There was nothing to do now but undress quickly. How sadly deflated I felt shorn of my royal garments. I was no longer an exciting woman, hiding behind a mask. I was myself—a girl, not yet "out," insignificant, far removed from that fascinating woman I had believed myself to be a few hours before.
That man had fostered my belief. Rupert of the Rhine! I laughed to myself. I wondered who he was. Surely I should soon be brought out into society. I was only just turned seventeen, but it was time, as everyone said.
I slept little that night.
In the morning there was a certain tension in the household. I learned from one of the maids that Rosie had gone.
"Gone!" I cried. "Gone where?"
"That's what we don't know, Miss Caroline."
"Didn't she come home last night?"
"Well, Mrs. Terras said she did come in. She was the only one who saw her. She's gone now though."
"Gone without saying goodbye."
"Looks like it. Her things has all gone ... all her lovely clothes." • It was incredible.
I was so taken aback that I tried to question Miss Bell. I doubt whether she would have told us had she known, but it was obvious that she was as much in the dark as the rest of us.
Our father had not gone to the bank that morning. The carriage had come round and been sent away. He was in his study—not to be disturbed.
There was a strange atmosphere throughout the house. But perhaps I imagined that as I was so sad because Rosie had gone.
I was in the schoolroom reading with Miss Bell—Olivia had come in and sat with us as she sometimes did—when there was a knock on the door and one of the servants entered holding a dozen red roses.
"They've just been delivered, Miss," she said.
Miss Bell rose. She read: "For Miss Tressidor." Then: "Oh, Olivia. For you."
Olivia flushed and took the roses.
I said: "They're lovely." Then I saw the card attached. Written on it was: "Thank you. Rupert of the Rhine."
I turned away. I thought: He knew who I was. And he has sent the flowers for me.
Olivia was looking puzzled.
Miss Bell smiled. "Obviously one of the gentlemen at the ball," she said.
"Rupert of the Rhine . . ." began Olivia.
She looked at me.
"Rupert of the Rhine," went on Miss Bell. "He would have been in some sort of armour, I suppose. Rather difficult to achieve."
"There was no one in armour."
"It was evidently someone who noticed you," said Miss Bell.
The maid was hovering. "Shall I put them in water, Miss Olivia?"
"Yes," said Olivia. "Please do."
I could not concentrate after that.
Miss Bell said: "You are reading very badly this morning, Caroline."
Olivia did not mention the flowers to me. I suppose it did not occur to her that anyone would have known that I was at the bail. I tried to figure out how Rupert knew.
While Olivia and I were taking tea with Miss Bell in the small sitting room which was used for such occasions, one of the maids came in to announce that Mr. Jeremy Brandon had called. Miss Bell looked at Olivia, who flushed a little. It was quite in order for young men who were interested in young women to call discreetly at the house and see the object of their interest in the company of a chaperone.
"Perhaps Mr. Brandon would care to join us for a cup of tea," said Miss Bell graciously.
He came in and I immediately knew him. His blue eyes rested on me and there was mischief in them. He took Olivia's hand and bowed to her and Miss Bell.
"And this," said Miss Bell, is Miss Caroline Tressidor, Miss Tressidor's younger sister."
He bowed to me, smiling that conspiratorial smile.
He seated himself next to Olivia. I was opposite. I averted my eyes from him though my thoughts were in a whirl. How soon had he known? He must have realized that I had no right to be there. I knew that it was not Olivia whom he had come to see, just as the roses had not been meant for her.
"It was an interesting evening," he said. "And the gardens were so suited to the occasion. I thought some of the costumes were delightful."
"I had great difficulty in keeping my oranges in my basket," said Olivia. "I realized quickly that it was not a good idea to be encumbered with them."
"I thought Henry the Eighth and Marie Antoinette were very amusing," he said, "and there was an enchanting Cleopatra."
"I daresay," said Miss Bell, "that there was more than one."
"I only saw one," he said.
They talked in a desultory way for a few minutes. I kept very quiet. I think Miss Bell was wondering whether I should be present, and was coming to the conclusion that no harm could come of it, even though I had not passed the magical "coming out" barrier.
He was determined to bring me into the conversation.
"Miss Caroline," he said, "did you enjoy the ball?"
I hesitated and Miss Bell said: "Caroline has not yet come out, Mr. Brandon."
"Oh, I see. So we shall have to wait another season before we are able to see more of you."
Olivia was fidgeting a little.
He then began to talk to me, asking about the finishing school in France. He said that France was a country he liked to visit. In a way he was shutting Olivia and Miss Bell out of the conversation.
I was feeling more of that excitement which I had known at the ball. He was very good-looking. His features were regular; he had twinkling eyes and a mouth which turned up naturally at the corners, indicating that he found life very amusing.
But I was becoming aware of Olivia's dismay and the disapproving glances of Miss Bell.
When he left he asked permission to call again and Miss Bell said she was sure that would be most agreeable.
Olivia did not mention him to me, which I thought strange. But she did seem to be a little bemused. I fancied she had believed at first that he had come to see her, which was natural of course; and she did not connect his visit with the red roses.
For the first time in my life I felt restrained with her, a little shy of saying what was in my mind, so I resisted the impulse to tell her that Mr. Jeremy Brandon was Rupert of the Rhine and that I had spent almost the entire evening with him.
The next day when I was walking in the Park with Miss Bell, we met him as if by chance; but I was delighted because I knew he had contrived the meeting.
He swept off his hat and bowed to us.
"Why it is Miss Bell and Miss Tressidor, I do believe."
"Good day to you, Mr. Brandon," said Miss Bell.
"What a pleasant afternoon. The flowers are beautiful, are they not? Have you any objection to my walking with you?"
I think Miss Bell would have liked to refuse but she was not sure of the propriety of this, but she could hardly do so without appearing brusque, and what harm could a young man do to a girl not yet "out," simply by walking beside her in the Park?
He talked of the flowers and pointed out the various trees; and I had a notion that he was trying to create a good impression with Miss Bell. She joined in the discussion with enthusiasm.
I said: "It is really becoming like a botany lesson."
"Knowledge is so interesting," he said. He pressed my arm and I knew that he was finding the situation very amusing. "Do you not agree with me, Miss Bell?"
"I do indeed," she replied with fervour. "One misses gardens in London. Do you have a garden, Mr. Brandon?"
He replied that there was a very fine one at his parents' country house. "What a joy to escape from Town to be in the peace of the country," he added, giving me a look which suggested he felt exactly the opposite.
Miss Bell was warming to him. One would have thought that she was the object of his pursuit. I knew differently from this. I knew that he was acting just as much now as he had done at the masked ball and that he was no more a country lover with a passionate interest in horticulture than he was Rupert of the Rhine or a nameless cavalier.
He
was with us for the best part of an hour and took his departure with a bow and fervent expression of thanks for an interesting time.
Miss Bell said: "What a charming young man! It is a pity there are not more like him. I rather hope something comes of his interest in Olivia. It would be so good for her." She was more communicative than usual and I think she had fallen a little under the spell of the captivating Jeremy Brandon. "I have spoken to Lady Carey about his call at the house and I have told her about the flowers. I wonder if he sent them. It could well be. He comes of a good but impoverished family. A younger son, but I think ... for Olivia ... he might be acceptable."
I burst out laughing.
"Really, Caroline. I fail to see what is so amusing."
I replied: "You have to admit it is rather like a market."
"I never heard such nonsense," she said shortly. Then she was silent and her mood softened. I imagined she was thinking of Jeremy Brandon.
During the week he called again. I was not present and Olivia received him. The visit was rather brief, and the next day Miss Bell and I met him in the Park. It was not so easy to pretend this was a chance meeting. I don't know what Miss Bell thought. I wondered whether it occurred to her that I might be the one in whom he was interested. We walked along by the Serpentine and then we sat on a seat and watched the horses in the Row. He talked knowledgeably about horses, but this was a subject in which Miss Bell was not interested as she was in horticulture.
She would clearly become suspicious if there were any more "chance" meetings in the Park.
It was a week after the ball. There was no more news of Rosie Rundall. I was constantly trying to learn something from the servants, but although they were willing to talk—for the mystery of Rosie Rundall was one of the main topics of conversation in the servants' hall —I could glean nothing, only certain descriptions of the clothes she had.
"To my mind, Miss," said one of the maids, "she must have gone off with a gentleman friend. She must have had one. Look at the clothes she had. I reckon he gave her them lovely things."
So Rosie had disappeared leaving no trace. Olivia and I talked of her, speculated about her and deeply regretted her departure.
Then one morning there was great consternation throughout the house. When his manservant had gone to the bedroom with my father's hot water, he had found him lying in his bed, unable to move.
Within a short time the doctor's brougham arrived and Dr. Cray hurried in.
The verdict was that my father was gravely ill. He had suffered a stroke and his life was in danger.
Everyone was subdued. This could mean great changes in the household and they were all deeply aware of that.
There were doctors in and out of the house. Two nurses were installed. Miss Bell, who added a knowledge of nursing to her many accomplishments, became attached to the nursing contingent and I saw less of her.
For a few days we expected my father to die, but he rallied.
Miss Bell told us that his health had been much impaired and that he would never be the same again but, as sometimes happened in these cases, a recovery could be made.
And it was. In a month's time he could leave his bed and walk about with the aid of a stick, though he dragged one leg a little.
After the first shock had subsided I began to realize that Miss Bell's involvement with the nurses meant that I had more freedom. I made the most of it.
Olivia and I were allowed to go out together and we enjoyed escaping from continual supervision. Jeremy Brandon had been considered by my aunt Imogen, and as his family connections, although not brilliant, were passable, and Olivia had been "out" for some time and had so far failed to capture a rich prize, he was acceptable.
He was allowed to take us to tea at the Langham Hotel, which was a great occasion.
We rode with him in the Park, too. I was allowed to accompany them and was amused to think of myself as a chaperone.
But Olivia, of course, was not long deluded. She knew that she was not the one in whom he was interested. It was a fact which even he could not hide; and finally I confessed to her that I had met him at the masked ball and that he was that Rupert of the Rhine who had sent the roses, which in fact were meant for me.
Now that the secret was out we could talk about the ball, and we did over tea.
"Your sister was such a plausible Cleopatra," he said to Olivia. "Really to talk to her was like being transported back to ancient Egypt."
"What exaggeration!" I cried.
"Oh, it was so indeed. I was looking over my shoulder all the time expecting Mark Antony or Julius Caesar to put in an appearance. There was an air of mystery about Cleopatra. I could not place her at all. I knew most of the girls in the circle. I was so surprised. I got the truth out of Moira Massingham. That was after the unmasking, when Cleopatra, the Cinderella of the ball, had disappeared. I recognized the snake necklace. I knew it was Moira's. She told me the whole story."
"It gave us many a qualm, didn't it, Olivia?"
She agreed that it did.
"Olivia was wonderful."
He smiled at Olivia. "I can well believe that."
She flushed and cast down her eyes. I felt sorry for Olivia who, I was sure, had first thought he came to see her.
Sometimes with Jeremy as our escort we left the dignified streets and went into the byways. I loved the bustle of the little streets where you could sometimes see children hopping over chalk marks on the pavements, chanting as they did so. I loved the hurdy-gurdies playing the popular tunes, and I liked the pavement artists whom we would stop to admire. Jeremy would sometimes talk to the artist and always dropped some coins into his upturned cap. The wider streets always seemed to be congested with landaus and broughams and hansom cabs.
We went shopping for ribbons and such articles, at Jay's in Regent Street mostly, and every day we saw Jeremy Brandon.
I was intoxicated by this newly found freedom which my father's illness had brought me.
One day—it was almost a month after my father's stroke—Jeremy drew me a little aside and whispered: "Why can I never see you alone?"
"It is just not allowed," I said.
"Surely we can arrange it."
"I'm not sure."
"Oh come, when you consider all the effort which went into fixing the Cleopatra episode, what insurmountable difficulties could a meeting on our own present?"
"I'll see if I can slip out alone tomorrow afternoon," I said. "Be at the end of the street at half-past two."
Olivia, who had been a few paces behind us, caught up then. He squeezed my hand surreptitiously.
I believed that he was in love with me. He gave me every indication that this was so. As for myself, I was only too ready to follow him in this exciting adventure. I was a romantic. I had lived so much in a fantasy world, which I suppose young people do, especially when there is not a great deal of affection in their lives. I had Olivia, it was true, and I knew that she was a staunch friend as well as a sister. But who else was there? My mother had gone off with her lover and had not even written to her daughters; it was hard to imagine my father fond of anything but virtue; Miss Bell was a good friend and I knew had some affection for Olivia and me, but her governess-like attitude made her aloof. I dreamed of a reconciliation between my parents, of my father's suddenly experiencing a complete change in his character like Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. My mother, on her return, in my dreams, became the mother I had always wanted—loving, protective, but at the same time a confidante to whom one could talk of one's adventures, who would help and advise. Up to this time the centre of my dreams had been Paul Landower. Why I should have made such a figure of him I was not entirely sure. But there was logic in my dreaming. I hardly knew him. It was his brother who had been my friend. But Jago was not of the stuff heroes were made. He was just a boy—rather like myself when it came to making wild plans. There was nothing remote or romantic about him. And it was romance I was looking for. Romance was mysterious, excit
ing, the dream in which a girl like myself could indulge, setting the stage for all sorts of happenings—all, alas, the figments of her overworked and event-starved imagination.
Thus I had set up Paul Landower as the archetypal hero. He had the right appearance. He was not too good-looking; he was essentially masculine and strong. I used the word rugged in my imagination. He was the scion of a noble family forced into a difficult situation by the profligacy of his forefathers. He had a touch of melancholy—so becoming in a hero. He had great problems and my favourite dream was that I helped him solve them; I was responsible for bringing back the mansion which was about to pass out of his hands. I did it in various ways and one was that I discovered some healing herb which cured Gwennie Arkwright—for in this version she had suffered greatly from her fall from the minstrels' gallery—and Mr. Arkwright was so grateful that he presented me with Landower Hall, which he had bought. I promptly handed it back to Paul.
"I shall be grateful to you for the rest of our lives," he said. "And there is only one thing which will make this gift acceptable. You must share it with me." So we married and lived happily ever after and had ten children, six of them sons, and Landower was saved forever.
That was my favourite and wildest dream; and there had been many more.
I was longing to be in love, for I was sure that was the happiest state in the world. I had seen what it meant when we had been in Captain Carmichael's chambers at the time of the Jubilee. That was what I thought of as Guilty Love. Mine would be noble and all would be wonderful.
Paul Landower's appearance had changed a little. He had become darker, more mysterious, more melancholy; and it was the right sort of melancholy which only I could disperse.
Sometimes I came out of my dream world and laughed at myself. Then I said: 'If you saw the real Paul now, you probably wouldn't recognize him as yours!'
However that was over now—ever since Jeremy Brandon had danced with me at the masked ball. I had a real figure to put in place of my dream one.
So I proceeded to rush, with habitual impetuosity, into love.
When I met Jeremy at the end of the street he said he wanted to talk to me seriously, and he was rather silent as we made our way to Kensington Gardens. We sat on one of the seats which surrounded the court in which stands the Albert Memorial, that dedication to her sainted husband by our grieving Queen—the symbol of faithful and devoted conjugal bliss.