Daughter of Deceit

The Dancing Maidens

We settled into the house. The Crimps had welcomed us warmly. They were obviously delighted, not only that we were there but because the house was now mine.

Mrs. Crimp did say to me some days after our return that this was how it should be. That Monsewer Robber had been a nice enough gentleman, but it was a funny sort of setup, if you asked her. And now it was all back where it belonged. “With you, Miss Noelle,” she added with satisfaction.

Mrs. Crimp was eager to explain everything. There were only two maids, Jane and Carrie. That was all they’d needed, with them being sort of caretakers, and the house not used as a residence.

“You might want to change, Miss Noelle.”

I said I would see.

“And that Miss du Carron. I suppose she’s a mademoiselle. Will she be staying here?”

“Yes. It will be her home as well as mine. She lost all her family. She is Monsieur Robert’s great-niece. He, her father and her grandmother were all blown up when the Germans shelled Paris. They were in a house there when the Germans were trying to take the city. A shell demolished the house and everyone in it.”

“Wicked beggars … and that poor mite.”

“We have to help her, Mrs. Crimp. She’s suffered a terrible loss.”

Mrs. Crimp nodded, and I knew she would be especially kind to Marie-Christine.

Marie-Christine herself seemed to be recovering from the shock of her loss. It had been good to come to an entirely new environment. She was interested in London. I took her round. We walked in the parks; we visited the Tower of London; we looked at historic buildings and the theatres where my mother had worked. She was enchanted by it all.

We had not been there long when Dolly called.

“I heard you were back in London,” he said. “It’s good to see you.” He looked at me searchingly. “How are you, my dear?”

“I’m all right, Dolly, thanks.”

“I heard about Robert. Tragedy, that stupid war. And you’ve brought his niece back with you.”

“His great-niece. She has lost her family … her father, grandmother and Robert. It is dreadful, Dolly.”

“I see that. And she likes to be with you. It is good for her that you are here.”

“And for me, too, Dolly.”

“Yes.”

“Do you hear anything of Lisa Fennell?” I asked.

“Oh, that girl. She had an accident. Turned out worse than we thought. She married … married Charlie’s son, as a matter of fact.”

“Yes. She wrote and told me.”

“Charlie hardly ever comes to London now. I haven’t seen him for ages.”

Marie-Christine came in and I introduced her.

“I knew your uncle well,” Dolly said. “You’ll have to come and see one of my shows.”

Marie-Christine looked pleased at the prospect.

“Lucky Lucy,” he went on. “It’s playing to packed houses … so far. Lottie Langdon’s good.”

“She’s Lucky Lucy, of course?” I said.

“Of course. You must come. I’ll see you get the best seats. I am glad you are back in London, Noelle.”

It was right to have come. Marie-Christine was recovering from the shock, and I think she was able to do that better here away from the scene of disaster. She was young and resilient, and had never been especially close to her family. I think I had begun to mean more to her than any of them, even before the tragedy.

She was maturing quickly. I supposed it was inevitable that such dramatic events would have that effect.

I was delighted to see how much she enjoyed Lucky Lucy. Dolly came round to see us in the interval, and afterwards took us backstage. Marie-Christine was introduced to Lottie Langdon in all her finery. Flushed and triumphant from the acclaim of a delighted audience, Lottie was very gracious to Marie-Christine, and affectionate towards me.

Marie-Christine was in good spirits, but for me the evening had been too reminiscent of the past. I could not sleep that night. On a sudden impulse, I had a desire to be in my mother’s room. I wanted to be there, as I had on those mornings when she had slept late and I had crept into her bed to talk.

I went down to her room. I lay on the bed and I thought of her.

There was a full moon that night, and it set a silvery glow over everything. I felt that she was near me.

I don’t know how long I lay there, lost in memory.

Then suddenly I was startled, for the door was slowly opening.

Marie-Christine had come into the room.

“Noelle,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“It was going to the theatre,” she said. “It reminded you.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“It must have been a wonderful life.”

“It was.”

“And she was as beautiful as Lottie?”

“Much more beautiful.”

“We both had beautiful mothers.”

I said: “Marie-Christine, what are you doing out of bed at this time?”

“I heard you leave your room. I peeped out and watched you. I wasn’t going to do anything about it, but you stayed so long, and I thought I had better go and see.”

“You are looking after me, Marie-Christine.”

“We are going to look after each other, aren’t we?”

“Yes. For as long as is necessary.”

She came to the bed and lay there beside me.

“I thought you were going to marry my father,” she said. “I should have liked that. It would have made you my stepmother.”

“I couldn’t feel closer to you if you were my stepdaughter.”

“I think it would have been very good for you. You liked him very much, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So if he hadn’t died …”

“I am not sure.”

“But if he asked you …”

“He did. I told him I couldn’t just then. I wanted time to think.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Was there someone else you loved?”

“Yes, there was.”

“And he didn’t love you?”

“Yes, he did. But we found we were brother and sister.”

“How?”

“It’s too complicated to tell quickly. We met and fell in love, and then we learned of our relationship.”

“I can’t see how … and why you didn’t know.”

“I’d known his father for a long time. I thought he was one of my mother’s friends. She had a lot of friends. They had been lovers and I was born. He lived in the country with his wife and son. These things happen.”

“With people like your mother, I suppose.”

“She didn’t live according to the laws laid down by society.”

“How dreadful for you!”

“If my mother hadn’t died, it would have been different. She would have seen what might happen and stopped it in time. But she died … and this happened.”

“No wonder you look sad sometimes.”

“I have been very unhappy. It is hard to forget, Marie-Christine.”

“If you had married my father, that would have been good for us all.”

“Perhaps. But we shall never know.”

“And now you have come back to the house where you lived with your mother. What happened to … your brother?”

“He is married now.”

“So he found consolation.”

“I hope so.”

“Noelle, you should find consolation. You could have done with my father. He was miserable about my mother. He was happier when you came. You could have helped each other.”

“It was not to be, Marie-Christine.”

“Well, we have to start from … now. We have come back to this house. It is our house … and it is the place where she lived. Everywhere you remember her. This room is just as it was when she was here. That should not be so, Noelle. It’s our house now … yours and mine. We’re going to live here. It’s going to be different from what it was before. There must be no going back to all these memories. We’re going to start on this room. I know this is what your mother would want.”

“What do you mean … you are going to change it?”

“I’m going to get rid of all the clothes in that wardrobe. We’re going to have new curtains … new carpet. We’re going to have white walls instead of pale green. We are going to take the furniture out … perhaps put it in the attic, or even sell some. Everything is going to be new, and when it is finished it shall be my room … not hers. Then you will stop remembering and being sad. She will have gone. There won’t be all those things to remind you. What do you think of my idea?”

“I … I’ll consider it.”

“Don’t do that. Say yes, I think it’s a good idea. Because it is. Here in this room … I have a feeling she is telling me what to do. She’s saying: Look after Noelle. Stop her thinking of the past. Tell her I’d rather she forgot me if thinking of me makes her sad. That is what she is saying to me.”

“Oh, Marie-Christine!” I said, and we clung together for a few moments.

She said: “It’s going to be exciting. I think we’ll have yellow curtains, because yellow is the colour of sunlight, and we’re going to send out all the shadows and bring in the sun. We shall have a blue carpet. Blue and yellow. Blue skies and yellow sunshine. Oh, do let’s do it, Noelle!”

“Perhaps you are right …” I began.

“I know I’m right. We are going to start tomorrow.”

It was Marie-Christine who found the letters.

She had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the refurbishing of my mother’s room. She had chosen curtain materials and they were being made. She had decided on the carpet, and at this time she was preoccupied with the furniture.

She was obviously enjoying the task, and I was touched by her desire to do what was best for me.

She was happier than she had been since she lost her family. She was right, too. One should not make perpetual shrines to the dead. It was a way of nursing one’s grief.

She came bursting into my room, her eyes shining. She was brandishing some papers in her hand.

“You know the bureau?” she said. “I was going through it. I thought it was one of the pieces that could go into the attic. Behind one of the drawers there was another little drawer. If you didn’t know it was there, you could have missed it. I just put my hand at the back to see if there was anything stuck there … and found it. There were letters in it. I think they could mean something.”

“What letters?” I said. “My mother’s …?”

“They’re written to her, I think. She must have kept them. She was Daisy, wasn’t she? They’re all addressed to ‘My dearest Daisy.’ “

“You’ve read them?”

“Of course I’ve read them. I think it’s an important discovery.”

“Her private letters …”

Marie-Christine looked exasperated. “I tell you, they could mean something. Here. Read them. They were in order. There is no date on them … but I found them like that.”

She handed them to me.

I read the first one.

Meningarth, near Bodmin My dearest Daisy,

I was astounded to hear the news. I feel very proud, too. I don’t suppose it’s possible, but would you feel like coming back, now this has happened? I understand, of course, how you feel, my darling. I know you hate the place and what you went through here. I know you said you never wanted to see it again. But I have a faint hope that this might possibly make a difference. Won’t it be difficult up there?

You know I want to do everything to make you happy. And there would be the child.

My love to you forever,

Ennis

Marie-Christine was watching me closely. “Read the others,” she said.

Meningarth near Bodmin My dearest Daisy,

I knew what your answer would be. I know about your dreams of fame and fortune. You can’t give up, particularly now there is a chance of its coming true. If you came back here, it would be the end of that.

So you have good friends up there.. They will do everything for you … far more than I can. They are rich and the sort of people who like to have you around. I’d be a hindrance and you are right when you say it would be the end of all you dreamed of … and the child must have every chance. You couldn’t bring her back here. When you escaped, it was forever.

I thought it might be difficult for you up there. But apparently you are getting through all the difficulties. I thought, because of the child, you might come back to me, but you say because of the child you must stay. I shall try to understand.

My love as ever,

Ennis

There was another letter.

Meningarth near Bodmin My dearest Daisy,

I am so pleased to hear of your success. You are famous now, my darling. I always knew you would get what you wanted. And the child is happy. She has everything she wants … more than she could ever have had here, and you are determined she shall never know the like of what you went through.

You are going on to even greater success. You always got what you wanted in the end.

As always, my love to you and the child,

Ennis

As soon as I had finished reading, Marie-Christine demanded: “What do you think? You are the child he is talking about.”

“Yes, I think I must be.”

“Why does he write like this? Why is he so interested in

you?’

‘He is asking her to go back and marry him.” ‘Noelle, the child he writes about is his.”

“He doesn’t say so.”

“Not in so many words … but at the least it’s a possibility. We’re going to find out, Noelle. We’ve got to. We’re going down there to …” She snatched the letters from my hands. “Meningarth,” she said. “Near Bodmin. We’re going to find Ennis. We’ve got to. Just suppose …”

“That he is my father?”

“And if he is …”

“It’s too late, Marie-Christine.”

“We’ve got to know. Don’t you want to know who your father is?”

“All we have to go on are these letters.”

“It’s a good start. Meningarth can’t be very big, or he wouldn’t have to say ‘near Bodmin.’ And Ennis … well, it’s not like John or Henry. There can’t be a lot of Ennises.”

She was excited.

“We are going to find him. We are going to find the truth!”

“It is probing into my mother’s past … finding out things she clearly didn’t want known.”

“It’s your life. You must know the truth. If she had known what was going to happen, she would have made sure you had the truth. She would want you to know. You’ll see that. It’s just the first shock of reading these letters. Noelle, we are going down to Meningarth. We’re going to find Ennis. We are going to know the truth.”

Ever since we had decided to go down to Cornwall, Marie-Christine had been in a state of great excitement, in which I was beginning to share. The best thing for us both was to have some project on hand.

Within a few days of the discovery of the letters, we were on our way to Bodmin.

The train was fairly full all the way to Taunton. After that people began to get out and our carriage was empty for some way until we reached Exeter, when two middle-aged ladies joined us.

Marie-Christine, at the window, could not stop calling out to me to look at this and that as we sped past. The glimpse of the sea delighted her, and she was quick to notice the red fertile soil of Devon.

The two ladies listened with obvious amusement. Then one of them said: “This must be your first visit to the West Country.”

“Yes, it is,” I told them.

“You, as well as the French young lady?”

“The first time for both of us.”

“Is it a holiday?” asked the other.

Marie-Christine said: “In a way. We want to explore.”

“There’s no place like Cornwall, is there, Maria?” said one of the ladies to the other.

Maria said: “It’s true. There’s something about Cornwall that no other place has. I have always said that, haven’t I, Caroline?”

“You have. We’ve lived here all our lives. We don’t leave it much … except to see our married sister. She lives in Exeter.”

“Do you live near Bodmin?” I asked.

“Yes, we do.”

“Do you know a place called Meningarth?” asked Marie-Christine eagerly.

“Meningarth …” mused Caroline. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of that, have you, Maria?”

“Meningarth, did you say? No … I don’t know it.”

“Where are you going to stay?” asked Caroline.

“We haven’t decided. We thought it would be easy to get into some hotel for a night … and then, if we liked it, stay … otherwise we would look round.”

“They ought to stay at the Dancing Maidens, oughtn’t they, Maria?”

“Oh, the Dancing Maidens … yes. They couldn’t find anything better than that. That’s if they don’t mind being a little way from the town.”

“We shouldn’t mind that at all,” I said.

“There’s a fly at the station. That could take you out. It’s only a few miles from Bodmin. You could walk the distance. They’ve only a few rooms, but we’ve heard nothing but good of them. They’d look after you. One or two friends of ours have stayed there. You mention the Misses Tregorran and they’ll look after you.”

“The Dancing Maidens sounds very jolly,” said Marie-Christine.

“It’s named after the stones. They’re supposed to be like dancing maidens. You can see them from the inn. They’ve been there for hundreds of years.”

“We shall go to the Dancing Maidens as soon as we reach Bodmin,” I said. “It is kind of you to be so helpful.”

“By the way, we’re Tregorran … Marie and Caroline.”

“I’m Noelle Tremaston, and this is Marie-Christine du Carron.”

“Tremaston! That’s a good old Cornish name. A good one indeed. You must be related to the Tremastons.”

“Who are the Tremastons?”

“Who are the Tremastons!” Caroline looked at Maria and they laughed. “The family up at the Big House. Sir Nigel and Lady Tremaston. It’s half a mile out of the town. The Tremastons have been here for hundreds of years.”

Marie-Christine’s look said: I told you we ought to come here. This is getting more exciting every minute.

I could see that she had made up her mind that these were my hitherto unknown relations.

The Tregorrans went on to talk of the Tremastons. The garden fete was held on their lawn. It was in aid of the church. If it were wet, they all went into the house. That was exciting. They almost hoped for rain on fete days. The place was like a palace … like a castle.

Talk continued until we arrived at Bodmin. In a flurry of excitement, we alighted. The Misses Tregorran had not finished with us yet.

They took us to where the fly was waiting.

“Oh, there you are, Jemmy,” said Miss Caroline Tregorran.

“Have a good visit, miss? And how was Miss Sarah and the children?”

“All well, Jemmy, thank you. Now you are to take these two ladies to the Dancing Maidens.”

“Yes, miss.”

“They’ve come all the way from London.” She smirked slightly, implying that because of this we might need special care. “If they haven’t room at the Dancing Maidens, you must bring them back to Bodmin and try the Bull’s Head, or if they can’t oblige, go to the Merry Monarch. They are travelling on their own, and haven’t been to Cornwall before.”

“I’ll be doing that, miss,” said Jemmy.

She turned to us as we were getting into the fly. She said: “Mention at the Dancing Maidens that the Misses Tregorran sent you. Then they’ll look after you.”

“You have been so kind to us,” I said. “It was great good luck to meet you on the train.”

They went their way, glowing with satisfaction: and we drove out of the station to the Dancing Maidens.

The landlord at the Dancing Maidens certainly had a room for friends of the Misses Tregorran. He told us that he had looked after many friends of those ladies and there had been satisfaction on both sides.

The inn was of grey Cornish stone, and over the door hung the sign depicting three stone figures which could, by a stretch of the imagination, be said to be dancing.

I guessed it to have been built in the seventeenth century. The rooms were fairly spacious but low-ceilinged, and the windows were small; there was a general air of antiquity about everything which Marie-Christine and I found interesting.

The landlord took us to our room, in which there were two single beds, a wardrobe, a table on which stood a basin and ewer, another small table and two chairs.

We were agreeably surprised to be settled so soon, thanks to the Misses Tregorran.

The landlord told us that if we could be ready in half an hour there would be a meal awaiting us in the dining room. I said that would be very agreeable.

As we were talking, hot water was brought up, and when he left us we laughed together.

“It is all so exciting,” said Marie-Christine. “How glad I am we came!”

She went to the window.

“It’s eerie,” she said. “The sort of place where strange things could happen.”

I joined her. We were looking out over moorland. A slight wind ruffled the grass and here and there boulders jutted out of the earth. Some little way off were the stones which bore enough resemblance to the sign over the inn door to tell us that they were the Dancing Maidens.

I pointed them out to Marie-Christine, who gazed at them in awe.

“What are they supposed to be? Were they turned to stone? Perhaps because they were dancing … when they shouldn’t have been.”

“What a terrible punishment for such a small misdemeanour!”

“People did things like that in the old days. Look at the Greeks. They were always turning people into things … flowers and swans and things like that.”

We were laughing. It was the laughter of anticipation. Whatever vital facts we discovered, this quest was going to be interesting.

“Come on,” I said. “We must dash. That meal will be waiting for us in half an hour.”

There was hot soup, cold roast beef with potatoes in the jackets. This was followed by treacle tart.

“We shall certainly not starve here,” I commented.

We were served by a plump maid, whom we discovered was Sally. She was inclined to be talkative, which suited us very well.

She regarded me with something like awe. I soon realized why.

“You be Miss Tremaston,” she said. “You must belong to the Big House.”

I said: “I had never heard of the Big House until today. So I cannot claim that honour.”

“Well, everyone do know the Tremastons in these parts, and I never heard tell of any other by that name who wasn’t the family like.”

“I’ve always lived in London, apart from when I was in France for some time.”

Sally looked at Marie-Christine and nodded.

Marie-Christine said: “Do you know a place called Meningarth?”

“Meningarth?” repeated Sally vaguely. “Now where would that be to?”

“It’s near Bodmin,” I said.

“This be not far from Bodmin, and I can’t say I’ve ever heard of it.”

“Are you sure?” asked Marie-Christine appealingly.

“I can’t recall it, miss.”

When she left us, Marie-Christine said: “It’s odd that the Misses Tregorran hadn’t heard of it … and now Sally …”

We were a little deflated. I was wondering where we could go from here. The point of our visit was to find Ennis, whose surname we did not know, and now no one seemed to have heard of the village where he lived.

Marie-Christine said: “We’ll have to think what we are going to do. We’ll have to ask everyone. Someone will surely have heard of the place.”

After the meal, we went for a little walk. We crossed the moor and made our way to the Dancing Maidens.

Marie-Christine was right. There was a strange eeriness about the moor. We stood beside the maidens. They were the size of humans, and when one stood close, one could imagine their suddenly coming to life.

Marie-Christine shared this feeling.

She said: “I’m sure they could tell us where Meningarth is.”

We laughed. We said goodbye to the stone maidens and made our way back to the inn.

“After all,” said Marie-Christine, “we can’t expect to find everything at once.”

We had better luck in the morning when we met the landlord’s wife.

She greeted us warmly when we came downstairs. A delicious smell of frying bacon and coffee filled the inn.

“Good morning to ‘ee,” she said. “You be Miss Tremaston and friends of the Misses Tregorran. We are very happy to have ‘ee come to the Dancing Maidens.”

“We met the Misses Tregorran on the train,” I told her. “They were very kind.”

“They be nice ladies. I do the breakfasts myself. What would you like to eat?”

We decided on scrambled eggs with crisp bacon, which tasted as good as it smelt.

She was a garrulous woman, and in a short time she was telling us that she had been brought up in the inn, which had belonged to her father. “Jim … my husband … he took over and it was still my home. All my life I’ve lived at the Dancing Maidens.”

“You will know this place as well as anyone,” said Marie-Christine. “Perhaps you can tell us where Meningarth is?”

We were both watching her earnestly, and our hearts sank at the look of puzzlement in her face. Then she said: “Oh, you’d mean Mr. Masterman’s place. You must do. It’s Garth. Mind you, it was Meningarth at one time … but it hasn’t been called that for ten years or more.”

Marie-Christine was beaming at her.

“So now it is just called Garth!” she said encouragingly.

“That be so. I remember now. ‘Twas in the October gales … terrible gales we do get here October month. You should hear the wind sweeping across the moor. It whistles like the devil calling sinners from their graves, they say. It must be all of ten years ago. Terrible they were that year. We had damage at the inn. Meningarth had it worse … being more exposed like. It took the roof off of the place … tore up the gate and flung it a quarter of a mile away. It took months to put it right. The gate was finished. They had to put up a new one … and when it was up, it didn’t have Meningarth on it like the old one. They’d made a mistake and put just Garth. Nothing was done about it … and people stopped saying Meningarth. It was just plain Garth.”

“We used to have friends who knew the people there,” said Marie-Christine glibly.

“Oh … him … he keeps himself to himself. Him and his dog. Fond of music. Plays the violin or something.”

“That must be Ennis …” began Marie-Christine.

“Ennis Masterman … that be he.”

“We might call on him,” I said. “How do we get there?”

” Tis a tidy step from here. A good couple of miles, I’d say. Do you ladies ride a horse?”

“Yes,” we said eagerly.

“Well, we get a lot of call from people staying here for a horse. So we have one or two. We hire them out for the day mostly. We could suit you, I reckon. We’ve got a couple of nice little mares … not too frisky. They know the moor, too. It can be quite a tricky place.”

“You could direct us to Garth, I’m sure,” I said.

“Certainly I could. Well, fancy that. Who’d have thought of Ennis Masterman having young lady visitors, from London!”

We finished breakfast and went immediately to the stables. We saw the mares to which the landlady had referred. We said they would suit us beautifully and, with the landlady’s instructions, we were soon on our way.

“What triumph!” said Marie-Christine. “When she told us about the gate’s being destroyed, I could have hugged her. It explains why all those people didn’t know the place. Noelle, we are on our way.”

I was more subdued. Marie-Christine would not feel my emotions, naturally. Suppose our conjecture proved to be correct and I was going to meet the father whom I had never met before? On the other hand … suppose we were quite wrong, and were going to crash into someone’s private life?

My feelings were in a turmoil.

The landlady’s instructions were clear. We passed the little hamlet she had described. It was just a row of houses, a village store and a church. It was necessary to follow the directions very closely. I could see how easily one could lose oneself on the moor.

“If we are on the right track,” I said, “Garth should be behind that slight hillock over there.”

We had rounded the hillock, and there it was—a long grey stone building, lonely, rather stark and desolate.

We rode over to the gate. “Garth,” we both said aloud. “This is it.”

We dismounted and tied our horses to a post near the gate. We went through the gate to the piece of land in front of the house. It could hardly be called a garden. There were no flowers, only a few overgrown shrubs.

“Isn’t it exciting?” said Marie-Christine with a little shiver.

There was a knocker on the door. I lifted it and let it fall. It sounded very loud in the silence. We waited breathlessly. There was no response.

After a while I tried again.

“There’s no one here,” I said.

“He’s out. He lives here. That’s obvious. He’ll come sooner or later.”

“We’ll wait for a while and see if he does,” I said.

We walked down the path and out through the gate. There was a stone block nearby and we sat on this.

“Perhaps he’s gone away for days … for weeks,” I suggested.

“Oh no,” cried Marie-Christine. “I could not bear that. He’s gone to that little village we passed. He’d have to get stores, wouldn’t he? We’ll find him. This is just making it a little more difficult, that’s all.”

We waited for an hour, and just as I was going to suggest we must go, he came.

He was driving a pony and trap, and Marie-Christine must have been right when she had guessed that he had gone to the village for stores.

He pulled up in amazement when he saw us sitting on the boulder, and then he leaped out of the trap. He was tall and slim.

His face was pleasant rather than handsome. There was a gentleness about him which I noticed even in those first moments.

We went towards him, and I said: “I hope you don’t mind our calling. My name is Noelle Tremaston.”

The effect on him was instantaneous. His eyes were fixed on me, and he was trying hard to control his features. Then a flush came into his face. He said slowly: “You are Daisy’s daughter. I am glad you have come.”

“Yes,” I said. “I am Daisy’s daughter. And this is Mademoiselle du Carron. She has lived with me since she lost her family in the siege of Paris.”

He turned to Marie-Christine and said it was a pleasure to meet her.

“We found your address in my mother’s bureau,” I said.

“Only it was Meningarth,” put in Marie-Christine.

“It was called that a long time ago, and then it was changed.”

“We thought we would like to talk to you,” I said, “when we knew that you had been a friend of my mother.”

“Of course. And what am I thinking of? Come in. I’ll deal with the trap.”

“Can we help you?” I said.

He looked bemused. “That’s kind of you. First I must unload.”

He unlocked the door, and I thought how strange it was that I should begin my acquaintance with the man who might turn out to be my father by carrying a bag of flour into his kitchen.

I was quickly aware of the primitive nature of the cottage. I had noticed a well at the back of the overgrown garden. In the stone-floored kitchen, there was just a wooden table, a cupboard, a few chairs and an oil stove on which he presumably cooked.

When the stores had been brought in, he took us into a sort of sitting room which was very simply furnished. There was no attempt at adornment. Everything was for use.

He asked us to sit down and I realized how difficult it was for him to keep his eyes from me.

“I do not know where to begin,” I said. “I want to talk to you about my mother. You knew her …”

“Yes, I knew her.”

“It must have been a long time ago.”

He nodded.

“Did she live here?”

“Near here. In the village. You must have passed it. Carrenforth. It’s about half a mile from this place.”

“I suppose she was very young then.”

“She was about fourteen years old when I first saw her. I came here from the university. I did not know what I wanted to do. So I decided to take a walking tour over the moors. My home was some way off … on the other side of the Duchy. My inclination was to live the simple life. I love music, but I felt I was not gifted enough to make it a profession. I had a great desire to be a sculptor. I had done a little … but I was very uncertain.”

Marie-Christine was growing impatient, I sensed. She said: “We found letters in a bureau.”

He looked at her blankly.

“They came from you.”

“She kept them,” he said, smiling.

“Three of them,” I said. “I’m sorry. We read them.”

“We were clearing out things,” said Marie-Christine. “They were in a secret drawer in the bureau.”

“So she kept my letters,” he repeated.

“These seemed to be rather important ones,” I said. “They mentioned a child. I think I may be that child. I want to be sure.”

“It is very important,” said Marie-Christine.

He was thoughtful for a few seconds. Then he said: “Perhaps it would be better if I began at the beginning … I mean, I should tell you the whole story.”

“Yes. If you would, we should be grateful.”

“She had told me so much about Noelle, her daughter. I am a little bemused, I fear. It was so sudden. So unexpected … seeing you like this. It is something I always wanted … but I think you will understand better if I tell you from the beginning … as I remember it.”

“Thank you. Do please tell us.”

“I was born in Cornwall—some way from here, just over the border in fact, on the Cornish side of the Tamar. I was the minister’s son. There were six of us, two boys and four girls. Money was short, but my father firmly believed in getting the best education for his children, and somehow I got to the university. I was a moderately good scholar, but as I grew older, I was a disappointment. I did not know what I wanted to do. I had certain enthusiasms, but they were not the sort which would earn money and repay my family for all the sacrifices they had made for me.

“I loved music. I played the violin tolerably well, but I could not see myself earning a living at that. I was deeply interested in sculpture. I was torn between my duty and inclination.

“So I came on this walking tour. I wanted to be quiet … alone. To get right away from everything and everyone and plan. I stayed at the Dancing Maidens, intending to be there for a night or two.

“I wanted to take a look at the stone maidens and I set out one afternoon. It was a strange brooding sort of day. There was not a breath of wind, and the clouds were louring. As I approached the stones, I saw a young girl. I knew something of Cornish folklore, having been brought up in the Duchy. I was perhaps influenced by that, and a little superstitious, but as I came near, I thought one of the stones had come to life and she was dancing. She was so beautiful, so graceful, she seemed to be floating on air. I thought I had never seen anything so enchanting.

“I stood watching in wonder. Suddenly she was aware of me. She turned towards me and began to laugh. It was my first sight of Daisy. Nobody laughs quite like Daisy.”

“No,” I said. “No one ever did.”

“She called out: ‘You thought I was one of the maidens come to life, didn’t you? Confess.’

” For the moment … yes,’ I replied.

” ‘You new here?’ she asked.

” ‘Yes. On a walking tour,’ I told her.

“She asked me if I came there often, and I told her it was my first time and I had only arrived that morning and was trying to make up my mind about something.

” ‘What?’ she asked.

” ‘My career. The work I’m going to do.’

” ‘I know what I’m going to do,’ she said. ‘I’m going to dance. I’m going to be famous. I’m never going to be poor and a nobody. I’m going on the stage.’

“I remember that conversation so well. I stayed on at the Dancing Maidens because I wanted to meet her again. She fascinated me. She was a child one moment and a woman the next. I had never known anyone combine innocence and worldliness as Daisy did. She was fourteen and I some ten years older. She was radiant. I never before knew anyone so beautiful. It was all there … in bud, you might say, waiting to spring into its full glory.

“We used to meet by the stones every day. It was not exactly an arranged meeting, but each of us knew the other would be there. She liked to talk to me. I supposed it was because I liked to listen. The theme of the conversations was always Escape. She was going to sing and dance her way to fame. It struck me at the time that she was everything I was not. I wanted to escape from life. She wanted to escape to it. I soon learned from what she wanted to escape. I learned something about the life she lived there. It had been wretched. That was why she was going to get away and never come back. She lived with her grandparents and she hated them. They killed my mother,’ she said. They would kill me if they could.’

“Eventually I learned something of the story. It was not such an unusual one. I could picture the puritanical grandfather … stern and unforgiving. Prayers three times a day, no laughter, no love, no tenderness. Daisy and her mother were sinners. Her mother because she had disobeyed the laws of God, and Daisy because the sins of the parents, according to the grandfather, were visited upon the children; and a child born in sin must herself be sinful. I understood her vehemence … her determination. She hated them fiercely. She repudiated all her grandfather stood for— the theory that to be miserable was to be good and that to laugh and enjoy life was certain sin.

“She told me that she was waiting; she was preparing all the time. She knew she was too young at that time, but soon she would not be. She must plan very carefully. She must not be rash and foolish. She must await the opportunity and be ready when it came.

“It was an ordinary enough story. Her mother had been seduced and deserted by her lover. The result was Daisy. There was no compassion for the sinner. They would have turned her out,’ said Daisy, ‘but my grandfather realized he could have more fun torturing her while making a show of forgiving the sinner—the old hypocrite. They killed my mother. I hate them. I’ll never forgive them.’

“Daisy was five years old when her mother died. She told me about it. ‘She could stand it no longer. She was often ill. Her cough frightened me. Then one night, when it was snowing and a gale was blowing, she went out onto the moors, wearing a flimsy blouse and skirt, and she stayed out most of the night. When she came back she was very ill. She died within a few days. She had had more than she could endure.’ She was vehement. ‘I hate them,’ she said. ‘I will never be poor. I’ll be rich and famous and laugh my way through my life. I will go away and never, never see them again.’ “

“She rarely spoke of her childhood to me,” I said. “I sensed she did not want to. I understand now. She must have been very unhappy.”

“You would have thought a girl in that position would have been. Not Daisy. She radiated the joy of living. Nothing could dampen that. I was fascinated by her. She had decided me. I knew what I must do. Meningarth was for sale. It was very cheap. I could just about afford it. I would set up house here. I should be near her. She used to come often. I would come in and find she had lighted a fire and was curled up by it. I knew I was important to her at that time. It was to me she came when she wanted to talk. I knew of her plans and dreams, and they never varied. They were to escape and never come back to this place. I refused to accept the fact that she would go away. I thought we should go on like that forever and in time she would come to me at Meningarth. I thought she was just a dreamer … as I was. But Daisy lived in a world where dreams can come true. She was going to call herself Daisy Ray. She was Daisy Raynor. It was the hated name of her grandparents. Daisy Ray, she said, sounded just right for an actress.

“She used to speculate about her father. She was certain that he was a gentleman … someone wealthy like the Tremastons. ‘He was young,’ she said, ‘and afraid of his family.’

“She built up a picture of him. He had wanted to marry her mother, she said. He had not known that she was going to have a child. The family had sent him away … abroad … and when he came back it was too late.”

“What an unhappy life she must have had,” I said.

“Ah, as I told you, Daisy could not be unhappy. It was not in her. She always believed … I had never seen such gaiety. She was always dancing. I called her the Dancing Maiden. I said sometimes I believed she was one of those stones who had come to life. She was amused by that. She used to say: ‘Here is your dancing maiden.’ We would talk about what I was going to do. I was going to be a great musician … a sculptor. I made a statue of her. I called it the Dancing Maiden. It is rather beautiful. I will show it to you. It is the best thing I have ever done. I had caught something of her and the mystic quality of the stones. I was offered quite a large sum of money for it. It could have been the start of a career. But I couldn’t part with it. It meant so much to me … particularly as I realized at that time that she would go away. I felt while I had that I had something of her. It was a symbol in a way. It might have been the start of a career. She said I was a fool. But I couldn’t help it. That was the way I was. I could not part with the Dancing Maiden.”

“I understand,” I said. “I am understanding so much.”

“She made me see myself clearly. The more I was with her, the more I saw what I lacked. I did not want to go out into the world and compete. I wanted the simple life I was making for myself here. Daisy knew that.

“She was fifteen years old when she told me she was almost ready. The time had come, she said. She must delay no longer. You can imagine my dismay. In spite of her insistence, I had secretly dismissed her yearnings as dreams. I had judged her by myself … which was a great mistake. We had become very close friends. She had confided more in me than in anyone. Our meetings had been important to us both. I could not bear the thought of losing her.

“I asked her to marry me. ‘How could I?’ she replied. ‘I’d be here for the rest of my days. We’d be poor … living here … and with them close by! I’m going to dance. I’m going on the stage.’ At one time I thought I would go with her. She shook her head. She said how much my friendship meant to her, but we were different people, weren’t we? I did not believe in things as she did. We didn’t really belong together … not in that way. I knew she was right. But I argued with her. I said, did she think she was the only country girl who had dreamt of a successful stage career? She said of course not. Did she consider how many thousands ended up in wretched circumstances, worse than those they had left? ‘But I’m going to get what I want!’ she said. She believed that, and when I looked at her, so did I.

“The day she went away was the most wretched of my life … to that time. I said goodbye to her. ‘Promise,’ I said, ‘that if it doesn’t work out, you’ll come back to me.’ But she could not conceive that it would not work out. She said it had been wonderful knowing me, that she loved me, but that we were different. She would be no use to me living here … looking after hens … driving the trap into the village to get the stores. And I should be no use to her in her career. ‘We have to face the truth. We don’t fit. But we shall always be good friends.’

“She called herself Daisy Tremaston—after the rich family here—with Daisy Ray her stage name. Then someone advised her to change it to Desiree. Desiree,” he repeated. “She did what she had set about doing. She had the fire, the determination and the talent. And she succeeded.”

He paused and put a hand to his brow. He had been talking for some time and, I knew, living it all again. I, who had known her so well, could visualize it clearly. I could understand that rebellion the puritanical grandparents had raised in her, that contempt for conventions, the determination to go her own way.

Marie-Christine had listened entranced to all this, but I could see that she was impatient to get to the root of the matter. Was this man my father?

He said suddenly: “I usually take coffee at this time. May I give you some?”

Marie-Christine and I were about to say we would rather talk, but I could see that he needed a pause to recover from the excess of emotion which recalling the past had brought to him.

I said I would go into the kitchen and help him make the coffee. Marie-Christine was about to rise, but I signed to her to stay where she was.

When we were in the kitchen, he said to me: “I have often thought of your coming here.”

“With her, you mean?”

He nodded.

“She never talked to me of you,” I said.

“No, of course, she would not. She had other plans.”

“There is one thing I want to know.”

“Yes,” he said. Then he paused before he went on. “She would write to me now and then. I knew of her successes. It was wonderful. And I know why you have come here. You found letters which she had kept, and they have raised a possibility in your mind. Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“I kept her letters. She did not write often. They were wonderful days when I received them. I lived her success through them, although I had no part in it. I knew there was no hope of her coming back. Particularly after your birth. I will give you the letters which she wrote to me at that time. Take them back to the inn and read them. They are for your eyes alone. When you have read them, bring them back to me. They are important to me. I could not bear to lose them now. I read them often.”

I said: “I will read them and bring them back to you tomorrow.”

“I think they will tell you what you want to know.”

We took the coffee back to the sitting room, where Marie-Christine was waiting with obvious impatience.

We talked a little about the life he led. He managed to make a living, he said. There was a gallery in Bodmin that took some of his figures. He sold one or two now and then, usually of the Dancing Maidens. Visitors liked a reminder of the places they had seen. He grew some of his food. He had a cow and some hens. It was the way he had chosen to live. He brought out the letters and gave them to me.

I repeated my promise to bring them back tomorrow, which I should do after having read them.

“Then,” he said, “we shall be able to talk more easily … if you wish to. Perhaps we shall feel we know each other better. This has been a wonderful day for me. Often I have told myself it could never happen. I thought that when she died it was the end. Well, I shall see you tomorrow.”

I was eager to get away, for I was feverishly anxious to read those letters.

Marie-Christine said, as we rode back to the inn: “Fancy living there like that! What a strange man! He was interesting about Desiree. Daisy Ray. Clever, wasn’t it? What about those letters? I can’t wait to see them.”

“He wanted no one to see them but me, Marie-Christine. They are my mother’s intimate letters.”

Her face fell.

“Do understand, Marie-Christine,” I begged. “There is something sacred about them. And I have promised.”

“But you will let me know what they tell?”

“Of course I shall.”

As soon as we arrived at the Dancing Maidens, I hurried to our room. Marie-Christine said, with admirable tact, that she would go for a walk for an hour or so. I appreciated that, for I knew she was consumed by curiosity.

The letters were undated, but had been placed in chronological order, I realized.

My dear, dear Ennis [ran the first],

How wonderful! So at last you are being brought out of your hiding place. At last you are going to be recognized for the genius you are. So, having seen your Dancing Maiden, some London art dealer is interested in your work. It is a beginning. Aren’t you excited? Of course you are. I am. But you will say, “Nothing is certain. We must wait and see. ” I know you, Ennis. My dear one, you have spent too much of your life waiting and seeing. But this is wonderful! I always thought those models you did of the stones were very good. And the one you did of your very own Dancing Maiden, a work of genius!

But the important thing is that you are coming to London. I shall see that you stay in the right hotel … and it is going to be near this place. Then we can be together when you are not with your important dealer. I am not rehearsing yet. His lordship, Donald Dollington—Dolly to us—is teetering on the edge of embarkation on a new production. At the moment he is in a state of nerves, appealing to the Almighty not to send him completely mad, and not to allow the continuation of the torture he is receiving from those who are determined to obstruct him. It’s a game he always plays at times like this. So if you come next week, rehearsals won’t have begun. We can talk and talk. It will be like old times.

I await your arrival with the greatest joy.

Your very own Dancing Maiden,

Daisy

I took up the next letter.

My dear, dear Ennis,

What a wonderful week! I bless that dealer, though he turned out to be such a miserable old thing, and when you wouldn’t let him have your Dancing Maiden he wasn’t interested. It was sweet of you to insist on keeping it … but you shouldn’t have. Let it go, Ennis! It might have meant commissions and things. You are an old idiot! It was wonderful to be with you … to talk as we used to. Did it bring back the old times ? There is no one I can talk to as I do to you. It was like being back in Meningarth … only instead of talking about the beginning of the journey, I am now halfway there. Ennis, do try to understand this compulsion to get to the top.

Parting was so sad. But you will come up again. I know what you will say … but it wouldn’t work. And I know you ‘d hate it here. You’ve no idea what it’s like leading up to the first nights … and there is nothing … nothing but the play. It has to be like that, and you ‘d hate it. You would really.

I have many good friends here. They understand me. The life suits me. I could never leave it.

So things must stay as they are. But let us remember that wonderful, wonderful week.

Loving you, as always,

Daisy—your Dancing Maiden

The next letter was more revealing.

Ennis, my dear,

I have something to tell you. It happened during that wonderful week. At first I didn’t know what to think. Now I am living in a whirl of delight. I know now that it is what I have always wanted. I did not know it until now. It will always be as though part of you is with me.

You know what I am going to say. I think I am going to have a child. I am hoping it is so. I shall write again as soon as I am sure.

My love to you,

Daisy—the D.M.

The fourth letter said:

My dearest Ennis,

No. It is quite out of the question. It simply would not work, as I have told you so many times. It would mean giving up everything I have striven for. I could not do it. Please don’t ask for what is impossible. I could not bear our relationship to be spoilt, as it would be. Now I am so happy.

Ennis, let us be content with what we have. Believe me, it is the best for us both.

My love, as always,

Daisy—D.M.

I took up the next letter.

Ennis, dear,

I am singing with joy.

It is true. I am to have a child. I am so happy. Dolly is furious. He’s thinking of his new play. What is the use of putting me in the lead? Before long I am going to be prancing round like an elephant. I told him elephants didn’t prance; they galumphed. He shouted: “What do you think this is going to do to your career? I suppose it is Charlie Claverham’s. Or is it Robert Bouchere’s? What a thing to do to me, just when I’m thinking of going into production!” Then there was the usual appeal to God. You can’t help laughing at Dolly.

Oh well, nothing … just nothing … can disturb my bliss.

Loving, as ever,

D.—D.M.

I took up the next letter.

Dearest Ennis,

All is going well. Yes, I will let you know.

I am going to have everything of the best for him/her … I don’t care which. I just want it. Charlie Claverham is amusing. He thinks it is his. Forgive me, Ennis, he has always been such a very dear friend. He could give a child of his anything, just anything. He is a very good man, Charlie is. One of the best I have ever known. He’s honourable and honest … and he is very rich. So is Robert Bouchere … but he’s a foreigner, and I’d rather have Charlie. Oh, I’m running on. I was just thinking, if I were to die suddenly. You never know. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but when there is a child to think of, it’s different.

I can’t think of anything but my baby.

Don’t worry, and you certainly mustn’t think of sending anything. I can manage perfectly. I am doing very well, and Charlie is, of course, making sure that I have every luxury.

I’m strong and healthy. I’m not old. I’ve seen the doctor, and he says he reckons I’ll be perfectly well after a couple of months … able to dance again.

Oh, Ennis, I just can’t wait. I know everything is going to be wonderful.

Love to you,

DM.

The next letter had obviously been written some time later.

Dear Ennis,

She is here. She came on Christmas Day, so I am calling her Noelle. She is adorable … everything is in perfect order, and I love her more than anything on earth. I shall never leave her. Dolly fusses and says his hands are tied. He wants me in his next production, but do I think he can wait forever while I go on playing Mother. I told him Mother was the best part I ever played, and I’m going on playing it, to which he replied that I am a sentimental idiot and will I wait until I have had some experience of looking after a squalling brat? Then I was angry. I said: “Don’t dare call my little girl a brat!” To which he replied sarcastically: “Oh, she will be different from all the other brats, of course. She’ll be singing Traviata before she’s a year old. ” Dear Dolly. He is not so bad. And I think he likes her. I do not know who could not love her. She knows me already, of course. Martha pretends she’s a nuisance, but I have seen her at the cradle when she thinks I’m not looking. I heard her say the other day: “Didums wants its mummy, then.” Didums! Martha! Just imagine! But you don’t know Martha. She’s the last person you’d think would ever even look at a baby. What use are babies in the theatre? But my Noelle can charm even her. As for the servants, they are overcome with joy and are vying with each other to look after her. Life is bliss.

Love, D.M.

And the last letter:

Dearest Ennis,

All is well. She grows more adorable every day. The best Christmas present I ever had. I’ve said it a thousand times, and I’ll say it thousands more.

Ennis, you must forgive me for this. I am letting Charlie believe she is his. Don’t feel too hurt. It is for the best. We have to think of her. She must have everything. I could not be happy if I thought it should ever come that I died and left her. I won’t have my child knowing poverty as I did. I won’t have her put out … as I was … into unloving hands. I know you would love her … but you couldn’t give her what she must have … and Charlie could … and would. In fact, he has sworn he will. He loves her … particularly as he believes she is his. Believe me, Ennis, it is the best. He would look after her if I asked him, but it is better to have the closer bond. Perhaps I’m wrong … but right and wrong have always been a bit hazy to me. I want what is best for my child, whether or not some would consider it wrong. It’s right for me … and for her, which is all that matters to me.

Trust you to think about registering the birth and all that. There may be this new law about putting it in at Somerset House. I’m not doing it, Ennis. I am not putting in writing that she was born out of wedlock. There are some who might sneer at her over that. I’m not having my child sneered at. I know a bit about that from my own experience.

I am going to make sure that she has the best of everything. What could I say? I could not say the truth. That you are her father. But you couldn’t look after her, Ennis, not in the way I want her looked after. Charlie’s the one to do that … if ever it were necessary. She’d have servants … nannies … everything. So I say there will be no form filling … no records. This is my child and I will do it my way.

Perhaps I’m wrong, but I think it’s better to do what you can for people, to love them, and there’s no one I want the best for more than my baby. I think love is more important than a lot of moral laws. I am not going to try to make some plaster saint out of her. I want her to laugh her way through life … to enjoy it … above all, I want her to know that she is loved. I know the world would say I’m a right old sinner, but I think that love is the best thing in life … love for one another … and love of life, too. The preachers would say that is wrong. To be good you have to be miserable, but something tells me that if you are loving and kind that’ll be good enough for God when the Day of Judgement comes, and He’ll turn a blind eye to the rest of it.

My child is first with me, and I am going to see that above everything she is happy, and I don’t care what I have to do to make her so.

It was like hearing her voice. It brought her back so clearly to me. She had cared so much for me. It was an ironic twist of fate that, out of her love for me, she had ruined my life.

I felt the tears on my cheeks. These letters had brought her back so vividly that my loss seemed as fresh as it ever had. This they had done—and something else. They had told me without doubt what I had come here to find out.

Marie-Christine had returned. She found me sitting there with the letters in my hand.

She sat down quietly, watching me intently.

“Noelle,” she said at length. “They’ve upset you.”

“The letters …” I replied. “It was just like hearing her talk. It’s all here. There is no doubt that Ennis Masterman is my father.”

“So Roderick is not your brother.”

I shook my head.

She came to me and put her arms round me.

“It’s wonderful. It’s what we wanted to hear.”

I looked at her blankly. “Marie-Christine,” I said slowly. “It doesn’t matter now. It’s too late.”

The next day I called on Ennis Masterman.

I had said to Marie-Christine, “I shall go over to him alone. He is my father, you see. You have been so good. You will understand.”

“Yes,” she said. “I understand.”

He was waiting for me. We stood and looked at each other as though with embarrassment.

Then he said: “You can imagine what this means to me.”

“Yes, and to me.”

“Ever since you were born, I have been hoping to see you.”

“It is strange to be suddenly confronted with a father.”

“At least I knew of your existence.”

“And then I think I might never have known you. It is just by chance …”

“Come in,” he said. “I want to talk about her. I want to hear about your life together.”

So we talked and doing so, surprisingly, I felt some relief from the wounds which had been reopened when I had read her letters. I told him how she had helped Lisa Fennell, of her sudden death and the wretchedness which followed. I told him about the plays, her enthusiasms, her successes.

“She was right,” he said. “She had to do what she did … and I should have been no good for her. She was bent on success and she achieved it.”

At length I talked about myself. I told him of my visit to Leverson Manor, of my love for Roderick and what had come of it.

He was deeply shocked.

“My dear child, what a tragedy!” he said. “And it need never have been. You could have been happily married. And all because of what she had done. Her heart would be broken. What she wanted most of all was for you to be happy … to have everything she missed.”

“It is all too late now. He has married someone else … the Lisa Fennell I told you about.”

“Life is full of ironies. Why did I not follow her to London? Why did I not at least try to make something of myself? I might have been with her in London. I should have been happy there. But I could not do it. Somehow I couldn’t leave this place. I didn’t believe in myself. I always doubted. I was weak and she was strong. I was unsure and she was so certain. We loved each other but, as she said, we did not fit. I was daunted by all the difficulties while she confidently danced her way over them.”

I told him about my stay in France, about Robert, his sister … and Gerard, whom I might have married.

I said: “There were times when I thought I could make something of my life in France, and then memories of Roderick would come back to me. Well, it was decided for me.”

He was thoughtful. “Noelle, I shall give you those letters,” he said. “You will need them as proof. Perhaps you will come and see me sometimes.”

“I will,” I promised. “I will.”

“I wish fervently that you had come before, that I could have known you before it was too late.”

“Oh … so do I. But it was not to be.”

“It would have broken her heart if she knew what she had done.”

It was late in the afternoon when I rode back to the Dancing Maidens. I was still bemused.

I had found my father and confirmed my suspicions. I need never have lost the man I loved.