The Landower Legacy (46 page)

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

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

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

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

“Well, it didn’t work out that way.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gwennie was beaming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gwennie was beside me.

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

“Oh yes. They’re very good.”

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

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

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

“A pretty penny, I’m sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dear Caroline,

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

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

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

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

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

“Please, Caroline, do come.

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

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

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

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

“Wrong?”

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

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

“Help … help from what?”

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

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

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

“It can be something of an ordeal.”

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

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

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

“Would you like to show me the letter?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How often have you had snow here?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I feel better already,” she wrote.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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