The Landower Legacy

“NO LONGER MOURN FOR ME”

Memories of Olivia stayed with me after I had returned. Cousin Mary wanted to hear all about my visit and I told her. I mentioned that Jago had travelled up with me.

She laughed. “One can’t help liking Jago, eh?” she said. “No, of course one can’t. He’s a bit of a rogue but a charming one. I daresay he’ll be marrying soon.”

“He won’t have to be so concerned with bolstering up the family fortunes as his brother was.”

She looked at me sharply. “It’s a pity. Jago ought to have been the one to have done it. It wouldn’t have affected him half so much. He would have just gone on in his old way.”

“Would he have looked after the estate?”

“Ah, there you have a point. Well, it’s worked out the way it has and Jago will, I daresay, settle down in due course.”

She was looking rather slyly at me.

“He won’t with me,” I said, “even if he had the inclination—which I doubt.”

“I think he’s fond of you.”

“As I have said: and of every member of the female population under thirty and perhaps beyond.”

“That’s Jago. Well, well, it’ll be interesting. But he did go up to London remember. What did Olivia think of him?”

“Charming. But then she would be inclined to think everyone charming—and he was very pleasant.” I told her about Rosie and her comments.

She looked grave. “It would be in character, wouldn’t it? Yes, indeed it would. Well, there’s nothing you can do about it. Perhaps it’s a temporary embarrassment. I suppose people sometimes win. Otherwise they wouldn’t do it, would they? As for that woman … some nightclub hostess … that wouldn’t be serious and it’s inevitable, I reckon, with a man like that.”

Enthusiastically I described the baby. She gave me some oblique looks which I knew meant she thought I was hankering after one of my own.

I answered her as though she had spoken. She was accustomed to my reading her thoughts. “Being a godmother is quite enough for me.”

“You might change your mind.”

“I hardly think so. Unfortunately one can’t have a family without a husband and that is something I really can do without.”

“You’ll grow away from all that.”

I shook my head. “There are too many about like Jeremy Brandon.”

“Oh, but they’re not all like that!”

“My circle is rather limited, but in it there are two who sold themselves for a mess of pottage. Very nice pottage in both cases, I must admit. A fortune and a grand old house. Well worth while both. No. I have nothing to offer so there will be no suitors for my hand.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that.”

“I’m sure enough … and of my own feelings.”

“I’ve often thought that you could get rather bitter, Caroline. People do, I know … when these things happen to them. But it doesn’t do to judge the whole world on one or two people.”

“There is my mother. I doubt whether she would have found Alphonse so appealing without his money. Poor Captain Carmichael couldn’t stay the course, could he? He was handsome and charming … more than Alphonse.”

“You shouldn’t dwell on those things, dear.”

“I have to see the truth as it is presented to me.”

“Forget it all. Stop brooding on the past. Come out now. I want to go along to Glyn’s farm and then I want you to have a look at the books with me. Everything is getting very profitable. Very satisfactory, I can assure you.”

She was right. I threw myself into the work of the estate. I was becoming absorbed in it, and I realized how I had missed it while I had ” been away.

There came the occasional postcard from my mother. Life was wonderful. They were in Italy, in Spain and then back in Paris. Alphonse was such an important businessman. She was in her element. There were so many people who had to be entertained. Alphonse wrote to me and said he would be delighted for me to join them. There was always a home for me with them if I wished it. But at least why not come for a visit? He was as enamoured of my mother as ever and I imagined she was of use to him in his business. She certainly knew how to entertain and there was no doubt of his delight in his marriage. My mother was less pressing in her invitation and I gathered she did not want a grown-up daughter around to betray her age.

I would not wish to go with them. While I was working here with Cousin Mary I could forget so much which was unpleasant.

Soon after my return I rode out to the moors. It was my favourite spot. I loved the wildness of the country, the wide horizons, the untamed nature of the place, the springy grass, the clumps of gorse, the jutting boulders and the little streams which seemed to spring up here and there from nowhere.

The country was colourful—its final splash of colour as the year was passing. The oaks were now a deep bronze; very soon the leaves would be falling. There were lots of berries in the hedgerows this year. Did that mean a cold winter?

I rode almost automatically in the direction of the mine. It fascinated me. It looked so desolate and grim. How different it must have been when the men were working there!

I dismounted and patting my horse asked him to wait awhile; but on second thought, fearing he might not be able to resist the wild call of the moor, I tethered him to a bush and I went close to the mine and looked down.

It was eerie—due to the loneliness of the moor, I told myself. I took a stone and threw it down into the shaft. I listened to hear it hit bottom, but I heard nothing.

Paul was almost upon me before I heard the sound of his horse’s hoofs. He galloped up, dismounted and tied his horse to the same bush as mine.

“Hello,” I said, “I didn’t hear you approach until you were almost upon me.”

“I thought I told you not to go near the mine.”

“I believe you did. But I don’t have to do as I’m told.”

“It is as well to take advice from people who know the country better than you do.”

“I can see no danger in standing here.”

“The earth is soft and soggy. It could crumble under your feet. You could slide down there and call till you’d no voice to call with, and no one would hear you. Don’t do it again.” He had come close and he caught and held my arm. “Please,” he added.

I stepped backwards so that I was nearer to the edge of the mine. He caught me in his arms and held me.

“You see … how easy it is.”

“I’m perfectly all right.”

His face was close to mine. I felt weak, forgetting that he had married a woman for what she could bring him and that he was as mercenary in his way as Jeremy was in his.

He said: “I have wanted to talk to you for so long.”

I tried to release myself but he would not let me go.

“Come away from the mine,” he said. “I feel alarmed to see you so reckless.”

“I’m not in the least reckless, you know.”

“You were dangerously close. You don’t understand these moors. You should come here with people who know the country.”

“I’ve been here quite a while now. I am becoming as sure-footed as a native.”

He was still holding me, looking at me appealingly. Then suddenly he held me tightly against him and kissed me.

For a moment I did not struggle. In spite of everything I wanted this … for so long I had wanted it … ever since the days at school when I had dreamed about him.

Then all my anger came sweeping back. It was anger against him … against Jeremy … and all arrogant men who thought they could use women as it suited them … becoming engaged when they thought there was a fortune, casually saying goodbye when there was not, marrying to retrieve their fortunes and then afterwards attempting to make love to someone they preferred to the one who went with the bargain.

Yes, I was angry, bitterly angry because there was nothing I wanted more than to be with Paul, to love him, to spend my life with him.

“How dare you behave in this way!” I cried.

He looked at me sadly and said simply: “Because I love you.”

“What nonsense!”

“You know it’s not nonsense. You know I loved you when we were in France and I felt you were not indifferent to me then. That’s true, isn’t it?”

I flushed. I said: “I did not know you then, did I?”

“You knew how you felt about me.”

“But it was not you. It was someone I mistook for you. Then I discovered my mistake. You’ve forgotten I’ve already learned something about men and their motives.”

“You saw that man when you were in London?”

“Yes, I saw him.”

“Something happened …”

“What do you think happened? He is married to my sister. I was godmother to their child.”

“But you and he … How were you?”

“He behaved like the exemplary husband. Why should he not? He achieved his ends. An impecunious young gentleman, he now lives the life of a very wealthy one. You will understand that. As for myself I was aloof, cool, dignified … indifferent. How did you expect me to be?”

“Caroline, listen. I want you to understand. Please … let us move away from this mine.” He put his arm round me and held me tightly against him. I made a pretence of trying to escape but he held on firmly and I allowed him to lead me over the grass.

He indicated one of the boulders. “Sit down,” he said. “They make good back rests.”

“I really don’t want to sit.”

“I think you are afraid of me.”

“Afraid of you! Why should I be? Are you a monster then as well as …”

He drew me down beside him. “Go on,” he said, “as well as what?”

“A fortune hunter,” I said.

“You are talking about my marriage. I want to talk to you about that. I want to explain.”

“There isn’t really anything to explain. It is all very clear.”

“I don’t think it is.”

“It is not really so profound, surely. You saved the house for the family. It was a noble act. Landower was passing into alien hands and for the honour of tradition, the family, the ancient ancestry in general, you sacrificed your own in particular.”

“You are so bitter. It tells me a good deal.”

He turned my head to look at me; then he took my face in his hands and kissed me, angrily, wildly, over and over again.

I tried to escape but it was impossible. In any case I did not really want to. I wanted to stay here, leaning against him. It was a kind of balm to my wretchedness, because I knew now more certainly than I had ever done that I wanted to be with him always and forever … and that I could never be.

“If I could go back,” he said, “I would not do it. I would face anything … rather.”

“It is easy to say that … when it is too late.”

“If I could be here with you and all that had not happened … I could be happy … so happy … happier than I have ever thought possible … because of you, Caroline. When I am with you everything seems different. I’m alive as I never have been before. I just don’t care about anything. I just want to be with you.”

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to lie against him and say: Let’s forget it happened. Let’s pretend.

I heard my voice, hard and brittle, because of my wretchedness and my need to disguise my true feelings: “It’s an old complaint. When things haven’t turned out as we expected … we want to go back and live our lives over again. We can’t go back … ever. We ought to remember that when we take these actions. No, Paul. You’d do the same thing over again. That house … it’s important to you … more important than anything. Just consider. You’d be living in the farmhouse. You’d see Landower stretched out before you … all that land which used to be yours for all those generations … now belonging to someone else. That would have been hard to bear.”

“I could have borne it,” he said, “if you had been there. And I would have got it back … decently … honourably … in time.”

“How is a farmer going to find the money to buy a big estate?”

He was silent.

“You can’t go back, Paul,” I said.

“No. That’s the pity of it. It’s a mistake, I know now, to live for bricks and stones. If you had been there it wouldn’t have happened. I should have known.”

“I was there.”

“A child. But there was something special about you even then. I saw you in the train. Often … during those magic days in France … it seemed as though you and I were meant for each other. You must have felt that.”

“I was pleased to see you. Life was rather dull there.”

“You mean I relieved the tedium.”

“You did, of course.”

“But you seemed …”

I turned to him and said coolly: “I did not then know about your bargain.”

“Don’t call it that.”

“Your transaction then.”

“That sounds worse.”

“It is what it is. It was a sordid bargain and there is no disguising that. You should have told me then that you had saved the house … by marrying.”

“I wanted to get away from it all. I was trying to behave as though it had never happened. When Miss Tressidor asked me to look for you I was excited … and then I found you … the same girl and yet … different. I just snatched at those few days and tried to forget.”

“It was foolish of you.”

“When you fell from your horse and I thought for a moment that you might have been badly hurt … killed even … I knew then that if anything happened to take you from me I should never be happy again. I should be living my life in a sort of twilight … which is what I have been doing until you came. It’s different now you’re here, Caroline; and somehow that gives me hope.”

“I cannot think what you hope for,” I said gravely.

“When I kissed you just now for a moment … just for a moment … I knew that you could love me.”

I was silent. I wanted to deny it, but I could not. My voice would shake and betray me. This was different from anything I had known before, but I must be strong. I would not be hurt again.

I said: “I don’t think you should talk in this way.”

“I want you to know my feelings.”

“You have explained them. Whether I believe you or not is another matter.”

“You believe me, Caroline.”

“I do not see what purpose these revelations serve.”

“If I thought that you cared for me … just a little … I should hope.”

“Hope for what?” I asked sharply.

“I should hope that I might see you sometimes … alone. That we could meet … be together …”

“It would be unwise for a husband to make assignations with a woman not his wife. They would have to be secret. If we met in public places the Lancarron gossips would make a good deal of it.”

He moved nearer to me and put his arms about me. “Let me hold you for a moment, Caroline my darling.”

We were silent for a few moments. I tried to draw myself away. I tried to deny the truth, but it was too strong for me. Whatever he had done I loved him.

He kissed me. He threw off my riding hat and ran his hands through my hair.

“Caroline,” he said. “I love you.”

This is madness, I thought. It can only lead to one thing. I had been humiliated once. Was I going to let it happen again? I knew what he was implying. I should be his mistress. Secret, clandestine, sordid … and in time he would grow tired. Goodbye. It was nice while it lasted. I had been wooed once for the fortune I was thought to have; and then discarded. Was I going to give way to my emotions? Was I going to allow myself to be used again?

I withdrew myself and said: “There must be no more meetings.”

“I must see you,” he said.

I shook my head.

“Let us take what happiness we can.”

“What of Gwennie?”

“She cares for the position. She is in love with the house and all it entails.”

“And not with you?”

“Certainly not with me.”

“I think she is in a way.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do. I have seen her look at you. She loves the house, true. Why should she not? She bought it … but she bought you with it.”

“Please don’t talk of it in that way,” he begged. “Shall I tell you how it came about?”

“I know how it came about. It is a simple story. The house was falling about your heads. It needed a fortune spending on it. The family couldn’t save it. Moreover there were enormous debts. Mr. Arkwright came along and bought the house and then thought it was a good idea to buy the squire as well. It’s not a particularly original story.”

“That’s the bald outline. Shall I tell it my way? What you said is right about the house needing repair and the debts. Up to the time the Arkwrights came. But for one incident they would have gone away and it might have been that we should never have sold the place. Then I suppose we should have patched it up in some way. I would have set about improving my fortunes. I might have succeeded, who knows?”

“But it didn’t work out like that.”

“No, because of a certain incident. Gwennie said, ‘I must see that wonderful old minstrels’ gallery.’ She went up there on her own. I was in the hall with her father …”

“Yes,” I said faintly.

“Something happened in the gallery. Two people played a trick.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I was in the hall, remember. When she screamed, I looked up. I was just in time to see what Gwennie saw. There was someone there … someone whom I recognized.”

I felt my heart begin to beat very fast. Paul leaned towards me and put his hand on it.

“It’s racing,” he said. “I know why. Do you know if that incident hadn’t happened the Artwrights would have gone away. They told me this afterwards. They liked the house but were appalled by its condition. He was too shrewd to see it as a good proposition. Yes, they would have gone away and we should never have seen them again … but for the ghosts in the gallery. The ghosts are not blameless in this.”

“So … you knew …” I said.

“I saw you … you particularly. I know now that Jago was with you. I know what your motives were … his rather, and you were helping him. I have been up to the attics and seen the clothes you wore. You see even then I was very much aware of you … dancing in and out of my life, the mischievous little girl indulging in a prank with my young brother. But for you … it would have been different.”

“I didn’t force you into marriage.”

“But you were in a way responsible for bringing it about.”

“Does Jago know … you know?”

“No. There’s no point in telling him. Moreover at the time we didn’t want the Arkwrights suing us—with even more reason than they had already. We looked after Gwennie and she and her father stayed at the house. They became enamoured of it and then they had to buy it and the idea came to them that …”

“They should buy the squire as well. A bonus with the house.”

He put his hand over mine and held it fast. “I’m telling you that you are in part responsible. You are involved in this, Caroline. Doesn’t it show how we can all do foolish things and wish we could have another chance. Knowing what you know, would you have gone up to the attics and played ghosts?”

I shook my head.

“Then understand. Caroline, understand me, the position I was in. My home … my family … everything I have been brought up with … it all depended on me.”

“I have always understood,” I said. “I have always known it was the way of the world. But I want to get away from it. I don’t want to be involved. I’ve been hurt and humiliated once and I am determined that it shall not happen again.”

“Do you think I would hurt or humiliate you? I love you. I want to care for you, protect you.”

“I can protect myself. It is something I am learning fast.”

“Caroline, don’t shut me out.”

“Oh Paul, how can I let you in?”

“We’ll find a way.”

I thought, What way is there? There is only one, and I must never allow my weakness, my passion for him, my love perhaps, to lead me down that path.

Yet I sat there and he kept my hand in his. I looked to the horizon where the stark moorland met the sky and I thought, Why did it have to be like this?

We were startled by the sound of horse’s hoofs in the distance. We scrambled to our feet. A trap drawn by a brown mare was coming across the path not far from us. I recognized the trap and horse and then the driver.

I said: “It’s Jamie McGill.”

He saw us and brought the horse to a standstill. He descended and the Jack Russell leaped out of the trap and started to scamper across the moor.

Jamie took off his cap and said: “Good-day, Miss Caroline … Mr. Landower.”

“Good-day,” we said.

“I’m just coming from the market gardens,” he went on. “I’ve been buying there for my garden. Miss Tressidor gives me leave to take the trap when I’ve a load to carry. Lionheart looks forward to a run on the moors when I come this way. He’s been asking for it as soon as we touched the edge of the moor.”

I said: “Mr. Landower and I met by chance over there by the mine.”

“Oh, the mine.” He frowned. “I always say to Lionheart, ‘Don’t go near the mine.’ “

“I hope he’s obedient,” said Paul.

“He knows.”

“Jamie believes that animals and insects understand what’s going on, don’t you, Jamie?”

He looked at me with his dreamy eyes which always seemed as though they were drained of colour.

“I know they understand, Miss Caroline. At least mine do.” He whistled. The dog was dashing along not far from the mine. He stopped in his tracks and came back, jumping up at Jamie and barking furiously.

“He knows, don’t you, Lion? Go on … five minutes more.”

Lionheart barked and dashed off.

“I wouldn’t go riding too near that mine, Miss Caroline,” said Jamie.

“I was giving her the same advice,” added Paul.

“There’s something about this place. I can feel it in the air. It’s not good … not good for beast or man.”

“I have been warned about the ground close to the mine being unsafe,” I told him.

“More than that, more than that,” said Jamie. “Things have happened here. It’s in the air.”

“They were mining tin here until a few years ago, weren’t they?” I asked.

“It’s more than twenty years since the mine was productive,” said Paul. I sensed his impatience. He wanted to get away from Jamie. “I daresay the horses are getting restive,” he said. He looked at me. “I think I am going your way. I suppose you are going back to the Manor?”

“Well, yes.”

“We might as well go together.”

“Goodbye, Jamie,” I said.

Jamie stood with his cap off and the wind ruffling his fine sandy hair, as I had seen him so many times before.

As we walked away I heard him whistling to his dog.

Then his voice said: “Time for us to go, Lion. Come on now, boy.”

Paul and I rode on in silence.

Then I said: “I don’t think Jamie will talk.”

“About what?”

“Seeing us together.”

“Why should he?”

“Surely you know that people thrive on gossip. They will be inventing scandal about you and me … and I should hate that.”

He was silent.

“But I think Jamie is safe,” I went on. “He is different from everyone else.”

“He’s certainly unusual. There’s something almost uncanny about him … coming along like that.”

“It was a perfectly reasonable way of coming along. He’d been to get things for his garden and was using the trap to bring them back.”

“I know … but stopping like that.”

“It was because he saw us and was being polite. He has good manners. Besides, he’d promised the dog he should have a run.”

“All that talk about the mine … and then letting the dog run loose there.”

“He thinks the dog would sense anything strange before we did. Is that what you mean by uncanny?”

“I suppose so. Heaven knows there’s been enough gossip about the mine. White hares and black dogs are said to be seen there.”

“What are they?”

“They are supposed to herald death. You know what people are. I always thought it was a good thing to scare people off going there. There could be an accident.”

“Well, then Jamie is doing what you wish.”

As we rode on Paul said: “I must see you again … soon. There is so much more to say.”

But I could not see that there was anything more to say.

It was too late. And nothing we could say could alter anything that had gone before.

I loved Paul, but I had no doubt now that my love must be put aside.

I had begun to believe that happiness was not for me.

Everything had changed now that Paul had revealed his feelings to me and I was afraid that, in spite of my resolve, I had been unable to hide my response.

I was excited and yet dreadfully apprehensive. I dared not think of the future and more and more I told myself I ought to get away. I even thought of writing to the worldly-wise Rosie and putting the case to her and perhaps hinting that I might come and work for her. Oh, what use would I be among the exquisite hats and gowns? I could learn perhaps. I even thought of taking up Alphonse’s invitation. It was not really very appealing. Moreover I knew that Cousin Mary was relying on me more and more. I very often went out alone visiting the various farms, and Jim Burrows had a great respect for me. There was a great deal to learn about the estate, of course, but as Cousin Mary said, I had a knack of getting on with people, a quality for which the Tressidors were not renowned. She herself, with the best of intentions, was too brisk, too gruff; but I was able to hold the dignity of my position and at the same time show friendliness. “It’s a great gift,” said Cousin Mary approvingly, “and you have it. People are contented, I sense that.”

How could I leave Cousin Mary when she was “like a bear with a sore head” when I was away?

It was comforting to be wanted, to know that I was becoming a success in the work I had undertaken; and yet at the back of my mind was the nagging certainty that by staying I was courting disaster.

I must think about it, I told myself, and the weeks passed.

I often went to Jamie’s cottage. I found such peace there. He now was tending a baby bird which had fallen out of a nest and which he was feeding until it was ready to fly. He kept it in a home-made nest—a coconut shell lined with flannel. I liked to watch him thrusting food into the little creature’s ever-open mouth as he muttered admonitions, warning it about too much greed and gobbling too fast.

I also watched him preparing winter supplies for the bees, stirring sugar in a saucepan over the fire. He was very anxious to make sure that he had ample supplies to keep his colony going through the winter.

“Winter can be a sad time for animals and insects,” he mused. “Nature doesn’t always make provision.”

“It is a good thing that there are people like you in the world to take up where nature leaves off.”

“They’re my friends,” he said. “There’s no virtue in what I do.”

“I should think there is great virtue in it. Any of those living things who cross your path should be considered very lucky. Have you always been like that … caring for things?”

He clasped his hands together and was silent for a moment.

Then he looked at me and smiled. “I’ve always cared for the wee creatures,” he said. “I’ve been a father to them.”

“You never had any children of your own, Jamie?”

He shook his head.

“But you were married, weren’t you?”

“That was long ago.”

“Did she … ?” I wished I hadn’t spoken because I realized at once that the subject was very painful to him.

“Aye,” he said. “She died. Poor wee creature. She dinna make old bones.”

“It’s very sad. But then life can be sad. And now you’ve settled down here and you have the bees and Lionheart and Tiger …”

“Oh, aye. I’m not lonely any more. It was a happy day when I came to work for Miss Tressidor.”

“I’m glad you came. She is a wonderful woman. She has been good to me, too.”

“There’s sadness all around. Up at Landower there’s sadness. We’re happier here … at Tressidor.”

I wondered if he had heard gossip. He was not the sort to whom the servants would talk. It was only rarely that I could get him to talk to me as he was now, and we had taken some time to reach this stage in our relationship.

He paused with the spoon held over the syrupy mass in the saucepan.

“Yes,” he went on, “there’s a lot of unhappiness there. It is not a happy home, that I know.”

“You don’t have much to do with them, do you?”

“No. There’s one of them comes up to buy honey now and then. It’s someone from the kitchens.”

“The whole neighbourhood wants your honey, Jamie. And does whoever comes talk to you about the unhappiness up at Landower?”

He shook his head. “No one tells me. It’s what’s in the air. I know it. When I pass the house I feel it. When I saw Mr. Landower with you, I knew it. I feel these things.” He tapped his chest. “It makes me sad. I say, there’ll be tragedy there one day. People stand so much and then there can be no more. The breaking point comes …”

He was staring straight ahead of him. I had a strange feeling that he was not in this room with me. He was somewhere else … perhaps in the past … perhaps in the future. I had the impression that he was looking at something which I could not see.

“It was really a very satisfactory arrangement,” I said. “The marriage saved the house for the family.”

” ‘What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul,’ ” he said slowly.

“Jamie,” I said, “you’re in a strange mood tonight.”

“I’m like that when the bees are quiet. There’s a long winter ahead, dark nights. There’s a stillness over the land … It’s the spring I like, when the sap rises in the trees and the whole world’s singing. Now the country’s going to sleep for the winter. It’s a sad time. This is when people want to break out and do what they wouldn’t dream of doing on a bright summer’s day.”

“The winter isn’t really with us yet.”

“It will be soon.”

” ‘And if winter comes, can spring be far behind?’ “

“Winter has to be lived through first.”

“We’ll manage … just as the bees will with all that stuff you’re concocting for them.”

“Don’t go near …” he began and stopped abruptly. He was staring at me intently.

I felt the colour flood into my face. He was thinking of the time he had come upon Paul and me on the moor. He was warning me.

He finished: “Don’t go near that mine.”

“Oh, Jamie, it’s perfectly safe. I wouldn’t dream of standing right on the edge.”

“There’s a bad feeling there.”

“You talk like the Cornish,” I chided. “I don’t expect that from a canny Scot.”

“We’re all Celts,” he said. “Perhaps we can see more than you Anglo-Saxons. You’re practical. You see what’s happening all round you … but you can’t see back and you can’t see forward. Keep away from that mine.”

“I know it’s supposed to be haunted. I think that is probably why it has an attraction for me.”

“Don’t go near it. I know what happened there once.”

“Do tell me.”

“It was a man who murdered his wife. He couldn’t stand her going on and on. They’d been married for twenty years and he hadn’t noticed much at first, but it got worse and worse. It was his nerves. They jangled … first a little … then more and more and then one day they snapped. So he murdered her and brought her to the mine and threw her down.”

“I’ve heard something happened like that. How did you get all the details?”

“I just knew,” he said. “He said she’d left him. All knew the terms they were on and she’d said often that she’d leave him, so they believed him when he said she’d gone away … gone back to her family in Wales. But he couldn’t keep away from the scene of the crime. That was foolish. He should have gone right away but he was a fool and stayed and he went back to the mine again and again. He couldn’t stay away … and one evening … it was dusk … he heard voices calling him—hers among them—and he followed them and went down and down into the mine shaft to lie beside her. They searched for him. Clues led them to the mine. They found them down there together … him and his wife.”

“I have heard something of that. It was a misty night, so they said, when a man was lost on the moors, wandering round and round in circles. He had upset a witch or something. He must have been someone else.”

“It was the voices that lured him. They said it was the mist. They always would say those things … the Anglo-Saxons …”

“And it is only the Celts who have this special understanding. You and the Cornish, Jamie.”

“We have it more than most. It was the voices he couldn’t resist. He had to follow her down … down … into the mine.”

“All right, Jamie. You have it your way. I don’t mind. It’s a morbid subject anyway. And don’t worry. If I hear the voices I’ll get as far away from the old mine as fast as I possibly can. I think that stuff in the saucepan is sticking, I smell burning.”

He turned his attention to the saucepan and when he was satisfied with the state of the concoction he took it away to cool. Then he began to talk about the bees and their yield, and how he was seriously thinking of getting another hive.

Now he looked at peace and quite different from the seer who had talked of supernatural matters.

I felt better after the visit and forgot the clouds which were building round me … even if it was only for a little while.

The weeks slipped by. I forced myself into a routine and continued to feel very uncertain about the future. Cousin Mary was relying on me more and more. We talked constantly of estate matters in which I was becoming very deeply involved.

I tried not to see Paul alone. Of course we met socially, and I thought he looked strained, enigmatic, secretive. His eyes would change when he saw me; they could become animated and he would make his way to my side and indulge in light conversation—the sort any guest would make if he were at Tressidor or host at Landower.

Sometimes I had a feeling that Gwennie was watching him. She seemed to be more ostentatious than ever. She continually stressed that this was her home, that she had made the renovations, discovered how something could be improved and as good as it was in the fourteenth century.

Gwennie was a strange woman. I would have thought she would have been devoted to her child. He was a beautiful boy with deep-set dark eyes and abundant dark hair which sat like a cap about his well-shaped head. One day when I was calling at Landower I found him with his nanny in one of the lanes and I stopped to speak to them. There was something very appealing about him and what struck me at once was how grateful he was for a little adult attention, which signified that it did not often come his way. I sat on the grass with him and asked him about himself. He was shy at first and his dark eyes surveyed me solemnly, but after a while he became friendly. I told him about my nursery where I had been with my sister and he listened intently.

“You mustn’t let him bother you, Miss Tressidor,” said Nanny.

I replied that far from being bothered I was being delightfully entertained.

I told him one of the stories I remembered from nursery days. Supervised by Miss Bell, it naturally had a moral. It was about two children who helped an ugly old woman with her burden through the woods and after they had staggered along with the heavy load they had been amazed to find that the old woman turned into a fairy who gave them three wishes. I could hear Miss Bell’s voice: “Virtue is always rewarded in some way. Perhaps not with three wishes, but it brings its own reward.” I left that bit out, and I was very gratified that Julian was so interested and I saw the look of regret on his face when I said goodbye.

There was another occasion which gave me an inkling of his parents’ indifference. It was when I saw him in the stables. He was looking with delight on young puppies who were gambolling and indulging in a mock fight against each other. One of the stablemen’s children was with him—a little boy of his own age. They were laughing together and the stableman’s wife came to collect her child.

She stood watching the children’s pleasure for a few moments and then she said quietly to me: “Poor little mite. It’s nice for him to have a companion sometimes.” I realized she was speaking of Julian. “I often think my own little Billy’s got a better time of it than he has for all he’s squire’s son.”

I said Billy looked as though he were a very happy little boy.

“There’s no big fortune waiting for him. But it’s not big fortunes little ‘uns be wanting. It be love … that’s what it be. And our Billy’s got that an’ all. Poor little Master Julian.” Then she froze. “I be talking out of turn. I reckon you won’t want to repeat what I have said.”

“Of course I won’t,” I assured her. “I agree with you.”

I thought, So they are sorry for him! Poor little unloved one! And I felt a great anger against people who allowed their own affairs to overshadow the lives of their children.

I knew from my own experience the lack of parental affection; but I had had Olivia. This poor little boy was alone really—left to the tender mercies of his nanny.

She was a good woman, I was sure, and carried out her duties according to the rules. But I had recognized at once that Julian was a child who needed tenderness and lacked it.

I had never thought much about children before. Now my anger against Paul and Gwennie grew. Gwennie was obsessed by getting value for her money; Paul was equally obsessed by his hatred of the bargain he had made.

I understood them both—Paul taking the easy way out, Gwennie angry because now he had made the bargain he was deeply regretting it. What I could not forgive was what they were denying this innocent child.

Julian was the heir—highly desirable, of course, for he would carry on the name of Landower. They did not appear to think of him as a child born into a strange world with no one but paid servants to guide him.

I became obsessed by Julian. I went often to see him and he began to watch for my visits. It would be noticed soon, I guessed; and I wondered what construction the watchers would put on that.

In the meantime the tension in the house did not decrease. Gwennie seemed to go out of her way to stress what she had done. I could see how Paul tried not to look at her and how his eyes would darken when he did. I thought of a conversation I had had with Jamie. “It jangled on his nerves … first a little bit … and then more and more until one day it snapped.”

Yes, I could see the dangers. I was aware of the warning voices within me. Get away. There will be trouble. Do you want to be involved in it? You should get away … while there’s time.

But still I remained.

I saw Jago frequently. He did me a great deal of good. I could indulge in frivolous, flirtatious repartee with him and we could laugh together. His sunny nature, his casual acceptance of life, were in complete contrast to Paul. Jago would make a joke out of every situation. He pretended to be in love with me in the most light-hearted way. He said I was cruel to repulse his advances to which I retorted that he seemed to endure it very well—in fact to thrive on it. He retorted that he could not fail to thrive in my company.

Sometimes I met him when I rode out. I did not think it was design exactly. If he had met a personable young woman on the way he would have been pleased to dally for a while. That was how it was with Jago— and it suited my mood at the time.

Cousin Mary said: “Yes, certainly he ought to have been the one to marry the Arkwright girl. He would have taken it in his stride and they would have lived happily ever after.”

“She might have caught him in his infidelities,” I suggested, “and that would very probably have marred the connubial bliss.”

“He would have had explanations, I’ve no doubt.”

“Well, it didn’t work out that way.”

“More’s the pity,” said Cousin Mary sadly, and I wondered how much she knew and if she were thinking of me.

As for myself, I had become quite a different person from that one who had dreamed of romantic heroes. I told myself that now I saw men as they really were; and it did not give me a great deal of faith in human nature.

I thought of my mother and her husband and Captain Carmichael; I thought of Jeremy desperately seeking the main chance and when he had achieved it setting about using my sister’s fortune and spending it on someone called Flora Carnaby. And even Paul, who had sold himself in marriage, was now looking at me pleadingly, begging me to share my life with him in secret.

I want to live my life without men, I told myself.

But that was not quite true. I dared not be alone with Paul because I was weak and I was afraid that my passion, my love for him, might betray me, make me throw aside my principles, my independence, my inherent awareness of what was right. I felt he would be weaker than I was in this respect and that it was I who must act decisively.

So I made sure that I saw him only in company and I encouraged this mock flirtation with Jago which could, for a time, restore a certain light-heartedness, and make me laugh with real merriment.

Christmas came and went. Gwennie insisted that the day itself should be celebrated at Landower and we, among many other guests, were invited.

She had followed all the old Cornish customs. She had Christmas bushes hung over the doors. I had never seen them before. They were two wooden hoops fastened into each other at right angles, decorated with evergreens, and called “kissing bushes” because if any man caught a girl under them he was allowed to kiss her. It was rather like the old custom of the mistletoe, of which there was ample hanging from convenient places. The Yule log had been ceremoniously hauled in; the carol singers had come while the guests were assembled at midday; and we sang carols we all knew: “The First Noel,” “The Seven Joys of Mary,” “The Holly and the Ivy.” The voices, a little out of tune, echoed through the old rafters. ” ‘Born is the King of Israel …’” while the punch bowl was brought in and the mixture ladled out. “God rest you merry, gentlemen,” sang the carollers.

Gwennie was beaming.

“Just think,” she said to me, “this was exactly how it must have been years and years ago. I don’t ever regret what it cost to keep this place from tumbling down. No, I don’t regret a penny.”

Jago, who was standing by, winked at me and said: “Just think of all those pretty pennies …”

And I saw Paul’s lips tighten, hating it, and again I remembered Jamie’s words.

The great hall table was groaning under the weight of joints of beef and lamb, geese, and pies of all descriptions.

“The Cornish are great lovers of pies,” said Gwennie from one end of the table. “I think it is our duty to uphold the old customs … at all cost.”

Musicians played in the gallery. I would never forget that fateful moment when Gwennie had seen Jago and me standing there and how she shrieked before grasping the rotten rail and falling.

Gwennie was beside me.

“The musicians are good, don’t you think? They asked a big fee but I thought it was worth while to have the best.”

“Oh yes. They’re very good.”

She looked up at the gallery. “The rails have been well reinforced,” she said. “Fancy letting the place go as they did. I’ve had to have it all strengthened up there. It needed a new rail, and they had to find something old … but not wormeaten … if you know what I mean.”

“Yes,” I said, “you mean not wormeaten.”

“It’s not easy to find. You have to pay through the nose for that sort of thing.”

“A pretty penny, I’m sure.”

I was feeling too annoyed with her to be polite; but she merely agreed, the irony lost on her.

I could understand Paul’s exasperation. I tried to imagine what they must be like together. I was becoming very sorry for him and that was something I must not be. I must keep reminding myself that he had agreed to the bargain, and he must not expect sympathy because he had to pay for what he had acquired.

Cousin Mary had a dinner party on Boxing Day. The Landowers came—among others. Conversation was general and there was no obvious friction between Paul and Gwennie. Jago was bright and amusing— what was called the life and soul of the party; and I had to admit he was a very useful person to have around.

He told us he had a plan for introducing special machinery which might be helpful on the farms of the estate. He was going to London in the New Year to investigate. I said to him, when I had a chance to speak quietly to him, that I was surprised to see him so interested in estate affairs.

“I am enormously interested in this project. Why don’t you pay a visit to your sister? We could travel up together.”

“I am afraid you must go on your own this time.”

“I shall miss you. Travelling won’t be the same without you.”

“I daresay you will contrive to make it interesting nevertheless.”

When the guests had departed Cousin Mary said: “Well, that’s over. I deplore these duty entertainments. I often wonder how things are at Landower. Gwennie must be a trial. And what of Jago? Going up to London to investigate machinery! Female machinery, I shouldn’t wonder. He must have got tired of that woman in Plymouth.”

“Dear Cousin Mary, how cynical you are! Perhaps he really is going to investigate this machinery.”

“I saw the look on his brother’s face when he was talking. I think he had a pretty shrewd idea.”

“At least,” I said, “he knows how to enjoy life.” “He’s the sort of man who will let others carry the burdens.” After I had said goodnight to Cousin Mary, I went to my room and there I brooded on the evening and I thought again that if Cousin Mary would not be so upset, I would start making plans to leave.

The New Year had come. We had had the southwest gales, which had been fierce that year. Several trees had been blown down; but now the wind had changed to the north. The sky was bleak with snow clouds and the wind seemed to find its way into the house itself, and even the great fires could not keep it warm. We shivered.

I had a letter from Olivia which disturbed me. There was a hint of uneasiness in it and I kept thinking of what Rosie had told me.

“Dear Caroline,

“I think about you all the time. I loved your account of Christmas and the carol singers and all that wassailing. It must have been very amusing. I daresay Jago Landower made it all very merry. What a delightful young man he is!

“I have some news for you. I am going to have another baby. It is very soon … too soon perhaps … but I am very excited about it. Livia is well and getting plump. She is very bright. I wish you could see her.

“Caroline, I do wish you’d come. It’s wonderful to get your letters but it is not the same, is it? I want to talk to you. There are so many things one can only say. It isn’t the same writing them down.

“Please come, Caroline. I have a feeling that I must see you. It’s just that I miss you very much. Miss Bell is good, but no one can talk to Miss Bell. You understand that. It’s you I want to talk to.

“The baby is due in June. Yes, I know it will be only a year since Livia was born. That is a bit soon. And being in this condition does cut one off from people. You know what I mean.

“Please, Caroline, do come.

“Go on writing to me and I shall hope in your next letter you will tell me you are coming.

“Your loving sister who needs you, “Olivia.”

I read and reread that letter. It meant something. It was a cry for help.

“What’s wrong, Caroline?” asked Cousin Mary.

“Wrong?”

“You’re withdrawn, thoughtful. Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”

It was impossible to keep anything from Cousin Mary. “It’s a letter from Olivia. I don’t know what it is … but it seems like a cry for help.”

“Help … help from what?”

“I don’t know. She’s going to have a baby in June.”

“In June? How old is the other one? Not a year yet. It’s too soon.”

“Yes, that’s what I think. She’s frightened. I sense it.”

“It can be something of an ordeal.”

“She was delighted when she was going to have Livia.”

“I should imagine it is a procedure which it is not convenient to repeat too often.”

“Yes … but I think it is more than inconvenience. I think she’s frightened.”

“Would you like to show me the letter?”

I did, and she said: “I see what you mean. She’s not very explicit, is she?”

“No, but in view of what Rosie told me …”

“I see. You think he may be playing ducks and drakes with the money?”

“Or perhaps … what would hurt her more … she knows he has someone else.”

“Poor child! I suppose you want to go to her.”

“I believe I should … just for a short visit to satisfy myself.”

“I should wait until the spell of bad weather is over.”

“I’ll write to her at once and tell her I’ll come … perhaps at the beginning of March. The days will be longer then and March can be mild.”

” ‘The March winds do blow and we shall have snow …’ “

“How often have you had snow here?”

“Once in ten years. But you’re leaving balmy Cornwall, you know.”

“I’m not going to the north of Scotland. I think I’d chance the weather in March.”

“You might have travelled with Jago Landower who, I believe, is on one of his machinery inspections.”

We laughed. I was glad she had taken the prospect of my visit to London with equanimity. She did not want me to go, but she sensed the appeal in Olivia’s letter.

I wrote to Olivia at once and said I was planning a visit for the beginning of March. She wrote back enthusiastically. She was so delighted.

“I feel better already,” she wrote.

Oh dear, I thought, then she had been feeling bad before.

February had come and the cold weather was still with us. I found it stimulating riding round the estate. Sometimes Cousin Mary came with me.

It was the middle of February. In two weeks I was due to set out for London. That morning Cousin Mary said she would come with me. She wanted to go out to the Minnows’ farm. There was trouble with the roof. She would get Jim Burrows to meet us there.

We were riding along past the fields and Cousin Mary was discussing the progress of the wheat and barley. The roads were rather treacherous. There had been ice on them in the early morning, but a thaw had set in and the ice in some places was only half melted.

I did not understand exactly how it happened until later. Her horse slipped and she was jolted forward. She was an excellent horsewoman and the incident would have been hardly worthy of mention, but for some reason the horse took fright and started to bolt.

I stared after her in dismay, but she had him under control. I expected her to pull up suddenly and I followed. Then I saw the tree lying across the road. It must have been brought down in the recent gales. The horse was galloping wildly, head up and … there was the tree. I saw Cousin Mary thrown high in the air and then fall. The horse was rushing on.

I felt sick with fear. I dismounted and ran to her. She was lying still, her hat beside her.

“Cousin Mary,” I cried helplessly. “Oh … Cousin Mary, are you hurt?”

It was a stupid thing to say, but I was frantic. What could I do? I could not move her. She was obviously not aware of me.

I must get help. There was nothing I could do by myself. Trembling, I mounted my horse and galloped along the road. I was some way from the Manor and was greatly relieved to see two riders in the distance. It was Paul and his manager.

I cried: “There’s been an accident. My cousin … She’s lying … there, in the road.” I pointed wildly back the way I had come.

“It’s that tree,” said Paul. “It should have been moved yesterday.” He turned to the man beside him. “Go and get the doctor right away. I’ll go with Miss Tressidor.”

My relief in finding him was overcome by a terrible fear that Cousin Mary might be dead.

Paul was wonderful. He took complete charge. He knelt beside her. Her face was like a piece of parchment, her eyes shut. I had never seen her look like that before. I kept thinking, She’s dead. Cousin Mary is dead.

“She’s breathing,” said Paul. “Landower is nearer than Tressidor. They’ll bring a stretcher, but we shouldn’t move her until the doctor has seen her.”

“It happened so suddenly. We were laughing and talking and then … the horse bolted. Where is he? He just went off.”

“He’ll probably return to your stables. Don’t worry about him now. There’s little we can do to help. I’d be afraid to touch her. Something may be badly broken. Perhaps I could put something under her head.”

He took off his coat and rolled it up.

I closed my eyes and knelt beside Cousin Mary. I was praying: “Don’t take her away from me …”

I realized all she meant to me and how she had taken me in and given me a new life.

It seemed hours that we stayed there on that road, but there was a little comfort for me because Paul was there.

We took her to Landower, as it was nearer than Tressidor. When the doctor had made a cursory examination, they brought a stretcher and she was carried with the utmost care.

She was badly injured, but she was not dead. I clung to that fact. A room was made ready for her and another for me, as I wanted to stay with her. She was unconscious for two days and even then we did not know the extent of her injuries. Both legs were broken and there was a hint that she might have injured her spine; there was only one thing I could be thankful for: she was still alive.

The next few days seemed unreal to me … like something out of a nightmare fantasy. I was aware of people round me. Gwennie was determined to do everything she could for us—and I was grateful for that. I thought fleetingly that adversity brought out the best in people. Paul was there; he represented strength to me—just as he had come to me on the road when I needed help; he was there now and I felt that I should have the courage to face whatever had to be if he were there.

I scarcely slept; I did not notice the passing of the days. I was constantly at Cousin Mary’s bedside, for that seemed to comfort her. She wafted in and out of consciousness and on those occasions when she was aware, I wanted her to know that I was beside her.

Paul was often with me. He held my hand and whispered words of comfort, and yet at the same time he did not attempt to hide the truth concerning the gravity of Cousin Mary’s injuries. I wanted to know all, however bad; I wanted nothing held back.

It was Paul who said he should be with me when the doctor talked to me, and it was he who said to the doctor: “You must be frank with Miss Tressidor. She wishes to know exactly what the position is.”

The doctor said: “She will never be the same again. She has sustained multiple injuries. I can’t say exactly how bad they are yet, but they are considerable. I doubt she will ever walk again. She is going to need nursing.”

“I shall nurse her,” I said.

“That is excellent, but you may need help. I think I should send a professional nurse.”

“Only if I need it,” I said. “Let me try first. I am sure she would prefer that.”

The doctor hesitated, then nodded.

“There is another thing,” I went on. “She would prefer to be in her own home. Mr. Landower has kindly offered us wonderful hospitality here, but naturally …”

“Naturally,” said Doctor Ingleby. “But let her rest here for a few more days yet. Perhaps in about a week she could be moved. We’ll have to see.”

Paul said: “You must stay here as long as is necessary. Please don’t have any qualms about that.”

“Let us wait and see,” said the doctor.

So we waited and to my joy after two days Cousin Mary was able to talk a little. She wanted to know what happened. “All I remember is Caesar’s bolting.”

“It was a tree trunk, right across the road.”

“I remember it now. I saw it too late.”

“Don’t talk, Cousin Mary. It tires you.”

But she said: “So we’re here at Landower.”

“I found Paul and he helped me. We’ll be home soon.”

She smiled. “It’s good to have you here, Caroline.”

“I’m going to stay here … right beside you until you’re well.”

She smiled again and closed her eyes.

I felt almost happy that day. She’s going to get better, I said to myself over and over again.

That evening I wrote to Olivia.

“Dear Olivia,

“Something awful has happened. Cousin Mary has had a terrible accident. She was thrown from her horse and has injured herself terribly. I must stay with her. You’ll understand I can’t leave her for some time. That means postponing my visit.

“I am so sorry not to see you but you will understand. Cousin Mary needs me. She is very bad and my being with her comforts her. So … it will have to be later. In the meantime do write to me often. Tell me what you want to by letter. Then I shall be as close as if I were with you.”

I then went on to give her an account of the accident and to tell her that we were staying at Landower and why.

She intruded on my anxieties for Cousin Mary, because the feeling that something was wrong with her would persist.

Cousin Mary improved during the next few days … in spirit, that was. She felt little pain and the doctor told us that probably meant that her spine was injured, but apart from her inability to move she seemed not to have changed very much.

I knew the reverse was the case. She had great spirit and that was evident; but I wondered what effect her condition would in time have on an active woman who had always been independent of everyone— and I shuddered to contemplate that.

In the meantime I was very much aware of the atmosphere which pervaded the house. Living in the midst of it brought it home to me more strongly. It was like a cauldron, murmuring, rumbling, seething, all set to boil over.

As the days passed it became clear to me that my presence did not help. I had no doubt of the strength of Paul’s feelings for me and I was sure that Gwennie was becoming increasingly aware of this. The house seemed to be closing about me, holding me, charming me in a way, claiming me for its own.

I spent a little time with Julian. He looked so delighted when I crept in to his nursery at bedtime. I would read a story to him from the book I had bought him for Christmas and he would avidly watch my lips as they formed the words, sometimes repeating them with me.

There were occasions, too, when I saw him out in the gardens and I would then go and play with him.

Gwennie said: “You and my son seem to be good friends.”

“Oh yes,” I replied. “What a delightful little boy! You must be proud of him.”

“There’s not much Arkwright in him. He looks just like a Landower.”

“I expect there is something of you both in him.”

She grunted. I wondered afresh about her. He was a possession— one would have thought her greatest—but she did not regard him as she did the house. “Pa thought the world of him,” she said.

“Poor Julian! I daresay he misses his grandfather.” I was glad there had been one member of the household who had loved him.

“It’s secured the family line,” said Gwennie. “I don’t think there’s likely to be any more.”

I found this conversation distasteful. I think she knew it and for this reason pursued it. There was a malicious streak in Gwennie. “There had to be some pretence at first, of course,” she said. “That sort of thing’s all over now.”

I said: “You don’t mind my going to see Julian, do you?”

“Why, bless you, no. You go when you like. Make yourself at home. That’s what I say.”

She was looking at me slyly. Did she know that my relationship with Julian was one of bitter-sweetness? Did she know that when I was with him, I thought I might have a child of my own … one rather like this one … dark hair, deep-set eyes, a Landower? Did she understand how I longed for a child of my own?

Gwennie knew a great deal. She was not one of those people—like so many—who are completely absorbed in themselves; she could not resist probing the lives of other people; she liked to discover their secrets, and the more they tried to hide them the more eager was she to know. It was, in a way, the driving force of her life. She knew about my broken love affair, the marriage of my one-time lover with my sister. Such matters were of the utmost interest to her.

I often thought of those servants who watched our actions. Their endeavours were mild compared with those of Gwennie. She was an unusual woman.

Then there was Paul. He was finding it more and more difficult to veil his feelings.

I wondered why he was so indifferent to his son. One day, on a rare occasion when I was alone with him, I asked him. We were in the hall and I had just come in. It was dusk and a blazing fire in the great fireplace threw flickering shadows over the gilded family tree. He said: “Every time I look at him, I think of her.”

“It’s unfair.”

“I know. Life is unfair. I can’t help it. I’m ashamed it ever happened. I don’t want her and I don’t want the child.”

“All you wanted was what she could bring you.” It was the familiar theme. I had harped on it so many times before. I said: “I’m sorry, but it is cruel to a little child who is in no way to blame for what his parents are.”

“You’re right,” he said. “If only you were here … how much happier we should all be.”

He meant if only I were the mistress of this house and mother of his children. It could not be. The house itself prevented that. Time and weather had taken its toll and the house had cried out for the Arkwright fortune—and so the present situation had been created.

“I must go,” I said. “I see that. Soon I must go.”

“It has been wonderful to have you here,” Paul told me. “Even in these circumstances.”

I only repeated that I must go.

I often wondered of how much Cousin Mary was aware as she lay in her bed. She slept for the greater part of the time, but when she was awake I contrived to sit by her bed.

“I shan’t be like this forever,” she said to me.

“No, Cousin Mary,” I replied. But I wondered.

We seemed to be settling into a routine. I walked a little in the gardens. Paul used to watch for me, I believe, for he often came out to join me. We would walk among the flower-beds.

He said: “What is going to be the end of all this?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see into the future.”

“Sometimes we can make the future.”

“What could we do?”

“Find some means …”

“I used to think I should go away … but now I know I must stay with Cousin Mary as long as she needs me.”

“You must never go away from me.”

I said: “There is nothing we can do.”

“There is always a way,” he said.

“If only one could find it.”

“We could find it together.”

Once I thought I saw Gwennie at a window watching us and later that day when I passed through the gallery she was there. She was standing beside one of the pictures. It was a Landower ancestor who bore a resemblance to Paul.

“Interesting, these pictures,” she said. “Fancy them being painted all those years ago. Clever, these painters. They bring out the character. I reckon some of them got up to something in their time.”

I did not answer but gazed at the picture.

A look of cupidity came into her eyes. She said: “I’d like to find out. I reckon there’d be some tales. But most of them are dead and gone … I’d rather know what goes on among the living. I reckon there’d be some revealing, don’t you?”

I said coolly: “I daresay you have some records of what happened in the family.”

“Oh, it’s not the dead ones I’m so interested in.”

There was a gleam in her eyes now. What was she hinting? I had heard that she was insatiably curious about the affairs of her servants. How much more so would she be concerning her own husband!

I must get away from Landower.

Cousin Mary seemed to sense my feeling.

“I want to go back,” she said.

“I know,” I answered. “I’ll speak to the doctor.”

“I’ll speak to him now,” said Cousin Mary.

She did, and as a result he had a conference with Paul and me.

“I think she had better be moved,” said the doctor. “It’s a bit tricky, but she is fretting for her home and I think she should be at peace with herself.”

Paul protested. He wanted us to remain in the house. He insisted that it would be highly dangerous to move her.

The doctor however said: “There is nothing to be done for her. We can at least give her peace of mind. That will be best for her.”

So it was arranged.

They put her on a stretcher which seemed to be the best way of carrying her and they took her back to Tressidor.

Cousin’s Mary’s condition improved a little. She could not move from her bed but she was becoming more like her lively self. Whatever had happened to her body had not impaired her brain.

I was constantly with her. The days were taken up with work and I was glad of this because I did not want time to think of the future. I knew she would never walk again and I wondered what effect that would have eventually even on her spirits. In spite of myself I was getting more and more involved with Paul. He called often to ask after Cousin Mary and he always contrived to be alone with me.

I was glad to see Jago. He supplied the right sort of balm which I needed. He could never be morbid and it was good to be able to laugh now and then.

When I asked him about the machinery he said: “It’s all in the melting pot. But I have my hopes. You’ll hear in due course.”

I didn’t believe him, but before long he was away again, looking mysterious, and even more pleased with himself than he usually was.

Spring had come. Olivia wrote often and I still detected a note of something like wistfulness in what she wrote, and occasionally I fancied I caught a whiff of fear. If I could have left Cousin Mary, I should have gone to her.

April was a lovely month, I always thought—particularly in Lancarron. There was a great deal of rain, showers which would be followed by brilliant sunshine, and I liked to walk in the gardens after the rain had stopped. I rode often and sometimes walked. I went past fields of corn where the speedwells grew a vivid blue and in the lanes where the horse-chestnuts were in flower. Another year had gone. It was nearly six since that Jubilee which had been so fateful for me. I was now twenty. Most young women were married at my age.

It was a thought which must have occurred to Cousin Mary for as I sat by her bed she said: “I should like to see you married, Caroline.”

“Oh, Cousin Mary. I thought you extolled the joys of single blessedness.”

“It can be blessed of course, but it is, I suppose, an alternative.”

“You’re weakening. You really think marriage is the ideal state?”

“I suppose I do.”

“For example, take my mother and your cousin. Think of Paul and Gwennie Landower … and perhaps my sister Olivia and Jeremy. What an ideal state they have worked themselves into!”

“They’re exceptions.”

“Are they? They are the people I know best.”

“It does work sometimes. It would … with sensible people.”

“You think I would be sensible.”

“Yes, I think you would.”

“I’m not sure of that at all. I nearly married Jeremy Brandon, being completely deluded into thinking I was what he wanted. It never occurred to me that I was an investment. What a lucky escape! And that was entirely due to my good fortune rather than any good sense I possessed.”

“You wouldn’t make the same mistake again.”

“People are notoriously foolish in these matters.”

“I wish things could have been different here.”

“What do you mean? You have done so much for me.”

“Nonsense! I’ve had you here because I wanted you to be here. Look at me now … a burden to you.”

“Don’t dare say such a thing! It is ridiculous and quite untrue.”

“Just at the moment perhaps you feel like that. But how long am I going on like this, eh? You don’t know. It could be for years. I don’t want to tie you to an invalid.”

“I am here because I want to be here.”

“I wish the right man would come along.”

“I wouldn’t have believed that of you, Cousin Mary. Are you still thinking of shining knights on chargers? I’m happy here. I love the work I am doing. I feel … useful. You’ve done everything for me, Cousin Mary. Now no more of this talk, please.”

“All right,” she said. “But I really do think you would have made a success of marriage.”

“It takes two.”

“It should be easy enough. Two people make up their minds that it is going to work, then it couldn’t fail. People are too absorbed in their own wants—that’s it.”

“People are human.”

“I like the Landowers,” she went on. “It’s funny … the rivalry between the families. Still there, perhaps. It’s a pity we didn’t have our Romeo and Juliet … but with a happy ending, of course. I like Jago.”

“Everybody likes Jago.”

“He could be tamed.”

I laughed. “You talk as though he is some wild beast.”

“I thought he might have some fine feelings under all that froth.”

“He’d never change.”

“I think some woman might change him … make him serious … make him settle down.” She looked at me wistfully.

“Dear Cousin Mary,” I said, “I’m no Juliet and he’s no Romeo. It’s quite incongruous.”

“I daresay you are right.”

When I left her that night she seemed much as usual.

Next morning when I was getting up there was a knock on my door. It was one of the maids. She was white-faced and trembling.

“Miss Caroline,” she said, “I went in to wake Miss Tressidor with her tea and …”

“What? What?” I cried.

“I think something’s wrong.”

I hurried along to Cousin Mary’s room. She was lying back on her pillows, white and still. I went to her and touched her cheek. It was cold.

A terrible desolation swept over me. Cousin Mary had died in the night.

As soon as the doctor came I took him to her room. He shook his head.

“She’s been dead some hours,” he said.

“She was as usual last night.”

He nodded. “But it was inevitable,” he said, “and she would not have wished to go on as she was.”

“But I thought she was going to get better.”

“She was too badly injured for that. It was her spirit that kept her alive, her determination to set her house in order. I guessed that. It couldn’t have lasted. You have made her final weeks happy, Miss Tressidor. There was nothing else that could have been done.”

I felt stupefied. I was going about in a dream.

I could not bear to think of Tressidor without her. I could not believe that I should never see her again.

I had to rouse myself from my stupor. There was a great deal to be done, the funeral arrangements to be made, people to be notified.

The day after Cousin Mary’s death, her lawyer came to see me; he expressed his deep concern and he said he hoped I would regard him as my friend, as Miss Tressidor had done.

“I have a letter which she left with me and which was to be delivered to you on her death. She wrote it after the accident and it is in my keeping. It will explain the will, I think, but she wanted you to be prepared and to tell you in her own words.”

I took the letter. I knew she had done a certain amount of writing in bed and that some of these communications had been to her solicitor. She must have known that she could not live long. She was fully aware of how badly damaged she was. She had often said that she was lucky that her injuries caused her the minimum of pain, but she knew that what had been done to her body had rendered part of it insensitive.

I took the letter to my room, for I knew that reading it would be an emotional experience—and indeed it was.

“My Dear Caroline,” she had written,

“When you read this I shall be dead. The last thing I want you to do is grieve for me. I’m better off like this. You don’t think I could have endured months … perhaps years … incapacitated as I was. It wouldn’t have been in my nature. I should have been a horrible, crotchetty old woman—ungrateful, irritable, biting the hand that fed me … which would have been yours, for you my dear, are the one who has brought the most joy into my life. Yes, from the moment you came, I took to you.

“Well, now I’m going and what I want more than anything is to make sure that you are all right … as far as I can make you, I mean … for mostly it depends on yourself.

“You have worked for Tressidor and you have a good knowledge of the estate. So I am leaving you Tressidor … lock, stock and barrel, as they say. It’s all drawn up legally. I daresay Imogen might try to put her spoke in, but I’ve dealt with that. She’ll say she’s the nearest blood relation and the place is hers by right. Can you see her here? What would she do with it? Bring it to ruin in next to no time … or rather sell it. That’s what it would mean to her … hard cash. No, that’s not to be. Tressidor is mine and I say it is going to be yours.

“I know we found out that there was no blood tie between us, but you’re like me, Caroline. You’re strong. You care about the place. You’re a Tressidor by adoption. Blood’s thicker than water, they say. It’s true about blood and water but that doesn’t mean it’s true about people. You’re closer to me than any of the family have been.

“Well, there it is, Tressidor will be yours. You know something about the management and you’ll learn more. When they read my will you’ll see how it’s worked out. Jim Burrows is to be looked after if he stays to help you. He’s a good worker and loyal, I know. You’ll do well. I’ll prophesy the estate will prosper under you. You’ve got the touch.

“I know you’ve always been uneasy about what you should do with your life and thought about getting posts and so on. Well, there’s no need. You’ll be mistress of Tressidor.

“The lawyers will explain everything. They’ll help you when you need help. With them and the bank and Jim Burrows you can’t go wrong. You’ll find everything in order. Tressidor is yours and everything you need to keep it in the state in which it comes to you.

“Now a word about you. I know it was a terrible shock when that silly young man turned from you. I think it did something to you. It embittered you. That was natural. Then I believe there might have been happiness for you in another direction … and that’s a blind alley. Sometimes I fancy there is a little canker in your heart, Caroline, a seed of bitterness which gives you a jaundiced view of some aspects of life. If I say to you, Cut it out, you might say you cannot. I know it is hard, but you won’t be completely happy until you are free of it. Take what comes to you, Caroline, and be grateful for it. Sometimes life is a compromise. It was with me. I made the best of what I had and on the whole it was a good life.

“We have talked of marriage now and then. I should have liked to see you a happy wife and the mother of children. I suppose that would be reckoned the ideal state. You need a very special sort of man. One, if I may say so, who will direct you to a certain extent and to do that he will have to be very wise and strong as well. He will have to be someone you can respect. Remember that, dear Caroline.

“Now I have finished sermonizing.

“Goodbye, my child. That is how I think of you … the daughter I never had. If I had had one I should have liked her to be exactly like you.

“I thought you should be prepared for all this when they read the will. It might have been a shock to you.

“There is one other thing I have to say to you and that is, don’t grieve for me. Remember this is the best thing that could have happened since poor old Caesar tripped over that tree trunk. I couldn’t have gone on like that. Much better for me to go while I could do so with some dignity and a certain self respect.

“Thank you for being to me what you have. Try to be happy. I’m not much given to poetry as you know but there is something I came across the other day. Shakespeare, I think—and it expressed more beautifully, more poignantly than I could have believed possible all that I want to say to you about my passing. This is it:

” ‘No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world, that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell.

Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it; for I love you so That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot If thinking on me then should make you woe.’

“Your Cousin Mary.”

I was in a daze of misery. I knew I should have been prepared for Cousin Mary’s death but it was a bewildering shock. I was grateful that there was so much to do and the weight of my new responsibilities in some measure helped me through the days.

The dismal tolling of the bell on the day they laid her in her grave seemed to go on and on in my head; and what it signified filled me with utter despair. I missed her in so many ways. I wanted to talk to her of things which happened. Sometimes it was hard to believe that I should never see her again. I went over little incidents in my mind from the first day when I had arrived from London with Miss Bell and remembered in what awe I had held Cousin Mary until I had understood those human qualities and the friendliness which had reached out to a lonely child.

I did not weep for Cousin Mary. Sometimes I thought my grief went too deep for tears. I went through it all as though in a hideous nightmare; the falling of clods on the coffin, the mourners round the grave, the return to the house and the solemn reading of the will, the new way in which people now regarded me.

I was Mistress of Tressidor—but there was little joy in that.

That would come. It was almost as though Cousin Mary was commanding me. I kept saying over and over to myself the lines she had quoted. She meant that. I must try to stop grieving. I must give my attention to what really mattered. It was her life and she was passing it on to me.

Jim Burrows came to see me and very movingly pledged himself to support me and to work for me in the whole-hearted manner in which he had worked for Cousin Mary.

I rode round the estate and saw the tenants.

It was gratifying. Many of them said, in various ways, that they welcomed me as the new mistress. They knew everything would go on as before. They would have been apprehensive of a newcomer.

I thought then of Aunt Imogen and the terror she would have struck into them and for the first time since Cousin Mary’s death, I managed to smile.

The estate was my salvation. I would work for it and it would soothe my sorrows. I would make sure that Tressidor prospered and that Cousin Mary, if she could know what was happening, would not be displeased with me.

Gwennie came over to condole. “My word,” she said, “you’ve come into a nice little packet.”

Her eyes glistened acquisitively, as I was sure she tried to calculate the value of the estate.

I was cool with her and she did not stay long.

Paul’s reaction was different. “It means,” he said, “that you can’t go away. You’ll stay with us now … forever.”

Yes, I thought. That was what it meant. My grief had thrust the thought of my future—except with the estate—right out of my mind. I wondered what it could possibly hold for Paul and me. Years of frustration … or perhaps slipping into temptation. People are frail. They mean to behave honourably but they are caught off guard and the barriers are down. What then?

Who could say?

Jago was more solemn than I had ever seen him. He seemed to understand my grief but he did not dwell on it.

His comment was similar to that of Paul. “It’s good to know we’ve got you here for keeps. It was right that she should leave it all to you. You deserve it.”

I was very eager that everyone on the estate should be assured that the future should be as safe for them as I could make it. I visited them all and, of course, Jamie McGill at the lodge.

I said: “I want you to know, Jamie, that I am not making any changes. I want everything to go on as before.”

“I knew it would be like that, Miss Caroline. I reckon this is the best thing that could have happened since we had to lose Miss Tressidor. We’ve got another Miss Tressidor who is as good a lady as the first one.”

“I’m glad you feel that.”

“And it is right and proper the way it has worked out.”

“Thank you, Jamie.”

“I told the bees. They know. They know there’s death about and they’re glad the place has come to you.”

I smiled at him wanly.

“There’s a terrible sadness all around,” he said. “I canna see for it. I saw death coming. I knew there’d be a death.”

“So you see these things, Jamie?”

“Sometimes I see them. I don’t talk of them. People laugh and say you’re crazy. Perhaps I am. But I saw death as plain as you’re sitting there. And I feel it still.”

I said: “Death is always somewhere … like birth. People come and go. That’s the pattern of life.”

He nodded. “Sometimes it goes in threes,” he said. “I’ve seen it work that way. Miss Tressidor she was here … her lovely self one day and then … her horse throws her and that’s the end.”

“That is life.”

“And it’s death, too. I go cold thinking of death. Where will it strike next? Who can say?”

He looked dreamily into the future.

I rose and said I must go.

He came to the door with me. He had changed. He looked happier now.

The flowers in the garden made a riot of colour and the air was filled with their scent and the buzzing of the bees in the lavender.

There was a letter from Olivia. She was so sorry about Cousin Mary’s death, for she knew how much I had cared for her, and she was amazed that Tressidor had been left to me.

“I’m sure you deserve it,” she wrote, “and I am sure you will make a success of it. But it does seem an enormous inheritance. You’re clever though, different from me. You’ll be as good managing it as Cousin Mary was. Aunt Imogen says it is madness and ought to be stopped. She has been to solicitors and they have warned her against taking action. She is furious that nothing can be done about it. But I am glad for I am sure it is best the way it is, although I know how you must be grieving for Cousin Mary.

“I am getting near my time. Do try to come and see me, Caroline. I do particularly want to see you. I have a reason. Could you come soon. It is rather pressing. It means a great deal to me.

“Your loving sister, Olivia.”

Again that plea. I knew there was something she had to tell me. Why did she not write it? Perhaps it was too intimate. Perhaps it was something she did not want to put on paper.

I had a conference with Jim Burrows. I told him that I was worried about my sister and I wanted to go to her. I could postpone it until after the birth of her child but I rather fancied she wanted to see me before.

Jim Burrows said everything would be in order and I could safely leave him in charge.

I should make my arrangements and go.