Midsummer's Eve

Scandal in High Places

FOR A LONG TIME I could not stop thinking of Digory. Every now and then his image would crop up in my mind and I would see him as clearly as though he stood beside me, stuffing fish into the bag he carried, throwing stones into the river, standing accused in Slattery’s shop. What was it like being sent away for seven years?

I talked about it a great deal with my father, who was by no means reticent about his own experiences. I had always found it easy to put myself in the place of others and I could imagine the arrival in that strange land, coming up from the dark interior of the ship to the blazing sunshine, the humiliation of being branded a felon. It had happened to my father and now it was happening to Digory. Perhaps being marched up in a gang to do hard labour or being selected by someone to whom one became a slave … My father had been considerably older than Digory when he had undergone that ordeal; and he had had so many qualities which Digory lacked. My father had come through. But how would Digory fare?

After he had departed I had long talks about him with Jacco. At first my brother was very interested but it was not long before other matters claimed his attention and his interest waned.

It was inevitable, and in time I should be the same, I supposed.

Then Jacco was going away to school and that seemed a great tragedy. I was wretchedly lonely for a while and I used to long for holidays. Then he would sometimes not come home but spend them with a friend. In their turn his friends came to us. Sometimes I was allowed to join them and we would ride, swim, fish and skate or go sailing with the fishermen. But there were times when I was clearly shown that my presence was not desired.

So with all this I, too, forgot Digory; and it was only when I went to the burned-out cottage that I remembered and felt a pang of remorse because I had forgotten.

There had been, in any case, a conspiracy to forget that Midsummer’s Eve. I remember the following one. We went to the moors in the carriage, my father driving, and it had all been—in comparison with the previous one—very sedate. The bonfire was lighted; the songs were sung and no one attempted to leap over the flames.

It was a fact that people did not like to go to the clearing in the woods near the remains of the cottage. Even in daylight they would take a detour rather than the shortcut which passed it. Some of them must have remembered and felt a deep shame. But Mother Ginny was dead and her grandson far away. That night and its aftermath were best forgotten, they would tell themselves.

I saw much less of Rolf than formerly. He had so many friends at the University and was often going away on archaeological digs and all sorts of investigations into the past. His father came often and talked of his activities with the utmost pride.

When I did see him he seemed just the same as he used to. It was I who had changed. I no longer idolized him. Perhaps he noticed this and was less interested in me because of it. Once or twice I was on the point of referring to that night but my courage failed me right at the last moment and nothing was said. I was beginning to convince myself that I had not seen that grey-robed figure in the heart of the mob and thought how silly I should seem if I talked of it.

The years slipped by at a great rate. I had a new governess. We went to London now and then, and when we did we always made the journey to Eversleigh.

My grandmother had died a year after my grandfather. My mother was heartbroken at the loss of both her parents for there had been a very special relationship between them; but as she said, we must not grieve for my grandmother for she did not want to live without my grandfather.

Eversleigh was different after that. David and Claudine were getting old and Jonathan had already taken over, although I supposed he would not inherit while David was alive.

I liked Jonathan, and Tamarisk, his wife, was interesting. She was very beautiful and I had a special interest in her for I discovered that she was in fact my half-sister. Sometimes I found it difficult to keep up with all the intricate relationships in our family but I suppose it is the same in most.

My father said to me one day: “I don’t believe in subterfuge and nor does your mother, so you might as well know. I was something of a rebel in my youth. You know I went off with the gypsies.”

“Of course. I think it was a most exciting thing to do.”

“It was a foolish thing to do but as I have often told you, one can never be entirely sure what are the good things and what the bad; it is what grows out of them which affects our lives so deeply. If I had not been a gypsy I should never have met your mother and that would have been the worst possible thing which could have befallen me. But when I first knew her she was only a little girl … about your age. I met Tamarisk’s mother. She was a sad girl and very lonely … and we danced one night round the bonfire …”

“Midsummer’s Eve,” I cried.

“No. We were celebrating the victory of Trafalgar. We were all very merry and rather careless. … As a result of that night, Tamarisk was born. I am Tamarisk’s father.”

I said: “Strange things happen on nights like that. People become … not themselves. Perhaps it has something to do with bonfires.”

Then I was thinking of that fearful night again … even more than I did of my father and the girl who was Tamarisk’s mother.

She had died, I learned, having Tamarisk, and that was why Tamarisk had been brought up by my family and so she had known Jonathan all her life.

They loved each other very much, those two. I could sense it—although Tamarisk could be very angry with Jonathan, but it was a strong, fierce love which made her angry, and she was ready to attack anyone who criticized him. She was the same with her children; she had two boys, Richard and John; they were wild and rebellious but very lovable.

I always enjoyed the Eversleigh visits. I loved the country and the nearby sea and those two old houses not very far from Eversleigh—Grasslands and Enderby—which seemed part of the family estate. My mother had lived in Grasslands with her first husband, for she had been married before; and Enderby belonged to Peter and Amaryllis Lansdon. It had been left to Tamarisk but Peter had bought it a long time ago and it was used really as a country home, for the Lansdons were mainly in London.

My father had sold our house in London some years before. We did not need it. There was the family house in Albemarle Street which was not often occupied nowadays and we could use that on our visits to London. The Lansdons had a big house in Westminster. That always seemed to me a most exciting house. It was tall and imposing and from some rooms there was a view of the river.

Peter Lansdon was a Member of Parliament—a very important one. When his party was in power he had had a high post in the Government and led a most exciting life for he was a man with many business interests in the City. He exuded power. Amaryllis was so proud of him. His daughter Helena and his son Peterkin—the name had been given to him when he was a baby to distinguish him from his father and it had remained—were very much in awe of him.

I was very fond of Helena and Peterkin. Helena was about six years older than I; Peterkin four. Helena had been presented at Court—an ordeal which Mother had said I should have to undergo. Helena had hated it, she told me. Everything depended upon a girl’s being a success. If she was she was envied; if not she was despised. Helena had been despised, except by her mother of course. Amaryllis was one of those innocent, sweet and gentle women overflowing with sympathy and good will. But Helena told me that her father was disappointed. He had wanted her to make a good match.

I could understand that. Uncle Peter had made a great success of everything he had undertaken and he expected his children to do the same.

I said to my mother once: “I don’t think two people could be less alike than Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis.”

I remembered how her face hardened as it often did when Uncle Peter was mentioned. She said: “You are right. There could not be two people less like each other.”

“Then I wonder why they married,” I said.

My mother remained silent with that rare hard look about her mouth. There was no doubt that she disliked Uncle Peter.

I could not do anything but admire him. He must have been very good-looking when he was young and now that he was no longer so he looked distinguished, with a touch of silver at his temples and those rather lazy eyes of his which always seemed to express amusement at the world and a confidence that he could easily conquer it. He enjoyed living. The trouble was that such a father must be very hard to live up to; and both Helena and Peterkin felt inadequate—Helena because she had failed to pass the coming-out test and had turned into her twenties without having been asked in marriage and Peterkin because he was as yet undecided as to what he intended to do with his life; and of course, his father would have been showing signs of success when he was at his age.

I felt some trepidation at the prospect of a season, though, of course, if I failed to pass the test I knew my parents would not want me to care very much. They wouldn’t look upon it as failure. But then I was lucky to have unusual and very understanding parents.

I was almost eighteen when a trip to London and Eversleigh was proposed. That was in the year 1838.

It was the end of May and my birthday was at the beginning of September, a few months away.

My mother had said: “Now that the old King is dead and we have a young Queen on the throne we shall have to think about your coming out.”

“That is going to entail a lot of preparations, I’ll swear,” said my father.

“Amaryllis did it for Helena, so I suppose I can manage.”

“It will mean a stay in London,” said my father. “By the way, I want to go up shortly. Did I tell you I had had another letter from Gregory Donnelly?”

“Oh, what’s going on out there?”

Gregory Donnelly was the man who was looking after my father’s property in Australia. I had heard his name mentioned from time to time.

“He wants to buy the property,” said my father. “It might be a good idea to sell. It really seems quite absurd to keep it. It’s just a sentimental notion. I want to say, I went out as a slave and now I’m the owner of property there.”

“Why not let him have it if he wants to buy?”

“I’m thinking of it seriously. But I think I ought to go out just to have a look at it.”

My mother looked alarmed.

“You’d come, of course.”

“Of course,” she repeated.

“I should come too,” I added.

“Certainly you shall come. Jacco too. We’ll all go.”

“I wonder,” I said impulsively, “if we shall find Digory.”

There was silence, almost as though they were trying to remember who Digory was.

Then my father said: “My dear girl, it would be like looking for the needle in the haystack. People come in from miles away looking for convict labour. He could be on the other side of Australia … Victoria, Western Australia, even Queensland. It’s a big place, you know.”

“Poor boy,” said my mother. “I am afraid he would have had a hard time of it.”

“No doubt he has settled in by now,” added my father. “One does after a time. We’ll think about this trip really seriously, shall we?”

“You have talked about going so often,” I reminded him, and I really did not think anything would come of it.

When the Hansons came we discussed the proposed trip with them. They were very interested.

“If the land is profitable,” said Rolf, “it seems a shame to sell it.”

“It is too far away to handle,” replied my father. “This estate is enough for me.”

The Hansons talked a great deal about their own estate, which had been growing larger over the years. They were constantly buying land. My relationship with Rolf had changed once more. When he came to Cador I guessed it was to see me. He explained his interest in Dorey Manor far more to me than he did to anyone else. He had given up all thought of the law. He wanted to be a landowner on a large estate as my father was. That was what appealed to him and he grew lyrical talking of the land.

As for myself I thought about him a good deal. He still had a very special effect on me. I was, in a way, in love with him as I had been when I was a child. He was very interested in me, too, and my parents watched us with a certain smug expression which I believed meant that they thought we would marry one day.

Should we? I felt very uncertain about my feelings for him. Physically the prospect filled me with delight while in my mind memories of that night would intrude and torment me. I was certainly excited by him; I loved to be near him; I fought against those memories and tried hard to assure myself that there had been some mistake; but always there would be that shadowy third, that figure in the grey robe who could not be made to disappear.

Once when I was riding with him I led the way into the woods past the burnt-out cottage. I longed for him to talk of that night and the part he had played in it. But I could not bring myself to mention it. I had a fear that he would say, “Yes, I was there. I was the one who led the mob to what they did. I wanted to know how they would react in such a situation and whether they would be as their ancestors had been before them.” And I felt that once he had admitted that, all would be over between us. And, illogically, although I longed to hear, that was the last thing I wanted to know. I obviously preferred to go on in uncertainty rather than be faced with the truth, which would finish my relationship with him forever.

I was very young and inexperienced of life. Days were so dull when he did not come. I wished I was older, more capable of knowing myself, more able to understand my feelings. I should be able to face this, to ask him what really happened and to accept the truth—whatever it might be. But I was not.

“When does the proposed visit to Australia take place?” he asked my father.

“Oh, it needs a certain amount of planning. Besides, I’m not sure about it. I want to turn a few things over in my mind first.”

I said to my mother afterwards: “I believe this is going to be like all those other trips we were to make. Papa is too fond of Cador to want to leave it for long.”

She was inclined to agree. “I shall try to persuade him to sell that property to Gregory Donnelly and cut off all ties with Australia,” she said.

“I somehow don’t think he wants to do that. It must have been a very significant part of his life and he wants to keep a stake in it.”

“I’m not sure that all this hoarding of memories is good. Anyway we shall be going to London and Eversleigh soon. I want to see Amaryllis and you’ll enjoy being with Helena. She will give you all the dos and don’ts about coming out.”

“Shall I have to do all that?”

“It seems necessary for a young lady to be launched. You’ll have a season of course … parties and balls and that sort of thing.”

I grimaced.

“Oh come, Annora, you’ll enjoy it. You’ve got to see the world. You can’t be shut away in Cornwall forever. One day you’ll marry. It’s a good idea to meet people first.”

“It seems a bit crude. Helena thought so … being paraded to show your charms like cattle at a show … and if you don’t come up to standard it must be awful.”

“Poor Helena,” said my mother. “She’s a nice girl. I sometimes think men are quite stupid. They pass over the girls who would make the best wives.”

“I’m glad Uncle Peter isn’t my father. He’s too ambitious … for himself and for his children.”

My mother’s mouth hardened in the accustomed way when he was mentioned and I wished I had not brought him into the conversation.

“Yes,” she said. “You’re lucky. I always thought my father was the best in the world, but you are as lucky in that respect as I was.”

I flung my arms around her. “I know. That’s why I’m so sorry for Helena … though I don’t think he has actually said anything. It is just that he is there and everything he does goes right. Papa is wonderful and everything he does is right, but he doesn’t make you feel … degraded … if you are not so good yourself.”

“He wants you to be happy … above everything … and so do I.”

“I know.”

“Do you like Rolf?” she went on.

“Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered. I don’t think he’s indifferent to you.”

I felt flustered. I stammered. “Yes … I like him all right.”

“Just that?”

“Oh … I like him … very much, I suppose.”

She smiled. “Your father and I like him very much.”

I did not answer and she changed the subject.

At the beginning of June we left Cador. Jacco was to join us later, so my father, my mother and I travelled alone. We were to spend a few days in London before going to Eversleigh. We went to the family house in Albemarle Street and the very next day Amaryllis and Helena came to see us.

They invited us to dine that evening—an invitation which we were delighted to accept.

I thought Helena looked happier than I had seen her for a long time, and I wondered what had happened.

While her mother was talking to my parents she and I slipped up to my room and she was all eagerness to tell me.

“What’s happened?” I demanded as soon as we were alone.

“I … I’ve met someone.”

“Oh?”

“He’s so charming, Annora. I have never met anyone who is so nice and so kind. That’s what I like about him. He’s not like any other young man. He’s gentle … and I think he doesn’t like the social round any more than I do.”

“Who is he?”

“Well, the funny thing about it is that he is really quite important … or at least his family is. He is young … younger than I am actually, two years younger, Annora … but he is so nice …”

“I know. You said that before. Do tell me more about this nice young man.”

“He’s John Milward. Lord John Milward. You’ve heard of the Milwards?”

“I confess to ignorance.”

“A very important family … Dukes of Cardingham. Only John is a younger son, thank goodness. That he should notice me is quite amazing. We met at a dance. I was hiding behind some of the plants trying to pretend I wasn’t there … and he came upon me and we talked a bit and discovered that we were both doing the same thing … trying to look as though we were not there. It was the first time I’d ever enjoyed one of those occasions. It was funny because he said it was the same with him.”

“And you’ve seen him again?”

“Oh yes. I’ve seen him at other places and when we’re somewhere together, we always find each other.”

“That’s wonderful. And what does your father say?”

“He doesn’t know. Nobody knows yet.”

“I expect they’ve noticed you. From what I’ve heard those mamas with marriageable daughters have eyes like hawks.”

“I do hope they haven’t because I don’t suppose anything will become of it.”

“Why shouldn’t it?”

“He’s very young.”

“Your father wouldn’t object.”

“Oh no. He’d be delighted. The Milwards are one of the oldest families in the country.”

“You think they would?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, our family is not to be sneezed at.”

“Father is a merchant. Of course the Milwards are notoriously impoverished and I believe my father is very rich.”

“Let not Society to the marriage of wealth and breeding admit impediment.”

“Oh, Annora, it has made such a difference.”

“I can see it has. I do hope all goes well. Won’t it be wonderful? I shall look forward to visiting the country seat. You’ll be Lady John Milward. Fancy that!”

“I’m so glad he is only a younger son.”

“I think it is wonderful, Helena.”

We joined the others.

I did not mention, even to my mother, what Helena had told me for she had been insistent that it should remain a secret. I just hoped fervently that all would go well with her. She seemed like a different person when she did not seem to be apologising all the time for her inadequacies.

It was rather a splendid dinner party that evening, though it was only a family affair. A great deal of entertaining was done in the house in the square and it seemed impossible for a dinner party to take place in that splendid dining room without a certain amount of ceremony. Aunt Amaryllis said we were lucky because Peter was able to join us; and it was probably his presence which added dignity to the occasion.

“Very often his work takes him away,” Aunt Amaryllis explained. “There is always some important committee, particularly now he is concerned with parliamentary affairs.”

She spoke of him in almost reverent tones. I thought it must be rather uncomfortable to live with such a man. I knew it was for Helena and Peterkin but Aunt Amaryllis was like an acolyte serving in the master’s temple.

Uncle Peter told us how glad he was to see us in town.

“We’re spying out the land,” my father told him. “We shall have to be thinking about Annora’s coming out.”

“It is a little late, I suppose,” said my mother. “She’ll be past eighteen.”

“There have been delays all round because of what has been happening,” replied Aunt Amaryllis. “The Court has been in disarray. The King’s been ill for so long and poor Queen Adelaide too. Now we have a new young queen on the throne, things will change, I have no doubt.”

“Have you seen her?” I asked eagerly.

“We were at the Guildhall dinner in November,” said Uncle Peter.

“What is she like?”

“Delightful,” said Aunt Amaryllis. She turned to Helena and Peterkin. “You’ve seen her, haven’t you, riding in her carriage?”

“She looks very young and very sure of herself,” said Helena.

“I suppose she would have to be sure of herself,” added Peterkin.

“She certainly seems full of confidence,” said Uncle Peter. “I believe it is a good thing for a country to have a young queen for whom the people can show affection. They are tired of doddering old gentlemen.”

“Peter!” said Aunt Amaryllis in a kind of shocked delight.

“It’s true, my dear. George was almost senile at the end, and William was adept at making a fool of himself.” He lifted his glass: “Long live Victoria. God save the Queen.”

We all drank to that.

“You’ll be here for the coronation?” said Aunt Amaryllis.

“Well …” began my father.

“Oh come,” said Uncle Peter. “It’s an historic occasion.”

“We have to see how things are at Eversleigh.”

“Jonathan’s taking care of that.”

“There was a time,” said my mother, looking at Uncle Peter, “when you were of the opinion that he would not be able to run Eversleigh successfully.”

He gave her a strange look, almost as though there was some understanding between them and he found it hard to suppress his amusement. “It was one of my mistakes,” he retorted. “Rare, you will agree, but nevertheless a mistake.”

“The coronation festivities will be exciting,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “Several state balls, levees, a Drawing Room and a State concert,” added Uncle Peter.

Aunt Amaryllis looked at her husband with pride and then at her children. She said to them: “Your father will of course be able to go to any that he wishes to.”

Uncle Peter gave her a fond look and I thought: She is the perfect wife, which is one who thinks her husband is always right, laughs at his jokes and loves him without question. There must be very few perfect wives. It was typical of Uncle Peter that he should have acquired this rarity. My parents loved each other dearly, but there were often disagreements between them. It had been the same with my grandparents; Tamarisk and Jonathan lived a tempestuous existence; yet they were all love matches. Only Aunt Amaryllis, from a husband’s point of view, must be the perfect wife.

“My dear,” he said fondly, for who would not be fond at such blatant admiration, “I shall have to wait and see whether my presence is commanded. I daresay we shall attend one of the balls.” He looked at me. “I’m afraid, my dear Annora, that we shall be unable to take you with us as you are not yet out.”

“I didn’t expect to go,” I told him. “And shall we be in London?”

My father hesitated. He said: “I don’t really want to extend my stay. I am thinking of going to Australia and there will be a great many things I have to do at home before I can leave.”

“To Australia,” said Uncle Peter. “How interesting.” He added with a smile: “The scene of your youth, eh?”

“Exactly. I have property there.”

“It will be very interesting.”

“Peter has a wonderful project in view, haven’t you, Peter?” said Aunt Amaryllis.

He looked at her with a kind of tender exasperation, but I knew that behind it he was pleased, because we were now going to hear of another of his triumphs.

“My dear,” he said reproachfully, “they will not be interested …”

“But of course we are,” insisted my father. “What is this new achievement? I know they are commonplace with you, Peter, but we country folk like to hear of the great exploits of government. Is there an election coming up?”

“Not in the immediate future. The Whigs are not very secure, as you know. Melbourne, of course, gets on very well with the Queen.”

“Yes,” said my mother. “Even in the country we hear what a good relationship there is between them.”

“It means,” went on Uncle Peter, “that the Whigs, through one man, have the Queen in leading reins. That sort of thing won’t be tolerated long.”

“You mean by the Tories?”

“Exactly.”

“So what diabolical schemes have you hatched for unseating your enemies?” asked my father.

“Nothing unconstitutional. It will happen naturally.”

“And when Sir Robert Peel’s government is in power …” said Aunt Amaryllis, looking proudly at her husband.

“A post in the government?” asked my father. “Well, we expect that of you, Peter. But we have digressed. What about this triumph of yours? You were just about to tell us.”

“We are all eagerness to hear,” said my mother, looking rather coldly at Uncle Peter.

“Well,” began Uncle Peter with a show of reluctance. “Nothing is settled yet. A commission is being set up. There is a great deal of vice in the Capital. Drugs …” He glanced at me and hesitated. I guessed he was thinking of my youth and the inadvisability of discussing unpleasant realities in my presence. “Disreputable conduct,” he went on. “The chairing of this commission will go to a politician.”

“You?” said my mother in a rather blank voice.

He smiled at her and I saw that understanding flash between them. He seemed to find it very amusing. “I’m not sure,” he said. “It’s really a matter of party politics. Actually I believe it is a toss-up between myself and Joseph Cresswell.”

“Peter says that if he could get it and it was a success … the road would open,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “What do you think, Peter? The Home Office?”

“When Melbourne’s Whigs are defeated and Peel’s Tories are supreme,” said my father.

“Yes, that will have to come about first,” agreed Peter. “But it has to be … sooner or later.”

“So really,” added my father, “it is a question of either you or Joseph Cresswell.”

“I think one could say that with some certainty.”

“Surely they would not be so foolish as to give the post to Joseph Cresswell,” said Aunt Amaryllis rather heatedly.

“They do not all possess your discernment, my dear,” said Uncle Peter, giving her another of those fond glances.

My father said: “Cresswell is, of course, a well-known man. He’s had a great success with the Commission for Canals. He is very able. I daresay in the next Melbourne ministry he’ll qualify for a very high post.”

“Certainly he will. That’s if he gets this and makes a success of it.”

“That’s not going to happen, is it?” asked my father. “It’s going to you, isn’t it?”

Uncle Peter lifted his shoulders. “Melbourne will be behind Cresswell and his power is increasing every week. He certainly knows how to handle the Queen, and that makes him important to his party.”

“But as you say, he is on shaky ground.”

“I think this matter will be resolved before we get rid of this government.”

“That looks like good luck for the enemy.”

“Don’t call Cresswell that. We’re good friends out of the House. I respect and admire Cresswell. He’s a good politician … although on the wrong side, of course.” Uncle Peter laughed. “But none the less an admirable man. He’s a good family man … and Melbourne, with his record, needs such around him. We visit now and then. They are a very pleasant family, aren’t they, my dear?”

“Oh, they are charming,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “I like them all very much. Young Joe is very nice … and that girl Frances.”

“Oh, full of good works,” said Uncle Peter. “As you see, I have a formidable rival.”

“I don’t doubt you have more irons in the fire.”

“It’s always wise to,” said Uncle Peter.

Soon after that we left the men at their port and went with Aunt Amaryllis to the drawing room.

“I do wish you were staying longer in London,” said Aunt Amaryllis.

“It would be nice,” agreed my mother, “but we have to go to Eversleigh.”

“It must be very sad there for you now that your parents have gone, Jessica.”

My mother nodded. “It can never be the same, but I do think Claudine likes to see us and there are Jonathan and Tamarisk.”

“Those two are all right. My mother comes up now and again but my father does not like to leave the place.”

“Oh, Amaryllis, how things have changed!”

“Life does, but we have been so fortunate, Jessica, you and I in our marriages. You and Jake, Peter and I. I do hope Helena and Peterkin and Annora will be as lucky. Jacco, too. I wish Peterkin would decide what he wants to do. Helena, why don’t you try to persuade Annora to stay with us while her parents are in Eversleigh?”

Helena’s face lighted up. “Oh, that would be lovely.”

She looked appealingly at my mother and then turned to me: “Would you like to, Annora?”

“Yes,” I said, “I should. I’d love to see all the festivities for the coronation. I’d like to be with you, Helena.”

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t stay up here,” said my mother. “After all, you’d really enjoy that more.”

“We’d look after her,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “Wouldn’t we, Helena?”

“It would be lovely,” said Helena.

The next day it was decided that when my parents left for Eversleigh, I should stay in the house in the square until my parents returned.

I first met John Milward in the Park. My parents had gone to Eversleigh and I was very much enjoying being with my cousins. When he was away from the house Peterkin seemed to change his personality; he became much more relaxed. I thought that was another example of how trying it must be to live in the shadow of such a successful father.

I shared a bedroom with Helena which was a pleasure to us both because before going to sleep we would share confidences. I learned quite a lot about her and how she had always felt herself to be dull and stupid because she found lessons difficult. Coming out and discovering that she was not attractive to the opposite sex had been the coup de grâce.

But now that was changed. John Milward had come into her life.

Sometimes Peterkin would join Helena and me and we would go out together. Our favourite jaunt was to the Park which seemed a source of never-ending delight to me. We enjoyed walking and would stroll through St. James’s Park and Green Park to Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. There we would walk by the Serpentine and stand at the edge of the Round Pond looking beyond to Kensington Palace where the Queen had spent her childhood. She was at Buckingham Palace now and I always hoped that we should catch a glimpse of her riding in her carriage. Everyone seemed delighted that we now had a young girl for a queen.

We had just entered Hyde Park and Peterkin pointed out to me Apsley House, the home of the Duke of Wellington.

“And,” he was saying, “in case you should fail to see it and pay due homage, here is the great Achilles Statue set up in honour of the Duke.”

It was a massive figure, meant I supposed to display the might and grandeur of the masculine figure—a symbol of the power of the great Duke.

I read the inscription which stated that it was dedicated to Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, and his brave companions in arms; it had been cast from cannon taken at the Duke’s victorious battles including that of Waterloo. It had been erected through subscriptions of the women of England to do honour to military glory.

“There has been a lot of controversy about it,” said Peterkin. “Some think it vulgar. Others that it is a work of genius.”

“Isn’t that always what happens to works of art?” I asked. “Most things are criticized before people know what they ought to think, and when they are proclaimed works of genius everyone agrees, and it is as though there had never been any other opinion. Lots of people have to be told what they should think.”

“When I look at that,” said Peterkin, “I think of joining the army.”

Helena said: “You were thinking of going into Parliament a little while ago.”

Peterkin grimaced. “Fancy following our father! Everyone would say, He’s not what his father was!”

“Perhaps you would be better,” I suggested.

“That would be impossible.”

It was just at this moment that two young men came strolling towards us and before I was told I knew, from Helena’s expression, that one of them was John Milward.

“Well,” he said, “fancy meeting you.” And I could see, from the manner in which he looked at Helena, that their arrival was no surprise and I remembered that she had been rather insistent that I see the Achilles Statue, and it was she who had kept us lingering there.

“Annora,” she said, “this is Lord John Milward.”

He bowed over my hand. Yes, there was something very pleasant about him. What struck me most was his youth. He looked younger than Peterkin, and Peterkin was two years younger than Helena. He seemed a little weak to me; he had large brown eyes and a gentle expression. Perhaps I had looked too long at Achilles.

He was smiling at Helena and I thought with pleasure: He is surely in love with her.

I was being introduced to the other young man and as soon as I heard his name I remembered. He was Joe Cresswell and that meant he was the son of the man whom my father had laughingly called “the enemy.”

We stood for a while talking. Peterkin explained that we were taking a walk through the Park to show Cousin Annora some of the sights. Joe Cresswell was interested and I told him I came from Cornwall; and we talked for a while about that county of which he knew a little.

I walked ahead with Peterkin and Joe Cresswell; and Helena and John Milward fell in behind. We strolled along near the Row and Peterkin explained to me that this was once called the Ring and was a sort of parade for fashionable people to show off their fine clothes.

Joe Cresswell said: “I’ve something to tell you, Peterkin. I think I may be standing at the next election. I’m one of the candidates up for selection anyway, and my father says he thinks I have a good chance.”

“That’s excellent news,” said Peterkin.

“If I get it. The general opinion is that the party will be out at the next election.”

“Yes,” said Peterkin, “everyone seems to think that is very likely.”

Joe Cresswell turned to me. “I’m sorry, Miss Cadorson. This must all be rather boring for you.”

“No. Not in the least. I am very interested to hear about it. Being in London is like breathing different air. It is all so exciting. I’m afraid we are a little dull in the country.”

“Some prefer it,” said Peterkin. “It depends so much on one’s personality.”

“I think,” said Joe Cresswell, “that I should always want to be where things are happening.”

We came to the Serpentine and walked along its banks. Joe Cresswell asked me how long I was staying. I told him I was not quite sure. My parents were visiting relatives in Kent. When they returned to London we should all go home together.

“Annora will be coming out next year,” said Peterkin. “But she is going with her family to Australia before that, I believe.”

“Those are the plans at the moment,” I explained. “But it is all a little uncertain.”

We sat down on a seat and watched two children with their nurses throwing breadcrumbs to the ducks.

Helena came up with John Milward. “We’re going to walk on a little way,” said John. “We’ll see you later.”

Peterkin and Joe Cresswell exchanged smiles.

I liked Joe Cresswell; he was very relaxed. He talked about his home and mostly of his father, to whom, it was obvious, he was very attached.

“I hope he gets this job,” he said. “He’s set his heart on it. Sorry, Peterkin. If my Pater’s in, yours will be out.”

“He can win some other time. You think this is more or less settled, do you?”

“Between ourselves, Miss Cadorson, I am sure I can trust you … but Lord Melbourne has hinted …”

“I suppose he would have a lot of say.”

“Of course he’d rather it went to one of our party.”

“It seems a very important matter,” I said.

“These things are important in politics, Miss Cadorson. One thing leads to another. That is why it is such an exciting game.”

“When will your by-election come up?”

“In a few months.”

“You’ve got a good chance if you’re nominated,” said Peterkin. “It’s a safe Whig seat and your father is a name.”

Joe Cresswell smiled. “I don’t really want to get through on my father’s name.”

“You can’t help it,” retorted Peterkin. “It’s even the same Christian name. Just Joe … instead of Joseph. You could hardly be nearer than that.”

“Yes, I suppose so. And if you went in you’d have your father’s name.”

“I should live in the shadow of it. That’s one of the reasons against politics. I wouldn’t mind going into his business but he doesn’t want that. He says I’m not cut out to be a businessman.”

“What then?”

“I don’t know. But I do rather fancy politics.”

There was a silence for a while. Then Joe Cresswell turned to me. “I shall look forward to your season,” he said. “Next year is a long time to wait. I hope you are not going back to Cornwall just yet.”

“I daresay I shall be here a few weeks longer.”

He gave me a very pleasant smile.

“Then I hope I shall see you again … soon.”

Helena and John Milward came back and we decided it was time we returned.

That had been a delightful morning. Helena was in the realms of bliss and I had to admit that I had enjoyed my encounter with Joe Cresswell, son of that other candidate for high office.

That evening was one of the rare occasions when Uncle Peter dined with us, and during the course of the meal the meeting in the Park was mentioned.

Uncle Peter beamed on us.

“Didn’t you think Joe a very pleasant young man, Annora?” he asked.

“Yes, Uncle. I did. I thought he was very interesting.”

He turned to Aunt Amaryllis. “We should ask the Cresswells to dine,” he said.

“Before … the decision?”

“I think very soon, my dear. I don’t want people to think there is any ill-feeling between us … just because he has the better chance. We’re the best of friends really. That’s how it is in politics. You’re the bitterest enemies across the floor of the House, but outside all that enmity evaporates. Yes, let us have them to dine soon … Cresswell and his wife.” He glanced at me. “And you might ask young Joe, too.”

Within three days they came. It was a very enjoyable evening. I very much liked Mr. and Mrs. Cresswell. He was rather serious—and very precise, I imagined; she was jolly, rather scatter-brained, just the opposite of her husband—but very domesticated, kindly, motherly, not in the least clever. Yet they seemed ideally suited. I was pleased to meet Joe again and he was put next to me at dinner so that we had a good deal of conversation together, and I learned more about his hopes of following in his father’s footsteps.

“Like the Pitts,” I said.

“You’re flattering us … at least myself.”

“You never know. People have to wait for chances. Then greatness emerges. We have to wait and see.”

Uncle Peter looked on us benignly as though he was rather pleased that we were getting on so well together.

We had a little music afterwards. Helena sang and I played a few pieces on the piano with Joe turning over the music for me.

I thought how creditable it was of both Uncle Peter and Mr. Cresswell, with this important post coming up which was going to mean so much to the one who held it—to be so friendly with no sign of bitterness between them.

There was some talk about the Cresswells’ country home in Surrey. Mrs. Cresswell said it was always full of young people at the week-end. The Cresswells had a large family—three girls and three boys. Joe was one of the younger ones.

Mrs. Cresswell must have noticed how well I was getting along with Joe for she said: “You must visit us one week-end, Miss Cadorson. Do … before you go back to Cornwall.”

“It would have to be soon,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “Sir Jake is a man who makes quick decisions. He could well arrive next week and declare they must all go back to Cornwall to prepare to go to Australia.”

“Australia,” said Joe. “That’s interesting.”

“My father has some property there. He was there once … a long time ago.”

Aunt Amaryllis looked faintly uneasy and Uncle Peter amused.

“It will be tremendously exciting,” said Joe.

“Well, we must fix this visit soon,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “What about next week-end?”

I looked at Aunt Amaryllis. “Why not?” she said. “If you would like that, Annora.”

“I should very much,” I said.

“Of course,” went on Mrs. Cresswell, “Helena and Peterkin must come with you.”

So it was arranged.

I saw Joe quite frequently, even before the week-end. There was another meeting in the Park when he appeared with John Milward. Helena was delighted. She felt she was a connoisseur of romance and she scented one between Joe and me.

I did not want to go as far as that. I liked Joe. But I could not think of him without seeing Rolf. I compared them and, charming as Joe was, he did not stand up well to the comparison. I suppose it was because when I was young I had set Rolf up as an ideal. He had seemed incomparable; and in spite of everything he remained so. There was a certain power about him which, I supposed, was the essence of masculinity. My father had it; so had my grandfather to a great degree even in his old age. Joe lacked it. Joe seemed vulnerable as none of those others did. One felt about them that no matter what happened they would rise above it. The fact was Joe seemed boyish almost when I thought of him beside Rolf. There was no doubt in my mind that, but for the fears which had grown out of that terrible night, I would have been deeply in love with Rolf. Perhaps I still was. That was why I clung to my original image of him, deceiving myself, telling myself that there was some mistake. Yet I had never been able to bring myself to ask him outright; and the reason was that I feared the answer.

Was I always going to think of Rolf? Would he always come between me and anyone else of whom I might grow fond?

Joe was interested in me. At least that was what Helena thought; and, I believed, so did Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis. Aunt Amaryllis liked young people to be happy together and therefore she thought it was pleasant for them to fall in love, particularly if they were suitable in their parents’ eyes. I think Uncle Peter was pleased because he was anxious to show that in spite of the rivalry between himself and Joseph Cresswell, there was no rancour.

So we came to that week-end which turned out to be one of the most pleasant I had enjoyed for a long time.

The Cresswell home was in Surrey in the midst of the lusciously green Home Counties which are so different from Cornwall where the landscape is wild and a little fey. Here fields looked as though they might have been mowed and the trees as though they were pruned; they did not get battered by spring gales as ours did now and then. There was an atmosphere of prosperity which one even sensed in the lanes. Buttercups and daisies abounded in the fields and on the journey down we passed through several little villages with their greens, ancient churches and almshouses all so neat and orderly and very attractive. Our Cornish villages lacked the opulence and the well-planned architecture even of the small cottages.

Rolf had once said that it was the difference between Anglo Saxon discipline and Celtic laisser faire.

The Cresswell house was large and the rooms cosy. As soon as one entered it one had the impression that it was not meant as a show piece but to be lived in. In the big drawing room with its French windows opening on to a lawn, there were books everywhere; some on the floor; there was a great fireplace with a long stool in front of it. It was a room in which one immediately felt at ease for one knew there would be a complete lack of ceremony.

Mrs. Cresswell was waiting to greet us. She embraced us warmly and said how glad she was that we had come.

Did I mind sharing with Helena? She had a larger houseful than she had anticipated. Frances had come.

“Dear Frances,” she said. “She is usually so busy. It’s lovely to have her here.”

I was introduced to those members of the family who were present. Two of the girls were married—one living in Sussex, the other in the North. Flora, the daughter from the North, was staying in the house with her two children.

“The house is bursting at the seams,” said Mrs. Cresswell, “but I admit to being not in the least displeased by that.”

Flora was a charming young woman and her two children were delightful. Joe’s brother Edgar was a doctor with a practice not far off, and he just called in for dinner with his wife. I was most interested to meet Frances Cresswell.

She was very serious and it was obvious to me, even on our first meeting, that she had a purpose in life. She was rather like Joe with a look of her father.

“This is my sister Frances,” Joe told me and there was pride in his eyes.

“I’m very glad to meet you,” I said.

“And I you,” she replied. “Joe has told me a great deal about you.”

Peterkin joined us.

“Frances is doing very good work,” he said. “Frances, you are a wonder.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you saw me sometimes,” she replied. “I can really be a shrew.”

“I expect you have a lot to put up with. Frances runs a Mission in the East End of London, Annora.”

“A Mission?” I asked.

“That’s what they call it. We try to do what we can for people who are unable to help themselves. There’s a terrible amount of poverty in London, you know. The contrasts in big cities have to be seen to be believed.”

“What sort of things do you do?”

“We try to help people in trouble. We have kitchens where we dispense soup and bread to those who haven’t enough to eat. We have beds for those who are homeless. We try to sort out their difficulties and do what we can. Alas, there is little we can do … but we try.”

“I’ve been to help,” said Joe. “It is very revealing. It can be upsetting but gratifying in a way just because one is doing something, however small.”

I was ashamed of my ignorance. London had always seemed to me especially grand and opulent even. I had seen poverty in the two Doreys. I knew of bad harvests and bad weather which prevented people’s going fishing; I knew there were accidents in the mines which robbed a family of its breadwinner. But then there were squires like my father who would alleviate suffering. But in the vast city it would be different. There, there were no squires, no benevolent landowner who looked on his tenants as his responsibility. There had to be people like Frances.

I wanted to hear more.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Joe. “If you are interested you could come down one day and see for yourself.”

“I should like that,” I said.

“I’ve been,” Peterkin told me. “It’s depressing but it is something which people ought to know about. Don’t you agree, Frances?”

“I certainly think people should know what is going on about them,” said Frances.

“I’ll come with you when you go,” said Peterkin.

Just before we were going in to dinner, John Milward arrived. It was moving to watch the joy in Helena’s face when she realized he was to stay for the week-end.

It was a very merry meal—quite different from those in the house in the square. Everyone seemed to be talking at once; they were a vociferous family, these Cresswells, and they all seemed to have different points of view on every subject and were determined to make themselves heard.

There was a great deal of argument and laughter.

Mrs. Cresswell lifted her eyes and smiled at me. “I’m afraid this is how it always is when the family gets together,” she said.

Afterwards we played guessing games and charades. Then we all trooped back to a large room which was called “the play room.”

“This is where they played when they were children,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “They still play here, if you ask me.”

There was a piano at one end of the room but no carpet on the floor, which was polished. Joe sat down and played the piano and we all danced. Mr. Cresswell was my partner for a time. Although he was considerably quieter than his sons and daughter he seemed to enjoy everything.

“I hope you don’t find us too exuberant, Miss Cadorson,” he said.

“I’m enjoying it so much. They all seem to have a capacity for getting a lot of fun out of life.”

“They are a wonderful family in spite of their old sobersides of a father. Of course, it’s my wife they take after more than they do me, which is a good thing.”

“I don’t think that is entirely true,” I told him. “They are all tremendously proud of you.”

“And I of them. I expect I sound like a doting old man to you.”

“No. I think all this is just what a home should be—and you are part of it.”

“What’s that Joe is playing now? Sir Roger? You’ll need a younger partner. Oh look. Edgar is taking over from Joe. He doesn’t play so well, but he’ll be adequate. Joe will want to be your partner.”

Mr. and Mrs. Cresswell sat out for Sir Roger de Caverley. I often remembered afterwards how they looked sitting there smiling, she tapping her foot to the music, looking on at their friends and family with perfect contentment.

When we retired to bed Helena and I lay awake for a long time talking about the evening.

“Wasn’t it fun?” said Helena.

“It was,” I agreed. “Especially for you when your devoted admirer arrived.”

“That was just like Mrs. Cresswell. She would do that. She invited him especially for me.”

“She’s a lovely woman,” I said.

“Mr. Cresswell is so different, but very nice.”

“I think he is a very good man, and he deserves his family. After all we make our own happiness, don’t we?”

“Sometimes others unmake it.”

“It’s up to us,” I said.

Was it? I thought of Helena before John Milward had come along. It was pure chance with her. If he had not appeared on the scene she would have been the same old Helena … shy, diffident, feeling herself to be unattractive so that she convinced others that she was.

I was too tired to ponder the matter and slipped gently into sleep.

On the Sunday morning we made up a party and went to church. We sat in the Cresswell pew, filling it. It was a thirteenth-century church and the memorials on the walls told me that the Cresswells had worshipped here for generations.

After the service we stood outside the church for a while and I was introduced to certain people of the village. I said I wanted to look round the graveyard. Graveyards always interested me. I liked to read the inscriptions on the tombstones and imagine what the people lying under the ground had been like when they were alive. Old people … young cut off in their youth … and babies. I liked to be alone on these occasions so that I could absorb the silence of the graveyard, the stillness of the air. It seemed to bring back the past and I could feel I was back hundreds of years.

I had wandered a little away from the others who were standing outside the church and as I strolled round to the back of the building I found myself face to face with the vicar, who had just come out of a side door. He was still wearing his surplice.

He smiled at me and said: “You are with the Cresswell party, I believe.”

“Yes,” I replied. “I was looking at the churchyard. The inscriptions on the gravestones inspire my imagination.”

He nodded.

“You are here for the week-end, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“People come down often to stay with the family. It is a great pleasure to see them all in church. We owe a lot to the Cresswells in this village.”

“They must have been here for generations.”

“There have always been Cresswells here … for four hundred years, I reckon. They were always good to the people, but the present Mr. Cresswell surpasses them all to my mind. We’re very proud of him in the village. He’s a rising politician. They’ll tell you here that he ought to be Prime Minister. There are many who think he would make a better job of it than Lord Melbourne.”

“I can see he has many local supporters.”

“It’ll come. He’ll get the honours he deserves. There is a chairmanship coming up.”

“Yes. I have heard of that.”

“When he gets that it will be a big stepping-stone. It is important that we get the right men governing us. We want our rulers to be clever and shrewd but at the same time with a sense of morality. Unfortunately most of them seem to be lacking in the latter.”

“I am sure you are right.”

“Here I am running on. My wife says that given half a chance I’ll start to preach a sermon. It has been pleasant talking to you. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay with us.”

“Thank you,” I said.

I heard Joe calling and I went round to the front of the church to meet him. Then we all went back to the house.

At luncheon everyone talked a great deal. We sat long over the table unable to tear ourselves away. In the afternoon we went for a walk—Joe and I with Peterkin, Helena and John Milward. I was delighted to see Helena so happy; she sparkled and was quite talkative and even a little witty. How love could change a person!

The evening was very much like the previous one except that there was no dancing, this being Sunday. Joe and I played duets and the company sang hymns and ballads, both sentimental and humorous.

When we retired that night Helena was radiant.

She said nothing until we were in our beds. Then she whispered: “Annora?”

“Yes?”

“Are you awake?”

“No,” I said. “Asleep.”

She laughed as though that was hilariously funny.

“Come on,” I said. “Tell me all about it.”

“You guessed.”

“I guessed something had happened. You look as though you have just kissed the frog who has turned into a prince.”

“He’s asked me, Annora.”

“You’re engaged.”

“That’s right.”

I leaped out of bed and jumped on to hers, hugging her.

“Oh, Helena, I’m so pleased.”

“It was while we were out walking this afternoon. He asked me to marry him … just like that.”

“Oh, Helena, I’m so pleased.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Everyone else will. They only have to see you two together to guess what is in the wind.”

“Was it so obvious?”

“As clear as daylight.” I kissed her and went back to my bed.

“Does his family know?”

“Well, not yet. And we’re going to wait until they do before we announce anything.”

“Is he afraid they won’t approve?”

“John doesn’t think there’ll be any trouble. But they are such a proud family … one of the oldest dukedoms. You know what people are like. Of course, they are not very well off. …”

“Your father will be pleased.”

“I think so. There’ll be no difficulty there. He’s been hoping for something like this ever since I was ‘out.’ He spent a lot on my presentation and it seemed as though it was all wasted. Now I’m exonerated.”

“You make it sound like a business transaction.”

“Coming out is … in a way. But when people fall in love …”

“Ah, that is different. They’re outside the transaction but it still exists for the fond parents. Did your father say he was disappointed in your performance?”

“Not in words. But I guessed. I felt he despised me.”

“Well, he will have to change his mind now. The great Milwards, eh?”

“A younger son,” she said with a giggle and added fervently: “Thank goodness.”

“I’ll be all right. I daresay it would have been different with the heir, but a younger son has more freedom to fall in love.”

“Oh, Annora, isn’t it wonderful! But not a word yet. You won’t tell, will you?”

“You can rely on me. But it will come out soon. I have a very reliable set of bones and I can feel it in them.”

“Oh, Annora, I’m so glad you stayed with us. I hope you won’t go yet.”

“So do I,” I assured her.

We lay awake for some time talking.

That was a wonderful week-end. I was sorry that we had to leave next morning.

Nothing was said about Helena’s engagement. John Milward was evidently waiting for the right moment to approach his father. I had always felt he was a rather nervous young man.

I wondered if Aunt Amaryllis guessed.

Perhaps not, for there was a great deal of excitement everywhere about the Queen’s coronation. It was exhilarating to be in London at this time.

The streets were full of people from all over the country. A few days before the event was due to take place they were making beds on the pavements and camping out all night, so determined were they to get a good view of the procession.

Uncle Peter was very busy. He was on several committees and we hardly saw him during those days. He would be very occupied on the great day.

The Cresswells had a town house in St. James’s Street through which the procession would be passing and I, with Helena and Peterkin, were invited to join a party which would be watching from the windows.

What an impressive sight! The bells were ringing all over London. I was deeply moved as I watched the procession. So many foreign dignitaries had come to take part in it and prominent among them were the Queen’s German relations. Oddly enough, Marshal Soult, our enemy of not long ago, represented France. I was amazed at what a tumultuous welcome the people gave him. But most moving of all was the sight of the little Queen looking so young—almost a child—in her robes of crimson velvet and gold lace, with a diamond circlet on her head.

I did not see her return from the Abbey but I could picture her riding back through the streets to Buckingham Palace in the robes of state, carrying the orb and sceptre.

After the ceremony we went back to the house in the square accompanied by Joe. There was a cold supper and after that several of us went to watch the fireworks in the Park.

It was a day of great rejoicing.

I was so glad that I had remained in London for such an occasion and was sorry that my parents had missed it. When they came it would mean that we should be leaving soon for Cornwall; and that was something I was not really looking forward to for I had become so caught up in Helena’s affairs. I wanted to see her officially engaged; moreover I was interested in the Cresswell family—especially Joe. My friendship for him was growing fast.

Helena was very excited because she was going to one of the State balls which were being given in honour of the coronation.

“I’m sorry you can’t come, Annora,” she said.

I smiled. Not long ago she would have been congratulating me because I did not have to go.

She had a new rose pink dress and she looked prettier than I had ever seen her look before. It was not so much rose pink which suited her as happiness.

I watched her set off with her parents and Peterkin. I knew that John Milward would be at the ball. I hoped he would soon speak to his father. The long wait seemed to me to be a little ominous. I supposed it all depended on how much they needed money and whether Helena’s father was rich enough to supply a settlement which would be satisfactory to them. Yes, indeed, it was quite a sordid transaction or would have been except for the love of the two central characters.

Joe called with his sister Frances. I was delighted to see them.

“I thought you would have gone to the ball,” I said to Joe.

“My parents are there. They’ll represent the family. It wasn’t exactly a royal command tonight.”

Frances said she had no time for such occasions. She was in London to see if she could get a firm of tailors to pay their buttonhole-makers more money.

“I thought with all this euphoria about the new reign and coronation they might be in a generous mood.”

“And are they?” asked Joe.

“Not a bit of it. I’ll probably have to resort to threats. Expose them in the press or something like that.”

“You will see that my sister is a very militant lady,” said Joe to me.

“You are coming to see us one day, aren’t you?” she asked.

“I am planning to bring her along next week,” Joe told her.

“Oh good. Bring Peterkin. He shows real interest. This is a lovely house, isn’t it? Such large rooms. Just what I need.”

Joe said to me: “Frances is looking for new premises.”

“We’re very cramped. If I had another house …”

“What about the money?” asked Joe.

“Father is very generous. I could get him to make a subscription and lobby some of the M.P.s. Many of them declare their concern for the poor. But their sympathy does not always go deep enough to reach their pockets.”

“I expect your father has been very helpful,” I said.

“We couldn’t have got very far without him. How many rooms are there in this house?”

“You couldn’t afford anything like this,” cried Joe.

“Not in this neighbourhood—but it wouldn’t be much use here anyway. I’m interested in all houses at the moment.”

“Would you like to see over this one?”

“I’d love that,” said Frances.

So I showed them the house. She said: “What I could do with this!”

We had come to the very top. There was one room which was reached by a short staircase.

“What’s up there?” asked Frances.

“That’s my uncle’s study. It’s out of bounds. No one is allowed up there. Only my Aunt Amaryllis goes in to clean it.”

“She cleans it!”

“Yes. He won’t allow anyone else to go in. He says servants disturb things. Only Aunt Amaryllis is allowed in. She goes twice a week to clean it.”

“How very odd! There must be something very important up there.”

“Oh, it is only his files and papers and things. It’s always kept locked. Along here are the attics … the servants’ quarters.”

We went downstairs and were soon talking of the coronation and what difference a new queen would make to the country.

I was awake when Helena came in from the ball.

I sat up in bed and looked at her. She was positively radiant.

“Well,” I said.

“Everything was wonderful. The Duke and Duchess were there. They received me most graciously. Papa and Mama were with them. They are all delighted. It’s all right, Annora. It’s settled. I’m officially engaged to John. It will be announced in the papers in a day or so. I think there’ll be an early wedding. It was hinted that there would be … as soon as all the settlements and things have been arranged. Annora, you must stay for my wedding.”

“How exciting! It is like a fairy story.”

“The ugly duckling who turned into a swan.”

“No, the princess who didn’t know how beautiful she was until her lover came and told her so.”

“Oh. Annora, you say the nicest things. I’m glad you’re here. You’ve brought me luck.”

“What rubbish! You brought it all on yourself … you and your John. Now there is only one thing for you to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Live happy ever after.”

“I shall never get to sleep tonight. I don’t want to. I just want to lie here thinking about it.”

There was not much sleep for me either. I lay there listening to her telling it again … the arrival, the gracious reception from the Duke and Duchess, and everyone showing approval of the most wonderful match that ever was.

I did not get to see Frances Cresswell’s Mission then because the blow fell before that could be arranged.

It was two days after the coronation ball. When I went down to breakfast Amaryllis was there with Peterkin. They were absorbed in the morning papers.

“I wonder who it can possibly be,” Aunt Amaryllis was saying.

“It says a prominent and highly respected politician.”

“I daresay his name will soon be revealed.”

“They’ll withhold it for a while to make it more tantalising. I wonder if Papa has any idea.”

“He wouldn’t know anything about a man like that.”

“What is it all about?” I asked.

Peterkin, who was helping himself from the sideboard at that moment, said: “A real scandal. Someone is in deep trouble. What are you having, Annora? This ham is good.”

“Thanks,” I said.

He set a plate before me.

“The papers are full of it. It happened last night. This fellow has been caught with a woman of a very dubious reputation. There was a brawl in her room and another fellow … he said he was her husband … attacked him. The police were called and they were all arrested.”

“Who could it be?”

“We shall know in time.”

“I hate this sort of thing,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “It’s so bad for everyone.”

“I daresay the man in the case hates it more than you do, Mama,” said Peterkin.

“It will distress your father. It must be someone he knows of … for it says a well-known politician.”

“The seamy side of life shows itself sometime,” said Peterkin. “By the way, Annora, what about Wednesday for our trip to Frances’s Mission?”

“That will suit me very well.”

It was later in the day when the papers revealed the name of the man about whom, by this time, everyone was talking.

I heard the paper boys calling out in the streets and ran downstairs to hear what they were saying. One of the servants was already there. He was carrying a paper and his eyes looked as though they were ready to pop out of his head.

“What is it?” I cried.

“They’ve named him, miss. Would you believe it …”

“Who? Who?” I demanded.

“It’s Mr. Joseph Cresswell.”

I could not believe it. It could not possibly be true. There must be a mistake.

Aunt Amaryllis was very upset. She kept saying: “It’s a misprint. They have the wrong name. Not that nice, kind, clever Mr. Cresswell. It must be another Cresswell.”

We were all sure there must have been some mistake, and were waiting for Uncle Peter to come in and hear what his reactions were. When he arrived we all clustered round him.

He looked shaken. He reiterated what we had all said. It must be a mistake. It could not be true.

“How could they have got hold of his name?” asked Peterkin.

“The only thing I can think of is that the real culprit gave a false name. The first one he thought of was Joseph Cresswell. After all his name is well known to the public.”

Aunt Amaryllis breathed a sigh of relief. “Of course that’s the answer. Trust you to put your finger right on it, Peter.”

“I hope that’s the case,” said Uncle Peter. “But it has already done him a lot of harm.”

“But if it is proved that his name has been falsely given people will regard him more highly because he has been wronged,” I suggested.

“My dear,” said Uncle Peter, “it is only conjecture on my part.”

But it did not turn out like that. The man who had taken part in what the papers called “The Brothel Brawl” was indeed Joseph Cresswell. His story was that his carriage had knocked down a young woman in Panton Street. He had alighted to make sure she was all right and as she had appeared to be shaken he had taken her to her home. It was true that he went into her room but was not there for more than a few minutes when a man burst in and accused them of immoral conduct.

I believed the story. It seemed perfectly plausible to me. If the vehicle in which he was riding had knocked her down he would consider it only courteous to take her home. I could well imagine how it happened. Of course he took her in to make sure she was suffering from no ill effects.

What a terrible situation for him!

Chloe Kitt was the young woman; she was known to be a prostitute; she had an apartment next door to a men’s club of a not very savoury reputation; and the rooms were let out by the club usually to women of easy virtue.

The man who had burst in on them was not Chloe’s husband, only, as she said, an intimate friend.

It seemed likely that blackmail might have been the original object. It was not, after all, such an extraordinary situation. What made it so unusual, of such immense interest, was the fact that a well-known politician was involved.

The charge was breaking the peace and was to come before the magistrate’s court.

“He was a fool,” said Uncle Peter, “to go home with a girl like that.”

“He wouldn’t have seen any harm in it,” replied Aunt Amaryllis. “He was concerned because it was the carriage he was riding in which knocked her down. That was obviously why he went home with her.”

“It’s unfortunate. No matter what the outcome of all this there are going to be many who think the worst and it is worse because Joseph Cresswell has set himself up as a defender of virtue. The chairmanship of this committee … well, it is about the abolition of vice.”

“It certainly won’t go to him now,” said Peterkin.

“Hardly likely to, I should think,” agreed Uncle Peter.

“Then you …” began Aunt Amaryllis.

“Oh, my dear, don’t let’s talk about that now. This is a tragedy for Cresswell. I’d have given a lot for it not to have happened. I wouldn’t want to walk over him in such circumstances.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “I’m sorry I mentioned it. But the thought came to me. I do understand. It is just how you would feel.”

He took her hand and patted it. “I know, my dear. But this is just not the time.”

“It’ll make all the difference to Joe, I expect,” said Peterkin. “I doubt whether he’ll be selected as a candidate for that by-election which is coming up. It’ll be a tragedy for the whole family unless it can be proved to be a fabrication by this Chloe. Why should she …?”

“Probably meant blackmail,” said Uncle Peter. “And they played it wrongly. They didn’t think the police would come.”

“Oh dear!” sighed Aunt Amaryllis. “How wicked some people can be! I am so sad for that nice Mrs. Cresswell … and all the family.”

I kept thinking of them as I had seen them during that happy week-end, and I too felt very sad. I wondered what effect it would have on Joe.

Peterkin said to me: “Let’s go and see Joe. I want them to know that I, for one, believe Mr. Cresswell is telling the truth.”

I was glad, for I wanted to do just that.

We walked to the house in St. James’s Street and on the way we passed several newsvendors.

“All about it,” shouted one. “Read about Chloe’s lovers,” called another.

I said: “They go on and on about it.”

“That’s how they are. If it had not been a well-known person we should have heard nothing about it.”

The blinds were drawn at the windows of the house. We went through the gate and mounted the steps past the two stone lions who stood like sentinels on either side of the door.

Several people stopped to look at us, wondering, I supposed, who we were to call at this house of shame.

The door was eventually opened by a maid who first of all peered at us through the door’s glass panel.

Peterkin said: “Good morning. Is Mr. Joe Cresswell at home?”

“No sir. None of the family’s here.”

“We want to get in touch. Is Mr. Joe in Surrey?”

“I ain’t to say, sir,” said the maid. “They’ve all gone away and that’s all I can tell you.”

While we were talking I heard a crack and the sound of breaking glass.

“That’s the third stone we’ve had at the windows. I think it would be better if you was to go. They might think you family.”

She shut the door.

Peterkin and I looked at each other in dismay. He was very angry.

We walked away from the house while several people who were passing watched us with curiosity.

“I wish,” I said, “that we could see Joe. I’d like him to know we don’t believe all this.”

“Perhaps we could write to Surrey. I think he must be there.”

“Yes, just to let him know that we are thinking of him.”

I wrote to him that day telling him how sorry I was and how we all believed in his father. “This will all blow over,” I wrote. “Everyone who knows your family realizes it can’t be true.”

I received a short note from Joe thanking me for my sympathy. He told me nothing of his plans and did not suggest a meeting.

In due course the case came before the magistrates. They were all fined for breaking the peace—including Mr. Cresswell, which was an intimation that the story he had told was untrue.

It was a trivial case—there were hundreds like it every day; but it was the end of Joseph Cresswell’s career.

I wondered what was going on in his family. I was sure kind, motherly Mrs. Cresswell would believe her husband; and so would every member of the family. But would there be a niggling doubt?

Who would have believed that so much happiness and contentment could be destroyed by such an event?

If only the papers would allow the matter to rest it would have been easier; but they went on. “Our reporter talks to Chloe”; “Chloe’s lovers”; “Chloe Kitt’s early life, telling us all how she had been left an orphan and had had to fend for herself and had been helped along the road to perdition by men like Joseph Cresswell.”

Peterkin and I went down to Frances’s Mission.

It was a big house situated on a main road from which narrow streets branched off. As we passed I caught a glimpse of the traders in those streets. Stalls had been set up and various goods were displayed—old clothes, fruit, vegetables, hot pies, lemonade and ballads. There was a great babble as the salesmen shouted the qualities of their wares.

On one corner of the street was what appeared to be a lodging house and on the other a gin shop from which two women came lurching in the company of a man.

We hurried past.

We mounted the steps to the front door. It was open and we went in. There was a sparsely furnished hall and as we were wondering how to make our presence known a young man appeared. He was of medium height, brown-haired and grey-eyed; and I was immediately struck by his earnest manner.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

Peterkin said: “We want to see Miss Cresswell.”

“She’s not in at the moment. But she should be very soon. She was called out suddenly. Do come in and sit down.”

We followed him into a room. It contained two chairs and a table and little else. He offered us the chairs and seated himself on the table.

He said: “Is there anything I can do? I’m one of Miss Cresswell’s helpers.”

“We only came to see her.”

“Wonderful, isn’t she?” he said. “Here we all admire her very much.” He frowned. I guessed he was trying to tell us that here they were all behind the Cresswell family.

He chatted for a while and told us that he had been with the Mission for two months and was finding it very rewarding; and while we were talking Frances came in.

“Thanks, Matthew,” she said. “I see you’ve been entertaining my visitors.”

“Good day,” said Matthew. “It was nice meeting you.”

When we were alone, Frances took Matthew’s place on the table.

“It was good of you to come,” she said. “This is a terrible business.”

“It’s so ridiculous,” said Peterkin.

“I know. But it’s deadly damaging nonetheless.”

“What is going to happen?” I asked.

She lifted her shoulders. “My father will have to disappear from public life. After all he has built up! And he had such plans. It was almost a certainty that he would have been on this vice committee. He would have been so effective.”

“How is the family taking it?”

“Stoically. They are all standing by him. Joe, of course, is the one who will be most affected.”

“Do you think it will ruin his career?” I asked.

“Well, for the time being … yes. He is the son of his father … same name and everything. Oh, it was a bitter blow to us all. For myself it does not matter. It’s just that I can’t bear for my father to be put through all this. It’s so malicious.”

“I wrote to Joe,” I told her. “I had a short note back.”

“I think they all just want to be left alone.”

“I’m sure that’s how I should feel,” said Peterkin.

“Joe thinks that our father was trapped into the situation.”

“Trapped?”

“It’s a wild idea, of course, but Joe is in no state to reason.”

“Frances,” said Peterkin, “if there is anything we can do …”

“There isn’t really. The best thing is to leave them all alone for a while. Something will work itself out.”

“You’re just carrying on here as usual.”

“It makes no difference here. The people who work with me are marvellous. Matthew Hume whom you just met is typical. They just want to help people, to make society a little more tolerable for the unfortunate. As for the people who are living in this neighbourhood, they are not censorious. Moreover they can’t read … most of them. They understand how easy it is for these girls to fall into prostitution. They would say, Oh they have to live—and that’s one way of doing it. They wouldn’t condemn my father—even if the accusations were true—as much as those who pay them so little for their work or wouldn’t give them a few pence for a decent meal. It’s a different set of morals. I suppose morals are tuned to the sort of society in which we live and the middle and upper classes take a highly moral tone on these matters. You must be without reproach and if you do stray, make sure you are not found out. A sin is a sin only when it is public knowledge. Hypocrisy is the order of the day.”

She spoke without bitterness and I liked her more than ever.

This was not the sort of visit we had planned though we did look over the house. She had rows of beds in the upper rooms where she housed the homeless; then she took us and showed us the kitchen where a cauldron of soup was simmering on the fire.

“It’s all so inadequate,” she said. “I want bigger premises. I want more and more houses like this so that I can do some real work.”

When we left Peterkin said what a fine job she was doing, and I wholeheartedly agreed.

In the papers that day there was a notice which caught my eyes. William Gardiner had been chosen as the prospective candidate for Bletchfield. That was the one for which Joe had been hoping.

Whatever had happened on that fateful night in the prostitute’s bedroom had had a far-reaching effect.

My parents were in London. I left Uncle Peter’s house and went back to the one in Albermarle Street with them.

They told us the news at Eversleigh, and of course they had heard of the Cresswell scandal. I guessed from their comments that they believed the story, which was an indication that most people would by the manner in which he had been presented in the press, and who did not know the family.

I told them that I refused to believe the accusations against Joseph Cresswell and then they were all sympathy.

“This sort of thing can happen,” said my father. “A false step taken innocently enough … and it can influence one’s life.”

My mother said thoughtfully: “This will mean that Joseph Cresswell is out of the running for that chairmanship.”

“Yes, of course,” I replied. “And poor Joe has lost his chance to stand as candidate for Bletchfield.”

“What a tragedy,” said my father.

“They are very brave,” I told them. “They are the most wonderful family. It has made us all very sad, and I was having such a marvellous time before it happened.”

“It’s good news about Helena,” said my mother.

“Yes, isn’t it?”

“They are very thrilled at Eversleigh.”

“The wedding is going to be in August. It’s quite soon but there doesn’t seem to be any reason for delay. The two families are well satisfied.”

“I daresay Peter is,” said my mother shortly. “He’ll revel in connections with an ancient dukedom.”

“But what is so nice, Mama, is that Helena is so much in love and so is John Milward.”

“I suppose Peter will be able to supply the necessary settlement,” she said.

“Apparently. There doesn’t seem to be any hitch about that.”

“The Milward estate is ready to collapse, I believe,” said my father. “The heir made a good marriage and saved it in the nick of time, otherwise it would have been a ruin by now. But still more is needed.”

“Your father has something to tell you, Annora,” said my mother.

“Yes. I have come to a decision, Annora. We are definitely going to Australia.”

“When?”

“The beginning of September.”

“So soon? Helena is being married in August and I promised to be at her wedding.”

“We’re not going till September, so why not? We’ll have to get back soon. There’ll be certain things to see to. We must be back by next summer. Then we’ll start planning that season for you. I want to talk to Amaryllis about it. She’ll help a lot. She’ll have everything ready when we embark on the project.”

“I don’t look forward to it.”

“A necessary evil. But this wedding of Helena’s …”

“I must stay for it, Mama. She expects it.”

“You and she have become greater friends even than you were before. I’m glad. I always felt Helena needed a good friend beside her.”

“She has her John now. She dotes on him. She is quite different.”

“Yes, I have noticed. But this wedding in August … As we’re going away for a long time it might be a little difficult.”

“Mama, it is not only that. It’s this Cresswell matter. I have become quite friendly with them and I feel I know them very well. I stayed with them for a week-end … Helena, Peterkin and I. I felt so happy with them. There’s a son … Joe. It’s awful for him. He was going into Parliament and now he has lost his chance. They are shutting themselves away in Surrey and when they come back to Town I did want them to know that I don’t believe all this rubbish …” I trailed off. “Well, there’s that … and Helena’s wedding.”

“I see,” said my father, “that you want to stay in London.”

He looked at my mother. She was thoughtful for a while. Then she said: “Why not? You could stay with the Lansdons and help Helena with her preparations.” She glanced at my father. “We could go back and do everything that has to be done and on our way to Tilbury, come and collect Annora and then we could all go off together. How’s that?”

“It needs a bit of consideration,” said my father. “Is that what you’d like to do, Annora?”

“Well, I do miss Cador and Jacco and you two, but …”

“It’s only a little while longer,” my mother put in. “If you come back with us you’ll be wondering what’s happening here. You stay, Annora. I’m sure it can all be worked out satisfactorily.”

So it was decided that I was to stay in London. My parents would go back to Cador and make their preparations for departure to Australia. Then they, with Jacco, would pick me up in London and I would leave with my family for the trip.

Helena was delighted; and I had to admit that this was what I wanted. I had a strong feeling that I must be on the spot for whatever happened next.

Something did happen soon. I was walking in the Park with Peterkin. The Cresswell affair had drawn us closer together and I had discovered a depth in Peterkin’s character which I had not known was there before. He cared deeply about the Cresswells and often we talked about the tragedy which had befallen the family.

He saw a great deal of Frances.

He said: “She is the one who is able to cope with it more than the others because she is more of a realist. Her life in the East End has made her so. She can stand aloof from it and look in as an outsider—while one part of her is deeply concerned for those she loves. She says it has ruined her father’s career in one direction. He will have to leave politics, but that is not the end. In Surrey they refuse to believe the story. Everyone in that village is rallying round him. I think that must be a great consolation.”

We were talking thus as we walked along, passing the Achilles Statue and going across to Kensington Gardens, and as we were approaching the Round Pond we saw a young man coming towards us.

My heart leaped for it was Joe Cresswell.

“Joe,” I cried and ran towards him holding out my hands.

He took them, held them firmly and smiled at me.

Peter was beside us. “Joe! How good to meet you! So you are back in London.”

Joe said he was here only for a short while.

“You’re staying in St. James’s Street?”

“Yes. I steal in and out like a thief,” he said. “Though there aren’t now so many people hanging about looking at the house as though they are expecting some monster to emerge.”

“Where are you going now?” asked Peterkin.

“Aimlessly wandering … just thinking.”

“Oh, Joe,” I cried. “I’m glad we’ve seen you. We’ve thought so much about you.”

“Thanks for your letter.”

“Let’s sit down here,” said Peterkin, indicating a bench under an oak tree. “It’s easier to talk sitting.”

So we sat.

“Joe, have you any plans?” asked Peterkin.

He shook his head. “There doesn’t seem to be anything. Parliament is off as far as I’m concerned.”

“It wasn’t all that much of a safe seat,” consoled Peterkin.

“I was going to make it safe.”

“And now?”

“My father is on the board of several companies. There will be opportunities … when I am ready.”

“Oh Joe,” I said and touched his hands. He took mine and gripped it hard.

“You know,” he said, “this was a put-up job.”

“What do you mean?” asked Peterkin.

“That business with my father—it was all staged.”

“By whom?”

“That’s what I have to find out. Someone arranged the accident and that there should be a brawl and the police called in.”

“Why?”

“A man in my father’s position will always have enemies. If one of them feels strongly and has the means …”

Peterkin said: “Yes, yes,” in a soothing sort of way, and I could see that he thought he was talking wildly—as I did. Poor Joe! Both Peterkin and I had the utmost sympathy for him.

“You see, it was simply not possible for my father to have gone there for any other reason than to help that girl he believed his carriage had knocked down.”

“It wasn’t your own coachman who did it?”

“No. It would never have happened if he had been driving. It was a hired vehicle. It wasn’t always convenient to take the carriage. That’s what makes me think. I reckon it was done on purpose to trap him, and he just walked into it.”

It seemed a little far-fetched. The driver would have had to be in the conspiracy as well as the girl and the man who had made the brawl and those who sent for the police. No. I believed that Mr. Cresswell had gone into the girl’s apartment because he felt responsible, as the vehicle in which he was riding had knocked her down. What had happened was a run of bad luck.

But both Peterkin and I listened sympathetically. We knew how badly Joe must be feeling—so we let him run on.

After a while Joe said he must go. He was grateful for our sympathy, he told us, and it had done him a lot of good to talk to us.

He took my hand as we were parting, and Peterkin, perhaps feeling that there was a special understanding between us, walked on and left us together for a few seconds.

Joe said: “Annora, I want to see you alone.”

“Yes?”

“Can I come to the house? Is there a time when you would be alone there?”

I thought rapidly.

“On Wednesday,” I said. “Helena and her mother are going to the dressmaker’s. They’ll be away all the morning. I think Peterkin is going to see Frances. And Uncle Peter is never there. Come on Wednesday at ten o’clock.”

“I don’t want to see anyone else. Not the servants … no one. You understand?”

“They’re usually in the kitchen at that time. If you come at ten I’ll watch for you and let you in. No one need know. Or would you rather I met you somewhere?”

“No. I’d rather it was in the house … if we can be quite alone.”

“Wednesday then,” I said. “I’ll look out for you at ten o’clock.”

I was disturbed. I kept asking myself why Joe should want to see me alone, and the idea occurred to me that he might be going to ask me to marry him.

We had seen a great deal of each other and there had undoubtedly been a rather special rapport between us. At a time of acute distress, he might well turn to me for comfort.

And there was Rolf. I could not stop myself thinking of him. I had tried to dismiss him from my thoughts because before that memorable night I had been convinced that one day I would marry Rolf. It was a childish fantasy, of course. Hadn’t I once thought of marrying my father? But Rolf had been so much a part of my innocent childhood—though I had ceased to be innocent after that fearful night. I must stop thinking of Rolf for I could never be completely happy thinking of him because from that night had sprung all my fears and doubts. It was not only that I was disillusioned with Rolf—but with life.

I wanted to escape from those memories. It might well be that the best way to do so would be through marriage with someone else.

I had to give this serious contemplation. If Joe were to ask me and I said No, that would make him more unhappy than he already was. It seemed to my inexperienced and romantic mind that if he asked me I must therefore say Yes. I could not bear to cause him further pain; and if I became engaged to him I should be able to comfort him. It would be a way of saying, I believe in your father. I want him for my father-in-law. I was sure that it would comfort the entire family. But I wished I could stop thinking of Rolf.

I was very uneasy on that Wednesday morning. I was afraid that at the last minute Aunt Amaryllis and Helena would cancel their visit to the dressmaker’s. It was hardly likely that Uncle Peter would be in. If Peterkin decided not to go out, that would not be too bad. I could explain to him more easily.

But all went according to plan.

At ten o’clock I was at the window which looked out on to the street. Joe was waiting. I listened. The house was quiet. The servants were all in the kitchen having the snack which they had about this time. I hurried down to the door and let Joe in.

I took him to a small room which was rarely used. He looked very distraught and was pale, I noticed. He took my hand and pressed it warmly.

I said: “We are free from interruptions here. The servants won’t emerge from the kitchen for half an hour at least, and everyone else is out.”

“Thank you. Oh, thank you.” He looked around the room. “Oh, Annora. I could do with a drink.”

“Oh, yes. I’ll go and get something. It isn’t kept in this room. I won’t be long. You’ll be all right here. No one will come.”

He nodded.

I sped down to the cellar. I had to be careful because I did not want the servants to hear. They would think it so odd that I had not asked them to bring the wine. I had rarely been down here. It was dark. It was some little time before I could find what I wanted. Then I must find glasses. I must have been away for more than five minutes.

All the time I was pondering on his strange behaviour. I could not understand why he had asked so soon for wine.

There was a surprise for me when I reached the room. He was not there. Of course, he had been very nervous. Had he thought that someone was coming and made his escape?

It was all very strange.

I set down the wine and looked out on the street. There was no sign of him. It was very mysterious.

I went upstairs. No one was about. I stood listening. I thought I heard a sound from above.

Cautiously I went up the next flight of stairs. I was standing at the bottom of those steps which led to Uncle Peter’s sanctum. I looked up and to my astonishment saw that the door was open.

Uncle Peter must be home.

“Uncle Peter,” I called.

There was no answer. I went up and looked in. Joe turned to face me. He looked pale and shaken.

I cried: “What are you doing here? This room is always locked. How did you …”

“Hush,” he said.

I advanced into the room. I had never been there before. It was as I had expected it would be—an office. There was a big desk and several iron filing cabinets.

“It’s Uncle Peter’s private office,” I said.

Joe was putting some papers into his breast pocket.

“I’m ready to go now,” he said.

“You must come down at once. This door is supposed to be locked. How did you get in?”

He did not answer that. He just said: “Let’s get down.”

I said: “I don’t understand. Someone must have left the door open.”

We came silently down the stairs to the hall.

“I must go now,” he said.

“No, no, Joe,” I cried. “I want to know what you were doing in Uncle Peter’s room.”

I drew him into the little room into which I had first brought him.

I said: “You have taken something. Joe, what are you doing?”

“There was something I wanted. Understand, Annora, I have to do this. You’ll understand in time and you’ll see why.”

“But I don’t understand. How did you know the door was open?”

“It wasn’t. I opened it.”

“You … you haven’t a key. No one has a key except Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis.”

“I learned how to open locked doors. It’s an art. Someone at Frances’s place taught me how to do it. When you know how, it’s not difficult.”

“Frances’s place!”

“Yes. Someone whose profession it is to unlock doors.”

“You mean a thief … a criminal!”

“Look,” he said, “I don’t want to involve you in this, Annora.”

“But you unlocked the door. They’ll know you’ve been there.”

“I can’t relock it. They’ll just think they forgot to lock it.”

“But what did you take?”

“I can’t tell you now Annora. I must go. I have to go now … at once.”

“So you came here … just to do that?”

“I knew you’d help me. We’ve always been good friends. I knew you’d be on my side. I must go now … quickly. Goodbye, Annora.”

My first thought was that no one must know he had called. I took back the wine and the glasses. Then I went to my room.

I had thought he was going to ask me to marry him and he had come to steal something from my uncle’s study. I felt stupidly bewildered and very, very uncertain. Should I tell them? I felt a certain loyalty to Joe. And yet what of Uncle Peter?

I tried to shut out of my mind the memory of Joe standing in Uncle Peter’s room putting papers into his breast pocket. I could not stop thinking of him any more than I could of Rolf leaping over a bonfire.

I was in a terrible state of uncertainty. I simply did not know what I should do.

Helena returned full of excitement about her trousseau. I pretended to listen to her prattle and did not hear a word of it.

I expect Aunt Amaryllis thought she had failed to lock the door. She would be very upset and perhaps hastily lock it and say nothing about it. She would hate Uncle Peter to think she had been careless where his instructions were concerned.

I was quite bemused. I could not understand it. I did not want to discuss it even with Peterkin.

And then suddenly I learned what it was all about.

Following on the Cresswell case it was like another chapter in the same story.

“Corruption in High Places. Well-Known Politician in dubious Clubs Scandal”: “Exclusive story in the Gazette”: “Read all about it.”

“I should have thought,” said Aunt Amaryllis, “that everyone is tired of reading about these political scandals. I believe a lot of them are made up just to make sensational headlines and sell the papers. I shall not read it.”

But of course she did.

The Cresswell case was nothing to this.

“Mr. Peter Lansdon, the well-known politician, and the expected choice for the new Vice Enquiry, is revealed as the man behind many of the leading clubs which are the haunts of prostitutes and gamblers. This multi-millionaire, whose daughter is about to marry into one of our oldest families, has made his fortune out of vice. Documents have been brought to us to prove this. There is no doubt of their authenticity.”

It seemed that the house in the square was to be dealt a similar blow to that which had befallen the Cresswells.

There were crowds round the house and we could not go out. Aunt Amaryllis was stunned. She declared that it was all lies. Peterkin was bewildered. He told me that he had never really understood what his father’s business was. There were warehouses dealing with imports from Jamaica he had known, but it seemed these were a cover for other, more lucrative interests; and he had always wondered why his father did not wish him to go into his business.

“This will ruin Uncle Peter,” I said, “as the Cresswells have been ruined.”

“It will be the end of his parliamentary career,” said Peterkin. “He’ll still have his businesses. Knowing him I daresay he acts within the law. It has always been known what those clubs were and they have not been abolished. I think too many people in high places are interested in them. They want them to remain. It’s the old hypocrisy. Let them remain but don’t let us know about them. I wonder why it has come out just now.”

I did not wonder. I knew. This was Joe’s revenge. He suspected Uncle Peter and he had determined to avenge his father. I could imagine his feelings seeing his career destroyed and his father branded as a lascivious hypocrite; he had looked about for one who had brought this disaster on his family and had suspected Uncle Peter. What had he known about Uncle Peter? And had my uncle set a trap for Joseph Cresswell? There was no doubt that he had wanted this chairmanship. Could it really have been as Joe had suspected?

Uncle Peter was the one who amazed me. He almost shrugged it aside. He faced us all at dinner with what I can only call equilibrium.

“Well,” he said. “It’s out at last. Yes, this is how I have made my fortune. You have all benefitted from it and so there is no need for you, at least, to take up a sanctimonious role. All the charities which I have upheld have profited from it. When they asked me for money they did not want to know how it had been earned. I have been at great pains to keep the nature of my business from you all, not because I am ashamed of it, but because I thought it might distress you. And there is no doubt that it would have had a restricting effect on my activities. Now it is out. There have been other occasions when I thought it might have been discovered. I shall follow Joseph Cresswell’s example and resign my seat and slip out of politics for a while. It is a pity. I could have done so much and my ill-gotten wealth would have been of great service in many causes. However, as far as I am concerned, there are other roads which will be interesting to follow.”

He went on calmly eating his dinner.

I talked to Aunt Amaryllis afterwards. She said: “I am so sad, Annora. This is all my fault. Somebody stole papers from your uncle’s study, and he got in because I had left the door open.”

I said: “Aunt Amaryllis, there are ways of getting in even when doors are locked. It is quite easy with people who do that sort of thing for a living.”

“You mean thieves? Do you think we had a thief in the house?”

“We must have done,” I said grimly.

Helena was worried.

“I don’t know what effect this will have on the Duke,” she said.

“It will depend on how much he wants your father’s money,” I replied bitterly.

“That it should have happened now! I thought it was too good to be true.”

I comforted her. “It’ll be all right,” I said. “John loves you. What your father does is nothing to do with you.”

There was silence from the ducal family for some days. Then Uncle Peter received a letter. The Duke felt that in view of recent revelations it would be understood by a man of the world that an alliance of the two families was now not desirable.

Poor Helena was heartbroken.

I felt guilty. If I had not let Joe in that day … But I was sure he would have found some other means. He was so intent on revenge.

I thought Helena was going to be ill; she lost interest in everything. It was a sad, quiet household. I heard some of the servants whispering to each other. They were going to give notice. They could not be expected to work in such a household. But none of them did. Whatever Uncle Peter’s profession, he kept a good staff and paid them better than most; and weighing the matter up they must have decided that it was better to forget about a little vice for the sake of comforts and good posts.

I had to admire Uncle Peter. He went on as though nothing had happened. It was true that he followed Joseph Cresswell’s example and resigned his seat. He just washed his hands of politics.

He was so rich that he could snap his fingers at respectability. I thought how different he was from Joseph Cresswell.

There were a few enquiries about the clubs, but their activities were well covered up. They were run as clubs, and gambling was not against the law. As for prostitution, occasionally there were attempts but nothing could be done to stop it entirely. We were a country in which the freedom of the individual was considered to be of the utmost importance. Any attempt to curb it would result in an outcry. Uncle Peter had been careful not to break any laws. He had protected his interests well and it was almost as though he had prepared himself for the kind of accusations which were being brought against him; and being the man he was, even the press grew tired of vilifying him and his activities.

He was not such an obvious victim as Joseph Cresswell. The one who really suffered was Helena.

I did see Joe again. He was in the Park and I think he wanted to see me for he felt he owed me some explanation.

I was with Peterkin when we met him.

We faced each other, tongue-tied. Neither of us could think of anything to say. On one hand I understood his need to avenge his father; and on the other I saw him as the destroyer of Helena’s happiness.

At last Joe said: “I’ve been hanging about here for several days hoping to see you.” He looked at me anxiously. “I didn’t know whether you would want to see me again.”

I was silent and Peterkin said: “Why?”

Joe looked at me. “You knew, didn’t you?”

I said: “I think I had better explain to Peterkin. One day when you were all out, Joe came to see me. When I went out of the room to get some wine he went up to your father’s room, forced the lock in some way and got into your father’s papers. I suppose they gave details of his business.”

“Listen,” cut in Joe. “I knew my father had been trapped. He would never have gone home with that girl except to help her. And I guessed that the whole thing had been planned in order to blacken my father’s reputation. Wouldn’t you …?”

“In your case perhaps,” said Peterkin.

“I wasn’t going to let it rest. I got hold of that girl … Chloe. I threatened her, I bribed her, and at last I got the story. She had been commanded to do what she did. She wasn’t knocked over. The driver was in it and so was the man who broke in. It was a well-organized plot. And who was able to set that in motion? Your father. He hadn’t seen the girl himself. His minions told her what she must do. But she had caught glimpses of him once or twice going into the private offices where the books and records were kept. She had found out who he was when she had seen pictures in the papers. My father had said long ago that this woman who called herself Madame Delarge was not really the owner. There was someone behind her. I thought I knew, in fact I was almost certain. You see, there was the motive.”

“You mean this chairmanship?” said Peterkin.

Joe nodded. “My father was his rival in more ways than that. It was a despicable thing to do. I had to have my revenge. Wouldn’t you?”

“For my own father … perhaps not,” said Peterkin. “For yours … yes, I understand, Joe.”

He looked at me. “So you don’t blame me?”

I could not answer him. I could only see Helena’s wretched face. I had let him into the house. I was responsible for Helena’s misery. I knew I could never love Joe. There was a barrier between us as Midsummer’s Eve was between Rolf and me.

“Annora,” he went on, and laid his hand on my arm.

I said: “You didn’t tell me why you wanted to come to my uncle’s house.”

“How could I?”

“You sent me from the room on a pretext so that you could go upstairs and break into my uncle’s study.”

“It was the only way. You wouldn’t have helped me do that. And how could I have asked you to?”

“No, you certainly could not.”

“I had to do it, Annora.”

“Yes,” said Peterkin. “I see how you felt.”

“It has done no good,” I cried. “It has not helped your father and it has ruined Helena’s happiness.”

“If John Milward can’t stand out against his family, he wouldn’t have been much of a husband.”

“Helena doesn’t think that and I … I don’t know what to think.”

We sat wretchedly looking at Achilles, so strong, so formidable, and it made me think of the weaknesses of mankind.

After a while we got up to go.

Joe took my hands and looked at me earnestly. “Annora,” he said. “Do try to understand.”

“I do understand. It was revenge you wanted. Two scandals instead of one.”

“I’m going to clear my father’s name,” said Joe.

“How?” asked Peterkin.

“I’m going to make Chloe’s confession public.”

“My father will treat it all as if it were of little significance,” said Peterkin.

“His parliamentary career will be ruined as my father’s has been.”

“He has already finished with politics. He says the whole world is his field. You’ll do no good. You will just bring it all up again and it will be more distressing to your family than ours.”

“I suppose,” said Joe sadly, “this means that communication between us is impossible.”

We said goodbye. Peterkin shook hands with Joe, and Joe held mine for some time looking at me appealingly; but I was too bewildered to give him the encouragement he obviously sought. I could not get Helena’s sad face out of my mind.

“He’s right,” said Peterkin as we walked away. “It does make friendship between our families out of the question.”

I think Joe did try to get Chloe’s account of what happened into the press, but he failed to do so. I imagine this was due to Peter’s influence because, as had been said of him before, he had his fingers into many pies. He could do a great deal of manipulation in many directions and I was sure that if he had not been taken by surprise and the story of his business had not been given to a particularly scurrilous newspaper in the first place he would have been able to prevent the facts being published. But of course, once the story was out all the papers had to make what sensation they could from it. Joe must have been frustrated in his schemes but at least he had driven Uncle Peter from Parliament.

Moreover there was a great deal about the coronation festivities in the papers and people were more interested in that then anything else at the moment.

A Coronation Fair had been opened in Hyde Park and the Queen herself had been there to see it. Accounts of it filled the papers and the people were so busy reading about that, that the impact of Chloe’s story would be lost upon them. They had finished with Joseph Cresswell and Peter Lansdon. They had both supplied scandalous titbits which had been gratefully received, but the element of surprise had gone; they had both been knocked off their high perches and there was nothing else which could be done to them. The coronation festivities, the Queen with her little figure and regal manner—that was what they wanted to read about. She reviewed five thousand troops in Hyde Park and the people cheered her wildly. Everything was going to be different now we had a young girl on the throne to take the place of those doddery rather boring old gentlemen.

One morning John Milward called at the house. He looked very young and rather frightened, but he had come to see Helena and I was pleased about that. He had not left it just to his father to break off the marriage.

When I saw Helena she had regained her radiance.

“I wanted you to be the first to know,” she said. “It’s going to be all right.”

“You mean …?”

She nodded. “We’re going to be married. Oh, it won’t be an expensive wedding. Who wants that, anyway?”

“Not you,” I cried, hugging her.

“We shall be poor.”

“You’ll have your allowance.”

“John will have to do some work or other.” My heart sank a little. I could not imagine John’s doing some work or other.

“But we don’t care. He’s going to defy his family. He doesn’t care about being cut off. He only cares about me.”

“Oh, Helena, I’m so glad. I misjudged him. I thought he was weak.”

“We’re going to be very strong.”

“It’s wonderful.”

“Do you think Papa …?”

I thought about that enigmatical man and it occurred to me that, wicked as he must be, he would not be one to stand in the way of his daughter’s happiness. In fact I could imagine his delight in snubbing the Duke.

At least Helena’s happiness was saved.

For a whole week Helena continued in a state of bliss. She saw John every day. She had been so unhappy that no restrictions were put on her by Aunt Amaryllis, who was delighted at the return of John for Helena’s sake. John came to the house and was alone with Helena for long periods of time. They walked in the Park together.

He had left the ducal roof and was sharing rooms with a bachelor friend of his. I said to Peterkin: “He’s got more spirit than I thought. I wouldn’t have believed he could have stood out against his family.”

Peterkin agreed with me.

How wrong we were to think all was well! His family must have brought great pressure to bear on him and John, after all, was not the man to withstand it.

He did not even come to tell Helena himself; he explained by letter. She showed it to me.

My dearest Helena,

I am so sorry but I cannot go on with this. You have no idea what I have had to put up with from my family. It’s not just being cut off. Where would we live? My father says I shall have nothing … nothing at all. They are all against me, Helena. I can’t stand it. I know I should never be any good at earning a living. What could I do?

I love you. I shall always love you. But it has to be goodbye.

John

I have never seen such misery as I saw in Helena’s face. I cursed him. He should never have come back. It would have been better if she had just had the one blow.

I tried to comfort her. I said that perhaps if he was so weak it was better for them to part. She would not have it. Her heart was broken. Life had become intolerable to her.

Those were wretched days.

I wanted to leave London. I wanted to put all that had happened behind me. But I did know that I was the only one to whom Helena could talk and I felt I could not leave her.

My parents wrote to say that in view of our departure in September, and the scandal about Uncle Peter and because there was to be no wedding, I should return home. I would have to make certain preparations and although they had been going to pick me up on the way to Tilbury, it would now be more convenient for me to return home so that we could all set out together.

When I mentioned the matter to Helena she looked stricken although she said nothing.

Then I had an idea. “Helena,” I said, “why don’t you come with me? You’ll get right away and there is nothing like leaving something behind to get it out of your mind.”

She replied that nothing could get this out of her mind; but I could see that she was so eager not to lose me that she wanted to come.

So very soon after that Helena and I left for Cornwall.

I was glad to be home. It was good to see Jacco again. He was always particularly affectionate after long absences.

My parents were very kind and gentle to Helena and I fancied she seemed a little better away from the place where so much that was tragic had happened to her.

Rolf was away. His father had died suddenly of a heart attack.

“Poor Rolf,” said my mother. “He is very sad. He is away now, staying with friends in the Midlands. It was such a blow. We were all so fond of Mr. Hanson.”

Later I had several talks with my mother, who was of the opinion that Helena was better off without John Milward since he lacked the courage to stand out against his parents. After all, he was of age.

My mother and I used to go for long walks together along the cliffs during the mornings. Helena usually stayed in her room until luncheon. That seemed to be what she wanted and we thought we should indulge her all we could.

It gave me a chance to be with my mother. I was realizing how much I had missed her while I had been away.

One day as we lay on the grass of the cliffs looking out to sea watching the seagulls flying high and then swooping down to capture some item of food, she said to me: “Tell me, what did Peter Lansdon do when the news about his connection with these clubs came out?”

“Do? Oh nothing much. He was quite nonchalant about it. Yes, it was true, he said. And then he reminded his family how they had benefitted from his money.”

“Poor Amaryllis.”

“Don’t worry about her. She thinks Uncle Peter is always right. It’s Helena I’m sorry for.”

“I’ve got something to tell you, Annora, about your Uncle Peter. I’ve told your father. It was a secret even from him but now I can tell you. I said I thought you should know and he agreed with me. I know you liked Joe Cresswell. But what about Rolf?”

“What about him?”

“Your father and I used to think that you and Rolf would make a match of it one day. I know he is a little older than you but now you’re growing up that’s not so much. What we want is your happiness of course. We’ve always had such a soft spot for Rolf … living so close … being like one of the family really. At one time you admired him so much. We used to laugh about it. So did Mr. Hanson. It was almost an understood thing between us. Then you seemed to change.”

“I was growing up.”

“But you do like him, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“Your father would be very pleased. He says we know Rolf and that’s what we like about it.”

“You never really know people,” I said quickly. “Not all about them.”

“Well, we all have our secrets …”

I knew that she was uneasy, that she was thinking about what she had said she would tell me, that she was reluctant to do so and that was why she had gone on talking of other things, as though postponing the moment.

“Remember, my darling,” she said now, “what we want more than anything is your happiness. Of course we’ll like you to be somewhere near us. Parents are like that, but we have to remind ourselves that it is not for us to choose. I hope you’ll talk to us. Sometimes talking can help.”

“I know it can and if there was something I wanted to talk about I’d talk to you … first.”

She kissed me. There was a brief silence and still she was hesitating. I imagined she was steeling herself. She said quickly: “Has this Joe Cresswell disappointed you in some way? You shouldn’t blame him for his father’s affairs, you know.”

“I don’t. In any case I believe his father was innocent of what they blamed him for. I suppose you read about the case?”

She nodded.

“Isn’t it time you told me what you were going to?”

She hesitated and then said quickly: “I … I knew about Peter Lansdon’s affairs. I discovered long ago, before I married your father.”

“You didn’t say,” I said.

“I couldn’t. He blackmailed me. It was a case of double blackmail.”

“You!”

“Yes. You see, my dearest child, out of necessity, people sometimes do things you would least suspect them of. You’ve lived all your life sheltered and not really coming face to face with emotions and temptations which beset most of us at some time. You know your father was my second husband.”

“Yes, of course.”

“My first husband was a good, kind, gentle man. I married him without really being in love with him. It was always your father … but you know about him and his term in Australia. There’s no secret about that. My first husband was hurt in an accident. He was crippled before our marriage. I tried to be a good wife to him … and then your father came back. You don’t understand yet what love can be like. It was necessary to us both. I was your father’s mistress before my first husband was dead. Peter Lansdon found this out.”

“Oh, Mama …”

“It was a desperate situation.”

“He blackmailed you.”

“In a way. He’s a strange man. He is bent on one thing—getting on in the world, making everyone dance to his tune. He is the most ambitious man I ever knew. I found out something about him … I found out that which has now become public knowledge.”

“About the clubs?” I said.

“Yes … the sort they were. He was up to his tricks even then. Juggling with events so that he could be in the right place at the right moment.”

“Do you think he arranged what happened to Joseph Cresswell?”

“I am sure he did. It was his way of working. I found out this and we made a pact. He would keep quiet about your father and me if I would about him. I agreed. He was not the sort of man to break his word … unless it was necessary for him to do so. He doesn’t want revenge on people for the purpose of harming them. He acts only to bring benefit to himself. I feel I know him so well. It was your Joe Cresswell who exposed him, wasn’t it? And you thought that was wrong …”

I said: “He told me he wanted to see me. He came to the house and when I went out of the room to get some wine for which he asked, he went upstairs and broke into Uncle Peter’s room. You see, but for my carelessness he wouldn’t have got into that room, he wouldn’t have had his proof. Helena would still be engaged … almost married by now to John Milward.”

“And you’re blaming Joe?”

“What he did was wrong. Nothing has been put right. He wanted to prove that his father had been trapped … and no one wants to know about that now. He can in any case only rely on Chloe’s evidence and nobody trusts her. She’s a well-known adventuress. It all seems so unnecessary. Why couldn’t he let it rest? It’s done no good to his father and it’s ruined Helena’s life.”

“You’re right,” she said. “But you must understand Joe’s feelings.”

“I do. But I can’t forget the sight of him when I came into that room which he had forced open and saw him putting those papers into his breast pocket.”

“I just wanted you to know, Annora, that we are none of us perfect. Your father and I … well, we were very much in love … and there was my husband, a helpless invalid. You see, we are all weak. Do realize that, Annora. Don’t judge people too harshly.”

I lay there staring out to sea, rather bewildered by what she had told me. I could picture Peter Lansdon laying down his rules. She must not tell and he would not tell. And my mother had entered into the bargain with him to save her first husband from the knowledge that she had a lover; and because her love for my father was so strong she could not resist it even though she was committing adultery.

I must try to understand Joe.

But I should always remember his standing there with the papers in his hands as I should remember Rolf that Midsummer’s Eve.

After that talk with my mother, I tried to reason with myself. I expected too much from people. I must try to understand Joe’s motives. I must try to convince myself that Rolf’s feelings had got the better of him. He had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the past; he had imagined that he was living centuries ago when people tortured witches; for a night he had shed his shell of civilization and become one of those people whose customs interested him so much.

I must be understanding. I must realize that I was, as my mother said, young and I had seen little of the world.

But I could not forget.

Preparations for our departure were going on apace.

“I wish you weren’t going,” sighed Helena.

“You’ll feel better when you’re back in London. It won’t be as bad as it was. They are right when they say time heals.”

“I can’t go back, Annora. I don’t want to. I wish I could stay here.”

Then the idea came to me. “Helena, why shouldn’t you come with us to Australia?”

I saw the wonder dawning on her face.

There was a great deal of discussion about it. My mother wrote to Aunt Amaryllis. She had always had great influence with her. “I was like the dictatorial elder sister,” she used to say.

The result was that both Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis thought it might be a good idea for Helena to accompany us.

Helena brightened considerably at the prospect and I even saw her smile once or twice.

About a week before we were due to leave Rolf returned.

He came over to see us at once. He looked melancholy and I had never seen him like that before.

He visited us frequently and talked a great deal with my father about the estate, which was solely his now. He had been looking after it for years because he, not his father, had been the one who had built it up. “But there is a difference,” my father said, “when something is entirely your own.”

Rolf contrived to be alone with me when we went riding together.

He said: “I wish you weren’t going away, Annora. You’re going right to the other side of the world and you’ll be away for a long time.”

“It wouldn’t be worthwhile going just for a few weeks.”

“Then there is the journey there and another back. I missed you while you were in London. Did you think of Cador?”

“Often.”

“When you come back, I want to have a long talk with you.”

“What about?”

“Us.”

“What do you mean … you and me?”

He nodded.

We were walking our horses and he turned to me and said: “You seem to take such a long time to grow up.”

“The usual time I suppose.”

“Will you think of me while you are away?”

“Quite a lot, I expect.”

“When you come back we’ll make plans …”

I felt a sudden happiness. He could mean only one thing. I smiled at him. He looked different with that air of melancholy about him.

I thought of what my mother had said. “One must try to understand people.” She and my father had broken laws. People did at times. One must not judge them too harshly. One must grow up. One must understand something about life.

In that moment I wondered why I had ever thought there was a possibility of my marrying Joe. I knew I loved Rolf. But I wished I could forget that terrible night.

When we returned to the stables he helped me to dismount and kissed me.

I felt rather glad that we were going away. During the trip I would sort out my thoughts. I would come to terms with myself. I would make sure that, whatever had happened on that night, I was going to marry Rolf.