I went to Paris for my mother's wedding and I stayed in a hotel with her and Everton for a few days, as Alphonse thought that my mother should not be under his roof until after the ceremony.
Alphonse had not exaggerated; there was no doubt that he was a very wealthy man. As for my mother, she looked younger and more beautiful every day. She was now attired like a lady of fashion and Alphonse was so proud of her that I hoped he would never discover her somewhat shallow and selfish nature.
I decided that I would leave France the day after the ceremony although Alphonse said the house was at my disposal for as long as I wished; and if at any time I wanted to make my home with them, I was welcome.
I thought that very generous of him and told him so.
"My dear, you are the daughter of my dearest wife. This is your home."
I told him he was charming and I meant it. And I marvelled at my mother's good fortune.
They went to Italy for their honeymoon. I saw them off on the train, my mother attracting glances of admiration from passers-by and Everton struggling with all the bandboxes, feverishly counting the cases, as happy as my mother to say goodbye to what they called penury.
Affluence suited them both.
I would cross the Channel and take the night train to Cornwall.
At last I was on my way.
THE LOST
ILLUSION
Seated in the train, watching the countryside rushing past, it was inevitable that I should recall that other occasion. It all came back so vividly. I could almost see Miss Bell sitting opposite me, making sure that I should profit from everything which came my way. I even remembered the two ladies who had left us at Plymouth although I had forgotten what they looked like.
I could remember so clearly that apprehension, that bewilderment, the terrifying experience of being wrenched away from all that was familiar, and being thrust without much warning into a new life. I could laugh now at my fears of Cousin Mary the ogress, the harpy, who had turned out to be so different from my imaginings.
Crossing the Brunei bridge, looking down at the ships below, I was seeing those two, Paul and Jago, and laughing to myself at the memory of Miss Bell who had disapproved of their addressing us. That was the beginning, I thought.
When I alighted there was Joe waiting for me in the trap just as he had five years before.
"My patience me," was his greeting, "I wouldn't have known 'ee, Miss Caroline. You'm grown a bit since I last did see 'ee."
"It's the usual thing, you know," I replied. "You haven't changed a bit."
"A few more of the white hairs, Miss Caroline, a wrinkle or two I shouldn't wonder. Travelling alone this time you be. Last time it was that governess woman. A bit of a Tartar she was."
"As you say, Joe, I've grown up."
Then we were rattling along. No need to warn me this time of the "bony" road. I knew it well. Everything was agreeably familiar.
I said: "It looks exactly the same."
"Nothing much changed down here, Miss Caroline."
"People change."
"Oh ... ah! They do grow older."
"More white hairs, more wrinkles," I said.
"You get along with 'ee, Miss Caroline." He began to laugh. "My missus was saying Miss Tressidor be right glad you'm coming."
"Oh, did she? That's a nice welcome."
"She took to you, Miss Tressidor did. My missus says t'aint right for women to be all alone in this world. They want a husband and children . . . that's what they do want. So my missus says."
"She should know, having acquired both."
"Well, yes, Miss Caroline, there be our Amy married to the wheelwright over Bolsover way and our Willy he's doing well at Squire Trevithick's place near Launceston. Then there's our Jimmy who went out to Australia . . . caused us a bit of trouble, our Jimmy did."
"You can't expect everything to work out smoothly, can you?"
" 'Tis something a man looks for, and I sometimes says to my missus, 'Well, there be Amy and Willy . . . and we don't see so much of them . . . and there be Jimmy in Australia.' And there's my missus herself . . . She keeps a tight hand on me. Sometimes I says to her, 'Maybe the old maids 'as the right idea.' That's if they're placed comfortable like Miss Tressidor."
"People make their own way in life," I said. "The art is to be content with what you have."
I thought I sounded just like Miss Bell.
Then I laughed and went on: "This is a very serious conversation, Joe. What's been happening here at Lancarron?"
"There's been tidy changes at Landower. The family be back there now."
"Yes, I heard. What changes, Joe?"
"Well, smart as a new pin, that's what. My patience me, there was workmen there all over the place ... on the roof . . . banging and scraping. Nothing much wrong with Landower Hall now, I can tell 'ee. The old gentleman died, you know. That must be well nigh a year ago.
But he saw the place righted afore he went, which made his passing easy, they say. And Mr. Paul, he be the master now. Oh, there's changes, I can tell 'ee."
"For the better obviously."
"You could say that and all ... There be unease, Miss Caroline, on an estate what's going downhill. Don't I know it? And it was like that ... for years it was like that. Not now though. Mind you, they'm on their toes. It were different with the old gentleman . . . that it were. It were the tables with him . . . gambling the night away. That and the wine and the women, they do say. There's been wildness at Landower. My gran'fer could tell some tales and he did and all. That Mr. Jago now."
"What of Mr. Jago? I remember him well. He was only a boy when I was here before."
"He be a man now all right." Joe started to chuckle. "Well, least said soonest mended."
Before I could probe further we had come to the lodge house.
There it was, the same as ever, the thatched roof, the neat garden, the flowers and, of course, the bees.
And there was Jamie McGill—plaid cap, plaid breeches and a gamekeeper type of coat edged with leather.
His face lit up with pleasure when he saw me.
"Miss Caroline!" he said.
"Oh, Jamie, it's good to see you. Is all going well?"
"Indeed it is, Miss Caroline. I heard you were coming and pleased I am."
"Did you tell the bees?"
"They knew something was in the air. They're as pleased as I am. They remember you well."
"I hadn't expected a welcome from them!"
"They know. They have their likes and dislikes and you're one of their likes."
"Jamie, I shall come and call . . . soon."
"I'll look forward to that with pleasure, Miss Caroline."
The trap moved on down the drive.
"A strange fellow he be, Jamie McGill," mused Joe. "My missus says she reckons something happened to him. Crossed in love, she reckons."
"Well, he seems happy enough, so I expect that happened a long time ago."
"There with all them bees . . . and the animals too. He's always got some creature there . . . something that's got hurt and he's putting to rights."
"I like Jamie."
"They all like Jamie, but my missus says 'tain't natural for a man. He ought to have a wife and children."
"Your wife is a firm believer in marriage and all it entails," I said. "Oh . . . and there's the house . . . just as I remember it."
I felt overcome by emotion as we passed under the gatehouse and rattled into the courtyard.
The door was opened almost immediately by one of the maids. Betsy, I remembered.
"Oh, Miss Caroline, there you be. We've been waiting for 'ee. Miss Tressidor do say you'm to be took right up to her room, soon as you come. Bring Miss Caroline's bag to her room, Joe, and I'll take you to Miss Tressidor, Miss Caroline."
I went into the hall. Cousin Mary was at the top of the stairs.
"Caroline, my dear," she cried, rushing down.
I ran to her and we met at the bottom of the staircase and hugged each other.
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"Well, well," she said, "at last. I thought you'd never come to see me. How are you? Well, I see. My word you've grown. Had a good journey? Are you hungry? Of course you must be. You're here, at last!"
"Oh, Cousin Mary, it's good to be here."
"Come along. What's it to be first? Refreshment, eh? What do you feel like? There's a good hour to dinner. They could put it forward. Perhaps just a snack to be getting on with."
"No, thanks very much, Cousin Mary. I'll wait till dinner. I'm too excited to think about eating, anyway."
"Then come and sit down just for a minute. Then I'll take you up and you can wash before supper. I expect that's what you'd like, eh? My word, you have shot up. Still, I'd have known you anywhere."
"It's five years, Cousin Mary."
"Too long. Too long. Come and sit down. Your room's the same one. Thought you'd like that. How did you come ... all the way from France, eh?"
"It was a long journey. Fortunately I was in Paris, which is not so bad as being right down in the south. The journey from the south to Paris took almost the whole of a day."
"And your mother married again! A kind of fairy prince, I gather."
"A rather elderly one, but very nice."
"Lucky for us all! If she hadn't I expect you'd still be there."
"I had made up my mind that I was coming, but it wasn't going to be easy unless ..."
"I know. The last time she was ill."
"She really was."
"H'm. Convenient sort of illness, perhaps. Never mind. She's happy with her prince."
"Honeymooning in Italy, and then they will return to his mansion in Paris and his chateau in the country. It is exactly what she needed."
"She has become a lady of the French nobility."
"Not exactly the nobility. He is a prince of industry."
"Which probably means that his fortune is more sound. Well, let's leave your mother to her good fortune and think about us."
"I'm longing to hear everything."
"All is well here. The estate is flourishing. I see to that." She glanced at the watch pinned on her blouse. "I think, my dear, that you should wash and change now and then we can talk to our hearts' content this evening. Betsy will be there to help you unpack. How's that? I just wanted a brief word and a look at you. We've got lots of time ahead of us."
I followed her up the stairs, through the gallery. No longer my ancestors, I thought, and felt a faint regret.
There was my familiar room. I went to the window and looked out across the parkland to the hills in the distance. I could not see Landower, but it was close and the thought of that sent my heart racing with excitement.
"Betsy," called Cousin Mary, and Betsy came in.
"Help Miss Caroline unpack," she went on. "She will tell you where everything has to go. Will you come down when you are ready, Caroline?"
I was very happy. This was a wonderful welcome. Cousin Mary was just as I remembered her and my affection for her was growing with every minute.
I was happy to be back.
Betsy was hanging up my things. "Where do 'ee want this, Miss Caroline? Shall I be filling these drawers with your linen? Here. Let me hang that up. Miss Tressidor says if you haven't enough space you could use the next room. There be a big court cupboard there."
"I have heaps of room, thanks, Betsy."
"Everybody be very glad you'm back, Miss Caroline. They do all remember 'ee as a little 'un."
"I was fourteen when I came here. I don't think I was all that little."
"You be a grown-up young lady now."
I thanked her when she had finished and she reminded me that dinner would be served in about half an hour. "Do you remember the dining room, Miss Caroline?"
"I do, Betsy. As soon as I entered the house I felt as though I had not been away."
Cousin Mary was waiting for me in the dining room. The table was elaborately laid. I glanced at the tapestries on the walls and through the window to the courtyard.
"Come and sit down, my dear," said Cousin Mary. "We'll have a long chat this evening. Though I expect you'll want to retire early tonight. You must say when you want to go to bed. We've lots of time in front of us."
I told her how happy I was to be here and while we were eating we talked of France and the events which had led up to my going there. I found I could talk of Jeremy Brandon without too much emotion.
"I suppose I should have gone to Olivia's wedding," I said. "It was cowardly not to."
"There are times when it is better to be a little cowardly. I don't suppose the bridegroom would have been too happy to see you there— nor, I imagine, would Olivia."
"You don't know Olivia. She is guileless. It comes of being so sweet-natured herself that she thinks everyone else is the same. She really believes that Jeremy was not influenced by the money—simply because he tells her he wasn't."
"Sometimes people who don't ask too many questions are happier than those who do."
"In any case, she is married now."
"He is no longer of importance to you?"
I hesitated. It was impossible to be anything but frank with Cousin Mary.
"I was so eager to escape from the bondage of Miss Bell and the strict rules of the household. I was hurt because I sensed the hostility of the man I thought was my father. Jeremy was romantic and handsome and charming . . . and it was easy to believe he loved me. So I felt the same about him. Why I felt the same I am not quite sure. I think I was ready and eager to fall in love."
"What they call being 'in love with love.' "
"Something like that."
"And now . . ." I could not say, When I met Paul Landower again I was glad I was not married to Jeremy. Did I really feel so strongly about Paul, did I want to escape from the humiliation Jeremy had imposed upon me, was I still "in love with love"? I supposed all people's feelings should be subject to analysis. Mine more than most.
I told her about the meeting with Alphonse and how he had immediately fallen under my mother's spell. There would be no questioning in that case. As long as he could keep her in luxury she would admire him. Contrary to the rules of morality, my mother was going to be the one who lived happily ever after.
The meal was over. I said I did not want to go to bed just yet.
"Let's go into the winter parlour. We'll have a little port wine. Yes, Caroline, I insist. It will make you sleep."
We left the dining room and went into the little room nearby. It was cosy and I remembered sitting there with Cousin Mary in the past. She took the port wine from the cupboard there and poured some into two glasses.
"There," she said. "Now we can talk without servants hovering."
I said that nothing much had changed here. Old Joe was still being commanded by his tyrant missus, and Jamie McGill was the same with his bees. "It all feels as though I've never been away."
"Oh, there have been vast changes. You'll discover."
I didn't want to broach the subject of the Landowers. I thought I might betray too much eagerness for information which would not escape the discerning eyes of Cousin Mary.
"So the estate is flourishing?"
"Oh yes, that's one of the things I want to talk to you about. . . but perhaps not tonight."
"But you've whetted my curiosity. What about the estate?"
"It's just that I thought you might learn a little about it. You might help me."
"Do you need help then?"
"Could do with it. I just thought you might find it interesting."
"I'm sure I should."
"It's too involved for tonight. We'll talk about a lot of things tomorrow."
"When you said there were vast changes ..." "I wasn't thinking of Tressidor so much as Landower." "Yes, Joe said something. How is ... er ... Jago?" "Oh Jago. He was a special friends of yours, wasn't he? He's become the Lothario of the neighborhood. There are tales about Jago." "He must be twenty-one ... or two. Is he married?" "Oh no. But some say he ought to be. They say he'll
go the way of his father. I don't know about the gambling, but he's certainly fond of the ladies. One hears these things and I'm not averse to a bit of gossip, particularly when it's about my neighbours and old rivals." "Does the feud still exist then?"
"Oh no, no. It's not a feud. It hasn't been for years. We're very good friends on the surface. But the rivalry exists. In the old days when Jonas Landower was gambling away the estate we were far in advance and the winners. It's different now. Jago would never have done it. The new affluence would soon have disappeared under him, I'm sure. They say he has a mistress in Plymouth to whom he is quite devoted, but he doesn't marry her and he's not averse to sporting with the village girls." "I remember him well. He was an amusing companion." "He's all of that still. He goes around with a song on his lips distributing that indestructible charm to all beholders particularly if they are young and personable. You won't want to get caught up with him. You won't. You're far too sensible." "I've learned a lesson, Cousin Mary." "Lessons are a blessing, providing one profits from them." "I don't think that indestructible charm would touch me." "No . . . perhaps not. Jenny Granger, one of the fanner's daughters, is making him pay for her baby . . . and it is said that it is possible he is not the father. Apparently there was a choice and she settled on him because she thought that would be more rewarding." "A risk a gentleman of his kind must take." "Now Paul, he's of quite a different genre." "I suppose it would be too much of a drain on the family fortunes to have two like Jago in it," I said, trying to speak lightly.
"Paul is a very serious man. I have become rather specially friendly with him. There are visits . . . occasional ones . . . but neighbourly visits nevertheless."
"That's interesting," I said, hoping my voice did not sound too unnatural.
"I have a confession to make," she went on.
"Really?"
"Yes. He was going to the South of France . . . Paul Landower, I mean. And I asked him to look you up."
"Oh!"
"I was worried about your mother and wondering what the position really was. I felt sure she wasn't really ill but was determined to keep you there looking after her. I wanted to know because a selfish woman can chain a daughter to her side so that she has no life of her own. I talked to Paul about you and he saw the point. I said to him, 'Could you call there? Go as if by chance . . . and spy out the land and then come back and let me know what's going on.' "