Gossamer Cord

The Promise

I ARRIVED BACK IN Caddington in early September. I was sorry to leave Dorabella. Moreover I was finding myself more and more absorbed in the life of Tregarland’s. However, I knew my mother thought I ought not to stay too long.

My mother said: “I know Dorabella loves to have you, but she has a husband now and should be building up her own family life. Besides, it is not fair to you to be tucked away down there all the time. You have a life of your own to lead. You must not allow yourself to become just part of Dorabella’s.”

I knew what was in her mind, of course. She was planning dinner parties to which she was going to invite eligible young men. I found this a trifle embarrassing. I did not want to be put up for auction, I told her.

“What nonsense!” she replied. “You want to see a bit of life, that’s all.”

She was delighted when Edward suggested we should go to London.

He wrote: “Richard Dorrington would like you and Violetta, and Sir Robert, if he could come, of course, to spend a week with them in London. You will want to see our house. It is a little topsy-turvy at the moment because we haven’t properly settled in. You could stay with us, though, for a time. Mary Grace is going to write to you.”

“I suppose they feel they ought to ask us because Richard stayed here,” I said.

“It is a nice, friendly gesture,” replied my mother. “I’d like to go. I am not sure about your father.”

My brother Robert had gone back to school. It was a constant complaint of his that, because of school, he had to miss so many interesting things which the rest of the family could do.

“You’ll emerge from it in time,” I told him. “It has happened to all of us.”

I was rather pleased by the prospect of going to London; and it turned out to be interesting to visit the Dorrington family.

Mrs. Dorrington was charming, and she and my mother got along very well. I liked Mary Grace. She was slightly younger than Richard—a rather quiet, shy girl whose main occupation seemed to be to look after her mother.

The house was large, well staffed, and comfortable. It faced a quiet garden square and was characteristic of many in the area.

Edward’s newly acquired house was not very far away—in a row of houses in a tree-lined street. He and Gretchen seemed very happy and contented with each other, though at times I saw shadows in Gretchen’s eyes and guessed the reason. She would be thinking of her family in Germany. As far as I could gather, the situation had not changed there.

Richard Dorrington was very eager that we should enjoy our visit. He had arranged trips to the theater, and we usually had supper afterwards in a small restaurant near Leicester Square which was frequented by theatrical people. It was exciting after life in the country.

Richard and Edward were working during the day and my mother and I were able to make full use of the shopping facilities. Our purchases were frequently for the coming baby. Mary Grace was very interested and sometimes accompanied us.

She and I went to an exhibition of miniatures in one of the museums and I realized at once that she was quite knowledgeable about the subject. Her shyness dropped from her and she became enthusiastic and eloquent.

I was pleased to see her interest and listened intently; she went on talking more than she ever had before and revealed to me that she herself painted.

“Only a little,” she added, “and not very well. But…it is quite absorbing.”

I said I should like to see some of her work, and she shrank visibly.

“Oh, it’s no good,” she said.

“I’d like to see it all the same. Please show me.”

She went on: “There are some people one sees and knows immediately that one wants to paint them. There is something about them.”

“You mean they are beautiful.”

“Well, not necessarily conventionally beautiful. But there is something…I should like to paint you.”

I was astonished and, I admit, flattered.

I laughed and said: “My twin sister Dorabella would make a very good picture. We are alike in a way but she is different. She is vital and very attractive. I wish you could see her. You’d want to paint her. She is going to have a baby quite soon. Perhaps after it is born you could paint her. I am sure she would be a better subject than I.”

Mary Grace said she liked to feel that special urge to paint before she did so. So far no one had sat for her. She saw a face she liked, sketched it from memory, and then worked on it. She made life-size sketches and then got down to the intricate work.

“All right then,” I said. “You can do some rough sketches of me.”

“Oh, will you let me? Don’t tell anyone.”

“It is our secret.”

The next day I went to her room, and she made the sketches, but she would not show them to me. She did, however, show me some of the work she had done. There were several miniatures in watercolors. I thought they were charming and told her so. She was flushed with pleasure. I had rarely seen her look so pleased.

My mother said: “I am so glad you get on well with Mary Grace. She seems to like your company very much.”

“She is a nice girl,” I said, “but she is too self-effacing.”

“Not like her brother. What she needs is someone to bring her out of herself.”

That evening we went to the opera. It was wonderful to be in Covent Garden. The opera was La Traviata. Richard had known that it would be performed that evening and he had gone to great trouble to procure the tickets. From the moment the curtain went up on a scene of Fragonard-like elegance and Violetta was greeting her guests, it was pure enchantment.

We had a supper afterwards in a restaurant near the Opera House and we were quite hilarious, and much play was made of my name, which was the same as the heroine’s.

“There,” said Edward, “the resemblance ends.”

My mother said: “People laughed at me when I gave her the name, but I don’t regret it one little bit. I think it is beautiful…and don’t you think it suits her?”

They all agreed that it did.

“And,” I said, “Dorabella had the greater burden to bear.”

“Dorabella,” said Richard. “That’s beautiful, too. What a pity she is not with us here tonight.”

“I shall give her a detailed account of the evening when we meet,” I said.

It was late when we arrived home. It had been a wonderful evening. I was thinking about Dorabella, who would have loved to share in it—and I found myself wondering afresh how she would fit into life in Cornwall.

Next morning my mother said to me: “Wasn’t it a wonderful evening? I think Richard is delightful.”

“Yes,” I said. “He is very thoughtful.”

“It was so good of him to plan the opera. He said it was Traviata that made him determined to go…your being Violetta, of course.”

“The similarity ends with the name, as Edward pointed out.”

“I should hope so,” said my mother. “I should hate to think of you leading that sort of life and fading away before your time.”

I laughed and she said: “Do you know what is coming up soon? I’d almost forgotten it with all this excitement about the baby. Your birthday.”

“Of course…next month. I haven’t got Dorabella’s present yet.”

“Nor I. What would you like?”

“I’ll have to think.”

“We’ll get it while we are in London. We’ll go and look tomorrow. But think about it.”

“I will.”

There was a dinner party that night. The Dorringtons had invited a lawyer and his wife with their newly married daughter and her husband.

The conversation at dinner was mainly about the situation in Europe. The elderly lawyer said he did not like the way things were going.

“The alliance between the Italian and German dictators is an unholy one, I reckon,” he said.

“We should not have stood by while Italy took Abyssinia,” said Richard.

“What could we have done?” asked Edward. “Did we want to go to war?”

“If all the states of Europe with America had stood together against it and imposed sanctions, Mussolini could not have gone on.”

“Too late now,” said the lawyer.

I glanced at Gretchen. She was looking uneasy, as she always did when the politics of Europe were discussed. I wished they would change the subject.

They eventually did, but I think the evening was spoiled for Gretchen.

The next morning Mary Grace said she had something to show me. I went to her room. Laid out on a table was the miniature.

Mary Grace pointed at it and stepped back, looking away as though she could not face my reaction.

I stared at it. It was beautiful. The colors were soft and exquisitely blended. It was my face, but there was something there, something arresting. It was a look in the eyes, as though I were trying to prove something which I could not understand. The mouth was smiling and seemed to belie that expression in the eyes.

I could not believe that she had created such an exquisite piece of work. I turned to her in wonder and she forced herself to look at me.

“You don’t…like it,” she stammered.

“I don’t know what to say. You are a true artist, Mary Grace. Why have you kept this hidden?”

She looked bemused.

“I think it is wonderful. It really is. Everything on such a small scale and yet…it’s there, isn’t it? It is the sort of portrait which makes one pause and wonder what is behind that smile. What is she thinking?”

Did I really look like that? What had I been thinking of when I sat for Mary Grace? That subject, which was always uppermost in my mind? Dorabella and Dermot…their marriage…Mrs. Pardell who did not believe that her daughter had died as it was said she had…that sly old man who was watching us all the time as though we were spiders in a basin from which we could not escape. Those were the thoughts which had dominated my mind as I sat there.

I looked at Mary Grace in wonder. Her talent really did amaze me.

I said severely, trying to introduce a light note, for she looked very emotional: “Mary Grace, you have been hiding your light under a bushel. Have you heard of the Parable of the Talents? You have been given this talent and you have hidden it away. If you have such talent you must surely use it.”

“I can’t believe…”

“You have to believe in yourself. I am going to buy this miniature from you. I am your first client.”

“No…no…I shall give it to you.”

“I shall not accept it as a gift, but I very much want it and will have it. Listen. You have solved a problem for me. It is my sister’s birthday in October—mine also. I have been wondering what I am going to give her. Now I know. I can’t accept a gift from you which I am going to give to someone else. This is a blessing. She does not see me so often now, though we were always together until she married. This will be the ideal birthday present. You and I will go out and buy a beautiful frame for it, and that shall be my birthday gift to her. She will love it. It is beautiful and it will be so unexpected. Oh, Mary Grace, thank you so much. You have made a beautiful picture of me and at the same time solved my problem.”

She was staring at me, her lips parted in sheer astonishment.

“My dear Mary Grace,” I cried. “You look piskymazed, as they say in Cornwall.”

I carried her along on my enthusiasm. She was a most unusual artist. The few I had met had an inflated idea of their own excellence and a word of criticism could make an enemy for life. Mary Grace was modest and genuinely surprised. She was that rare creature—a good artist and a modest one.

I was already imagining Dorabella’s face when she saw the miniature. She would surely want one of herself. A commission for Mary Grace, I thought delightedly.

Mary Grace and I announced that we were going shopping that morning. There were certain things we wanted to get. We took the miniature with us and went to a jeweler’s shop in the High Street. I had noticed it before because there were several unusual pieces in the window—secondhand, some of them, rare and beautiful.

A bell tinkled over the door as I pushed it open and we went in. An elderly man came toward us to stand behind the counter.

“Good morning, ladies,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“We want a frame—a small frame—to fit this.” I laid the miniature on the table.

He looked intently at the miniature and smiled at me.

“Very nice,” he said. “An excellent likeness.”

I glanced sideways at Mary Grace, who was blushing.

“Have you anything?” I asked.

“It has to be small,” he said. “There are not too many of this size around. Small and oval-shaped, of course. Most frames are the more conventional types. A piece of work like that needs something special, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it is going to be a present.”

“It’s lovely.” He was thoughtful. “A pair of silver frames came in the other day. Excuse me a moment. Thomas,” he called.

A man appeared. He was considerably younger than the one who was serving us.

“Yes, sir?” he said.

“What about those frames that came in the other day…with the Marlon lot.”

“Do you mean those small silver ones, sir?”

“Yes. They’d take a picture like this, would they?”

The man came and looked down at the miniature.

“Beautiful,” he said, smiling at me. “You’d want something really nice for that.”

“Can you put your hands on those frames, Thomas?”

“I reckon so, sir.”

The older man turned to us. “They came in only the other day. We haven’t had much chance to look at all the stuff that came with them yet. Secondhand, you know. From a sale of one of the stately homes. Been in the family for years, then someone dies and everything’s up for sale.”

He chatted awhile until Thomas appeared with the frames.

They were beautiful.

“They’d be some two hundred years old,” we were told. “They knew how to make things in those days. Craftsmen. We could do with more of them nowadays. Well, I reckon we could make that picture fit. Trouble is, they’re a pair.”

I had an inspiration. “It might be that we should want the other one as well,” I said. For if Dorabella wanted a miniature of herself to match mine, the frames should be similar.

“Unfortunately,” I said, “I am not quite sure about the other one.”

“Well, you could take the one and let me know, eh? I’ll put it on one side for a while—say to the end of October? After that I’d let it go. They should go together, of course, but as it fits…”

“That would be wonderful,” I said. “Could you fit the miniature into the frame for us?”

“I think we could do that,” said the old man.

Thomas appeared again and was asked if he could fit the picture into the frame.

“Have to be trimmed a little,” he said. “Needs a bit of care, but we can manage it. It’s always like that. Pictures rarely fit the frame exactly. Could you call in this afternoon?”

We said we could and agreed on a price and triumphantly came out into the street.

Mary Grace continued to look bewildered.

Later my mother said: “Had a good morning’s shopping?”

“Very good,” I said, which she might have queried if she had not been so engrossed in her own plans.

I could scarcely wait for the afternoon.

The miniature looked more beautiful than ever in the silver frame. I wanted to show it to them all. That evening we assembled in the Dorrington drawing room for an aperitif before dinner.

I said to my mother: “I have a most lovely present for Dorabella.”

“You must have got it today,” she said.

“It was completed today.”

“What is it?”

I cut her short. “I want to show you before I explain.”

“Well, where is it?”

“Wait,” I said. I looked across at Mary Grace, who was talking to Edward and Gretchen. “I’ll get it now.”

I ran to my room and returned with the miniature wrapped in tissue paper.

I unwrapped it and held it out to my mother.

She took it and stared at it.

“Why!” she cried. “It’s lovely.”

I said: “Mary Grace came with me to get the frame.”

“But …it is you,” went on my mother.

“Come on, Mary Grace,” I said. “Confess. I have scolded her already for hiding her light under a bushel.” I turned to Richard, who was staring at the picture in amazement. “Didn’t you realize you had an artist in the family?”

“Mary Grace…” began Richard.

“I knew she dabbled about with paints,” said Mrs. Dorrington.

“You call that dabbling about with paints?” I cried indignantly. “I discovered what she was doing and she did this of me. It is wonderful and Dorabella is going to be so thrilled. I shall take Mary Grace to Tregarland’s with me and she will do one of Dorabella. There is the frame for it in the jeweler’s shop. She is going to have this for her birthday, and perhaps I shall have one of her for Christmas.”

Everyone was talking at once and attention was focused on Mary Grace. She was embarrassed but, I believed, gratified; and I was very happy for her.

Over dinner they went on talking about Mary Grace’s work and the wonderful way in which she had caught my likeness.

My mother was particularly pleased. She thought the miniature was the most delightful present. She was envious, she said, for whatever she found would have to take second place to my gift.

Mary Grace herself was talking with some animation and I believed she was enjoying the company as she never had before.

My mother was saying: “We shall have to go to Cornwall soon. The girls have always celebrated their birthdays together. It was a double celebration, of course. I don’t know what Dorabella would say if we were not together on that day. In a few weeks we shall have to be going. Your father will have to make it for this occasion, Violetta, whatever happens. It’s a pity you can’t come, Edward. It won’t be the same without you.”

Edward said: “I wish Dorabella had not gone so far away. It would have been nice if Gretchen and I could have looked in on the party.”

“I certainly wish she were nearer,” agreed my mother.

We left the men over their port and when they finally joined us I found myself sitting with Richard.

He said: “I want to thank you for what you have done for Mary Grace. She is like a different person.”

“I didn’t give her her talent. It was there all the time.”

“Yes, hidden away. You brought it into the light.”

“She is really very talented, I believe. I am going to ask her to paint my sister, and I shall show her portrait of me to my friends. I am sure there will be commissions.”

“She will be wanting a studio in Chelsea soon.”

“Why shouldn’t she?”

“Well, it has certainly changed her. Look at her talking over there to Edward. You are a marvel, Violetta.”

“Thank you, but I did not paint the miniature. All I did was recognize the talent.”

“This has been a wonderful visit for us all.” He looked at me earnestly. “You have enjoyed it, I hope.”

“Immensely. I was wondering if Mary Grace would come to Cornwall and stay at Tregarland’s. I am sure when my sister sees my picture she will want Mary Grace to do one of her. We shall be going down for our birthday—mine and Dorabella’s—and I shall suggest to my sister that she invites Mary Grace. Do you think she would come?”

“I feel sure you could persuade any member of the Dorrington family to do what you want them to do.”

“Do you really? I was not aware that I had such persuasive powers.”

I glanced across the room and saw that my mother, who was talking to Mrs. Dorrington, was watching me. There was a smile of deep satisfaction on her face and I felt a twinge of uneasiness.

When we left the Dorringtons we went to stay for a few more days in Edward’s house. My mother was often out with Mrs. Dorrington. I did not accompany them and she did not suggest it. I knew she wanted to get my birthday present and it would be a secret.

I spent a good deal of time with Gretchen and we had some talks together.

It was no use pretending that her anxieties did not exist, and I raised the subject of her family.

She said life did not improve. In fact it grew worse. She heard from them now and then and, though they always said that everything was all right, she knew differently. They lived in perpetual fear.

“All the young men are joining the Nazi Party. They march through the town. They are everywhere. It is fortunate that my family are in a rather remote spot, and any day they cannot be sure what will happen.”

“Gretchen, do you think they should try to get out?”

“They are not in a position to do that. They would lose everything. Can you tear up your roots? Not when they have been there so long. Edward says we shall go over next summer. But I do not know. There is change everywhere. They do not tell me all, but I know they are afraid. They do not want me to worry. They say all is well. I am so fearful for them.”

I was trying to think of that horrifying experience which I knew I should never forget. The terrible blustering indifference to human suffering…the sheer terror and hopelessness I had seen in faces that night. It made me despair that human beings could show such careless delight in the sufferings of others. And for what reason? I could have understood anger at some outrageous act, but this senseless persecution because of the hatred of one race for another was beyond my comprehension. What sort of people were they who could behave like this?

I felt sickened with anger and despair every time I thought of what I had seen that night.

“There is something I have to tell you, Violetta,” said Gretchen.

“Yes?”

“I am going to have a baby.”

I hugged her. I was so happy for her. This, with her love for Edward, could compensate her in some degree for the anxiety she suffered through her family.

My parents and I traveled down to Cornwall for the birthday celebrations. It would only be a brief visit, for my mother and I would come again in November when we should stay until the baby was born. My mother would want to assure herself that everything was in order before she left; it was possible that I would stay on for a while. We had not yet made plans for Christmas, but it seemed likely that we should spend it in Cornwall as the idea that we should not be with Dorabella was unthinkable, and the baby would be too young to travel at such a time.

Dorabella showed her delight in seeing us and seemed very well. She hugged me and said: “You’ve no idea how I have missed you. It is just not right…our not being together. How can people cast off a habit of a lifetime?”

She spoke with a certain earnestness which was unusual with her; and the thought flashed into my mind that she might be, well, not exactly regretting the choice she had made, but perhaps questioning it. Yet Dermot was devoted and they seemed very affectionate toward each other. Perhaps being pregnant had an effect on her.

She embraced our parents with great fervor and it was really wonderful to be together again.

“It is only another month to go now,” said my mother. “Then you will find it has all been so worthwhile.”

“And you are only staying a week!”

“Well, we shall be down again in less than a month.”

When she saw the miniature she was overcome with delight.

“But it is beautiful!” she cried. “And it is mine. I love it. It will be almost like having you with me. I shall never, never part with it.”

She studied it closely. “It is clever. It’s lovely. Mind you, it flatters you a little.”

“Thank you for your sisterly candor,” I retorted.

“Well, it does. It is not exactly a raving beauty, but it is interesting…like the Mona Lisa.”

“Good Heavens!” I cried. “I never cared for that Gioconda smile.”

“I don’t mean you look like her. You look like yourself. But…it’s beautiful.”

“The compliments grow every minute.”

She laughed. “It is so good to have you here, Vee,” she said sincerely, and there were tears in her eyes. “I’ve missed you. You can’t know how I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” I told her.

“It’s not right that we should be apart. We’ve been together right from the beginning of our existence. We ought never to have been separated. We are really part of each other. You ought to marry some nice Cornishman and live here with me. Nothing else will please me. You have a chance. There is that Jermyn man. That would be fun. And the feud and all that. Perhaps Gordon? But I prefer the Jermyn.”

“All very funny,” I said.

“And you have been gadding about in London, I hear. I am told that Edward’s friend Richard is very charming. You went to the opera…”

“We all went.”

“Traviata. Our dear Mama looks just a little cosy about Richard’s choice of Traviata.”

“You would have loved it.”

“I would rather have had mine. Perhaps if I had been there, he would have chosen the one with Dorabella in it.”

“I am sure he would.”

“You don’t mean that at all. But what fun it must have been…and then getting that lovely miniature painted. I should like one of myself.”

“I knew you would. I was going to suggest you have yours done. It can be your Christmas present to me.”

I told her about Mary Grace.

“Richard’s sister, eh? The plot is thickening. You are getting on well with his family.”

“I found this frame. Don’t you think it is exquisite?”

“Lovely.”

“There is another just like it. They are a pair.”

“Where?”

“Waiting in the shop. They are holding it until I know whether you’ll agree to have your miniature painted.”

“But of course I will. She’ll come here, will she, this Mary Grace?”

“I thought when the baby was born.”

“Not until then?”

“You can’t think about that sort of thing while you’re waiting for the baby. Besides, it will be better when you are quite normal again.”

“I like the idea,” she said.

“You can write to Mary Grace. I’ll take the letter back with me. You could ask her down for a week or two. She would fit it in. She works very quickly. The whole thing will be completed by Christmas.”

“How glad I am to have you here! It makes life exciting!”

“What! You need me when you have an adoring husband and baby whose arrival is imminent? You still need your sister!”

“Always,” she said earnestly. “You are not just an ordinary sister. You are a part of me.”

Our stay was a brief one. I saw Jowan Jermyn once. I told him then that I should be down again in November and that this was just a birthday celebration. We drank mulled wine in a hotel two or three miles out of Poldown and he said as we parted: “I shall see more of you in November. You won’t make it such a short visit then, I presume.”

I said I was unsure. I might even stay until after Christmas.

“We haven’t decided yet what we shall do,” I explained. “My parents would like Dorabella to come home for Christmas, but it will be too soon for the baby to travel.”

“You will be here,” he said.

Gordon was a little more approachable. The memory of our adventure lingered on. He said how pleased he was that we were here and Dorabella seemed to miss me very much.

“You know what twins can be like,” I said.

“Yes. The relationship is very close.”

That was all. And then we left and came home.

A week or so later there was a letter from Nanny Crabtree and one for me from Dorabella.

They arrived when we were at breakfast. My mother opened hers immediately. I liked to take Dorabella’s letters to my bedroom that I might be alone when I read them, because she often wrote very frankly, for my eyes only. My mother knew this and would ask later what I had heard from her.

“Wonderful!” she cried, reading her letter. “Nanny Crabtree is already there. Just the same old Nanny Crabtree. She is going to make some changes in the nursery. She says Dorabella is doing well and everything seems to be in order. She’s quite satisfied with her condition. She’s not sure of the doctor, though. You have to watch these country doctors, she says.”

Nanny Crabtree herself came from London and believed that everyone who did not could not be expected to share that certain shrewdness which belonged to those born in the capital.

“She was just the same with us at Caddington,” said my mother, with a grimace. “She’ll be even more critical with the Cornish. It’s even farther from London. I’m so glad she is there. She’ll know exactly what’s what, and as long as she doesn’t alienate the doctor, all should be well. I wonder what Matilda thinks of her? The trouble with people like Nanny Crabtree is that they believe they are right and everyone who disagrees with them is wrong. Actually nine times out of ten she is right.”

“I thought you were absolutely certain no one but Nanny Crabtree would do.”

“I am, but she can rub people up the wrong way.”

“Dorabella wants her.”

“Oh, she’ll be fine with her darling Dorabella, and the baby couldn’t be in better hands, but Nanny Crabtree will have things done her way.”

“Perhaps that’s no bad thing.”

“I’m sure it isn’t.”

I wanted to get away to read Dorabella’s letter, and so I went to my room.

Dear Vee,

Well, Nanny Crabtree has arrived in all her glory. Dermot went down to the station to collect her and I have an idea that she doesn’t approve of him. Who could disapprove of Dermot? He was meek with her and answered all her questions as well as could be expected from a mere man. She is a little critical of the house. She thinks it’s draughty. “What can you expect?” she said. “With all that sea outside.” She’s changed the nursery round a bit and she makes me rest more. I was always the self-willed one. “Not like that Miss Violetta.” You have become a paragon of virtue. It was always like that, wasn’t it? The good twin was the absent one.

She goes off every now and then into something we did when we were three…or four. Well, she has anecdotes for all ages. The baby is her baby. I am allowed a slight proprietorial interest. You wouldn’t think Dermot had anything to do with it. Nanny Crabtree’s babies are all hers. Poor darling, I hope when he/she arrives, he/she does not find her too overpowering.

Matilda is so patient and goes along with everything she suggests. Dermot quite likes her, although she behaves toward him as though he is one of those half-witted men who wouldn’t know one end of a baby from the other. Gordon, she thinks, is a bit of a misery. She doesn’t know what to make of the old man, though they rarely meet. I am sure she considers him of no importance whatsoever.

Dear old Nanny Crabtree. I’m glad she is here. She makes me feel…comfortable.

What I want most is for you to come. It won’t be long now. By the way, tell Mummy I am thinking of names. I have decided to keep up the opera tradition. If it’s a boy, it’s to be Tristan, if a girl Isolde. Ask her if that will suit her. I don’t think she is as fond of Wagner as she is of our two. But it will be particularly appropriate as these are Cornish names…and Nanny Crabtree’s baby will be half that.

When I told my mother about the suggested names she was amused.

“I like that,” she said. “They are both lovely names. I wonder what it will be. Your father doesn’t mind much what sex it is as long as they are both all right. Nor do I, for that matter. Perhaps a boy would be nice. They would like that down there, I expect.”

She was looking at me wistfully, and I felt that faint, embarrassed irritation when I saw matrimonial plans in her eyes. It might be that she believed I must be very lonely without Dorabella.

There was little thought now of anything but the baby. We went to London to stay with Edward and, of course, saw the Dorringtons.

I had a chance of telling Mary Grace about Dorabella’s reception of the miniature and that, just as I had thought, she wanted Mary Grace to do a picture of her.

“I expect you persuaded her,” said Mary Grace.

“I can assure you Dorabella makes up her own mind. She thinks you have genius and she can’t wait. That is why I wanted to make sure of that other frame. When the baby is born you must come down. You’ll find Cornwall quite interesting.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Of course.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“And you will come to Cornwall and do the miniature?”

“I want to…more than anything. It has been marvelous.”

“We’ll get the frame tomorrow and make sure we have the pair.”

It was a successful visit. There was the usual excitement of shopping and we went to a theater and to supper with the Dorringtons.

Gretchen seemed a little more serene. She was preoccupied with the coming baby. It was not due until April but already it absorbed her. I was so glad, for it undoubtedly took her thoughts away from the anxieties she felt about her family.

We could not stay long, for, as my mother had said, we had to prepare for our visit to Cornwall.

“I want to be there in good time,” she said. “Dorabella will feel happier if we are around. When it is all settled down, I shall have to come back. I can’t leave your father too long. He hates to be alone, though he never complains. You might like to stay on a little, and if Mary Grace is going to be there, you would want to be there, too. We shall have to make plans for Christmas. I suppose we shall have to go there. Nanny Crabtree would never allow such a young baby to travel. We seem to be spending our lives on trains these days. I thought the Dorringtons rather hinted that we might spend Christmas with them.”

“Oh, we should have to be with Dorabella.”

“Of course. But I wish she were not so far away.”

And in due course we were traveling down to Cornwall. It was a dark November day and as the train carried us into the West Country the light was fading. It would be dark by the time we arrived.

Dorabella flung herself at me and clung to me. She was very emotional. The birth was clearly imminent; she was quite unwieldy and, I could detect, a little scared.

Then she clung to my mother, who was very reassuring.

Nanny Crabtree welcomed us with restrained pleasure.

“It’s going to be a boy,” she said. “I can tell by the way she’s carrying it. That Mrs. Lewyth said she thought it would be a girl. ‘A girl, my foot,’ I said. ‘She’s carrying a boy if ever I saw a boy being carried.’ ”

“Well, I hope little Tristan comes punctually.”

“Tristan!” snorted Nancy Crabtree. “What a name! What’s wrong with a nice Jack or Charlie?”

“Nothing at all,” retorted my mother, “except that Dorabella has decided on Tristan.”

Nanny Crabtree clicked her tongue. At least she could not have her way over that.

Dorabella showed us the now completed layette and told us what arrangements had been made.

The midwife was coming as soon as Nanny Crabtree gave the call and there would be the doctor, too; and Nanny Crabtree would be on hand to welcome the new arrival.

“Everything is ready,” put in Nanny Crabtree. “I’ve seen to that. Now all we’ve got to do is wait for the little darling.”

That was what she was longing for. Then she would be rid of the midwife and the doctor and herself be in complete command.

Dorabella was a little exhausted and went to bed immediately after dinner. We did not see Dermot or Gordon. Matilda told us that they had both gone to some landowners’ conference which was being held in Exeter. They would be away for two nights probably. “Dermot wanted to cancel it when he heard the day you were coming, but Gordon thought they could not easily do that, nor that he should go without Dermot,” Matilda told us. “And the baby is not due for a few more days, so he knew you would understand.”

“Of course,” said my mother. “He can see us when he gets back.”

My mother came to my room for a little chat after we had retired.

“Well,” she said. “I think everything is in order.”

“It seems so.”

“Matilda is very good. I did think Nanny Crabtree might have made some difficulties, but Matilda is the soul of tact and seems to realize what a treasure she is, so long as you don’t mind her ways.”

“Yes, I think Matilda likes a peaceful life.”

“As for the rest of the servants…well, Nanny Crabtree would be on her own and wouldn’t come into contact with them very much. The nursery is her life. That’s why the baby couldn’t have a better nanny. Well, all we have to do is wait for the day.”

“I think Dorabella is getting a little scared.”

“Who wouldn’t be? It’s her first and she isn’t sure what she has to face. She’ll be all right. She’s strong and healthy, and we’ll make sure that everything that can be done will be.”

“That’s a comfort.”

“I’m glad you’re here. A pity your father couldn’t be with us. But he wouldn’t be much use in the nursery.”

“He’d be a comfort and it’s always good to have him around.”

My mother nodded and smiled. “That’s true,” she said. “But there is the estate, and we do seem to be on the move all the time. When the baby has grown a little, she’ll be able to come to us and there won’t be all these journeys.” She yawned. “It’s been a tiring day. I’m exhausted. I think it is time I was in bed. You, too.”

We said goodnight and she left me.

I was indeed tired. I got into bed and lay for some time listening to the murmur of the sea. Why did I always feel there was something a little uncanny about this place?

I dozed and awoke with a start. I heard the creak of a board and I knew that I was not alone. Someone was in my room.

My heart was beating wildly. I was not yet fully awake. I had been startled out of some dream which had vaguely filled me with foreboding.

I sat up in bed, peering at the furniture which I could see in the faint starlight.

Dorabella came out of the shadows to stand by my bed.

“I’ve frightened you,” she said. “I did not know you’d be so easily scared.”

“Dorabella! What are you doing?”

“I couldn’t sleep…then I had this dream…it’s not the first time. It terrified me.”

She was wearing a light dressing gown over her nightdress and her hair was loose about her shoulders.

I said: “You’ll get cold.”

“I had to come and see you.”

“You can’t stand there.”

“No,” she said. She took off her dressing gown, flung it onto a chair, and got into my bed.

There flashed into my memory those days when we had been away from home…on some holiday…or visiting people. If she had been put into a different room she always came into mine. She would say, ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ or ‘I’ve had a bad dream.’ At home we had slept in the same room…in two beds fairly close together. As she snuggled close to me, I was reminded of those long-ago days.

“Thank goodness you’re here,” she said.

“Why? Is there something…?”

“Why?” she repeated. “Because I want you here. That’s why. I hate it when I can’t come in and talk to you whenever I want to. I’ve got to talk to you now, Vee.”

“Well, why not begin? Here I am…awakened from my slumber.”

“I’m sorry if I frightened you. Did you think I was a ghost? Perhaps that Jermyn ghost—the one who walked into the sea. I am worried, Violetta. I really am. This dream was so vivid…and I’ve had it before. I think it is a premonition.”

“You’ve just had it, have you?”

“Yes, and a few nights ago. It’s just the same every time.”

“What happens in the dream?”

“I have the baby…and die.”

“What a foolish notion! Why should you? Thousands have babies safely. You have everything satisfactorily arranged, the best attention. Mummy and I are here with you and you have Nanny Crabtree. She would never let…that…happen to you.”

“Don’t joke! I’m serious about this. It’s the baby…”

“What about the baby?”

“I’m dead, you see, in this dream. I die having him, but he’s all right. He’s fine. I’m gone and he is still here. Perhaps when you die you can watch people…you see how they act. That’s what I’m doing in this dream…watching. I see you there and our mother…and you are so unhappy.”

“Really, Dorabella,” I said severely. “You are being over-dramatic. You are perfectly all right. The doctor said so.”

“Doctors don’t always know and there are sometimes…complications.”

“You are the last person I should have thought to get morbid ideas. Listen to me. You’re going to have a baby…any time now. It’s natural that you’re scared. I suppose anyone would be. We all know babies don’t arrive in the mouth of the stork or are found under gooseberry bushes and that the process of birth is a painful one. It is happening all over the world, but it is the first time for you and you always hated discomfort of any sort. You are not looking forward to it, naturally, but that’s all. Just imagine when you hear little Tristan or Isolde yelling his or her head off. It’ll be wonderful. Your own baby. And you’ll know it’s all over then. Oh, you are lucky, Dorabella.”

“You would like to have a baby, would you?”

“All women like to have babies…or most of them.”

“Only the maternal type. I think you are one of those.”

“You will be.”

“Just suppose…?”

“Suppose what?”

“Suppose…like the dream…I don’t come through.”

“I refuse to think of it for a moment.”

“Dear, dear Vee, we should never be apart. I don’t feel the same without you. I feel half-finished. That’s why…I know you don’t like this, but it could happen. People do die and often those least expected to.”

“Forget that silly dream. It’s what they call prenatal nerves.”

“Do they? I expect you have swotted up on the subject of birth.”

“I keep my ears open.”

“That’s because we have always shared everything. I’ll tell you what I want, Vee. If I don’t come through…”

I made an impatient gesture.

“Listen,” she commanded. “Just suppose. If I weren’t there, I want you to take little Tristan…or Isolde. I wouldn’t want anyone else. Do you understand?”

“What do I know about babies?”

“As much as I do…and I’m having one. You’d have Nanny Crabtree to guide you. But I’d want you to have the baby. Mummy would be there, too. She’d have a hand in it. But the baby would want one person to stand out against all others, someone to take the place of its mother. And I would want you to be the one because you are part of me.”

“Of course I’d be there…but it is all nonsense.”

“Yes, perhaps it is. But swear. ‘Cut my throat if I ever tell a lie.’ ”

I laughed at the old childish saying. I could see her so clearly when she wanted me to promise to keep some secret…licking her finger: “See my finger’s wet”; then drying it: “See my finger’s dry. I’ll cut my throat,” drawing a hand across her throat, “if I ever tell a lie.”

“I swear,” I said. “But you’re soon going to be laughing at all these fancies.”

She stretched out contentedly.

“I feel better now,” she said. “Whatever happens, it will be all right…I mean the baby will be. You know how it is with us. We’re like one, Vee. It will always be like that…whatever happens. If I died…”

“Oh, please, stop talking about death.”

She said dreamily: “You’ve given your promise. We always kept promises, didn’t we? You see what I mean, don’t you, when I say you are part of me and I am part of you? We’ve been together right from the beginning. We’re bound together. It’s there, isn’t it? Other people can’t see it. It’s so fine…it’s like a cord…strong but invisible. I think of it as a gossamer cord that binds us together…for always, even if one of us died…”

I sighed impatiently.

“All right,” she went on. “I won’t talk about it any more. You’ve promised…and whatever happens, that cord is there. Now, you’ll stay here, won’t you?”

“Well, I’m here for a while.”

“I’ll tell you what I want you to do. Marry that nice Jermyn man and stay here altogether.”

“Certainly, Madam. If that will suit your convenience.”

“Fancy! We’d be neighbors. What fun! Though Mummy has her hopes on the London lawyer.”

“Really! I wish you would not discuss that sort of thing. It’s embarrassing. Particularly when there’s nothing in it. I think you were rather wise to get yourself married and so escape these speculations.”

“All mothers are the same,” she said. “They hate losing their daughters, yet they are not content until they see them married. It is rather perverse of them.”

She laughed. Her fears seemed to have disappeared.

I wondered whether there had really been a dream. She loved drama and it was essential to her that she should be at the center of it. She probably liked to contemplate a household in mourning for her, a motherless baby just arrived into the world, a twin sister who was part of her, bound by “a gossamer cord,” becoming a surrogate mother. She enjoyed that as long as she could be there to look on at the drama.

It was a long time before she returned to her room. I went back with her and tucked her in. She clung to me for a while.

“Remember,” she said. “You’ve sworn a sacred oath.”

Back in my own room I found sleep evasive. In spite of my rejection of her fears, they had conjured up some of my own. Just suppose…No, no. I could not entertain such an idea.

She would be all right. She must. Everyone said so. She was young and healthy. Everything must go right.

I lay there, dozing now and then, half dreaming uneasy dreams.

Below the sea seemed to have lost a little of that serene murmur; and had taken on a malevolent whisper.

At last I slept.

A few days later Dorabella’s ordeal began.

There was a hushed atmosphere throughout the house. The doctor had come and the midwife was with him. My mother and I sat tense, waiting. Nanny Crabtree was ready to pounce on the baby. The moment she heard the cry of a child, she would be there. But the doctor and the midwife had made it clear that her presence would not be needed until that moment.

I could not stop thinking of Dorabella’s coming to my room, and the dream which she had more than once.

My mother was equally nervous. We sat talking of other things—anything but Dorabella—while we waited for news…and feared it.

At last we heard the footsteps on the stairs. The doctor was beaming at us.

“It’s a boy. You can see her now…just for a few minutes. She’s very tired.”

“She…she’s all right?” I stammered.

“Right as a trivet,” he answered.

We dashed up to her room. There she lay, flushed and triumphant. The midwife was holding the baby—red-faced—a tuft of fair hair on his head, squirming and irritable.

“He’s a beauty,” said the midwife, as the child opened his mouth in a wail of angry protest.

Dorabella held my hand and that of my mother. My mother was almost in tears of relief and happiness.

Dorabella looked at me. “I managed it,” she said.

“I knew you would.”

“What do you think of Tristan?”

“He’s wonderful,” said my mother. “Only a daughter of mine could produce such a child.”