The Landower Legacy (27 page)

I had allowed her to prevent my going to Cornwall, but she should not stop my riding with Paul. The thought of riding with him filled me with ecstatic pleasure.

I said: “Do you think you really would be able to hire horses?”

“I’m certain of it,” he said. “As a matter of fact I have already asked at the
auberge.
I have one bespoke, as it were. I am sure there will be no difficulty in getting another.”

“I shall look forward to it.”

After lunch I showed him a little of the countryside. I met Monsieur Dubusson who insisted on our going into the
chateau
to sample the wine his son had produced in his vineyard in Burgundy. Madame Dubusson greeted us with delight. They were very kindly people and already scented a romance. It was embarrassing in a way and yet I knew it came from the kindliness of their hearts and that they believed it was no life for a young girl—even though it might be her duty—to look after a mother who from time to time lapsed into invalidism.

Afterwards I introduced Paul to the Claremonts for, having included the Dubussons, I dared not leave them out. There was a great deal of talk about the flowers they produced and the essences they distilled; and they were very gratified to explain to a newcomer. From time to time the language became too fast and furious for Paul and I had the pleasure of translating.

As we were leaving Madame Claremont said: “By the way, Monsieur Foucard is coming for the Christmas holiday. Oh, he will not stay here. We are not equipped for such as he is … not for more than one night. He is used to so much comfort. He will stay at the
auberge
in the town.”

“Tell him I thoroughly recommend it,” said Paul.

After we left the Claremonts we walked through the lanes and talked of the countryside and the Dubussons and Claremonts, the difference between the French and the English; and that seemed to me an enchanted day.

When I said goodbye to him he held my hand firmly and said: “Tomorrow morning. Say about ten o’clock. We’ll go off somewhere and we’ll find some little
auberge
where we’ll stop for luncheon. How’s that?”

I said it sounded perfect.

“Tomorrow then.”

He stepped back, took off his hat and bowed; blissfully I went into the house aware of Marie peering through the kitchen window.

When I came into the hall, Marie was there. She said: “Oh, he is a very grand gentleman. So tall … He reminds me of
mon petit soldat.”

I suppose that was about the greatest compliment she could pay.

Later I heard her singing dolefully:
“Ou t’en vas-tu, petit soldat.”
It was clear that Paul had found favour with Marie and Jacques as well as the Dubussons and Claremonts.

It was not the case with my mother. I guessed she had discussed him with Everton.

“So you are going riding tomorrow,” she said as we ate that evening.

“Yes, Mama.”

“I shall be very worried.”

“I don’t think so, Mama. You’ll forget all about it as soon as we’ve gone.”

“Caroline, how can you say such a thing!”

She saw what she called my mulish look setting about my lips and she knew that I was determined to go.

She said: “There’s something mysterious about him.”

“How mysterious?”

“Those dark looks.”

“Do you think all people with dark hair are mysterious?”

“I’m not referring to his hair, Caroline. I know men.”

“Yes, Mama, I’m sure you do.”

“I should hate to see you make a terrible mistake.”

“What sort of mistake?”

“To rush into marriage.”

“Oh Mama, please! A man appears. He is a stranger in a strange land. He meets a fellow compatriot whom he saw once some years ago, he is friendly—and you talk of marriage!”

“He seemed persistent … hiring horses.”

“It’s nothing but a friendly gesture.”

She looked pathetically down at her plate and I thought she was going to weep.

Poor Mama, I thought. She visualizes lonely evenings—no piquet, no one but Everton to talk to of past triumphs. And Everton is years older than she is. I am young. She is terrified of my going away. How strange that when I was a child she had no time to spend with me; now I am grown-up she cannot bear me to leave her for a day.

Then suddenly I remembered. The excitement of the day had completely driven this important piece of news out of my mind.

“I saw Madame Claremont today. She told me Monsieur Foucard is coming here for Christmas.”

The change in her was miraculous.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, he is staying at the
auberge.”

“I’m not surprised. One could hardly expect a man like that to stay at the Claremonts’.”

“I daresay,” I said archly, “that we shall be seeing something of him.”

“It may well be,” she answered; and I knew she was already planning her wardrobe.

My words had had the desired effect. There was no further mention of my day’s riding.

It was a day I was to remember for a long time.

The sun was bright although there was a sharp wind. It was good to be in a riding habit again.

I went to say goodbye to my mother before I left.

She was sitting up in bed sipping the hot chocolate which Everton had brought to her just as she had done each morning in England. Everton was seated on a chair making lists of clothes.

The Christmas wardrobe, I presumed!

What luck that Monsieur Foucard had saved the situation and made everything so much smoother! I had been determined to have my day but it was pleasant to achieve it with the minimum of friction.

I kissed her and she said: “Have a good day,” almost absent-mindedly.

Paul was waiting with the horses.

“A little chestnut mare for you,” he said. “She’s a bit frisky but I told them you were an expert.”

“She’s lovely,” I told him.

“Now you know the countryside, you’d better decide where we shall go.”

“I only know the immediate environs. I never before had a chance to get away. Shall we go into the mountains?”

“That would be very interesting.”

What joy it was for me to be on a horse, and I had to admit that my companion added considerably to my pleasure. It was almost like one of those dreams come true. He might not look exactly like the knight in shining armour whom I had visualized in my girlhood, but he was Paul Landower, the hero of my imaginings.

He talked about Cornwall just as Jago used to, about the estate and the house and Tressidor too. But for a great deal of the time we were
silent for the road was so narrow that sometimes we had to go in single file.

At length we came to the foothills of the mountains where we paused to admire the grandeur of the scenery. On the other side of these Maritime Alps was the beautiful Mediterranean Sea.

“The air is like wine,” he said, “which reminds me we are going to find that little
auberge.
Are you hungry?”

“Getting that way,” I said.

“It’ll be uphill for a while. Madame at my
auberge
told me that she can recommend
La Pomme d’Or
which we ought to find fairly easily. She says the damson pie is the best she ever tasted and has made me swear a solemn oath to try it. I dare not return and tell her I have not done so.”

“Then it is a matter of honour for us to find
La Pomme d’Or.
I wonder why it is so called. After the famous golden apple which Paris gave to Aphrodite, as the fairest of women, I suppose, but I wonder how it got here.”

“I fancy,” he said, “that that is one of the mysteries we shall never solve.”

The scenery was becoming awesome—mountains stretching as far as we could see; we passed gorges and silver waterfalls and streams trickling down the slopes.

“I hope the horses are sure-footed,” said Paul.

“I daresay they’ve been in the mountains before.”

“It must be getting quite late now.”

“Time for luncheon. We should find the golden apple soon.”

We came upon it unexpectedly. There it stood, white and glittering in the sunshine, built against the side of the mountain and facing a gap through which there was a glimpse of the sea.

We left our horses in the stable to be cared for and went into the dining salon.

We were welcomed warmly, especially when Paul mentioned that Madame at the
auberge
where he was staying had recommended
La Pomme d’Or.

“She told us about the damson pie,” he said. “It is hoped that it is available.”

Madame was large and plump and I soon realized that she possessed in an even greater degree than usual that reverence for food which was characteristic of her nation. She put her hands on her hips, and shook with laughter.

“Believe it or not, Monsieur, Madame,” she said, “I cook the most wonderful dishes …” She put her fingers to her lips and threw a kiss to those revered objects. “My langoustines are magnificent. Crevettes … gigot of lamb … and such tarts as you never have seen … but always it is my damson pie.”

“It must be gratifying, Madame,” I said, “to be so famed for such an achievement.”

She lifted her shoulders and her eyes sparkled as she told us what she could give us.

Hot s6up was brought in. I had no idea what it contained, but it was delicious. But I was living in an exalted state and anything I imagine would have tasted like ambrosia.

It is the mountain air, I told myself. That … and Paul Landower.

I studied him intently. My mother had said he had dark looks … secret looks. Yes, there was an element of that. I did not know him. Not as I had known Jago … or Jeremy. But had I known Jeremy? I could not have been more surprised when I had received that letter jilting me.

No, I had not known Jeremy. I was gullible where people were concerned. But I was changing. Once I would have believed my mother wanted me to stay with her because she loved me. Now I saw clearly that she only wanted me to relieve the boredom a little. If someone else could do that, I might go out for the day and she would not mind in the least.

I would be more prepared now for people to act in an unexpected way; and there was something secret, mysterious about this man. I longed to know what it was and I was excited at the prospect of discovering.

After soup there was lamb served in a way I had never had it before; it was delicious; and the wine, which was proudly shown to Paul before it was poured out, was nectar.

I said: “I shall have no room for the famous damson pie.”

At last it came. Madame told us that during the season she set one of her maids doing nothing else but preserving damsons for several weeks.

She served it with her special garnishing and we both agreed that it came up to expectation.

Paul was amused to see me counting the stones.

“Ah,” he said, “that looks significant. Tell me, what is your fate?”

“There are eight stones. They indicate whom I shall marry. Rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief.”

“You have too many.”

“Oh no. I just start again. Rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief. Oh dear! I’m destined for the thief. I don’t like that at all. I think I’ll try something else.”

I began to quote:

“He loves me

He don’t

He’ll have me

He won’t.

He would if he could

But he can’t

So he won’t.”

Paul was laughing. “You’ve one left over.”

“So I start again. He loves me. Well, that’s a little more satisfactory. But if he is a thief I’m not very happy about my future.”

“You should be,” he said seriously. “I have an idea that you are the sort of person who will be happy and make others happy.”

“What a charming assessment of my character. I can’t imagine how you can be so knowledgeable in such a short time.”

“There are things one knows … instinctively.”

I thought: I am falling in love with him. What a fool I am. I have just been bitterly deceived. I have vowed I would never fall in love again, and here I am ready to begin it all once more. Oh, but I was never really in love with Jeremy. It was infatuation. This is different. Besides, wasn’t I always in love with Paul Landower?

He was watching me intently. “Your eyes are a brilliant green.”

“I know.”

“They glitter like emeralds.”

“I like the comparison. We had a cook once who used to say ‘Blue eyes for beauty, brown eyes for cherry pie’ (which I believe in her eyes was another way of saying beauty) ‘green eyes for greedy guts.’ That must have been because I had filched some titbit from the table which I believe, at an early age, I was inclined to do.”