Midsummer's Eve (11 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Midsummer’s Eve,” I cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, what’s going on out there?”

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

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

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

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

My mother looked alarmed.

“You’d come, of course.”

“Of course,” she repeated.

“I should come too,” I added.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shall I have to do all that?”

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

I grimaced.

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

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