The Landower Legacy (5 page)

We agreed that it had been.

“And you saw the Queen and all the Kings and Princes. You’ll always remember that part, won’t you? Don’t let’s think about the accident, eh? Don’t let’s even talk about it … to anyone.”

We agreed that would be best.

The next day Miss Bell took us for a walk in the Park. Everywhere there were tents for the poor children who were gathered there—thirty thousand of them, and to the strains of military bands each child was presented with a currant bun and a mug of milk. The mugs were a gift to them—Jubilee mugs inscribed to the glory of the great Queen.

“They will remember it forever,” said Miss Bell. “As we all shall.” And she talked about the Kings and Princes and told us a little about the countries from which they came, exercising her talent for turning every event into a lesson.

It was all very interesting and neither Olivia nor I mentioned the accident. I heard some of the servants discussing it.

” ‘ere, d’you know. There was a terrible accident … near Waterloo Place, they say. An ‘orse run wild … ‘undreds was ‘urt, and had to be took to ‘ospital.”

“Horses,” said her companion. “In the streets. Ought not to be allowed.”

“Well, ‘ow’d you get about without ‘em, eh?”

“They shouldn’t be allowed to run wild, that’s what.”

I resisted the temptation to join in and tell them that I had been a spectator. Somewhere at the back of my mind was the knowledge that it would be dangerous to do so.

It was late afternoon. My mother, I think, was preparing for dinner. There were no guests that evening, but even so preparations were always lengthy—guests or no guests. She and my father would dine alone at the big dining table at which I had never sat. Olivia reminded me that when we “came out,” which would be when we were seventeen, we should dine there with our parents. I was rather fond of my food and I could not imagine anything more likely to rob me of my appetite than to be obliged to eat under the eyes of my father. But the prospect was so far in the future that it did not greatly disturb me.

It must have been about seven o’clock. I was on the way to the schoolroom where we had our meals with Miss Bell—we always partook of bread and butter and a glass of milk before retiring—when to my horror I came face to face with my father. I almost ran into him and pulled up sharply as he loomed up before me.

“Oh,” he said. “Caroline.” As though he had to give a little thought to the matter before he could remember my name.

“Good evening, Papa,” I said.

“You seem in a great hurry.”

“Oh no, Papa.”

“You saw the procession yesterday?”

“Oh yes, Papa.”

“What did you think of it?”

“It was wonderful.”

“It is something for you to remember as long as you live.”

“Oh yes, Papa.”

“Tell me,” he said, “what most impressed you … of everything you saw?”

I was nervous as always in his presence and when I was nervous I said the first thing which came into my head. What had impressed me most? The Queen? The Crown Prince of Germany? The Kings of Europe? The bands? The truth was that it was that poor horse which had run amok, and before I had realized it I had blurted out: “It was the mad horse.”

“What?”

“The er—the accident.”

“What accident?”

I bit my lip and hesitated. I was remembering that my mother had implied that it would be better not to talk of it. But I had gone too far to retract.

“The mad horse?” he was repeating. “What accident?”

There was nothing for it but to explain. “It was that horse which ran wild. It hurt a lot of people.”

“But you were nowhere near it. That happened in Waterloo Place.”

I flushed and hung my head.

“So you were in Waterloo Place,” he said. “That was not as I thought.” He went on murmuring: “Waterloo Place. I see … I think I see.” He looked different somehow. His face had turned very pale and his eyes glittered oddly. I should have thought he looked bewildered and a little frightened, but I dismissed the thought; he could never be that.

He turned away and left me standing there.

I went to the schoolroom. I had done something terrible, I knew.

I was beginning to understand. The manner in which we had gone there in the first place when we thought we were going somewhere else … it was significant, the way Captain Carmichael had been expecting us, the looks he and my mother exchanged …

What did it mean? I knew the answer somewhere at the back of my mind. There are things the young know … instinctively.

And I had betrayed them.

I could not speak of it. I drank my milk and nibbled my bread and butter without noticing what I was doing.

“Caroline is absent-minded tonight,” said Miss Bell. “I know. She is thinking of all she saw yesterday.”

How right she was!

I said I had a headache and escaped to my room. Miss Bell usually read with us, each taking turns for a page—for half an hour after supper. She thought it was not good for us to go to bed immediately after taking food, however light.

I thought I would get into bed and pretend to be asleep when Olivia came up, so that I should not have to talk to her. It was no use sharing suspicions with her. She would refuse to consider them—as she always did everything that was not pleasant.

I had taken off my dress and put on my dressing gown. I was about to plait my hair when the door opened and to my dismay Papa came in.

He looked quite unlike himself. He was very angry and he still wore that rather bewildered look. He seemed sad too.

He said: “I want a word with you, Caroline.”

I waited.

“You went to Waterloo Place, did you not?”

I hesitated and he went on: “You need not fear to betray anything. I know. Your mother has told me.”

I was obviously relieved.

He continued: “It was decided on the spur of the moment that you would get a better view from Waterloo Place. I don’t agree with that. You would have been nearer at either of the others which had been offered. But you went to Waterloo Place and were entertained by Captain Carmichael. That’s so, is it not?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Did you not wonder why the plans had been changed so abruptly?”

“Well, yes … but Mama said it would be better at Waterloo Place.”

“And Captain Carmichael was prepared for you, he provided luncheon.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“I see.”

He was staring at me. “What is that you are wearing round your neck?”

I touched it nervously. “It’s a locket, Papa.”

“A locket! And why are you wearing it?”

“Well, I always wear it, not so that it can be seen.”

“Oh? In secret? And why pray? Tell me.”

“Well … because I like wearing it and … it shouldn’t be seen.”

“Should not be seen? Why not?”

“Miss Bell says I am too young to wear jewellery.”

“So you have decided to defy Miss Bell?”

“Well, not really … but …”

“Please speak the truth, Caroline.”

“Well er—yes.”

“How did you come by the locket?”

I was unprepared for the shock my answer gave him.

“It was a present from Captain Carmichael.”

“He gave it to you yesterday?”

“No. In the country.”

“In the country. When was that?”

“When he called.”

“So he called, did he, when you were in the country?”

He had snapped open the locket and was staring at the picture there. His face had turned very pale and his lips twitched; his eyes were like a snake’s and they were fixed on me.

“So Captain Carmichael made a habit of calling on you when you were in the country.”

“Not on me … on …”

“On your mother?”

“Not a habit. He came once.”

“Oh, he came once, when your mother was there. And how long was his visit?”

“He stayed two nights.”

“I see.” He closed his eyes suddenly as though he could not bear to look at me nor at the locket which he still held in his hand. Then I heard him murmur: “My God.” He looked at me with something like contempt and, still holding the locket, he strode out of the room.

I spent a sleepless night, and I did not want to get up in the morning because I knew there was going to be trouble and that I had, in a way, created it.

There was a quietness in the house—a brooding menace, a herald of disaster to come. I wondered if Olivia sensed it. She gave no sign of doing so. Perhaps it was due to my guilty conscience.

Aunt Imogen called with her husband, Sir Harold Carey, and they were closeted with Papa for a long time. I did not see Mama, but I heard from one of the servants that Everton had said she was confined to her bed with a sick headache.

The day wore on. The brougham did not come to take Papa to the bank. Mama remained in her room; and Aunt Imogen and her husband stayed to luncheon and after.

I was more alert even than usual, for I felt it was imperative for me to know what was going on, and my efforts were rewarded in some measure. I secreted myself in the small room next to the little parlour which led off from the hall and where Papa was with the Careys. It was a cubbyhole really in which was a sink and a tap; flowers were put into pots and arranged by the servants there. I had taken a vase of roses and could pretend to be arranging them if I were caught. I could not hear all the conversation, but I did catch some of it.

It was all rather mysterious. I kept hearing words like scandalous,
disgraceful and: “There must be no scandal. Your career, Robert …” and then mumbles.

I heard my own name mentioned.

“She should go away,” said Aunt Imogen emphatically. “A constant reminder … You owe yourself that, Robert. Too painful for you

“It must not seem …”

I could not hear what it must not seem.

“That would be too much … It would provoke Heaven knows what … There’s Cousin Mary, of course … Why shouldn’t she? It’s time she did something for the family. It would give us a breathing space … time to make some plan … to work out what would be best …”

“Would she?” That was my father.

“She might. She is rather … odd. You know Mary. She feels no remorse … Probably has forgotten all the upset she’s caused. It’s an idea, Robert. And I do really think she should go away … I’m sure that’s best. Shall I get in touch with her … Perhaps better coming from me. I’ll explain the need … the urgent need …”

What the urgent need was I could not discover; and I could not stay fiddling with a vase of roses any longer.

The days dragged on and the sombre atmosphere prevailed throughout the house. I did not see either my father nor my mother. All the servants knew that something unusual was going on.

I caught Rosie Rundall alone in the dining room and I asked her what was happening.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Looks like your Mama has been too friendly with Captain Carmichael and your Papa don’t like it much. Can’t say I blame her.”

“Rosie, why are they blaming me?”

“Are they?”

“I was in the flower room and I heard them say I should go away.”

“No, not you, love. I expect that they meant your Mama. That’s who they meant.” She shrugged her shoulders. “This will blow over, I reckon. Such things happen in the highest circles, believe me. Nothing to do with you … so you stop worrying.”

At first I thought she must be right and then one morning Miss Bell came into the schoolroom, where we were waiting to begin our lessons and said: “Your mother has gone away for a rest cure.”

“Gone where?” I asked.

“Abroad, I think.”

“She didn’t say goodbye.”

“I expect she was very busy and she did have to leave in rather a hurry. Doctor’s orders.” Miss Bell looked worried. Then she said: “Your father has told me that he puts great trust in me.”

It was all very strange.

Miss Bell cleared her throat. “You and I are going to make a journey, Caroline,” she said.

“A journey?”

“Yes, by train. I am going to take you to Cornwall to stay with your father’s cousin.”

“Cousin Mary! The harpy!”

“What?”

“Oh nothing. Why, Miss Bell?”

“It has been decided.” * “And Olivia?”

“No. Olivia will not accompany you. I shall travel with you to Cornwall, stay a night at Tressidor Manor, and then return to London.”

“But … why?”

“It is just a visit. You will come back to us in due course.”

“But I don’t understand.”

Miss Bell looked at me quizzically, as though she might not understand either—and yet on the other hand she might.

There was a reason for this. Possibilities flitted into my mind like will-o’-the wisps on misty swamps. None of them was quite tangible enough to offer me an explanation which I could accept.