"Oh," I said again. "I thought it was a chance meeting."
"I hoped you would. I didn't want you to think I was fussing or prying. But I did want to know."
"And what did he report?"
"Just what I thought. So you can imagine how delighted I was to hear of this Alphonse carrying off your mother to romance among the perfume bottles. You understand my feelings. Of course you do. Monsieur Alphonse is the fairy godfather to us all."
I felt deflated. He had come because she had asked him. He had stayed so briefly. Then I thought of him, standing on the balcony outside my bedroom . . . hesitating.
"Paul Landower is very shrewd," said Cousin Mary, "but for him there would not now be Landowers at Landower Hall. He has set everything to rights, which I am sure was always his intention."
"He must be very gratified."
"I gathered that you spent a little time with him."
"Yes. We went riding in the mountains. Unfortunately I fell off my horse and we had to spend a night at the auberge in the mountains."
"He didn't tell me that! A night in the auberge . . . with him!"
"Well, you see I was a bit bruised and shocked and they called in a doctor. He said I shouldn't make the journey back that evening."
"I see."
"Tell me about Landower. How did he manage to get it back in such a short time?"
"Didn't he tell you?"
"He didn't speak much about Landower."
"Oh well, the Arkwrights bought the place. You knew that."
"Oh yes. You must have told me at the time. There was a question of it before I went away."
"There was an accident and the daughter hurt her back."
"Not seriously, I believe."
"Well, it hasn't prevented her having a child. There's a dear little boy, Julian."
"Oh, she married, then?"
"But of course she married. That's how it all came about. It was the best solution. Old Arkwright would never have made a squire. There's more to it than brass, as he would put it. He had the money to restore the house, to repair the tenants' cottages . . . but he was no squire. They wouldn't accept him with his northern accent and his northern ways, and he was shrewd enough to realize that. They preferred gambling old Landower any day ... or Paul, who can strike fear into them, or Jago, who goes round seducing their daughters. They're squiral qualities. They wouldn't stand for the stern, down-to-earth, common sense of the northerner."
"I should have thought they would have been glad if he repaired their cottages."
" 'He bain't no squire' . . . that was the tale wherever you went. They were against me for being a woman. ' 'Tain't natural,' they used to say. But I soon showed them it was. Whether Arkwright would have managed to convince them in time, I don't know, but the opportunity came and he was too hard-headed a man to refuse it."
"What of the daughter, Miss Arkwright? I'm glad she wasn't crippled."
"Oh no, they thought the injuries would be worse than they were. She said she had seen a vision up there . . . ghosts. She was nervous and I don't know how she felt about living in the house. But her father managed to convince her that she'd imagined the whole thing. Trick of light and all that. She stuck out that she'd seen something and the place has an even greater reputation now for being haunted than it had before."
"Still, the Arkwrights bought the house. And the Landowers went into the farmhouse, I suppose?"
"For a while, yes. I didn't think they'd stay there long. And they didn't. It seemed the best solution. It might have been Jago, but that wouldn't have done so well, and I doubt Mr. Arkwright would have accepted that. He wanted the elder ... the serious one, for his son-in-law."
"His son-in-law!"
"Didn't Paul tell you he'd married Gwennie Arkwright and that brought the property back to the Landowers?"
I hoped she did not notice my reaction. I was sitting up straight in my chair and I knew the colour had drained out of my face.
"No-no." My voice sounded as though it came from a long way off. "He—didn't say anything about that."
I could not believe it and I was fighting hard to hide my emotions.
"You're tired," said Cousin Mary. "I shouldn't be keeping you up."
"Yes ... I am tired. It comes over one suddenly. I didn't notice how tired I was . . ."
"Well, come up to bed."
"Just a little longer, Cousin Mary. It's so interesting. There was a marriage then . . ."
"Well, it's quite three years ago. Yes, it must be. I think little Julian is two."
"And there is a child?"
"Everyone said how sensible it was. Even old Arkwright. He died not long ago. A contented man, they said. It was soon after Jonas went, and the two men got on quite well at the end. Mr. Arkwright used to say he'd made his pile of brass and had used it to buy an estate and the standing he'd always wanted for his daughter. Brass wasn't good enough without breeding, but he always used to say, 'What you don't have, you buy. You've got the brass, you've got what it needs.' I liked the old man. I became quite friendly with him. He was a man of the people—though brass-coated, he said. He had a colourful style of language; he was outspoken . . . and straight. I wouldn't be surprised if he was the one who put forward the proposition. I could imagine his saying, 'Marry Gwennie and the house will be hers, which means yours, and it's for the children Gwennie will have.' His triumph was supreme when Julian was born, and he told me once that the best thing he'd ever done—apart from going into the building trade at the right moment— was to buy Landower and marry his daughter to the man who would have owned it if his family had known as much about making brass as the Arkwrights did. 'It's an unbeatable combination—brass and breeding, and that's what my grandchildren will have.' "
"I can see it worked out very satisfactorily for the Landowers."
"Yes. They're back in the old house with the money to settle Jonas's debts, to restore the house and keep it up. A good stroke of business, wouldn't you say? Everyone was happy. All the people around in the cottages. They're real snobs, Caroline . . . much more aware of class than we are. They didn't want the Arkwrights for their squires. They wanted the old reprobate Landowers . . . and they got it. Julian is a regular little Landower by all accounts. Like a fairy story, don't you think?"
"Yes," I said, "a fairy story."
"Well, I filled you in with the picture. That's what's been happening at Lancarron. So now we have Landowers back at Landower, and Paul will see that the Arkwright brass is not frittered away. The estate is now as healthy as mine, and the rivalry to excel each other is once more rampant. Come on, my dear. To bed."
She kissed me goodnight at my bedroom door.
I was glad to be alone. I felt bruised and humiliated. It was like reading that letter from Jeremy all over again.
I shut the door and leaned against it.
What a fool I had been! Once more I had let my dreams take possession of my life. All men were the same. They looked to the main chance—and they took it.
I thought of Jeremy holding me in his arms, kissing me passionately, telling me how much he loved me. I thought of Paul Landower standing outside my window. Suppose he had come in! How dared he! He would dare much, I knew. Could it really have been that he was contemplating coming in, taking advantage of my gullibility? Had I betrayed myself so much?
And all the time he was married—married to someone who could give him Landower—just as Jeremy was married to Olivia, who could give him her fortune!
The pattern was the same. That was how men were. At least the Jagos of the world were honest. I thought of Robert Tressidor, the good man, the philanthropist. How shocked he had been by my mother's liaison with Captain Carmichael. He had turned her out of his house and turned his back on me. And all the time he was sneaking off to indulge his sexual appetites with prostitutes! And Jeremy Brandon had loved me most passionately until he found I had no fortune, when he turned his affection to my sister who had. And now Paul Landower. He had not attemp
ted to make love to me, it was true, but somehow he had conveyed something ... Or was I so foolishly fascinated by him that I had imagined it? He had gone away and left me with my dreams and hopes. I had not cared that he had no fortune. I had none either. I would have been prepared to live in a farmhouse . . . anywhere with him.
I wanted to cover my face with my hands to hide the shame I felt. I wanted to weep, but I had no tears. I felt my heart was bruised far more than my body had been by my fall in the mountains—and the scars that resulted were deeper and would never be cured.
I went to the window and looked out. Somewhere out there lay that great mansion which was more important to him than anything on earth. And somewhere far away Olivia and Jeremy were together, making love possibly . . . and what he really loved was the fortune which would be his. Such men do not love women—they love possessions.
"I hate men," I said aloud. "They are all alike."
And, as I had when Jeremy had wounded me so deeply, I found solace in hating.
During the night, when I lay sleepless in spite of my tiredness after the journey, I told myself that I would not stay here. I would go right away. But where? Where could I live? I had no home. Alphonse had said my home could be with him and my mother. No, that would not do. Olivia had said there would always be a home for me with her. What! Shared with Jeremy Brandon, my one-time false lover! Cousin Mary implied that she would like me to stay with her. I had wanted this until I had discovered that Paul had married in the same manner as Jeremy had.
I can't stay here, I told myself. Yet in a way I wanted to. I wanted to show him my contempt. I wanted him to know that even though I had not the slightest interest in him, which was quite false, I despised him, which was a contradiction. What I must show was my indifference to him, my unawareness of him.
That would be difficult. It would be better to go away. But where?
All my joy in my return was gone. I must not let Cousin Mary realize this. She was so very pleased to see me; she wanted me to stay. I came back to the perpetual question: How could I? Yet where else could I go?
I started to make plans. I would get some sort of post. What post? I had gone into all this before. A governess to unruly children? Companion to some demanding old woman? What could one do? Why were women never trained to be independent? Why was it presumed they were worthy only to serve the needs of men?
Men are all the same, I told myself. They may seem charming but their charm is superficial and they use it to get what they want. All they think of is what is best for themselves.
I hate them all. Never will I allow myself to be deceived again. If ever I have a chance of showing my contempt for them, I shall seize it.
In the morning, in spite of an uneasy night, I felt better. There is something therapeutic about the daylight. One sees clearly that during the hours of darkness one has been a prey to one's emotions, unreasoning, letting one's heart, as they say, rule one's head.
Why should I feel so angry with Paul Landower? What had he done to me? Nothing? Except fascinate me—yet he had made no attempt to do so. It had just happened. It was true he had stood outside my bedroom door. Might it have been that he was just looking in to see if I were all right? After all I had taken a nasty toss and one could never be sure what effect that would have. Had I misconstrued his intentions? How many times had I been wrong in the past? I had been a fool to imagine that he wanted to be with me, to be my lover. Because I had been attracted by him, it did not mean that he had been by me. And yet ...
I despised him, of course, for selling himself to the highest bidder. But wasn't I jumping to conclusions? Gwennie Arkwright might be a fascinating siren. I did not think so. I had met her on two occasions— once in the inn with Jago and once in the gallery when I had helped to frighten her. I was pulled up sharply at the thought of that. She had more reason to dislike me than I had to feel contempt for her husband.
I was being foolish again. I had allowed my dreams to take possession of reality once more.
Cousin Mary came in while I was having breakfast.
"Is that all you're having—coffee and toast!" she cried.
I said I was not very hungry.
"You're still feeling the effects of that travelling. Have an easy day. What would you like to do? You tell me. Are you still keen on riding? Of course you must be."
"Yes, very. But I didn't have much chance in France. I only rode once."
"That was when you had your fall."
"Yes. It was when ..."
"When Paul Landower visited you."
"He hired the horses and we went into the mountains."
"We haven't any mountains here. Only Brown Willy, and he won't match up to the Alpes Maritimes."
I laughed. It was good to be with her. She was so matter-of-fact, so full of normality. She was no dreamer.
I said impulsively: "It's good to be with you, Cousin Mary."
"I was hoping you'd feel that. Caroline, I want to talk to you very seriously."
"What, now?"
"No time like the present. Have you thought about doing anything—"
"You mean . . . earning a living?"
She nodded. "I know how you're placed. I got it all from Imogen. My cousin left you nothing, but you have a little from your maternal grandfather."
"Fifty pounds a year."
"Not exactly affluence."
"No. I have been thinking a great deal. But then I was with my mother and it seemed I might have to stay. Alphonse very kindly offered me a home with them but . . . Olivia too."
"If I know anything about you you're a young woman who wants her independence, are you not? Of course you are. Therefore I expect you will want to do something."
"I could be a governess, I suppose. A companion to someone."
"Ugh!" said Cousin Mary.
"I quite agree."
"Definitely unsuitable. Of course it is."
"When I passed Jamie McGill's lodge I thought of having a little cottage and keeping bees. Can one make money by selling honey?"
"Very little, I imagine. Oh no, Caroline, that's not for you. You say you've been thinking. I've been thinking, too."
"About me?"
"Yes, about you. Now, I'm beginning to feel my age a bit. Not so spry as I used to be. A touch of what they call 'the screws' meaning the old rheumatics in the joints. It slows you down a bit. I've thought of asking you many times . . . but it seemed you'd marry, which I suppose would have been the best thing for you if it had been the right man."
"Why, Cousin Mary, you follow the general trend of thinking. The best thing a woman can do is pander to the needs of some man. Why shouldn't she keep her independence? You have done so ... very successfully."
She looked at me sharply. She said: "Don't brood on that defaulter. Congratulate yourself rather. There are men and men. I know very well that a woman wants to choose very carefully and it often happens that she makes the wrong choice. I agree with you that it's better never to marry than to marry the wrong one. But if you could find that paragon of a man and have children of your own . . . well, that's about the best thing, I reckon. But don't set too great a store on it. The world's full of good things, and independence and freedom to be yourself is one of them. And in marriage you have to give up that to a certain extent. Make the most of what you've got. That's what I've always done and it hasn't turned out too badly. Now listen to what I have to say. I want you to help me. I want you to learn about the estate. There's a great deal to do. There are all the tenants to look after. Jim Burrows is a good manager, but it's the landowners who set the pace. I've always taken a personal interest. That's what was wrong at Landower . . . until now. I'd like you to learn about things, get to know the tenants, to write letters for me ... and generally learn all about it. I'll pay you a salary."
"Oh no, Cousin Mary. Certainly not."
"Oh yes. It has to be on a business footing. Just as if I were employing you. But I shouldn't let it be known just yet that I was doing so. P
eople are so inquisitive . . . they talk too much. You'd find it interesting. You'd earn some money. It would be more profitable than keeping bees, I assure you. Believe me, you'd find it very interesting. Now what's it to be?"
"I-I'm overwhelmed, Cousin Mary. I think you're doing this to help me."
"I'm doing it to help myself. I can tell you / want help ... but not from an outsider. I think you're cut out for the job. So that's settled."
"You are so good to me."
"What nonsense! I'm good to myself. You and I are two sensible women, are we not? Of course we are. I can't stand any other sort."
"I had thought that I shouldn't stay here . . . that I ought . . ."
"Give it a chance," she said. "I shall never forget your woebegone little face when we said goodbye last time. I said to myself 'There's one who's got a feel for this place.' And that's what it takes. It will be a great relief for me to have you with me."
"Well, I don't want to be paid."
"Now I'm beginning to believe you're not so sensible as I thought after all. Didn't someone say the labourer was worthy of his hire? You'll be paid, Caroline Tressidor, and no nonsense about that. Why is it people always get on their high horse when it's a question of money? What's wrong with money? It's necessary. We can't go back to bartering goods, can we? Of course we can't. You shall be paid. Not excessively, I promise you. Just what I would pay someone I called in to give me a hand. And with that, and what you've got, you'll be an independent young lady. And there are no contracts or anything like that. You come and go as you please."
I felt the tears coming to my eyes. It was strange that I, who had hardly shed a tear over Jeremy's perfidy and when confronted with the avarice of Paul, now wanted to weep for the goodness of Cousin Mary.
I said rather tremulously: "When do I start?"
"There's no time like the present," said Cousin Mary. "Get into your riding things and I'll take you round and show you something of the estate this morning."
Jamie McGill was in his garden as we rode out and he came to greet us.