"Lovely morning, Jamie," said Cousin Mary.
"Aye, Miss Tressidor, Miss Caroline. It's a fine morning."
"Bees all happy?"
"That they are. They're glad Miss Caroline is back."
"It's very nice of them to be so welcoming," I said.
"Bees know," he told me gravely.
"There you are!" said Cousin Mary. "If the bees approve of you, you're the right sort. That's so, is it not, Jamie? Of course it is."
He stood with his cap in his hand while the light breeze ruffled his sandy hair.
"Poor Jamie," said Cousin Mary as we rode on. "Though perhaps I should say, Lucky Jamie. I've never known anyone who has that complete contentment. It's due to coming to terms with life. I suppose. Jamie has what he wants. He doesn't look beyond that. A roof over his head, enough to eat, and his friends about him . . . chief of which are the bees."
"Perhaps the simple life is the best."
"There's a lot to be said for simplicity. Well, here we are. These woods along here are the dividing line between Tressidor and Landower. There used to be conflict in the old days. Whose woods were they? Now they're a sort of no-man's land. I would first like to call on the Jeffs. Their cottage is decidedly damp and Jim Burrows thinks something ought to be done about it ... I shall introduce you as my cousin's daughter," she went on. "That's what we thought you were. No point in going into complicated relationships."
I said: "It's odd to think that we are not related. I continued to think of you as Cousin Mary even after . . ."
"I never did believe in all that nonsense about blood's being thicker than water. Who was it said we choose our friends but our relations are thrust upon us? How true! I never thought much of my cousin Robert nor his sister Imogen for that matter. However, my cousin's daughter you stay. How's that? All right, eh?"
"If it makes it easier."
"Just at first anyway."
We were received with pleasure by the Jeffs.
"I remember Miss Caroline," said Mrs. Jeffs. "It must be well nigh . . . well, bless me if I can remember how many years since she were here."
"It's five," I told her.
"My word, you've shot up since then. I remember how you used to ride round with Mr. Jago."
"Fancy your remembering."
"Oh yes. That were the time when there was trouble up at Landower. I do recall how Jane Bowers and her husband Jim were that worried as to what was going to happen to the estate. My patience me, there was rumours going round. There's been Landowers up at the house as far back as anyone could remember. Jim Bowers's grandfather and great-grandfather . . . they'd all been on Landower property. Praise God, 'tis all well now and Landowers be where they belong to be and Landower tenants be safe in their homes."
Cousin Mary discussed the damp at some length with Mr. and Mrs. Jeffs and when we left them and were riding along in silence I thought of Mrs. Jeffs' words about people being safe in their homes. So the marriage had brought some good to others as well as to the Landowers. He wouldn't have been thinking of that though. He would merely have been considering what he would gain.
I felt the bitterness rising and I did my best to suppress it. I did not want Cousin Mary to know that I had been so foolish as to look on Paul Landower as someone very important to me.
We were soon calling at one of the other cottages to talk of further matters, and from there we set out for the farms.
As we were riding home Cousin Mary said: "That's one of the most important parts of the job—to get to know the tenants. They're hard-working people for the most part and many of them work on the farms. I like to feel that they are comfortable and happy. That is how to make a contented estate and you can't have a prosperous one without that contentment."
As we were riding through the gateway we met a woman coming out.
She seemed vaguely familiar.
"Oh, Miss Tressidor," she cried, "I was just calling on you. I see that your visitor has arrived."
"You must come back to the house," said Cousin Mary. "This is Caroline Tressidor, my cousin's daughter. This is Mrs. Landower, Caroline."
I felt my heart begin to beat very fast. I could not stop myself studying her intently. She sat her horse well and her riding habit was immaculate. Her light sandy hair was visible under her riding hat; her eyes were light blue and very piercing. They were what I noticed first, for they were very lively and seemed to dart everywhere—almost avidly, as though their owner was intent in taking in every detail.
"Well, just for a moment," she said. "I just wanted to say welcome to Miss Caroline. As a matter of fact I was calling to ask you if you would dine with us tomorrow evening."
"That's good of you," said Cousin Mary. "We'd love to come, wouldn't we, Caroline? Of course we should. Ho, James," she called to one of the grooms who was crossing the courtyard. "Take our horses. Mrs. Landower is coming in for a while."
We dismounted and I saw that she was considerably shorter than I and I noticed—a little maliciously I admit—that she had rather a plump figure, which made her look dumpy.
"I've been showing Caroline something of the estate," said Cousin Mary.
"Do you like the country, Miss Caroline?" she asked. I could detect the faint touch of the north in her speech and it brought back to me vividly that meeting at the inn with Jago when we had been waiting for my horse to be shod.
"Oh yes, yes indeed I do," I replied.
"You'll have something to drink," put in Cousin Mary, making it a statement rather than a question.
"Thank you," she replied.
"In the winter parlour, I think," went on Cousin Mary. "More cosy."
One of the maids had heard us come in and was beginning to say, "Mrs. Landower called . . ."
"It's all right, Betsy. We were in time to catch her. Bring some wine will you, to the winter parlour . . . and some of cook's wine biscuits."
In the winter parlour we awaited the arrival of the wine.
"Your face seems familiar to me," said Mrs. Landower.
"Well, we did meet before. Do you remember the inn . . . before you saw the house."
"Oh, of course. You were there with Jago. I do remember that. But you've changed so. You were only a child then."
"I was fourteen."
"But you've grown up a lot since."
"Everyone here keeps telling me that."
"It's something that happens to us all," said Cousin Mary. The wine was brought and she poured it into glasses and I passed round the biscuits.
"Dinner, you say," said Cousin Mary. "That sounds delightful. I want Caroline to get to know everything that goes on here . . . quickly."
"I was most anxious to meet her. After all, we are neighbours, aren't we? Did I see you only once? I can't believe it. You are so familiar to me ... although you've grown so much. You'll have to meet my little boy."
"Oh yes. Cousin Mary was telling me about him."
"He's beautiful. They say he takes after the Landowers." She grimaced.
"Oh," said Cousin Mary, "I expect he's got a bit of you in him. Perhaps he'll be like your father. Now, there's a man I respected deeply."
"Dear old Pa," said Gwennie Landower. "A pity he had to go and die just when he'd got what he wanted."
"At least he got it in time," said Cousin Mary philosophically. "Is your husband well?"
"Quite well, thank you."
"And Jago?"
"Jago is always well. He's back from Plymouth. He's very anxious to see you, Miss Caroline. He was telling us how well you two got on together all those years ago. He said he wondered if you'd changed and hoped you hadn't . . . too much."
"I shall look forward to renewing our acquaintance."
She drained her glass.
"I should go. I only looked in to invite you. So it's all right then? Can you come over about seven-thirty? Not a big dinner party . . . just the family. Getting neighbourly, you know. Jago said we must be the first to ask you."
"That's appreciated, tel
l Jago," said Cousin Mary.
We went out with Gwennie Landower to the courtyard and watched the groom help her into the saddle.
She lifted a gloved hand and waved as she went under the gatehouse.
As we returned to the house Cousin Mary said: "Well, she is determined to be friendly."
"She certainly seemed so."
"She would want to see how you looked."
"Why should she be so eager?"
"She likes to know everything that goes on. She's so inquisitive. It's been said that she can't keep her nose out of anything that's going on. They say that she knows which servant is courting and she can spot a baby on the way before its mother knows it's there. Our servants say she gossips with her servants. They don't like that. They expect a strict code of behaviour from employers, I can tell you. Gwennie—we always call her Gwennie—doesn't quite come up to what they think the squire's lady ought to be—any more than her father did as squire."
"So you think she just wants to have a good look at me?"
"Oh, she likes to have people around, but I noticed she was giving special attention to you—-and I think you were quite interested in her."
"I wanted to see what Landower's benefactress was like, naturally."
"Well, now you have. She's very pleased with herself. She got what she wanted."
"So she is satisfied with her part of the bargain."
"Doesn't seem any doubt of it."
"I wonder whether he is."
"Ah! I wonder. Well, do you want to change? You'd better have a rest after luncheon. I can see you are still rather tired. We'll talk some more tonight. You'll be completely restored tomorrow."
"Yes," I said. "I must be fresh for the Landowers in the evening."
"It will be interesting. You didn't go there before, did you?"
"Not as a guest. Jago gave me a sneak view of the place."
"Well, now you'll go in style. You'll enjoy that, I promise you." As I went to my room I wondered whether I should.
I was dressing for the Landower dinner party. I had slept soundly during the previous night. I must have been tired out. The day had passed quickly. I had ridden with Cousin Mary in the morning and seen a little more of the estate, and as Cousin Mary rested in the afternoon, I had sat in the garden reading a little but mostly brooding on how I should feel that evening.
I dressed with great care. I wished that Everton had been there to do my hair. I could never quite achieve the results that she had; she had said I should dress it high because of my high forehead, and it gave me added height, which I liked. I wore a cream dress with a tight bodice and very flounced skirt which had been bought in Paris for my mother's wedding. I had never before had such a dress and as it had had Everton's approval before the purchase, I felt it was the pinnacle of elegance. Moreover, I had the emerald brooch which my mother had given me as a parting gift. "It does something for Miss Caroline" had been the comment—Everton's, of course. "And really, Madam, it is not so much for you. The aquamarine is your stone ... as we always said."
And as my mother was going to be showered with jewels she could part with the brooch without missing it, so it came to me; and Everton was right; it certainly brought out the green in my eyes.
When I looked at myself ready for departure I was struck by the brilliance of my eyes; they positively glittered. But I did look rather like a general going into battle. I intended to show Paul Landower that although I was not in the least interested in him, I despised his mercenary behaviour.
Cousin Mary had not taken the same care with her appearance. I doubted she ever had.
"Goodness me," she said when she saw me, "you do look splendid."
"It is a simple dinner dress really. My mother bought it for me ... or I suppose Alphonse did ... when we were in Paris. I had to be presentable for the wedding celebrations."
"It's very haute couture. Is that what they call it? Very French too. But I doubt they'll know that in Cornwall. They'll just think you're a very elegant lady. What a lovely brooch! Our old trap seems hardly good enough."
"It will suit me."
"Let's get going then. It was nice of her to ask us like this. En famille, as they say in France."
I could not help being overawed as we approached the house. It looked magnificent and I remembered the first time I had seen it. The great stone walls, the battlemented tower, that fortress-like appearance —they were impressive. I could understand why a family who had owned it for generations, whose ancestors had built it, would be prepared to make great sacrifices for such a place. Perhaps it was natural that Paul had acted as he did.
We passed under an archway into the courtyard where a groom hurried forward to help us alight. A nail-studded door opened and a maid appeared.
"Will you please to come in, Miss Tressidor," she said. "Mrs. Landower be waiting for you."
"Thank you," said Cousin Mary.
"I'll take the trap into the stables," said the groom.
"Thank you, Jim."
We went into the hall. Memories came back. I couldn't help looking up at the minstrels' gallery as our footsteps rang out on the stone-flagged floor. The rail must have been replaced. I glanced at the fireplace and the family tree which spread out over it and beyond. In the house it was even easier to understand how such a place made demands, how it would entwine itself about one's life, how it could well become of major importance.
I was making excuses for him.
The maid led us up the staircase.
"Mrs. Landower is in the drawing room," she said.
She knocked and without waiting for a reply opened the door. I had not been in this room before. It was large and lofty; the windows were latticed and did not let in a great deal of light. I had time to notice the tapestry on the walls and the painting of some long-dead Landower over the fireplace.
Gwennie Landower came towards us.
"It's good to see you," she said as though she meant it.
She took my hand and gazed at me. "You look grand," she said.
I felt embarrassed. Cousin Mary explained afterwards that in Gwennie's vocabulary "grand" did not necessarily imply grandeur. It merely meant, "You look very nice."
"And you know my husband."
He had come forward; he took my hand and held it firmly.
"How nice to see you," he said. "I hope you have recovered from your fall in the mountains."
"Paul told us all about it," said Gwennie. "I scolded him. He was supposed to be looking after you, wasn't he? Miss Tressidor had asked him to go and see you because she was worried about you."
"It was entirely my own fault," I explained. "Your husband was well ahead and we were going at a snail's pace. I was just not attending. You can't afford to do that on horseback."
"Don't I know it! I had to learn to ride, didn't I, Paul?"
He nodded.
"I managed it though, didn't I? Took me some time. But I thought, well, if I'm going to be in the country I've got to be able to get about without fuss. But I was ill for a while . . . that was before I was married. I had a bad fall."
"Oh yes," I said quietly. "I heard."
"Ugh!" she shivered. "Do you know I can't go into that hall without looking up and wondering . . ."
"It must have been a shock."
"Oh, here's someone you know."
He was coming towards me. He had grown a great deal since we had last met. He was the handsomest man I had ever seen. Tall, rather lean, with a somewhat swaggering walk. It was not that his features were perfect. His mouth was full and rather sensual; it looked as though it only knew how to smile; his heavy dark-lidded eyes, so like his brother's in shape and colour, shone with amusement as they surveyed the world; his thick dark hair grew in much the same way as Paul's; in fact they were very much alike but they seemed so different because of expression. Paul appeared to be over-serious, whereas his brother looked as though he hadn't a care in the world, or if he had, refused to recognize it. He gave an impression of compl
ete joie de vivre.
"It's Jago," I said.
"It's Caroline," he answered.
Throwing aside decorum he put his arms round me and hugged me.
"What a delightful ... I was going to say surprise ... but the news of your impending arrival had already reached us ... so I'll say occasion. You can imagine how thrilled I've been awaiting the reunion. Welcome back to Cornwall. You've grown up." He looked at my hair and raised his eyebrows. "Still the same green-eyed siren, though. I couldn't have borne it if you had changed."
Gwennie said: "Well, everybody's met each other before, haven't they? Even I met Miss Caroline once. Do you remember? It was at the inn where Pa and I stayed. You two came in and tried to put us off. You told us what a terrible place this was ... on the point of collapse."
"We didn't want to hide the truth from you, dear Gwennie," said Jago.
"You were up to something ... as usual."
"What a day that was," said Jago. "The moors . . . Caroline's horse was in trouble and we had to go to the blacksmith: I can see that 'do you remember' is going to be the theme of our conversation for some time to come."
"And I can see that you are obviously well pleased with life, Jago," I said.
"It's a mistake to be otherwise than pleased with life."
"It is not always easy to be pleased with something which is not pleasing," said Paul.
"It's what is called an approach to living," explained Jago.
"Very glib," commented Paul; and Gwennie said, "Shall we go in to dinner?"
She came to me and slipped her arm through mine. "I did explain," she said in a conspiratorial whisper. "It's quite informal tonight. Just the family. Mind you, we do entertain in style now and then. I like to get back to the old days of Landower glory ... so does Paul . . . so does Jago."
"I'm all for the glory," said Jago, "as you say, dear sister-in-law of mine."
"We're not eating in the dining room this evening," went on Gwennie. "We should all be at great distances from each other. We use it when we have guests but when we're just family we eat in the little anteroom next to the dining room."
"Tonight we have our most important guests," protested Jago.
"They're neighbours, that's what I mean," said Gwennie.