Free The Memory Garden by Rachel Hore

she knew about you . . .’
    ‘I’m glad you’ve come, my dear,’ Jenna chattered, interrupting Pearl’s thoughts. ‘Since Joan went off to Africa last month to marry her boy, it’s been a parcel of work for the rest of us.’
    ‘Africa?’ Pearl asked.
    ‘Yes, he sailed from Plymouth a twelvemonth ago, to the mines. Then he sent for her and she’s off like a dog after a rabbit. She promised she’d send us a message to say she’d got there, but she ent yet.’
    ‘Maybe it takes a long time for letters,’ said Pearl, standing back to survey their work. ‘These flowers,’ she said, nodding at the arrangement of irises and narcissi, ‘they’re so pretty. Who does those?’
    She began to copy Jenna, who was laying out glasses from trays on the sideboard, several different sizes and shapes for each place-setting.
    ‘Mrs Carey’s in charge of the flowers.’
    ‘Who else lives here then?’
    ‘Master, of course,’ Jenna said. ‘He owns the land where my pa and brothers farm. He works in the office here or goes out and about,’ she added vaguely. ‘Sometimes he rides to Penzance or Jago has to drive him.’
    ‘Is Charlie their son?’
    ‘Mr Charles to you. He’s Mr Carey’s nephew. Lived here for a few years now, since his own ma and pa died. Mr and Mrs Carey only have girls. Miss Elizabeth, she’s sixteen, and Miss Cecily is fourteen, I reckon.’
    ‘What does Mr Charles do then?’
    ‘Well, he’s supposed to be learning ’bout the estate but he don’t seem that fussed. Goes about with Mr Carey sometimes, works in the office. But he do like painting pictures. And the garden – you’ll always see him out there.’
    ‘Are we allowed in the garden?’
    ‘If Cook do give you a moment’s peace and the family aren’t out there, yes.’
    Pearl nodded with pleasure at the thought of walking in those beautiful grounds and followed Jenna out to the hall to fetch some more chairs.
    Past six, just before the guests were due to arrive, Pearl was filling a pan with water from the scullery when Jenna called her. ‘Mistress is wanting you, my dear. I’ll take you up.’
    Pearl threw down her apron and washed her hands. They hurried up the back stairs and scampered along a carpeted corridor as guilty as two bad mice, arriving outside a door to a room at the front of the house.
    ‘Don’t be nervous,’ hissed Jenna. ‘She don’t bite.’ Which just made Pearl more jittery. Jenna knocked and at a ‘Come in,’ cuckooed from within, she opened the door and almost pushed Pearl into the room.
    In this bedroom the carpet was soft, blue and gold curtains hung at the windows where, beyond, the front gardens were falling into shadow. The air was heavy with perfume. The mistress was sitting at a dressing-table between the windows, a jewel box open before her. She had been trying on earrings in the glow of the oil lamps, but now she laid the pendant jewels down on a lace-edged mat and half-turned.
    ‘Ah, good. I need you to do my hair.’
    Pearl moved forward to stand behind the mistress and, hesitantly, began to draw the pins from Mrs Carey’s thick tresses. Earlier, in the sunny drawing room, the crown of hair had reflected chestnut, but in the fading light it appeared dark brown, threaded with white. It fell past her shoulders and Pearl began to brush with the silver-backed hairbrush the mistress passed her, in long languorous strokes.
    Mrs Carey closed her eyes and began to hum. She looked, thought Pearl, watching her in the mirror, as though a hundred and one thoughts were passing through her mind. There were dark shadows under her eyes, and her skin was dry and tired. She smiles a lot and frowns much, too, Pearl decided, reading the lines written on her face. She looked up at her own reflection in the mirror, scrutinising the oval face, the strong straight nose. She was pleased with her large round dark eyes, the lines of her eyebrows like a painter ’s sure brushstrokes, but thought her mouth too wide.