The Pool of St. Branok

A Marriage in a Far Country

WE WERE GOING TO London to pay that long delayed visit to Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis.

It was the year 1854 and I had now passed my twelfth birthday. There was a great deal of preparation, as there always was for these trips. Grace Gilmore had made a success of the blue linen and had made other dresses for me and for my mother.

Grace was really part of the household now. She had taken charge of my mother’s wardrobe, and was able to dress her hair for special occasions. She was no ordinary lady’s maid, of course. My mother had a real affection for her and was eager to help her in every way and Grace showed her gratitude by making herself almost indispensable to my mother.

“I don’t now how I managed before she came,” she used to say.

Grace was treated more and more like a member of the family. She was clever. There might have been revolution in the kitchen at such elevation of one who was in their eyes a mere servant, though an upper one. But Grace Gilmore was possessed of great tact. She always treated Mrs. Penlock and Watson as equals; and although they felt they should be given the respect due to the heads of the servant oligarchy, they did accept that Grace was outside the usual laws of protocol. She now had her meals with us. At first Watson was inclined to sniff at that, and we wondered whether the parlormaids would be allowed to serve her or whether she would be expected to help herself. My mother soon put an end to this nonsense and as Grace herself was the essence of tact, the situation was eased and finally accepted.

So Grace had become almost like a daughter of the household—and a very useful one.

She would travel with us—as one of us—but she insisted on lady’s maiding my mother; keeping an eye on our wardrobes; and she was helpful with Jack.

This hovering between upper and lower parts of the household might have presented a problem to a lesser person, but Grace dealt with it calmly and efficiently as she did all things.

We were greeted with great delight by Aunt Amaryllis, who scolded my mother for delaying so long. She embraced me and looked at me anxiously.

“My poor darling Angelet,” she said. “What a terrible accident that was! Well, you look quite healthy now, doesn’t she, Peter?”

Uncle Peter looked a little older, but the years only added to his distinction. He kissed me on both cheeks and said how pleased he was to see me.

“Matthew and Helena will be over with Jonnie and Geoffrey,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “When Jonnie knew you were coming he was so pleased. He is really very cross with you for staying away so long—so are we all.”

“It couldn’t be helped,” replied my mother. “Don’t think we did not miss our visits. But why didn’t you come to Cador?”

Aunt Amaryllis lifted her shoulders. “Peter has been so busy and we are all here … the whole family. It is so much better for you to come to London.”

“And this is Grace,” said my mother. “Grace Gilmore.”

“How do you do, Miss Gilmore. We are so pleased you came. We have heard so much about you.”

“You are all so kind,” murmured Grace.

“Now then … to your rooms. Luggage will be sent up … and dinner is at eight. Do come down when you are ready. Matthew and the family will be here at any minute.”

Grace helped my mother unpack and then came to me.

“What a lovely house!” she said.

“I’ve always been fascinated by it,” I told her. “And Aunt Amaryllis always gives me a room overlooking the river.”

She went to the window and looked out.

I stood beside her. “You can just see the new Houses of Parliament. They really are magnificent. Did you know the Queen opened the Victoria Tower and the Royal Gallery only two years ago; and she knighted the architect. It really is a wonderful sight when you look across the river.”

“It is a great pleasure for me to be in London. It was a very fortunate day when I walked into your garden.”

“I know we all share that view,” I told her.

It was wonderful to see the family, particularly Jonnie. There had always been a special friendship between us. He was four years older than I which had seemed a great deal when we were younger, but as we grew older the gap seemed to lessen. I had hero-worshiped Jonnie in those days but when Ben had come I had been rather fickle and transferred my adoration to him.

He took my hands and gave me that rather gentle smile which had always made me feel cherished.

“Why, how you’ve grown, Angelet. And you’ve been so ill. We were all so anxious about you.”

“I’m all right now, Jonnie. How are you getting on? Still concerned about all those old relics … still digging up the past?”

He nodded. “I’m getting completely immersed. There is a party going out to Greece next year. I’m hoping to go.”

“What are you hoping to find … a lost city?”

“That’s hoping for a lot. Generally it’s just dig … dig … and you’re lucky if you find a drinking vessel.”

“Oh, this is Miss Grace Gilmore,” I said as Grace appeared.

“How do you do?” said Jonnie. “I’ve heard so much of you. Aunt Annora has told us how good you have been to her.”

Grace laughed. “It is more she who has been good to me.”

She looked not so much pretty as interesting. She was elegant. Her sense of dress was perfect. Her clothes were simple and yet noticeable for that very reason. She wore a gown of a light biscuit color which toned with her hazel eyes; her smooth brown hair fell rather loosely over her ears and was caught in a knot at the nape of her neck. She was wearing a garnet brooch which my mother had given her—her only jewelry. Everything was plain but decidedly elegant.

Jonnie smiled at her. If he thought she was some sort of higher servant he would be especially gracious to her. Jonnie was that kind of person.

Ben had been so flamboyantly attractive that he had made me forget what a very delightful person Jonnie was.

Grace said: “I heard you are interested in archaeology. I’ve always been fascinated by things that belong to the past. What an exciting time you must have!”

“I have just been saying to Angelet that people imagine we are coming upon old treasures all the time. That, if one is lucky, is the experience of a lifetime.”

“I’d love to hear more about that.”

“Well, you’ll stay for a while and we shall meet again. There’s plenty of time for us.”

Matthew and Helena came in to welcome us and in turn were introduced to Grace. Geoffrey was growing up. He must be nearly fifteen by now.

“Peterkin and Frances will be coming,” announced Aunt Amaryllis. “I was determined to muster as many of the family as possible. It is such a long time since we have seen you all. I know it was due to Angelet’s accident and subsequent illness. … Well, all that is over now. It is wonderful to see her so blooming.”

In due course everyone was assembled and we were seated at the dinner table, Uncle Peter at one end, Aunt Amaryllis at the other.

There had been occasions in the past when I had sat at this table and I remembered the conversation. It always seemed to be dominated by Uncle Peter as far as I remembered and everyone deferred to him. There was a good deal of politics which I believed interested him more than anything else. Of course I had been very young then and my opportunities to listen had not been very frequent.

Now, of course, I was older but perhaps not yet of an age to take a great part in the discourse.

The talk at this time was about the situation between Russia and Turkey and the part England should play in it.

“Palmerston has the people with him,” said Uncle Peter.

“But is he right?” asked Matthew.

“I think war is wrong in any circumstances,” said Frances.

Frances was a very forthright woman, one of the few who would directly contradict Uncle Peter. For many years she had been running what was called a Mission in the East End of London; she had married Peterkin and they worked together. She was rather a plain woman, but attractive because of her vitality and enthusiasm; she was highly respected in many quarters because of the work she had done, and was doing, for the poor.

“My dear Frances,” said Uncle Peter, with a kindly but faintly condescending smile, “we all think war is wrong, but sometimes it is inevitable, and a prompt action in which a few suffer may prevent the deaths of thousands.”

“In my opinion,” went on Frances, “we should keep out of this.”

“I am inclined to agree,” said Matthew. Matthew was a reformer by nature. He had come into prominence with his book on Prison Reform and from that had stemmed his career in politics. Uncle Peter had been of inestimable help to his son-in-law; and Matthew never forgot that; he must have felt very strongly on this matter of war to express an adverse opinion.

Uncle Peter came in firmly. Lightly he might brush Frances aside, but he was really concerned about Matthew.

“My dear Matthew,” he said, “often it is necessary to take the long term view. You will never have the support of the people by a weak pacifist policy.”

“But if it is right …?”

Uncle Peter raised his eyebrows. “In politics we have to think what is best for the country. What is going to keep power in our hands? We cannot allow sentiment to play a part in our judgment. The people are even now turning against the Queen … and Albert is the villain-in-chief.”

“They are always against Albert,” said Frances.

“Yes, but they now think he and the Queen are considering their Russian relations rather than the country. The people want Palmerston and his gun-boat policy. You have to admit that it is not without its merits.”

I could see Matthew wavering. He would conform with Uncle Peter’s wishes. He always had. That was how he had got on. He had been made by Uncle Peter.

“The point is,” said my father, “is there going to be war?”

“I think it is almost certain. We shall have to go to Turkey’s aid. We shall have the French with us and we shall settle this matter very quickly and show the world that we are masters of it.”

“Aberdeen is against it,” said Matthew.

“Aberdeen is too weak. The people are clamoring for Palmerston. Mark my words, Palmerston will be back. We shall go to war. It is what the people want. Palmerston is the hero of the day.” He looked at Matthew sternly. “It is necessary to be on the winning side.”

So the conversation went on. Then we talked of Cornwall; and my father and Uncle Peter were in deep conversation about the estate. Aunt Amaryllis told us of the London scene, that she had recently been to the opera and that she hoped we would all go very soon.

But the talk did keep coming back to the possibility of war and that was really what was in everybody’s mind.

I lay in bed that night and thought about the evening. London always made an impact on me. It was not only the streets, which always seemed so alive in contrast to our country lanes. Perhaps it was the feeling that life here could never be dull. Something important was just about to happen, I always felt. That was probably the impression I had in this house and it was largely due to the impact of Uncle Peter’s personality.

Already I was aware of the impending disaster of war and I had seen opposite reactions to it; and what had impressed me was Uncle Peter’s control of Matthew, and as Matthew was one of those people who make our laws, I thought of Uncle Peter as a puppet master jerking his protégé in the way he must go. Matthew’s instincts were against war; but he was going to support it because Uncle Peter was jerking him.

It was so interesting that St Branok’s Pool seemed a long way away.

The days began to fly past. There was the visit to the opera which Aunt Amaryllis had promised us; we went riding in the Row; Jonnie was a constant companion. He had not yet completed his education but as he had decided to take up archaeology as a profession he would interrupt it to go to Greece for a period of practical study; and was at the moment preparing for it.

He usually spent his mornings in private study but in the afternoons he would be free and that was the time that he was in our company. I say our because Grace Gilmore seemed always to be with us.

In the mornings we often went shopping with my mother, Grace with us. Being in London, said my mother, gave us an opportunity to replenish our wardrobes. She and Grace liked to study the fashions in the shops and consult together. Grace was very knowledgeable about materials and styles.

Sometimes in the afternoon we rode in Rotten Row. It was not, of course, like riding at home. It was more like a parade; Jonnie, and occasionally Aunt Amaryllis, were with us and when they were they were constantly being greeted by people. Riding there was more like a social event.

I enjoyed very much walking in the Park which we did frequently. Jonnie or Geoffrey would accompany us. Sometimes we took Jack, who was wide-eyed with wonder at everything he saw and asked interminable questions.

The best times of all were with Jonnie and Grace. She and Jonnie had taken quite a liking to each other. She was so interested in everything and she asked all sorts of intelligent questions about archaeology; he had lent her books on the subject.

I used to love to sit by the Serpentine in blissful forgetfulness of that terrible day which during the visit to London seemed so far from what I thought of as the scene of the crime. It had faded into the past and was of far less significance than it had been in Cornwall.

There was one day, I remember, when we talked of Ben, that brought it back a little, for I had not seen Ben since it happened. I had been aware of him at my bedside, I supposed, but that was all.

“You remember Benedict, Angelet,” said Jonnie one day.

“Oh yes, I remember him.”

“Of course you do. Do you know, Miss Gilmore, I was quite jealous of Benedict at one time. Angelet used to be my particular friend and when he came along she completely forgot me.”

“Who is he exactly?” asked Grace. “I know he was at Cador for a while but I was never quite sure.”

“He took a bit of explaining,” said Jonnie. “He’s my grandfather’s grandson. I suppose that makes him a cousin. What complicated relationships we have in our family.”

“Perhaps that’s why you are rather complicated people,” said Grace.

“That must be the answer. Do you know, I never thought of that.”

“I wonder if he has found gold and become rich,” I said.

Jonnie said to Grace: “That was what he went to Australia to find. Gold! Do you remember some time ago there was a great deal of comment about the goldfields of Australia. A place called Ballarat, I believe. Well, Benedict just thought he would like a share of it and he went in search of his fortune.”

“I expect if he had found gold he would have been delighted to let us know,” I said.

“Yes, I’m sure of that, too,” agreed Jonnie. “Benedict was not one to hide his light under a bushel.”

I wished they wouldn’t talk of him. They were bringing it all back to me again.

“Perhaps he is having a hard time,” I suggested.

“Well, I should think it is not a very easy life … until one strikes gold.”

“He sounds a very interesting young man,” said Grace. “I remember him only slightly.”

“He is rather overpowering, wouldn’t you say, Angelet,” said Jonnie. “In fact he is very much like my grandfather.”

“I see what you mean,” said Grace. “Tell me, when are you planning to go to Greece?”

“Next spring, I think.”

“How very exciting! I think it must be one of the most thrilling things one can do … to discover the past, for that is what it is.”

“Exactly,” agreed Jonnie. “Then I hope to get to Pompeii. I feel there is a good deal to discover there. People have explored a little. I have been there once … two years ago. They have worked on it … spasmodically. There is no system, though. I believe work on it would be very rewarding.”

“How fascinating,” cried Grace rapturously. “It was the volcano which erupted, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but there was a series of earthquakes before that. It was the shocks which set Vesuvius erupting and sending out those ashes and hot stones pelting down on the cities and utterly destroying them.”

Grace shivered. “It makes you realize how uncertain life is.”

“It does indeed. Well, I intend to get out there and work. I shall do everything I can to make that possible. There is so much to do, I am sure we can uncover a whole city.”

“How did they know there was a city there?” I asked.

“The walls of the amphitheater marked the spot, but it was just a lot of hardened mud with sparse grass on it … enough though to show that there had been a city there. As far back as the sixteenth century they came upon ancient buildings. There have been excavations but they have never been carried out in a scientific way. It’s time they were. Then Heaven knows what treasures we shall uncover.”

“I think it must be a wonderful profession,” said Grace enthusiastically. “I’d love to be concerned in it.”

“It’s hard work … digging and all that.”

“I’m strong.”

“I tell you what; I’ll lend you some more books.”

“Oh will you?”

“Of course.”

He did and soon they were involved in intelligent discussions and I felt rather left out. It was the first time I had been made aware that I was still a child and Jonnie and Grace were adults. She must have been four or possibly five years older than he was. I liked Grace very much but I did wish that she was not always present when we went on our rides and walks. I also wished that she were not quite so clever; she seemed to have acquired quite an understanding of archaeology which she had certainly not had when she came to London.

I remember one day when we were walking back to the house we encountered a band of men walking along carrying banners. We stood watching them. They were singing something. It was hard to decipher but Jonnie translated for me. It was:

You jolly old Turk, now go to work

And show the Bear your power.

It is rumored over Britain’s Isle

That A is in the Tower

“What does it mean?” I asked.

“Well,” said Jonnie, “the people are all for war. People always are if the war is taking place elsewhere. They like to hear of the glory but they would certainly not want to suffer the discomforts. This war is far away. Therefore they are all for it. Palmerston is all for making England the greatest power in the world. If anyone utters the mildest word against us he sends out the gunboats to parade along their coasts, to show them our power. The people like it. They love Old Pam as they call him. He’s colorful. Of course he’s very old now, but in his youth he was a rake. I believe he may still be. Funnily enough the people like that. They don’t want a good man; they want a colorful one. Poor old Aberdeen, with his pacific policies, is dull. The fact is the people are blaming the Queen and Prince Albert for our reluctance to go to war. It is quite unfair. They say the Russians are the Queen’s relations and she cares more for them than for England. But they prefer to blame Albert, so they are calling him Traitor.”

“And he is the A who is rumored to be in the Tower?” said Grace.

“That’s so. But it is all nonsense. Albert is by no means a prisoner. But I daresay war will be declared on Russia sooner or later.”

The next day an article appeared in The Morning Post written by Mr. Gladstone setting out the Prince’s virtues and commenting on the folly of blaming him. John Russell and Benjamin Disraeli made speeches about him in the Houses of Parliament—the latter’s was brilliant; and this with Mr. Gladstone’s article made a deep impression on the people.

And still the threat of war hung in the air.

An ultimatum was sent to Russia to the effect that if they did not return the Danube principalities which they had annexed we should declare war.

When no answer was received, there was only one action the government could take.

We were at war with Russia.

It was amazing how quickly people’s views could change. Matthew was now in full agreement with the declaration. This was probably due to Uncle Peter’s influence. But Jonnie, too, had changed his mind. He was now for teaching the Russians a lesson, and saving little Turkey from the bully.

War fever swept over the country. It would all be over in a few weeks, they said. The Russians would soon see what happened to those who thought they could bully their neighbors.

They would find they had to face the wrath of powerful Britain.

That was April and in May we returned to Cornwall. Life settled down to normality. There was little talk down there about the tension between Turkey and Russia. It was all a matter of whether there would be a good harvest this year and whether the rain would keep off until Midsummer’s Eve.

The rain did keep off for that important occasion and as if to make up for it it began to pour; and as often in Cornwall, as Mrs. Penlock said, once it started it did not know how to stop.

There was speculation as to whether the Tamar would overflow its banks; and the possibility of high tides was considered with some apprehension. Some of the fields were flooded and there was consternation among the farmers.

Then one day I heard disquietening news.

The Pencarrons were coming to dinner and my mother had asked me to go down to remind Mrs. Penlock that Mr. Pencarron could not take any dish with pilchards in it. Mrs. Penlock was very fond of starting a meal with a special dish of which she was very proud and even when my mother had not suggested it, she had a habit of slipping it in. The fish was served with oil and lemon and some ingredient which Mrs. Penlock would not divulge. “Fair Maids” was what she called it which, I had discovered, was her version of Fumadoe—which meant “Fit for a Spanish Don,” and reminded us that there was a certain Spanish element in the Duchy after the defeat of the Spanish Armada when the galleons had been wrecked along our coast and many Spaniards found refuge here.

When I arrived in the kitchen a great deal of excited talk was going on.

Mrs. Penlock was saying: “Stands to reason. People don’t invent such things. They’m handed down … generation to generation. I reckon ’tis true then and some ’as heard them bells.”

I felt that twinge of fear which I always had when people referred to the pool.

“Truth in what?” I demanded.

“ ’Tis all this rain we’m ’aving. That there pool … St Branok’s you know. ’Tas overflowed. Well, stands to reason … all this rain. ’Tas washed away the soil and they do say ’tis true. There be the remains of an old monastery … bits of rock and things sticking out of the ground. They’m saying you can see it … clear as daylight … and it’s a wall … an old stone wall.”

“You mean … right there by the pool?”

“That’s where I do mean. It be all this rain … loosens the soil, it do. And there be this bit of a wall, they do say. ’Tis unmistakable.”

I told her about the pilchards.

“There’s some as don’t know what’s good for ’em,” she grumbled. “I do reckon them Fair Maids be a real and proper way to start a meal. Gives you appetite, they do say, and they’m right. No bones about it.”

“Well, not for Mr. Pencarron.”

I wanted to ask her more about the pool but I was afraid to; and as soon as I could I rode out there.

The ground was very wet and soggy. I saw two people standing close to the water and recognized one as John Gurney, the other was his son. They farmed on the Cador estate.

I rode up to them.

“I have heard that a wall has been exposed,” I said.

“ ’Tis all this flooding, Miss Angelet. No good to the crops …”

“They are saying there really is a monastery here.”

“It seems they’m right. This here’s a wall.”

“Is it really?”

“Could well be, Miss Angelet. Not much of it to see … just enough to show it might have been. Look, ’tis over there.”

I shivered. I wondered if there was any sign of blood on the stone. It was there that he had fallen and struck his head. Foolish thought! The rain would have washed it away even before the last deluge.

I walked Glory over and looked at it. I couldn’t help but see him in my mind’s eye. I glanced across to the pool. It was swollen and the water was dribbling beyond that spot where we had stood by the willows and let him slip down to his watery grave.

I turned back to the men.

“I suppose all sorts of things could be brought up on the water?”

They looked puzzled. “Things that may have fallen in,” I said.

“Oh no, Miss Angelet. Reckon anything that went in would go right down to the bottom.”

“They say it’s bottomless.”

“Must have a bottom somewhere, Miss Angelet.”

“But they did say …”

“Well, them bells ’as got to rest somewhere, ’asn’t ’em?”

They laughed.

“I reckon there’ll be some as ’ull be hearing ’em after this,” said John Gurney.

“You can bet your life on that,” said his son.

I rode back. It was foolish to worry but anything connected with the pool made me uneasy, and I supposed it would as long as I lived.

I was amazed when a letter came from Jonnie to my mother. When I went down to breakfast she was reading it.

“Good morning, Angelet,” she said. “This is from Jonnie. He wants to come down.”

“That will be nice,” I said.

“He wants to bring a friend.” She glanced at the letter. “Gervaise Mandeville. They’ve been studying together. So I suppose he’s an archaeologist as well. Shall I read to you what he says?”

“Please do,” I replied.

“ ‘We’re so excited about this find at the pool. It sounds quite fascinating. We should love to come down. I am referring to a friend. He’s very enthusiastic and if I could bring him with me, it would be wonderful. Ever since Miss Gilmore wrote about the exposed wall, I was eager to come and see it. Could you put up with us both? We could of course stay at the inn if it wasn’t convenient. …’ ”

My mother looked at me. “What nonsense! As if we would let them stay at the inn. Of course they will come here.”

“He’s quickly learned about the discovery of the pool,” I said.

“He and Grace have been writing to each other. Naturally she would tell him such a piece of news.”

I felt a certain resentment. It was foolish. Why should they not write to each other?

“I suppose she thought he’d be particularly interested in that sort of thing,” said my mother. “And she was right. He’s hoping to unearth a monastery.” She added lightly: “He’ll be wanting to get down to the bottom of the pool to see if there are any bells there.”

I could not share her lightness though I tried to pretend to.

And this friendship with Grace? He had not written to me. Of course she had shown a marked interest in his archaeology. It must be due to that.

A few weeks later they arrived.

Jonnie embraced me warmly. He was full of enthusiasm. “And this is Gervaise … Gervaise Mandeville,” he said.

Gervaise was very good-looking, tall with blond hair and blue eyes. He seemed to be laughing all the time—even when one would expect him to be serious. It was as though he found everything a joke and such was his personality that when one was with him, one felt the same. I liked him from the moment I saw him. He was not so intense as Jonnie, although he was excited at the prospect of discovering a monastery—but even that seemed like a joke to him—as everything else was.

Having visitors from London was always refreshing. We were rather cut off from affairs in the country and the first night at supper we seemed to be catching up with what was happening in the outside world.

The war was by no means over. The Russians had not, contrary to the expectations of the people in the streets, given up as soon as they knew the British were on the way.

“It looks,” said Jonnie, “as though it might go on for a long time.”

He was very sad about it.

“Some people think we should never have gone into it.”

“Peterkin and Frances and Matthew do, I know,” I said.

“Peterkin and Frances certainly. Matthew has swung right round. He has made some stirring speeches in the House.”

I smiled thinking of Uncle Peter jerking his puppet.

Gervaise said lightly: “I’d give it another three months. Then we must win … if only to oblige me. I have a bet on with Douglas.”

“Gervaise likes a gamble,” Jonnie explained to us. “And Tom Douglas is as bad as he is. When the two of them get together they’ll wager on how many cabs they’ll see on the way to the club. I’ve seen them watching raindrops falling down a window … urging the particular one they have put their money on to move faster … as though it were a horse in a race.”

Gervaise grinned. “It brings an added zest to life,” he explained.

Grace was full of information about the discovery at the pool and she could talk knowledgeably on the subject. I wondered how interested she really was and whether she was doing this to please Jonnie.

They talked enthusiastically of what they were going to do.

“I suppose,” said Jonnie, “if we’re going to dig we have to get permission from the owner.”

My father smiled. “The Cador estate extends to the pool. It’s all Cador land.”

Jonnie beamed. “So all we have to do is ask you and Aunt Annora.”

“Exactly,” replied my father.

“And have we your permission?”

“I can only say,” said my father, “that I should be most interested to know if it is really the site of an old monastery.”

“Hurrah!” cried Gervaise. “We can go ahead.”

Grace said: “Shall I be allowed on the site?”

Jonnie turned to her beaming with pleasure. “I should be put out if you were not there.”

“I daresay you would like to be there, Angelet,” said my mother.

Jonnie smiled at me. “Of course,” he said. “You must come and help, Angelet.”

I felt very pleased that he obviously wanted me to go.

“We shall make the place famous,” said Gervaise. “Imagine the press. ‘Great Find by Students. Jon Hume and Gervaise Mandeville have outclassed the experts. Hitherto unsuspected monastery has been excavated from remote part of Cornwall …’ ”

“It was not unsuspected,” I reminded them. “People have been saying they heard the monastery bells for ages.”

“Ah, the Bells of St Branok! That will fascinate people. … We ought to have some bells rung … just to create the right atmosphere.”

“The bells,” said my mother, “are supposed to herald a disaster.”

“That makes it all the more exciting.”

“Heralded disasters often come to pass,” I said, “because people expect them to.”

“She is a wise woman, this daughter of yours,” said Gervaise, smiling warmly at me. “I’m all eagerness to get to work. Jon, I wager you twenty pounds that we’ve got that wall uncovered within a week.”

“I’m not the betting man you are,” said Jonnie. “I’ll wait and see.”

The next day they inspected the site. I went with them—so did Grace.

The place seemed to have lost its eeriness. It was only when I was there alone that the atmosphere seemed to envelop me. They inspected the jutting stone on which that man had cut his head.

“Yes,” said Jonnie, “it’s part of a wall. We’ll have to start digging here.”

He walked down to the pool, examining the water.

“I reckon,” he said, “that this was once a fishpond. They always had fishponds in their monasteries. They provided food for the monks.”

“We’ll try to fish,” said Gervaise. “Ten pounds for the first one who makes a catch.”

“Be serious,” said Jonnie. “Any fish in that pool would have been poisoned long ago. Heaven alone knows what has gone down into that water over the years.”

“Well, it will be fun to try. Let’s say a tenner for the first one who brings up anything at all. It might not be a fish. Angelet is looking disapproving. I’m sorry, Angelet. I’m really a very serious character under my skin.”

He smiled at me so charmingly that I wished I could tell him what I was thinking. I was sure he would have made some light-hearted comment and made me feel that I was worrying unduly.

That very afternoon they started to dig. They had brought the necessary equipment with them and they wore what they called working gear. My parents were very amused by them.

There was a great deal of comment throughout the neighborhood and it was largely critical. Mrs. Penlock expressed the general feeling.

“ ’Tain’t natural,” she said. “If it was meant to have been seen it would have been. If the good Lord sees fit to cover it up, that’s how He wants it.” I knew it was serious when the good Lord was brought in. His name implied that it was a question of right and wrong, and on such occasions Mrs. Penlock and the Lord were always together on the right side.

So I gathered that the exploration was unpopular.

“If it were meant to be discovered,” said Mrs. Penlock to me, “it would never have been covered up.”

“But it has been covered up, over the years. People have to discover these things. It teaches things about the past. People want to know and the Lord helps those who help themselves, remember.”

“ ’Tain’t natural,” was all she would say.

Protests came vociferously from one quarter. This was from old Stubbs. He lived in the cottage near the pool. He and his daughter Jenny were a strange pair. They had lived alone since Stubbs’ wife had died. She had been a kind of white witch who grew herbs and was said to be able to cure all sorts of ailments. Jenny Stubbs was as Mrs. Penlock said “Not all there.” She was in fact a little simple. She would go about crooning to herself, but she would be on the quay when the catch came in, picking up any fish that was thrown aside because it was not up to standard. I had seen her once or twice gathering limpets and snails. She made a broth of them, I believe.

They lived a hermit-like existence. Old Stubbs was said to be a footling which meant that he had been born feet first and therefore had special powers. He did occasional work, like clipping hedges; and my father had allowed the family to go on living in the cottage.

We were there, with Jonnie and Gervaise digging and Grace and I fetching and carrying, when the old man suddenly appeared. His eyes were wild, his hair unkempt.

He said: “Lay down them shovels. What be doing on our land?”

Gervaise smiled charmingly. “We are exploring and we have permission to do so.”

“Get off our land or ’twill be the worse for ’ee.”

“Really,” began Jonnie. “I don’t see what right …”

“This land ain’t meant to be disturbed. There’s people that don’t want it and won’t have it.”

“Why there’s no one here.”

The old man looked crafty. “They be ’ere … but you can’t see ’em.”

Jonnie was exasperated. Gervaise of course thought it was a joke; but nothing concerned with this place could be a joke to me.

“This land belongs to the dead,” said old Stubbs. “Woe to them as worries the dead.”

“I should have thought,” said Gervaise, “that they would have liked us to find their buried monastery.”

“You’m worrying the dead. ’Tain’t right. ’Tain’t proper. You go away from ’ere. Go back to your big city. That’s where you belong to be. No good will come of this I promise ’ee.”

With that he shook his fist and hobbled away.

“What an interesting character!” said Gervaise.

I told him about their cottage nearby and how he and his daughter scratched a living from the soil.

Gervaise was quite interested but Jonnie wanted to get on with the dig.

For three days they worked, but knowing the people well, we in the family were aware that there was general disapproval of the excavations.

“It’s so silly,” said my father. “Why shouldn’t we know if there was really a monastery there? Why all this objection?”

“You know how the people hate change,” my mother reminded him.

“But this is not going to change anything in their lives. I’d like to know how the story got about that there was a monastery there.”

“You don’t propose to drag the pool, do you?” said my mother.

“I hardly think that would be possible. But it would be nice to know that at least the monastery was there.”

What followed was inevitable.

A groom, exercising one of the horses, passed the site. It was dark, and he distinctly heard the sound of bells. They were coming, he thought, from the bottom of the pool.

Then there was talk of nothing but the bells.

They rang, didn’t they, when disaster was threatened? Someone had displeased God and you didn’t have to look far to see who that was. Dead folks didn’t want to be disturbed and it was reckoned that “all they monks at the bottom of the pool don’t take kind-like to people coming up from London and starting to dig all round their resting place.”

People were saying they heard the bells and it was always at dusk.

Two weeks had passed and I think that even Jonnie was beginning to realize that it was no use going on. They had uncovered what could be part of a stone wall. It might have been an old cottage. There was nothing to show that it was part of a monastery.

“We should need to have special equipment,” said Jonnie. “We’d have to go down a long way …”

“And possibly find nothing,” added my father.

“What a pity!” said Grace. “I am so sorry. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“Oh no,” cried Jonnie. “It was the greatest fun, wasn’t it, Gervaise?”

Gervaise said that he was satisfied. He had found new friends which was far better than an old monastery.

“Charmingly said,” replied my mother. “But I know you are disappointed. Never mind. Perhaps Pompeii will be more rewarding.”

“Well, we shall certainly find something there,” said Jonnie.

There had been some talk of our going back with him and staying in London for a while, but my father said he could not go for there were all sorts of problems to be dealt with on the estate.

I was disappointed, but relieved that they had stopped digging, and the recent activity at the pool had made me feel that I wanted to escape for a while.

“Angelet does so love London,” said my mother. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t go, darling. Grace could go with you.”

Grace said: “Oh, that would be wonderful.”

So it was arranged.

It was the day before we were to leave when Gervaise said to me: “I want to take one last look at the site. Will you come with me, Angelet?”

“Why do you want to look at it?” I asked.

“I just have the fancy to. I tell you what. We’ll go at dusk. There won’t be anyone there. That is the witching hour.”

I shivered.

“Come,” he said. “I know the place fascinates you. It does me too.” He added: “You’ll be safe with me.”

We rode out together and he had arranged it so that we reached the pool just as the light was beginning to fade.

“We haven’t improved the countryside, have we?” he said, looking ruefully at the piece of wall with the heaped soil about it.

“Never mind,” I said. “I believe it is the fate of many archaeologists.”

“Well, if you didn’t look you would never find, and it has been a lot of fun being here.”

“Even though you failed?”

“I don’t look on it as failure because I have found some new friends. And now you are coming back to London with us.”

“I’m pleased about that.”

“Listen,” he said. “Listen to the silence.”

How eerie it was! But perhaps it was memories which made it so. The water was just visible in the darkness. There was the faintest breeze which ruffled the grass, and now and then broke the silence with a gentle moan.

“I can understand people’s building up legends about this place,” said Gervaise. “Did you come here often?”

“No … not now.”

“Listen …”

There it was … faint in the stillness of the air but unmistakable. It was like the tolling of a bell.

I turned to look at Gervaise. Had he heard it too? His expression told me that he had. Blank amazement showed on his face. He was staring at the pool. There it was again. The distinct tolling of a bell.

He said: “You’ve gone quite pale. Do you feel all right? There must be a church somewhere near.”

“You couldn’t possibly hear church bells here.”

“How then …?”

I shook my head.

“It can’t be …” he began.

There was silence between us. We stood very still straining our ears, but there was only silence.

“Don’t be scared,” he said. “There must be an explanation.”

“They seemed to come from the pool.”

“Impossible.”

“Then where?”

“Let’s look at it like this. We came here to hear them.”

“Did we?”

“Yes, I think that was in our minds. We were expecting to hear them … so we imagined we did.”

“Both of us … at the same time?”

“It must be so.”

He started towards the pool. I hesitated. “Come on,” he said, taking my arm. “We’ll go right up to it and listen … hard.”

I followed him. We were so close now that another step would have taken us into the dark water.

He shouted: “Who’s there? Play the bells again.”

His voice echoed back. It was uncanny.

But there was no sound at all except the faint noise made by the wind in the grass.

“It’s chilly here,” he said. “Let’s get back.”

After we had left the pool he did not speak for some time.

Then he said: “We imagined it.”

But he knew, and I knew, that that was not so.

When we arrived in London I noticed at once that the mood of euphoria about the war had changed considerably.

There had been no speedy conclusion; news had arrived of a cholera epidemic which had been responsible for the death of many of our men. Everyone was talking about William Howard Russell who was sending home disturbing articles which appeared in The Times. Men were dying of diseases and there was a lack of medical supplies to deal with the epidemic. There was chaos, little organization; and this was an enemy more formidable than the Russians. The war was ugly and frustrating—not the glorious road to victory which so many had been led to expect.

British and French armies had won the battle of Alma and hopes revived for a speedy conclusion to the war but those articles in The Times were more disturbing than ever.

There was talk of little else but the war. It seemed to me that everyone knew what should be done. Palmerston should have been brought in earlier; his advice should have been taken. If it had been, the war could have been averted. Palmerston was the hero of the day and war fever was rampant.

I noticed how thoughtful Jonnie had become. He was deeply concerned about news and studied the papers avidly.

Once when we were out we saw soldiers marching on their way to the wharf where they would embark for the Crimea. The people cheered them; bands were playing and they looked magnificent.

Then we went into the Park and sat on a seat watching the ducks on the Serpentine.

“It’s a righteous war,” said Jonnie. “We cannot allow one nation to subdue another just because it is strong and the other weak.”

Grace said that those men were heroes to go into an unknown country and fight for the right.

We walked home in a somewhat somber mood. I thought Jonnie had something on his mind. I wished that he would confide in me and wondered whether he had in Grace.

I had to conquer a smoldering resentment because he really did take more notice of Grace than of me; and not so long ago we had been such friends. He had once implied that he was a little piqued because I seemed to transfer my affection from him to Benedict Lansdon. He had spoken jestingly, of course, but I wondered if he had meant it … just a little. Now I felt the same about him and Grace. Of course she was older than I … older than us both … and she had read so much of archaeology since she had known Jonnie that she could talk to him almost as a fellow student would have done.

I did not see Jonnie all the next day and on the following one he told us what had been on his mind.

He made the announcement just before we went in to dinner. Helena looked very solemn and so did Matthew.

“I have joined the army,” said Jonnie. “We don’t have to do much training. There isn’t time. I expect I shall be leaving soon for the Crimea.”

Jonnie’s action aroused a great storm in the family. Helena was very worried and tried to persuade him to change his mind; Geoffrey was resentful because he was not old enough to do the same. I think his father, in his heart, agreed with Helena, but Uncle Peter saw how the situation could be turned to advantage. There had been hints, in pacific circles, that those who were eagerly clamoring for war were not those who would have to go and fight it. But here was a prominent politician whose son had volunteered. He was a student studying archaeology but as soon as he understood his country’s need he had rallied to the flag.

“This will do infinite good,” said Uncle Peter soothingly. “The war will soon be over. Perhaps before Jonnie gets out there.”

Even so the Russell reports did not echo that view. There was an outcry in Parliament and throughout the country. Something would have to be done.

Then we began to hear a great deal about a lady called Florence Nightingale. Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis knew her family fairly well. They had always thought that Florence was a difficult girl who had caused her parents some concern because she would not do what every girl was expected to do—make a good marriage and settle cozily into society. Florence had all the necessary accomplishments; she was handsome and intelligent, charming and attractive to the opposite sex. But she had a passion for nursing. How ridiculous! they said. Nursing was not for ladies. It was the sort of work people did when they could find no other employment. It was rather like the drifters and ne’er-do-wells who went into the army. Only this comparison was not stressed now for the drifters and ne’er-do-wells had been miraculously turned into heroes.

But now those who had ignored Miss Nightingale began to notice her.

“I heard,” said Uncle Peter, “that Miss Nightingale is being taken very seriously at last. Sydney Herbert is most impressed. They realize the need for good nurses out there. She is suggesting taking a group of women out there … women whom she will train. It is an important step forward.”

Jonnie looked splendid in uniform. We were all very proud of him, but, of course, with each passing day, his departure grew nearer.

Then a strange thing happened.

Lord John Milward, of whom I had never heard before, died. There was a column in the paper about him. He had suffered an attack of the dreaded typhoid fever which had in a very short time proved fatal.

I had not thought that this could affect us at all. That was because at that time I was ignorant of the family history. Lord John Milward had left quite a large sum of money to Jonnie.

Jonnie was astonished and then suddenly he seemed to accept it.

It was some time later when I learned the truth.

Lord John Milward was, in fact, Jonnie’s father and not Matthew Hume, as I had always been led to suppose—and so had Jonnie himself.

Apparently when she was very young, Helena had been engaged to John Milward; there had been a scandal involving Uncle Peter and his nightclubs and the Milward family had insisted that the engagement be broken off.

My grandmother and grandfather Jake Cadorson, who had been visiting Australia to look after some property which Jake had acquired after his sentence had expired, took Helena with them. My mother was there too. Helena was at this time pregnant and my grandparents helped her over a difficult time. Jonnie was born in Australia. Matthew Hume had been on the ship taking them out; he was going to get material for his book on prisons—transportation being an important part of it—and there he met Helena and married her; and Jonnie had always thought that he was Matthew’s son.

John Milward however did not forget his son and thus it was that Jonnie was on the point of becoming a rich man.

He said his new affluence would be of great use in his work and everyone was very pleased for him. I did love Jonnie; he had been a hero of my childhood. I was sorry that I had for a time allowed Ben Lansdon to usurp his place in my heart. Jonnie was gentle and reliable; Ben was powerful and exciting. Ben had gone away and left me with our secret. I wondered how Jonnie would have behaved. Jonnie would never have been in such a situation. He would never have thought of hiding the body in the pool.

But Shakespeare said that comparisons were odious; and how right he was.

Then came another bombshell.

Grace came to me one day and said she must talk to me.

She said: “I wish your mother were here. I am sure she would understand. But I want you to explain to her.”

I was mystified.

“I’ve made a decision,” she said. “If they will have me I am going to Scutari.”

“To Scutari!” I cried. “But how?”

“With Miss Nightingale’s nurses. I have been along to see about it today. They will let me know if I am accepted. I feel sure I shall be. They told me it was almost a certainty. They do not get many educated young women and these are the sort that are wanted.”

“But you are not a nurse.”

“Nor are most of the others. In fact there are no real nurses anywhere. The hospitals are full of incompetent people who take to nursing because they cannot get work elsewhere. I’ve been talking to people. I want to go, Angelet. Please explain to your mother. It seems so ungrateful to leave like this, but I always felt she took me in out of charity and created work for me so that I should not feel I was imposing.”

“Oh nonsense, Grace. My mother is fond of you.”

“I feel that and it makes me unhappy. I am very fond of her … and you and everyone at Cador.”

“I wish I could come.”

“Your mother will be glad you are too young. I imagine it will not be the most comfortable way of living … but I want to do it. Seeing Jonnie in his uniform … Angelet, please do not say anything to anyone until I am sure of being accepted.”

I promised I would not; but in a few days she heard that her application was successful.

Everyone was astounded, but they applauded her enterprise and bravery. Jonnie was overcome with admiration for her and again I felt that twinge of jealousy.

“I would have gone if I had been old enough,” I said.

Jonnie gave me that loving smile of his and said: “I know you would.”

Grace received her uniform—not the most glamorous of costumes. There was a gray tweed dress and jacket of worsted of the same color, with a white cap and a woolen cape.

“You just have to take the nearest that fits,” explained Grace. “They are certainly unbecoming.”

“They are to impress on you that you are meant to be useful rather than ornamental. But they would look better if they fitted.”

Grace was easily able to alter hers to make it a better fit; but it still remained a most unattractive outfit.

Jonnie had gone. That was a sad day. Aunt Amaryllis insisted that Helena and Matthew come to the house in the square for dinner.

We drank to the success of the war, the conclusion of hostilities and Jonnie’s speedy return.

In October Grace set out for London Bridge where she was to join the band of nurses.

I felt deflated after she had gone. I wondered when I should see her and Jonnie again.

My parents came to London when they heard that Grace had gone.

“She’s a good brave girl,” said my mother. “She always wanted to make herself useful. I was so glad that we were able to help her. Poor girl, she was quite desperate when she walked into the garden that day. She was always so grateful, and we had to be grateful to her, too. We shall miss her. I hope this wretched war will soon be over and she will be back with us.”

Soon after that we returned to Cornwall.

And the war dragged on.

Life seemed more than usually uneventful in Cornwall after that visit to London.

We were deeply concerned about the war. There was no good news. The winter was setting in and that could be a greater foe than the Russian armies. We had news of the disastrous charge of the six hundred Light Cavalry at Balaclava; few men returned from that. There was the battle of Inkerman in which we lost more than two thousand men, and even though they told us that the Russians lost twelve thousand, that was little consolation to sorrowing relatives.

Aunt Amaryllis wrote constantly. She said that Helena was taking Jonnie’s departure sadly. She was like a wraith; she thought of little but the danger Jonnie was in.

“I wish,” wrote Aunt Amaryllis, “that that man Russell would stop writing such terrible things and sending them home. It makes us fret so. Poor Helena is beside herself with grief, and I think all the time of our dear Jonnie out there in that terrible place … and that nice Grace, too. Although, of course, she is not in the battle. I do wish it would all be over. It is so far away. What has it to do with us? But that’s wrong of me. Peter says the war is right and we have to preserve our influence all over the world. It is so necessary for everyone …”

“Poor Aunt Amaryllis,” said my mother. “Usually she can let ill fortune sail over her … but this is a little too close … with Jonnie at the front.”

The siege of Sebastopol continued. Once that fell into allied hands, it was said that the war would be all but over, but the Russians were a stubborn people; they would not give in; and our men on the outskirts of Sebastopol suffered more through the terrible winter than those who were within the city … many dying of the cold, so said Russell. Miss Nightingale and her nurses were doing a wonderful job but what could the most efficient nursing do without supplies? And conditions were still terrible.

It seemed to go on and on. The winter was over; spring came. Each day we waited for news, but all through that year there was nothing that was good.

Then came the sad letter from Aunt Amaryllis:

I don’t know how to tell you. We are all devastated. Jonnie has been killed. He was so brave, they say. He was a wonderful soldier. But I am afraid that is no consolation to poor Helena. She is prostrate with grief; and we are all very, very sorrowful. Peter is most affected. He saw that there was a fine piece in the papers about Jonnie’s bravery and how he gave his life for his country. He says that, sad as this event is, it will increase public appreciation of Matthew. That does not console poor Matthew. He loved him. We know Jonnie was not his son but he had always been brought up as such and the fact that John Milward was his real father makes no difference to Matthew’s affection for him. It is such a sad time for us all. I wonder if you could come up. It would be such a help if you could. Helena is so fond of you. She talks quite a lot now of how wonderful you were to her in her trouble …

My mother stopped reading. She stared ahead of her and I knew she was too emotional to go on.

She said: “It is terrible, Angel. You know the story now. We were on the ship together going to Australia when I heard she was going to have Jonnie. She was so distressed. She was going to throw herself overboard, but Matthew saved her. He is a very good man. But he has allowed his father-in-law to lead him in every way. But what can he do? Peter made him. He would never have got far without him. He cared about people. Those books of his show that. But no one would have taken any notice of them if Peter hadn’t thrust them forward. Matthew knows that and he’s ashamed in a way … and yet he is bound to Peter. He couldn’t do a thing without him …”

She was talking as though to herself. Then suddenly she remembered my youth as people often did. I had developed a way of lapsing into silence when people talked like that so they forgot how young I was and said more than they would if they remembered it. I had learned a good deal that way.

She stopped abruptly.

“I think,” she said, “that we ought to go up. We might be able to help. I’m afraid it won’t be a very happy visit. Poor Helena. She is like Amaryllis. She needs to be cared for. And all that business of John Milward’s being brought up again must have been very upsetting for her.”

“I think Jonnie must have been a little pleased. His real father remembered him and he had such plans for his diggings. The money would have been a great help in that and now …”

The knowledge that I should never see him again enveloped me and I felt the tears in my eyes.

My mother put her arms round me and we wept together.

“Yes,” she said at length. “We must go up. We must be able to comfort them a little.”

My father said that, although he would be unable to accompany us to London, my mother and I must go.

There were high hopes now that Sebastopol would fall. Surely they could not hold out much longer? People were full of hope and then these hopes would be dashed and we would seem no nearer to the end.

When the Emperor of Russia died there had seemed to be a chance of peace, but like all hopes this evaporated. That had been early in the year.

We had had the news of Jonnie’s death late in August and just as we were ready to leave the Russians evacuated Sebastopol.

There was great rejoicing in the Poldoreys for this could only mean that the war was virtually over.

It was too late for us, my mother said. Jonnie had already died.

That was an unhappy visit. My mother went to stay with Helena at their house in Westminster. I remained with Aunt Amaryllis and Uncle Peter. When Frances and Peter came they talked to me of their houses of refuge in the East End of London. They now had several of these.

“We have always been greatly helped by my father-in-law,” Frances said. “He always likes it to be announced when he gives a donation and we all know it is for the glorification of Peter Lansdon. He would have had a title by now, I am sure, if his business was not so disreputable; but I think he hopes to override this difficulty in time.”

Peterkin said: “My father is a man who always overrides all difficulties.”

“Of course we receive the money most gratefully,” went on Frances. “To me it seems unimportant where it comes from as long as it is put to good use. I have had three more soup kitchens this year through his bounty. So who am I to complain?”

“The money comes from the pockets of the rich who squander it at my father’s clubs,” said Peterkin. “It is fitting that it should be used for the benefit of the poor—some of it anyway.”

“It is good of Uncle Peter to give it,” I said.

“It is very good for us … and Uncle Peter,” added Frances.

“It seems to me,” I replied reflectively, “that it is not always easy to tell what is good or bad.”

“I can see young Angelet is going to be a wise woman,” said Frances.

When I visited the Mission she put me to work. I ladled soup out of the great tureens for the people who lined up for it in the kitchens. I was deeply touched by the experience and very sorry for the people who came to be fed … particularly the children.

During that time I met poor women who had been ill-treated by husbands or male acquaintances; I saw women about to give birth and having no place to go. I watched Frances deal with them; she was brisk and without sentimentality; she rarely expressed pity; but she always solved their problems.

Peterkin was with her in everything she did, but she was the leading spirit. He adored her; but he was more easily affected than she was; and somehow this made him less effective.

I thought how strange it was that Uncle Peter should have a son like Peterkin. I think he must have had a great respect for Frances, although he always spoke of her with a hint of cynicism. She saw right through him and Uncle Peter was the sort of man who would respect her for that.

That was necessarily a melancholy visit and I was relieved when we returned home. There was nothing we could do to disperse the gloom.

Time, I hoped, would help to do that.

People were right about the fall of Sebastopol. It did virtually put an end to the war although it dragged on in a desultory way until the end of the year, when peace negotiations were started. These seemed to go on and on. The winter passed. March was with us before the Peace of Paris was signed and the forces started to leave the Crimea.

Aunt Amaryllis wrote again:

Helena seems to have recovered a little. Matthew is so good and kind to her. He has been a wonderful husband. Of course he has no post in Palmerston’s government, but Peter says Palmerston won’t stay. He was popular during the war but people do get tired of war and he expects Derby to be back in the not too distant future and then Matthew’s chances will be high …

There was a great deal of celebration and rejoicing when the treaty was signed. Now we are awaiting the return of the soldiers … only Jonnie won’t be among them. Some of them are already home. Poor souls, how they have suffered. I don’t think people will be shouting in the streets for war for a long time. They are saying that we lost twenty-four thousand and the Russians five hundred thousand and the French sixty-three … So we came off best. And poor Jonnie was one of that twenty-four thousand. How dreadfully sad it all is! I wish they would settle their differences in some way other than killing people who have really nothing to do with it and perhaps do not even know what it is all about.

They say that some of the nurses are remaining in Scutari till the last of the soldiers have left. Then they will come home. Some of them have come back. There are some terrible cases and the nurses came with them … to nurse them on the way. I wonder what happened to that nice girl, Grace. What a wonderful job she has done!

We are all hoping that we shall see you soon. You know how we love to have you. There are special times when families should be together. Now that I am getting older I find these times very frequent. So do come soon.

“We must go again,” said my mother. “I always used to enjoy those visits to London so much. Last time, of course, it was very sad … but even Helena must grow away from her grief.”

So once again we found ourselves in London.

This was the year of peace and I was fourteen years of age and rather grown-up for my years. I think events of the last few years had bought me right out of my childhood—although perhaps I had emerged from that after my terrifying encounter at the pool.

Strangely enough because of all that had been happening that event now seemed remote; there were occasions when I did not think of it for weeks. So there was some good in everything.

It was September, a lovely time of the year, unexpectedly warm during the days with a tang of autumn in the early evenings and the leaves in the square and the parks turning golden brown.

Opposite the house in the square was a garden which was for the use of residents. There was a key which hung in the hall; I could at any time take this key and go over there and sit among the flowering shrubs and trees. Although there would have been an outcry if I had gone into the Park alone I was permitted to go into this garden.

I loved to be independent of everyone and it was a favorite spot for me during my stay in the house in the square. In fact they had begun to call it Angelet’s garden.

I used to sit there and listen to the clop-clop of horses’ hooves as the carriages passed through the square and occasionally scraps of conversation floated to me as people passed by, which I found intriguing. I would imagine how those conversations went on after they had passed out of earshot and what the lives of the people who were making it were like.

It was what my mother would call exercising that over-worked imagination of mine.

One day when I was seated near the bed of asters and chrysanthemums, I saw someone standing outside the railings which enclosed the square.

It was a woman. I could not see her face for she was in shadow. I did not look intently—people often gazed in at the gardens as they passed—and when I looked again she was gone. I wondered why I had noticed her. Perhaps it was because she seemed to linger. It was as though there was something purposeful about her.

The next day I saw her again. She came to the railings and looked in then. I was sure at that moment that she had some special interest in the place.

“Hello,” I cried and went to the railings.

I stared in amazement. It was Grace.

“Grace!” I cried.

“Oh, Angelet, I’ve seen you once or twice in these gardens.”

“Why didn’t you speak? Why didn’t you come to the house?”

“I … I didn’t know … till I saw you … that you would be in London.”

“What are you doing here? When did you come home? Oh, Grace, you must have had some strange adventures.”

“Yes, I have. I want to talk to you.”

“Come to the house. Wait a minute. I’ll come out.”

“No …” she said. “Can I come into this garden? I’d like to talk to you alone … first.”

“Of course. Wait a moment.”

I unlocked the door and she came into the garden.

“Oh, Grace,” I cried. “It’s good to see you. We’ve talked about you so much. You’ve heard … about Jonnie?”

“Yes,” she said faintly. “I know.”

“It was terrible. We are getting over it a little now … but we don’t forget. How could we forget Jonnie?”

“No … we could never forget him.”

“It is so awful to think we shall never see him again.”

“Yes … I feel that too. There is a lot I have to tell you, Angelet. I wanted to talk to you … or your mother … first … before I did to anyone else. I am not sure what I should do. I want you to let me know what you think.”

“I? What can I tell you?”

“You’re there.” She waved her hands towards the house. “You’d know how things are. You’d know how they feel about …”

“About what?”

“I think I had better tell you from the beginning. You know we left London Bridge on that day …”

“Yes, yes.”

“We went to Boulogne and then to Paris. They made much of us in Paris. It was their war as well as ours. Then we went down to Marseilles where we stayed a while to collect stores. After that we set sail on the Vectis for Scutari. It was a fearful journey. I thought we were all going to be drowned.”

She paused. I watched her face. I was wondering why she had to tell me all this before she told the rest of the family.

“What was Scutari like?” I prompted.

“Unbelievable. It was dusk when we arrived, and looked so romantic … the hospital was like a Moorish palace. That was at dusk. In the light of day we saw it for what it was. The wards were very, very dirty. We had to clean up the place before we did anything else. Miss Nightingale insisted on that. The state of the patients … the lack of materials …”

I fancied she was holding something back which embarrassed her, and for that reason she found it difficult to talk of the matter which was uppermost in her mind.

“The hospital was very big; it had once been very grand. The mosaic tiles must have been beautiful at one time but they were cracked and many of them broken. The place was damp. Everything was dirty. Dirt … dirt everywhere … and there were so many sick men … row after row of beds. I felt desperately inadequate.”

“That was why you went … because they needed you so badly. Mr. Russell told us all about it. They must have been pleased to see you.”

“The authorities were skeptical of us at first. They just thought of us as a pack of useless women … but Miss Nightingale soon made them change their minds.”

“Grace, what is it you want to tell me?”

She was silent for a while, staring ahead of her at the bronze-colored flowers, her mouth tight, her eyes almost appealing.

She said: “Jonnie … was brought in. It was an amazing coincidence.”

“You mean … wounded? Was it such a coincidence? You were there and he was there and the wounded would be brought in for you to nurse.”

“He wasn’t in my section. I happened to walk through the ward and see him. He looked so ill. I just went and knelt by his bed. I shall never forget his face when he saw me. I believed he thought he was dreaming. He was wounded in the leg. It was rather bad and they were afraid of gangrene.”

“It must have been wonderful for you to have found each other.”

“Oh it was … it was … I asked if I could be moved to that part of the hospital where he was. One of the women changed places with me. It had happened before when someone was brought in who knew one of the nurses. So I looked after him. I had always … been fond of Jonnie.”

“And he was fond of you,” I told her.

“Yes, we had a great deal in common. I was with him every day. He used to look for me. I was so moved to see his face light up when I came. I nursed him. They had to take a bullet out of his leg and I was there when they did it. They had very little to kill the pain. That sort of thing is heartrending. He held my hand while they did it. Then … afterwards … I nursed him and he began to recover. If his recovery had been longer he might not have died.” She bit her lips and seemed unable to continue.

Then she turned to me and pressed my hand. “I had him walking again soon. They needed men. He had a few days’ leave and then was to join the men outside Sebastopol. When you are in that position … when you feel you are facing death and the chances are that you can’t be lucky twice … a kind of desperation gets hold of you. It might have been like that with Jonnie. Perhaps I ought to have realized it, but I was fond of him, Angelet, very fond. I loved him, Angelet. We had this little time together. I got leave and we went out together. There was little on our side of the Bosphorus and they took us back and forth to Constantinople on the other side in little boats they called caliques … and we dined in the city. We were reckless … like two people who know they have not long to be together. Constantinople is different from any place I have ever seen. There are two cities really—Christian Constantinople and Stamboul. Bridges connect them and if ever the nurses went out—which they did occasionally in parties—they were warned not to cross the bridges into Stamboul. I was not afraid of anything with Jonnie. It was a wonderful evening. We sat in an alcove in this restaurant which he knew of and we ate exotic foods—caviar and peppers stuffed with meat. It was all very strange and foreign. But I did not notice the food. We talked and talked … not of the war, not of the hospital but of the future and what we should do when we were home again. He wanted to go to Italy. He was fascinated by the site at Pompeii and he talked as though I should be with him. Then suddenly he took my hand and said, ‘Will you marry me?’ ”

I drew breath sharply. Somewhere in my dreams I had thought of marrying Jonnie. Then I had thought of marrying Ben, it was true. But I went back to Jonnie after Ben had gone to Australia.

“I said I would,” she went on. “It’s easy there, Angelet. There is no formality. You have to pay them well and you can get a priest to marry you. It is probably some unfrocked priest from England … I don’t know. But he married us … and that was what we both wanted. We spent three days together … and then I went back to the hospital and he went to Sebastopol. That is my story, Angelet. You know the rest. He never came back.”

“So you … you are Jonnie’s wife?”

She nodded. “What do you think they will say, Angelet?” she asked anxiously. “They might not … accept me.”

“What do you mean? You are Jonnie’s wife. Therefore they must.”

“I am afraid they will say it is no true marriage.”

“How can they? Don’t they have certificates? Do you?”

“I have one, but, as I say, it was different from the way it is done here. We knew of this priest. He had married one or two other people. It might be that they won’t accept it. They could raise all sorts of objections … if they wanted to.”

“They wouldn’t do that. Why should they?”

“Angelet, you must see. Jonnie belongs to a different family from mine. I worked for your mother.”

“What has that to do with it?”

“They might say … everything.”

“I don’t see how they can if you are married with a certificate to prove it.”

“If they wanted to disprove it …”

“They are good kind people. Jonnie loved you and married you. We all knew that he liked you very much. That was obvious. So they wouldn’t be very surprised. You were both out there. It seems natural to me.”

“I wouldn’t want to embarrass them. I wouldn’t want to be there … if they didn’t want me.”

“But you are Jonnie’s wife!”

“Yes,” she agreed.

“I am going to tell them right away … and you are coming with me.”

She drew back. “No … no. Let me wait here. You go and tell them. But if they think it is no true marriage I will say goodbye to you … to you all …”

“My mother would never allow that. She is always saying how she misses you.”

“She made me so happy … you all have.”

“I shall go right away. Promise me you won’t leave this garden, Grace.”

“I promise. If you don’t come back in say half an hour, I shall know they do not believe me … they do not accept me, I shall understand.”

“You are being foolish, Grace, and I always thought you were so clever.”

I came out of the gardens and ran across the road.

Aunt Amaryllis was in the little room where she did the flowers, a vase of water before her and the flowers lying at the side of the sink.

“Aunt Amaryllis,” I cried. “Grace is in the gardens. She has married Jonnie.”

Aunt Amaryllis turned pale and then pink. She dropped the scissors and wiped her hands.

“Come,” I said. “I will take you to her.”

I was glad that they welcomed her so warmly. Jonnie’s widow would have a very special place in the household.

Aunt Amaryllis was almost happy. Helena came and listened sadly to Grace’s story.

“My dear,” she said, “you made him happy before he died.”

“Yes, we were very happy,” Grace told them.

“I’m glad,” said Helena.

I wondered what Uncle Peter thought. He seemed to like Grace but he was suspicious by nature. He asked a lot of questions and I fancied that in his mind he was making notes of details which he would later verify. But even he had been deeply affected by Jonnie’s death and was pleased to see that Grace’s coming and her announcement had lifted the spirits of Helena and Amaryllis. He may even have felt a twinge of conscience because he had been rather pleased with what Jonnie’s going to war had done for Matthew.

The rest of that visit was dominated by Grace’s return to the household.

Of course Jonnie had been rather a rich young man. He had left no will but his widow would not be penniless. She said that she would be happy to leave everything in Uncle Peter’s capable hands.

I don’t know what arrangements were made or how much money Lord John had left to Jonnie. There was no doubt that Uncle Peter had made inquiries as to the validity of the marriage and he must have been satisfied, for Grace now became an independent woman with her own income.

Helena wanted her to live with them until she made plans. She said: “I always wanted a daughter and that is what you will be to me now.”

Everyone seemed satisfied at the outcome; and there was a certain contentment about Grace. She was happy to be in Jonnie’s home.