The Landower Legacy (2 page)

This was the case with Captain Carmichael. To think of him always gave me a thrill of pleasure. He was magnificent in his uniform— the scarlet and the gold—but he always looked very handsome in his riding clothes or dressed for the evening. He was the most elegant and fascinating gentleman I had ever seen and he had one quality which made him irresistible to me: he singled me out for his especial notice. He would smile at me and, if there was an opportunity, would speak to me, treating me as though I were an important young lady instead of a child who had not yet emerged from the schoolroom.

So when I peeped through the stairs I was always looking for Captain Carmichael.

There was a secret I shared with him. My mother was in it, too. It concerned a gold locket, the most beautiful ornament I had ever possessed. We were not allowed to wear jewelry, of course, so it was really very daring of me to wear this locket. True it was under my bodice, which was always tightly buttoned up so that no one could see the locket; but I could feel it against my skin and it always made me happy. It was exciting, too, because it was hidden.

It had been given to me when we were in the country.

Our country house was about twenty miles from London—a rather stately Queen Anne building standing in parklands of some twenty acres. It was very pleasant, but it was not Tressidor Manor, I had heard my father say with some bitterness.

However, most of our days were spent there, our needs provided for by a bevy of servants and Miss Lucy Bell, whom I called the matriarch of the nursery. She seemed old to us, but then everyone over twenty seemed ancient. I think she was about thirty years old when she came to us and at this time she had been with us for four years. She was very eager to fulfil her duties adequately, not only because she needed to earn a living, but, I was sure, because she was in a way fond of us.

In the country we had our nurseries—large pleasant rooms full of light—at the top of the house, giving us delightful views over woodland and green fields. We had our own ponies and rode a good deal. In London we rode in the Row, which was exciting in a way because of the people who bowed to our mother on those occasions when she rode with us; but for the sheer joy of galloping over the springy turf, there was nothing like riding in the country.

It was about a month before we came up to London when our mother arrived unexpectedly in the country. She was accompanied by Everton with hatboxes and general luggage and everything my mother needed to make life agreeable. It was rarely that she came to the country and there was a great deal of bustle throughout the house.

She came to the schoolroom and embraced us both warmly. We were overawed by her beauty, her fragrance, and her elegance in the light grey skirt and the pink blouse with its tucks and frills.

“My dear girls,” she cried. “How wonderful to see you! I wanted to be alone for a while with my girls.”

Olivia blushed with pleasure. I was delighted, too, but perhaps a little sceptical, wondering why she should suddenly be so anxious to be
with us when there had been so many opportunities which she had allowed to slip by without any apparent concern.

It was then that the thought occurred to me that she was perhaps less easy to understand than Papa. Papa was omnipotent, omniscient, the most powerful being we knew—under God, and then only just under. Mama was a lady with secrets. At that time I had not been given my locket, so I had no great secret of my own—but I did sense something in Mama’s eyes.

She laughed with us and looked at our drawings and essays.

“Olivia has quite a talent,” said Miss Bell.

“So you have, darling! Oh, I do believe you are going to be a great artist.”

“Hardly that,” said Miss Bell, who was always afraid that too much praise might be harmful.

Olivia was blissful. There was a lovely innocence about her. She always believed in good. I came to think that was a great talent in life.

“Caroline writes quite well.”

My mother was looking blankly at the untidy page presented to her and murmured: “It’s lovely.”

“I did not mean her handwriting,” said Miss Bell. “I mean her construction of sentences and her use of words. She shows imagination and a certain facility in expressing herself.”

“How wonderful!”

The expression in the lovely eyes was vague as she regarded the sheet of paper; but they were alert for something else.

The next day the reason for Mama’s visit to the country arrived. It was one of those important occurrences which I did not recognise as such at the time.

Captain Carmichael called.

We were in the rose garden with Mama at the time. She made a pretty picture with the two girls seated at her feet while she held a book in her hand. She was not reading to us, but it looked as though she might be.

Captain Carmichael was brought out to us.

“Captain Carmichael!” cried my mother. “What a surprise.”

“I was on my way to Salisbury and I thought: Now that’s the Tressidors’ place. Robert would never forgive me if I were in the neighborhood and did not call. So … I thought I would just look in.”

“Alas, Robert is not with us. But it’s a lovely surprise.” My mother
rose and clapped her hands together looking like the child who has just been awarded the fairy from the top of the Christmas tree.

“You can stay and have a cup of tea with us,” she went on. “Olivia, go and tell them to bring tea. Caroline, you go with Olivia.”

So we went, leaving them together.

What a pleasant tea-time that was! It was early May, a lovely time of the year. Red and white blossom on the trees and the scent of the newly cut grass in the air, the birds singing and the sun—a nice benign one, not too hot—shining on us. It was wonderful.

Captain Carmichael talked to us. He wanted to hear how we were getting on with our riding. Olivia said little, but I talked a great deal and he seemed to want me to. He kept looking at my mother and their glances seemed to include me, which made me very happy. One thing Olivia and I lacked was affection. Our bodily needs were well catered for, but when one is growing up and getting used to the world, affection, really caring, is what one needs most. That afternoon we seemed to have it.

I wished it were always like that. It occurred to me how different life would have been if we had had someone like Captain Carmichael for a father.

He was a most exciting man. He had travelled the world. He had been in the Sudan with General Gordon and was actually in Khartoum during the siege. He told us stories about it. He talked vividly; he made us see the hardships, the fear, the determination—though I suppose he skirted the real truth as too horrible for our youthful ears.

When tea was over he rose and my mother said: “You mustn’t run away now, Captain. Why don’t you stay the night? You could go first thing in the morning.”

He hesitated for a while, his eyes bubbling over with what could have been mischief.

“Well … perhaps I might play truant.”

“Oh, good. That’s wonderful. Darlings, go and tell them to prepare a room for Captain Carmichael … or perhaps I’ll go. Come along, Captain. I am so glad you came.”

We sat on—Olivia and I—bemused by the fascinating gentleman.

The next morning we all went riding together. My mother was with us and we were all very merry. The Captain rode beside me. He told me I sat a horse like a rider.

“Well, anyone is a rider who rides a horse,” I replied, argumentative even in my bliss.

“Some are sacks of potatoes—others are riders.”

That seemed to me incredibly funny and I laughed immoderately.

“You seem to be making a success with Caroline, Captain,” said my mother.

“She laughs at my jokes. The nearest way to a man’s heart, they say.”

“I thought the quickest way was to feed him.”

“Appreciation of one’s wit comes first. Come, Caroline, I’ll race you to the woods.”

It was wonderful to ride beside him with the wind in my face. He kept glancing at me and smiling, as though he liked me very much.

We went into the paddock because he said he would like to see how we jumped. So we showed him what our riding master had taught us recently. I knew I did a great deal better than Olivia, who was always nervous and nearly came off at one of the jumps.

Captain Carmichael and my mother applauded and they were both looking at me.

“I hope you are going to stay for a long while,” I said to the Captain.

“Alas! Alas!” he said, and, looking at my mother, raised his shoulders.

“Another night perhaps?” she suggested.

He stayed two nights and just before he left my mother sent for me. She was in her little sitting room and with her was Captain Carmichael.

He said: “I have to go soon, Caroline. I have to say goodbye.”

He put his hands on my shoulders and looked at me for a few seconds. Then he held me against him and kissed the top of my head.

He released me and went on: “I want to give you something, Caroline, to remember me by.”

“Oh, I shan’t forget you.”

“I know. But a little token, eh?”

Then he brought out the locket. It was on a gold chain. He said: “Open it.”

I fumbled with it and he took it from me. The locket sprang open and there was a beautiful miniature of him. It was tiny but so exquisitely done that his features were clear and there was no doubt that it was Captain Carmichael.

“But it’s lovely!” I cried, looking from him to my mother.

They both looked at me somewhat emotionally and then at each other.

My mother said practically: “I shouldn’t show it to anyone if I were you … not even Olivia.”

Oh, I thought. So Olivia is not getting a present. They thought she might be jealous.

“I should put it away until you’re older,” said my mother.

I nodded.

“Thank you,” I murmured. “Thank you very much.”

He put his arms about me and kissed me.

That afternoon we said goodbye to him.

“I shall be back for the Jubilee,” he told my mother.

So that was how I received the locket. I loved it. I looked at it often. I could not bear to hide it away though, and it gave me added excitement because I had to keep it secret. I wore it every day under my bodice, and kept it under my pillow at night. I enjoyed it not only for its beauty, but because it was a secret thing, known only to myself, my mother and Captain Carmichael.

We came up to London on the fourteenth of June—that was a week before the great Jubilee day. Coming into London from the country was always exciting. We came in from the east side and the Tower of London always seemed to me like the bulwarks of the city. Grim, formidable, speaking of past tragedies, it always set me wondering about the people who had been imprisoned there long ago.

Then we would come into the city and on past Mr. Barry’s comparatively new Houses of Parliament, so magnificent beside the river, looking, deceptively, as though they had weathered the centuries almost as long as the great Tower itself.

I could never make up my mind which I loved more—London or the country. There was a cosiness about the country, where everything seemed orderly; there was a serenity, a peace, which was lacking in London. Of course Papa was rarely in the country and on those occasions when he came, I had to admit peace and serenity fled. There would be entertaining when he came, and Olivia and I had to keep well out of the way. So perhaps it was a matter of where Papa was that affected us so deeply.

But I was always excited to be returning to London, just as I was pleased to go back to the country.

This was a rather special return, for no sooner did we reach the metropolis than we were aware of the excitement which Miss Bell called “Jubilee Fever.”

The streets of the city were full of noisy people. I watched them with glee—all those people with their wares who rarely penetrated our part of London; they were there in full force in the city—the chairmender, who sat on the pavement mending cane chairs, the cats-meat man with his barrow full of revolting-looking horseflesh, the tinker, the umbrella mender, and the girl in the big paper bonnet carrying a basket full of paper flowers to be put in fireplaces during the summer months when there were no fires. Then there were the German bands which were beginning to appear frequently in the streets, playing popular songs of the musical halls. But what I chiefly noticed were the sellers of Jubilee fancies—mugs, hats, ornaments. “God Bless the Queen,” these proclaimed. Or “Fifty Glorious Years.”

It was invigorating, and I was glad we had left the country to become part of it.

There was excitement in the house too. Miss Bell said how fortunate we were to be subjects of such a Queen and we should remember the great Jubilee for the rest of our lives.

Rosie Rundall showed us a new dress she had for the occasion. It was white muslin covered in little lavender flowers; and she had a lavender straw hat to go with it.

“There’ll be high jinks,” she said, “and there is going to be as much fun for Rosie Rundall as for Her Gracious Majesty—more, I shouldn’t wonder.”

My mother seemed to have changed since that memorable time when Captain Carmichael had given me the locket. She was pleased to see us, she said. She hugged us and told us we were going to see the Jubilee procession with her. Wasn’t that exciting?