I rode round the estate and saw the tenants.
It was gratifying. Many of them said, in various ways, that they welcomed me as the new mistress. They knew everything would go on as before. They would have been apprehensive of a newcomer.
I thought then of Aunt Imogen and the terror she would have struck into them and for the first time since Cousin Mary's death, I managed to smile.
The estate was my salvation. I would work for it and it would soothe my sorrows. I would make sure that Tressidor prospered and that Cousin Mary, if she could know what was happening, would not be displeased with me.
Gwennie came over to condole. "My word," she said, "you've come into a nice little packet."
Her eyes glistened acquisitively, as I was sure she tried to calculate the value of the estate.
I was cool with her and she did not stay long.
Paul's reaction was different. "It means," he said, "that you can't go away. You'll stay with us now . . . forever."
Yes, I thought. That was what it meant. My grief had thrust the thought of my future—except with the estate—right out of my mind. I wondered what it could possibly hold for Paul and me. Years of frustration ... or perhaps slipping into temptation. People are frail. They mean to behave honourably but they are caught off guard and the barriers are down. What then?
Who could say?
Jago was more solemn than I had ever seen him. He seemed to understand my grief but he did not dwell on it.
His comment was similar to that of Paul. "It's good to know we've got you here for keeps. It was right that she should leave it all to you. You deserve it."
I was very eager that everyone on the estate should be assured that the future should be as safe for them as I could make it. I visited them all and, of course, Jamie McGill at the lodge.
I said: "I want you to know, Jamie, that I am not making any changes. I want everything to go on as before."
"I knew it would be like that, Miss Caroline. I reckon this is the best thing that could have happened since we had to lose Miss Tressidor. We've got another Miss Tressidor who is as good a lady as the first one."
"I'm glad you feel that."
"And it is right and proper the way it has worked out."
"Thank you, Jamie."
"I told the bees. They know. They know there's death about and they're glad the place has come to you."
I smiled at him wanly.
"There's a terrible sadness all around," he said. "I canna see for it. I saw death coming. I knew there'd be a death."
"So you see these things, Jamie?"
"Sometimes I see them. I don't talk of them. People laugh and say you're crazy. Perhaps I am. But I saw death as plain as you're sitting there. And I feel it still."
I said: "Death is always somewhere . . . like birth. People come and go. That's the pattern of life."
He nodded. "Sometimes it goes in threes," he said. "I've seen it work that way. Miss Tressidor she was here . . . her lovely self one day and then . . . her horse throws her and that's the end."
"That is life."
"And it's death, too. I go cold thinking of death. Where will it strike next? Who can say?"
He looked dreamily into the future.
I rose and said I must go.
He came to the door with me. He had changed. He looked happier now.
The flowers in the garden made a riot of colour and the air was filled with their scent and the buzzing of the bees in the lavender.
There was a letter from Olivia. She was so sorry about Cousin Mary's death, for she knew how much I had cared for her, and she was amazed that Tressidor had been left to me.
"I'm sure you deserve it," she wrote, "and I am sure you will make a success of it. But it does seem an enormous inheritance. You're clever though, different from me. You'll be as good managing it as Cousin Mary was. Aunt Imogen says it is madness and ought to be stopped. She has been to solicitors and they have warned her against taking action. She is furious that nothing can be done about it. But I am glad for I am sure it is best the way it is, although I know how you must be grieving for Cousin Mary.
"I am getting near my time. Do try to come and see me, Caroline. I do particularly want to see you. I have a reason. Could you come soon. It is rather pressing. It means a great deal to me.
"Your loving sister, Olivia."
Again that plea. I knew there was something she had to tell me. Why did she not write it? Perhaps it was too intimate. Perhaps it was something she did not want to put on paper.
I had a conference with Jim Burrows. I told him that I was worried about my sister and I wanted to go to her. I could postpone it until after the birth of her child but I rather fancied she wanted to see me before.
Jim Burrows said everything would be in order and I could safely leave him in charge.
I should make my arrangements and go.
THE REVENGE
When I arrived in London there was a great deal of excitement over the coming wedding of the Duke of York to Princess Mary of Teck, who had been betrothed to the Duke's brother, Clarence.
Everyone was talking about the "love match" which had been switched to the living prince when his elder brother had died—some with innocent conviction, others with wily cynicism.
But whatever they felt, everyone was determined to make the most of the royal occasion, and London was crowded with visitors and the street vendors were already out in force to sell their souvenirs of the wedding.
I could never enter the house without a certain emotion. So much of my childhood was wrapped up in it. Miss Bell met me at once.
She said: "I'm glad you've come, Caroline. Olivia is longing to see you. You will find her changed a little."
"Changed?"
"She has had a bad time during her pregnancy. It was too soon."
"Well, it will soon be over now. The baby is due."
"Any time now."
"Shall I go straight to her?"
"That would be the best. You can go to your room after . . . your old room, of course. Lady Carey is in the house."
I grimaced.
"She has been here for some weeks. So has the midwife."
"And, er . . . Mr. Brandon?"
"Yes, yes. We're all a little anxious, but we don't want Olivia to know."
"Is there anything wrong?"
"It is just that she didn't really have time to recover from having Livia. It was unfortunate that it should be so soon, and I don't think she was ever very strong ... as you were. However, we're taking great care."
"I'll go to her," I said.
She was lying in her bed propped up with pillows. I was shocked by the sight of her. Her hair had lost its lustre and there were shadows under her eyes which looked bigger than usual.
They lit up with joy at the sight of me. "Caroline, you've come!"
I ran to her and hugged her.
"I came as soon as I could."
"Yes, I know. It must have been terrible . . . Cousin Mary . . . and all the things that happened."
"Yes," I said. "It was."
"And she has left you Tressidor."
"I must tell you all about it."
"You're so clever, Caroline. I was never clever like you."
"No . . . I'm not clever . . . very foolish often. But let's talk about you. How is my goddaughter?"
"Asleep now, I fancy. Nanny Loman is in charge and Miss Bell, of course."
"I saw Miss Bell as I came in." I looked at her anxiously. She was in the last stages of pregnancy and I knew that women change at such times, but should her skin look so waxy, her eyes so enormous with that haunted expression in them. My concern for her was making me forget my grief at the loss of Cousin Mary.
"You must be exhausted after your journey."
"Not a bit. Just a little grubby."
"You look wonderful. I always forget how green your eyes are and when I see them they startle me. Caroline, you won't hurry away, will you?"
"Oh no. I'll st
ay as long as I can."
"Go to your room now . . . wash and change. I am sure you want to, and we'll have supper together up here."
"That would be lovely."
"All right. Go now, but come back soon. I've such lots to say to you."
I left her and went to the room I knew so well. I unpacked my case and washed in the hot water which had been brought up. I changed and went back to Olivia.
"Come and sit by my bed," she said.
"I'm sorry I couldn't come before. I was all ready to depart and there was the accident . . ."
"Yes, I know. It's just that I'm worried."
I looked at her steadily and said: "Yes, I gathered that you were."
"It's about Livia."
"What about her?"
"I want to know that she's all right."
"Is there anything wrong with her?"
"No. She's a healthy, lively child. There's nothing wrong with her. I just wanted to make sure that if anything happened to me she'd be all right."
"What do you mean . . . anything happened to you?"
A terrible fear was clutching at my heart. I had just come face to face with death. I did not want to meet it again . . . ever.
"I just meant that ... if anything happened to me."
I was angry suddenly, not with her, but with fate. I said: "When people use that expression they mean Death. Why don't they say what they mean?"
"Oh, Caroline, you are so vehement. You always were. You're right though. I mean I'm worried that if I died . . . what would happen to Livia?"
"How absurd to talk about dying. You're young. There's nothing wrong. People have babies every day."
"Don't be angry. I just want your assurance. You're her godmother. I should want you to take her. Now that you own all that property . . . now you're a rich woman . . . you could do it. In any case I would have made provisions for her . . . and for you ... so that you could be together. I've had it all done by the solicitors, but I'm glad you're rich now, for your own sake."
"Is that what you wanted to say to me?"
She nodded.
I was dumbfounded. I had known there was something, but I had thought it was Jeremy's extravagances. This was quite unexpected.
"Oh, Olivia, what gave you this idea?"
"Childbearing is an ordeal. I just thought . . ."
"Don't hedge with me," I said sternly. "Tell me the truth."
"I've had a bad time, Caroline. They say it shouldn't have happened ... so soon. I've spent most of the time in bed. I just have a feeling that something is going to happen ... I mean that I might die."
"Olivia, that's no way to face all this."
"I thought you believed in facing up to reality."
"But what makes you say this?"
She touched her breast and said: "Something in here."
I stared at her in dismay and she went on: "I wouldn't have any qualms about leaving Livia to you. I have complete confidence in you. You'd be better for her than I ..."
"Nonsense. No one's as good as a mother."
"I don't think that is always so. I'm too tired to be with her. I'm soft and foolish. You'd be better for her and you would love her too. She is very lovable."
"Stop it," I cried. "I won't listen. All this talk of death is silly. I've had enough of death. I've lost someone very dear to me. I won't consider losing another."
"Oh, Caroline, I'm so glad you've come and we won't talk about it any more. Just give me your word. You will take Livia, won't you?"
"I don't want to talk of such . . ."
"Promise and I'll say no more."
"Well, of course, I would."
She took my hand and pressed it. "I feel contented now. Tell me about Cornwall. Not about the funeral but after and before all that. All those people . . . Jago and Paul Landower and the man with the bees."
I sat by her bed talking. I tried to be amusing. It was not easy, because when I thought of the light-hearted days before Cousin Mary's death I was reminded forcibly that she was no longer there.
But Olivia delighted in my presence and that comforted me. We had a little supper in her room and when her face was animated she looked more like her old self.
I said goodnight to her and went down to see Aunt Imogen who was asking for me.
She greeted me with a little more respect than I remembered before and she looked less formidable than she had in the past. Whether this was because she was getting older or because I was a person of consequence now, I was not sure. Uncle Harold was with her—self-effacing as ever and very cordial.
"How are you, Caroline?" asked Aunt Imogen. "You must be very pleased with the way everything has turned out."
"I am still mourning Cousin Mary," I reminded her coldly.
"Yes, yes, of course. So you have become a very rich woman."
"I suppose so."
Uncle Harold said: "I believe that you and Cousin Mary were very fond of each other."
I smiled at him and nodded.
"She was a forthright woman," he said.
"She had no right to Tressidor, and of course it should have come to me," said Aunt Imogen. "I am the next of kin. I could, of course, contest the will."
Uncle Harold began: "No, Imogen. You know . . ."
"I could contest the will," she repeated. "But well ... we have decided to let sleeping dogs lie."
"It was Cousin Mary's wish that I should inherit," I said. "She taught me a great deal about the management of the estate."
"It seems wrong for a woman," put in Aunt Imogen.
"For you too then?" I asked.
"I have a husband."
Poor Uncle Harold! He looked at me apologetically.
"I can assure you, Aunt Imogen, that the estate, far from suffering under the management of Cousin Mary, improved considerably. I intend that it shall continue to do so under mine."
I thought Uncle Harold was going to break into applause, but he remembered the presence of Aunt Imogen in time.
I said: "I am anxious about Olivia. She does not seem well."
"She is in a delicate condition," Aunt Imogen reminded me.
"Even so, she seems rather weak."
"She was never strong."
"Where is her husband?"
"He will be here soon, I imagine."
"Is he out every night?"
"He has business."
"I should have thought he would have wanted to be with his wife at such a time."
"My dear Caroline," said Aunt Imogen with a little laugh, "you have lived with Cousin Mary, a spinster, and you are one yourself. Such do not know very much about the ways of husbands."
"But I do know something about the consideration of one human being towards another."
I enjoyed sparring with Aunt Imogen and having Uncle Harold looking on like some referee who would like to give the points to me if he dared.
Her attitude towards me amused me. She disapproved of me, but as a woman of property I had risen considerably in her estimation; and although she deplored the fact that I had taken Tressidor from its rightful owner, she admired me for doing so.
But I could see that I should not get any real understanding of Olivia's state of health from her, and I decided that in the morning I would question Miss Bell.
I retired to bed soon after that, but I did not expect to sleep.
I could not throw off my melancholy.
I had just emerged from the tragedy of Cousin Mary's death to be presented with the possibility of Olivia's. But she had let her imagination run on, I tried to assure myself. She just had pre-confinement nerves, if there were such things, and I was sure there were. To face such an ordeal so soon after having gone through the whole thing such a short while before was enough to frighten anyone . . . especially someone as nervous as Olivia.
I tossed and turned and found myself going through all the drama of Cousin Mary's accident, and then coming back to Olivia.
It was a wretched night.
In the morning
I came face to face with Jeremy. He looked as debonair as ever.
"Why, Caroline," he cried, "how wonderful to see you!"
"How are you?" I replied coldly, implying that the question was merely rhetorical and that I had no interest in the answer.
"Much the same as ever. And you?"
"The same. I wish I could say that of Olivia."
"Oh well, in the circumstances . . . She'll be all right."
"I feel uneasy about her."
"Well, I suppose you wouldn't know much about these occasions, would you?"
"No. But I do know when people look ill."
He smiled at me. "It is so sweet of you to concern yourself. Congratulations by the way."
"On what?"
"On your inheritance, of course. What an extraordinary thing! Who would have thought . . ."
"Certainly not you. I confess it was a surprise to me."
"To fall right into your lap like that."
His eyes were shining with admiration as they looked at me and I was carried right back to the days of our courtship. With the aura of affluence I now must look as desirable to him as I had then when he had thought of my fortune as well as my person.
"Cousin Mary and I were very close to each other," I said. "Her death has been a great blow to me."
"Of course." His expression changed; now he was all concern and sympathy. "A great tragedy. Riding accident, wasn't it? I do feel for you, Caroline."
He was adept at expressing emotion. His face fitted into the right lines. Now he was very sympathetic, but in my newly acquired wisdom I saw the acquisitive lights shining through.
It amused me to think that he was contemplating my fortune and I wondered how Olivia's was faring in his hands.
"I hear you enjoy the gaming tables," I said maliciously.
"How did you hear this?"
"Oh, I have friends."
"You heard that in Cornwall!"
"No. Well, visitors from London, you know."
"Oh." He was puzzled. "Who doesn't like a flutter? I could take you along while you are here."
"It is not the sort of thing that appeals to me. I like to keep what I have."
"You could add to it."
"I might not have that success and I should not care very much if I won and on the other hand I should hate to lose. You see, I should be a very poor gambler."