The Landower Legacy (29 page)

I must not … and yet I wanted him to come in.

I could hear my heart hammering beneath the bedclothes. I had shut my eyes tightly … waiting.

I was aware that the shadow had disappeared. I opened my eyes. He had gone.

I slept little but my sleeplessness was not due to my fall. He said nothing about the night, but just asked how I had slept. I replied: “Intermittently.”

He nodded. “After such a shock you would expect to.”

I wanted to ask him, “Why did you stand outside my window last night?” But I said nothing and he seemed different by morning light. The intimacy of the previous evening had gone, he was aloof almost.

He said: “We must have breakfast and set off right away. Your mother will be anxious. How do you feel about mounting the chestnut?”

“Perfectly all right. It was my carelessness really. I should have been more watchful. The poor creature was plagued by that stony path.”

“You’re too good a horsewoman to be bothered by a little spill, I’m sure.”

We had the usual French breakfast of coffee and brioche with lots of creamy butter and honey; and apart from a certain stiffness I did feel normal.

He regarded me with some concern. “All the dizziness has gone?”

I nodded.

“You’ll have those bruises to remind you for some time, I should imagine.”

“I shall remember after they have gone.”

“We’ll neither of us forget, shall we?”

“Oh, will you remember too?”

“But of course.”

He went on ahead as the road was narrow and very soon we had left the mountains behind us.

Everton came to the door when we arrived.

“Your mother has been so anxious,” she said.

“You had a message, did you not? The stable-boy from the
auberge

“Yes, yes,” said Everton, “but your mother has been most upset.”

“Miss Tressidor has been upset also,” said Paul.

He had dismounted and helped me down.

“Would you like me to wait and see your mother?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No, I think I’d better go in alone.”

“Au revoir,”
he said.

He took my hand and held it firmly while he looked into my face with a certain inscrutable expression.

Then he went off with the two horses.

My mother was sitting up in bed, the empty chocolate cup on the table beside her.

“Caroline! My child! I’ve been so worried.”

“I hoped the message would explain.”

“My dear child, staying out like that … with that man!”

“I had an accident, Mama.”

“That’s what they said.”

“Are you suggesting that there was no accident? I’ll show you my bruises.”

I wondered then what tales she had made up to tell her husband when she had gone to see my father. I was becoming very unsympathetic towards her. I told myself I was overwrought. I had had an accident, but it was not of that I was thinking so much as the thought of Paul standing outside my window. I was sure he had wanted to come in and that he had been grappling with his conscience. I wondered what his feelings would have been had he known that I had wanted him to come. I was very innocent and ignorant in the ways of the world, and I should very quickly have betrayed my feelings to him.

My mother was saying: “What will people think?”

“What people?”

“Everton, Marie, Jacques, the Dubussons … everybody.”

“Everton will think what you tell her to and Marie and Jacques what I tell them. The Dubussons and the Claremonts would have no uncharitable feelings about anyone. As for everyone else,
Honi soit qui mal y pense.”

“You always try to be clever. Olivia was never like that.”

I said: “Please, Mama. I am tired. I had a fall from a horse and I want to go to my room to rest. I just came to see you to let you know that I am back.”

“Where is Mr. Landower?”

“He left. He has taken the horses with him.”

“Well, I hope no one saw him and that the servants don’t gossip.”

“I don’t mind if they do, Mama. I have told you what happened and if people choose to disbelieve that, then they must.”

“You are getting dictatorial, Caroline,” she said.

“Perhaps I have been here too long and you would like me to go,” I retorted.

Her face crumbled. “How can you say that? You know I should hate you to go. The very thought of it makes me ill.”

“Then,” I said coldly, “you must not make me want to go, Mama.”

She looked at me in a certain surprise and said: “You’re getting very hard, Caroline.”

I thought: Yes, I believe I am.

That afternoon Paul came over to see me.

I was glad that there was no one about. Marie had gone into the town with Jacques to buy some stores and my mother was resting—and I presumed Everton was too.

I heard him ride up and went out to find him dismounting from his horse.

His first words were: “How are you?”

“Quite all right really.”

“Are you sure? No after-effects?”

“None—only the expected bruises.”

“I am so relieved. And now I have come to say goodbye. I am leaving tomorrow.”

“Oh.” My disappointment must have been obvious. “Come through into the garden,” I went on. “It’s quite warm in the sun.”

We went through to the walled garden.

“I didn’t expect I should leave so hurriedly,” he said. “I was hoping we could have done more excursions into the mountains.”

“With happier results,” I added, trying to speak lightly.

“That was quite an experience, wasn’t it?”

“Were they all right about the horses?”

“Oh yes. They said there are hazards in the mountains for people who are not used to them. May I tell Miss Tressidor that you will be coming to Cornwall soon?”

“Tell her that I want to come very much. I was all prepared to before you know, but my mother became ill.”

“And you think she might become ill again if you made plans to leave?” He stopped short. “I suppose I shouldn’t have said that,” he went on. “But you must not stay here too long, you know.”

“It is so difficult to know what to do. I shall discover though.”

“I will tell Miss Tressidor that you want very much to visit her and will do so at the earliest possible moment. May I give that message to her?”

“Please do.”

“I should so much look forward to seeing you again.”

“Yes, it would be pleasant.”

“I wish I could stay longer.”

We were silent for a while as we walked to the seat set against the stone wall.

I sat down and he was beside me.

“What time do you leave?” I asked.

“At the crack of dawn. It’s such a long journey and the train will only take me as far as Paris. I’ll have to change there and then there is the crossing and the long journey to Cornwall.”

We sat in silence for a while, but I had the impression that he was trying to say something to me.

I said: “Would you like some tea? My mother is resting. She usually does at this hour in the afternoon. Everton will take her tea at four o’clock.”

“No … no thanks. I just came to see you. I couldn’t just go off without saying goodbye.”

“Of course not. It was good of you to think of me.”

“But you know I think of you! I have … over the last years. But then I thought of you as a child with flying dark hair and green eyes. You haven’t really changed very much. Do you remember when we first met?”

“Yes. In the train. You detected my name on my bag in the luggage rack.”

He laughed. “Yes, and there was a dragon guarding you.”

“She still guards my sister and I expect will until her marriage.”

“But you escaped from your guardians.”

“Yes. Life has its compensations.”

“You’re a person who would value freedom.”

“Very much.”

“You are not in the least conventional.”

“Certain conventions have come about because they make life easier. I think I approve of them. It is just the useless ones which I find restricting.”

He looked at me earnestly. “You are very wise.”

That made me laugh. “If you really mean that you must be the only person who thinks so.”

He said: “Yes, I do believe it.”

I felt he was on the point of saying something very serious to me. I waited eagerly, but the moment passed.

A cold wind had blown up and I shivered.

“You’re cold,” he said. “I should not keep you out of doors.”

“Come into the house.”

“Thank you, but I won’t. There are certain things I have to do. I just came over to tell you I was leaving.”

Desolation swept over me. When should I see him again? I wondered.

If he wanted to see me, perhaps he would come here.

He turned to face me. “I should go now.”

I nodded.

“I shall never forget,” he went on. “The mountains were beautiful, weren’t they? There was a sense of being apart there … away from everything. Did you feel that?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I felt that … well, never mind. I shall remember it … the room, the balcony … and the damson pie. What was the rhyme?”

“Rich man, poor man …”

“No, not that one, the other one.”

“Oh … ‘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.’ “

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“Fancy your remembering.”

“I shall go on remembering.”

“It was a pity I was so stupid as to fall off that nice little chestnut.”

“At least it made our outing longer. Compensations, remember? Caroline … Let’s drop Miss Tressidor. It’s ridiculous after … after …”

“Our adventure in the mountains.”

“You will come to Cornwall?”

“When I can.”

“You must, you know. It’s a mistake to let oneself be used. There. Forget I said that. I just hope that you will come.”

“I will,” I promised.

“Before long?”

“Before long,” I repeated.

He was looking at me intently now. “There is so much I want to say to you.”

“Then say it.”

He shook his head. “Not now. There isn’t time.”

“Are you in such a hurry?”

“I think I should go.”

I held out my hand to him. He took it and kissed it.

“Au revoir,
Caroline.”

“Au revoir,”
I replied.

He looked at me appealingly and then suddenly he put his arms round me and held me tightly against him. He kissed me—not gently on the brow this time but on the lips and I sensed a sudden passion that was under an iron control. I could not help responding.

He released me with apparent reluctance.

“I must go. You see … I must go.”

“Goodbye,” I said.

“Au revoir,”
he insisted.

I walked with him out to his horse. He mounted slowly and rode away.

I stood watching him, but he did not turn to wave goodbye.

A deep depression set in after he had gone. I wondered when I should see him again. I certainly would if I went to Cornwall. I
would
go to Cornwall. He had said: “Don’t let yourself be used,” and I knew to what he was referring.

I would speak to Everton.

My mother was clearly delighted that he had left. She dismissed him from her thoughts and gave herself up to the joys of contemplating the coming visit of Monsieur Foucard.

December had come. Christmas was imminent. Marie had decorated the house with holly and mistletoe and Jacques had brought in what he called the Noel log.

It seemed to me that we were celebrating the advent of Monsieur Foucard rather than the coming of Christmas.

He arrived a week before Christmas Day. He had his own carriage and his manservant and they had taken rooms in the
auberge
where Paul had stayed.

One of the first things he did was visit us. The household was in a flutter, but my mother was calm, knowing that others would have to take care of the arrangements and all she had to do was receive him, look beautiful and indulge in a mannered flirtation; and that she could do very well.

She was lying on a sofa in the small salon when he arrived. She was
dressed in a morning gown of sprigged muslin and looked at least ten years younger than she actually was.