which a fleet of tiny white fis.h.i.+ng boats was coming home to roost. Eliza smiled to see them, like baby sparrows returning to the nest, hurrying in after a day spent exploring the rim of a vast world.

One day she would cross that sea, all the way to the other side, just as her father had done. There were so many worlds waiting beyond the horizon. Africa, and India, Arabia, the antipodes, and in such faraway places would she discover new stories, magical tales from long ago.

Davies had suggested she write down her own tales, and write Eliza had. She'd filled twelve notebooks and still she hadn't stopped. Indeed, the more she wrote, the louder the stories seemed to grow, swirling in her mind, pressing against her head, anxious for release. She didn't know whether they were any good and in truth she didn't care. They were hers, and writing them made them real somehow. Characters who'd danced around inside her mind grew bolder on the page. They took on new mannerisms she hadn't imagined for them, said things she didn't know they thought, began to behave unpredictably.

Her stories had a small but receptive audience. Each night after supper, Eliza would crawl into bed beside Rose, just as she had when they were younger, and there she would begin her most recent fairy tale. Rose would listen, wide-eyed, gasping and sighing in all the right places, laughing gleefully at certain gruesome moments.

It was Rose who had cajoled Eliza into sending one of her tales away to the London office of the Children's Storytime Children's Storytime journal. journal.

”Don't you want to see them in print? They will be real stories then, and you a real writer.”

”They're already real stories.”

Rose had taken on a slightly devious look. ”But if they're published, you will earn a little income.”

An income of her own. This did did interest Eliza, and Rose well knew it. Up until this point Eliza had been fully dependent on her aunt and uncle, but lately she'd been wondering how she was going to fund the travels and adventures she knew the future held. interest Eliza, and Rose well knew it. Up until this point Eliza had been fully dependent on her aunt and uncle, but lately she'd been wondering how she was going to fund the travels and adventures she knew the future held.

”And it certainly wouldn't please Mamma,” said Rose, clasping her hands together beneath her chin, biting her lip to stop from smiling. ”A Mountrachet lady earning a living!”

Aunt Adeline's reaction, as always, meant little of consequence to Eliza, but the idea of other people reading her tales...Ever since Eliza had discovered the book of fairy tales in Mrs. Swindell's rag and bottle shop, had disappeared inside its faded pages, she'd understood the power of stories. Their magical ability to refill the wounded part of people.