"All the same, I'd like you to come along . . . just for once."
"I'm here to see Olivia. I shouldn't have time. I shan't be able to stay very long."
"No. You have your responsibilities. Shall you keep the estate?"
"What do you mean?"
"I wondered if you might sell out and come back to London."
"The whole point of my having it is for me to carry on as before."
"Well, who knows? I'm so glad you're here, Caroline. I have been thinking a lot about you."
"I am sure you have been . . . when you heard of my inheritance."
"I always did."
"Well, I must go now to Olivia."
I passed on. And I thought: He hasn't changed. He is very good-looking, very charming—and very interested in my inheritance.
A few days passed and I was with Olivia most of the time. I found comfort being with her as this took me away from memories of Cousin Mary's death. I found I could laugh a little. She was very interested in Jamie McGill and asked many questions about him. I tried to remember all I could of his eccentric ways and I talked at some length about the bees and the animals he looked after.
She said: "How I should love to see him."
"You shall come down and stay . . . you and Livia and the new baby. You shall spend the whole of the summer there. Why not? It's mine now. Not that Cousin Mary wouldn't have welcomed you."
"Oh, I should like that, Caroline."
Then I talked about what we would do. I told her of the old mine and the legends about it and how it was said to be haunted. "We'd ride out to it, Olivia. You'd love the moor. It's wild ... in a way, untamed. I suppose it is because it can't be cultivated ... the stones, and the little streams and the gorse and all the Cornish legends—knackers and piskies and ghosts. We'd have a wonderful time. Oh, Olivia, you are going to come. Perhaps I'll take you back with me."
"I should love it, Caroline."
"What about your husband?" I looked at her sharply. I had scarcely mentioned him since my arrival. Nor had she. Perhaps she thought that as I had once nearly married him, he was not a subject I should care to discuss.
"Oh, Jeremy ... he wouldn't mind, I'm sure."
"He wouldn't want to lose his family, would he?"
"He'd be all right."
"Perhaps he would want to come, too."
"Oh . . . he's not really a country person."
No, I thought. He likes the gaiety of town, the gaming clubs, the hostesses . . . Oh, definitely not a country person.
I went on planning what we should do. "Too late for the midsummer bonfires," I said. "Well, that's for next year. You're going to make an annual thing of your visits, you know."
Nanny Loman brought in Livia and she and I played on the floor together. Olivia watched us with shining eyes.
"You're better with her than I am," she said. "Well, I suppose all the time she's been growing up I've been pregnant."
"You'll feel better soon. The Cornish air will work wonders. There's a little boy . . . The Landowers' . . . I'm rather fond of him. He'll be a playmate for Livia."
"I long for it, Caroline."
"It's something to look forward to."
When I was alone with Miss Bell, she said to me: "Olivia has been much better since you came."
"I'm worried about her," I replied.
She nodded. "Yes. She is far from well. She was never as strong as you were and she suffered a lot with Livia. This was too soon . . . too soon." She pursed her lips and put her head a little on one side. I knew she was expressing disapproval of Jeremy and I wondered what she knew. I resisted the temptation to ask for I was sure she would consider it was disloyal to discuss her employer; and being Miss Bell, with ingrained ideas of the supremacy of the male, she would doubtless consider Jeremy, rather than Olivia, her employer.
A few days later Olivia's pains started and the household was in a turmoil. Her labour was long and arduous and I was in a state of deep anxiety.
Miss Bell and I sat together waiting for news. I felt very melancholy. I kept thinking of Cousin Mary and how quickly death can take away.
I was trembling with anxiety and the hours of waiting seemed like an eternity.
At last the child was born—stillborn. I felt myself enveloped in terrible depression for Olivia was very seriously ill.
I could not rest. I went to see her. She looked—pale and hardly aware of anything. She did open her eyes and smile at me.
"Caroline." She did not exactly speak but her lips shaped the words. "Remember."
I sat beside her for a while until she appeared to be sleeping. I tiptoed out and went to my room because the sight of her so wan, so lost to the world, was hard for me to bear.
I did not undress. I sat there with my door open—for my room was next to hers and I had a feeling that she might wish to see me, and if she did I wanted to know and be there.
It was past midnight and the house was quiet. I could not resist the impulse to go to her. It was almost as though she were calling me.
She was lying on her bed, her eyes open. She looked at me and smiled.
"Caroline . . ."
I went to the bed, sat down and took her hand.
"You came . . ." she said.
"Yes, dear sister, I'm here."
"Stay. Remember . . ."
"Yes, I'll stay and I'll remember. You're worried about Livia. There's no need. If it were necessary I would take her. She would be as my own."
She moved her head slightly and smiled.
We sat there for some time in silence.
Then she said: "I'm dying, Caroline."
"No ... no ... You'll feel better tomorrow."
She shook her head. "The baby died. He'll never know anything. He died before he was born."
"It happens now and then," I said. "You'll have more . . . healthy ones. All will be well."
"No more . . . never again. Livia ..."
"Livia is all right. If ... it happened, I will take her. She'd be mine."
"I'm happy now. I'm not sorry . . ."
"Olivia, you've got to think of living. There's so much to live for."
She shook her head.
"Your child . . . your husband . . ."
"You'll take Livia. Him . . ."
I put my face close to her lips.
"He ... the money . . ."
I thought, Rosie was right. And Olivia knows.
"Don't worry about money."
"Debts," she whispered. "I hate debts."
"You haven't anything to worry about. You've got to get well."
"Flora . . . Flora Carnaby ..."
I felt sick. She knew then. Was this the reason for her apathy? Olivia had discovered the perfidy of men . . . just as I had. But whereas I had hated fiercely she had given up hope and looked forward to death.
As I looked at my sister I felt the old bitterness well up within me. How dared he use her like this! Take her money and waste it on gaming tables and other women. I felt an overwhelming desire to hurt him as he had hurt her.
My voice was shaking as I bent over her and spoke to her.
"Olivia, there's nothing to worry about. Don't think of anything but getting better. You've got me and I'll look after you. You'll come to Cornwall. You'll meet the people who interest you so much. We'll be together ... the three of us, you, me and Livia. We'll shut out the rest of the world. Nobody's going to hurt you or me any more."
She was clinging to my hand and a certain peace seemed to come into her face.
I sat there for a long time holding her hand, and I knew that my presence comforted her.
She never spoke to me again.
The doctor was at the house all next day. There was a hushed gloom everywhere. I could not believe it. Death could not strike twice so soon.
But it could. Olivia was dead. She lay white and still, her face surprisingly young, the lines of anxiety and pain wiped from it. She was the Olivia of my childhood, the sister whom I had patronized, l
ooked down on in some ways, although she was older than I. Nevertheless I had loved her dearly.
If only she would come back, I would take her to Cornwall with me. I would make her forget her perfidious husband, her disillusion with life.
I shut myself in my room. I could not speak to anyone. I felt a deep-rooted sadness which I feared would be with me for the rest of my life.
She must have known she was going to die. I remembered the way she had spoken of death; the certainty with which she had faced it. It was why she wanted to see me; why she had been so insistent that I look after her child.
She had not wanted her to be left to the mercy of a father who might remarry someone who would not care for the child. How much did he care? Was he capable of caring for anyone but himself? Had she feared that Aunt Imogen might take the child? Poor Livia, what a life she would have had! She would be left to the care of Nanny Loman and Miss Bell—kind, worthy people—but Olivia had wanted the equivalent of a mother's love for her daughter, and she knew there was only one place where she could be sure of that. With me.
As I realized the weight of my responsibility, my terrible melancholy lifted a little. I went to the nursery. I played with the child. I built a castle of bricks with her. I helped her totter along; I crawled on the floor with her. There was comfort there.
The funeral hatchment was placed on the outside wall as it had been at the time of Robert Tressidor's death, and the ordeal through which I had recently passed in Cornwall had to be faced again here. There were the mutes in heavy black, the caparisoned horses, the terrible tolling of the bell and the procession from the church to the grave.
I caught a glimpse of Rosie as I went into the church. She smiled at me and I was pleased that she had come.
I walked beside Jeremy. He looked sad and every bit the inconsolable husband, and I think my contempt for him helped me to bear my own grief. I wondered cynically how deep his sufferings went and whether he was calculating how much of her fortune would be left to him.
I stood at the graveside with him still beside me and Aunt Imogen on the other side with Uncle Harold. Aunt Imogen was wiping her eyes and I asked myself how she managed to produce her tears. I myself shed none.
Back at the house there was food and drink—the funeral meats, I called them—and after that the reading of the will. Olivia's wish that I should have the custody of her child was explained.
Everything passes, I consoled myself. Even this day will be over . . . soon.
There were several family conferences. Aunt Imogen usually took control. She thought it was rather unseemly for an unmarried woman to have charge of a child. What would people say? Whatever explanation was given they would think . . .
I said: "They may think what they will. But as it is a matter of concern to you, Aunt Imogen, let me remind you that I intend to take Livia with me to Cornwall, and if it is any consolation to you and soothes your fears, there they will all know that it is impossible for her to be my child. I was very much in evidence among them at the time of her gestation and birth, and I am sure that even the most suspicious and scandal-loving would find it very hard to explain how a young woman managed to bear a child while going about the countryside, keeping its existence a secret and somehow smuggling it to London."
"I was thinking of your future," said Aunt Imogen, "and however you look at it, it is unsuitable."
All the same her protests were half-hearted, for she herself did not want to be burdened with the care of Livia.
"And another thing," she went on, "it seems to be forgotten that Livia has a father."
"When Olivia asked me, just before she died, she did not mention Livia's father."
Jeremy said: "There is no one to whom I would rather trust my daughter than to Caroline."
"I still think it is irregular," added Aunt Imogen.
"I shall be leaving for Cornwall very shortly," I said firmly: "I have written asking them to prepare the nurseries there."
"They can't have been in use for ages," said Aunt Imogen.
"Well, it will be pleasant to use them again. I shall take with me Nanny Loman and Miss Bell ... so Livia will not find everything very different around her."
"Then," added Aunt Imogen, and I fancied I detected a note of relief in her voice, "there is nothing more we can do."
I overheard her say to her husband that I had a very high opinion of myself, and I was Cousin Mary all over again. To which he replied, rather daringly, that that was perhaps not such a bad thing in view of my responsibilities. I didn't wait to hear her comment. I was not interested in Aunt Imogen's view of me.
I spent a great deal of the rest of my time in London with Livia. I wanted her to get used to me. She did not appear to be aware that she had lost her mother, which was a blessing. I was determined to give her a substitute in myself, in the hope that she would never really know what she had missed.
I played with her; I talked to her; she had a few words; I showed her pictures and built more castles. I crawled about the floor and I was rewarded by the smile which appeared on her little face every time I appeared.
She was helping me to overcome my grief. I did not want to think of death. It seemed to me so cruel that two loved ones should have been taken from me within a few months.
I clung to Livia as I had clung to Tressidor. Worthwhile work was the only solace I could find.
Nanny Loman and Miss Bell were eager to accompany me to Cornwall. They both thought it would be best to get right away.
"She doesn't know her mother's gone yet," said Nanny Loman. "She didn't see so much of her while she was ill ... but she might remember . . . here. New surroundings are what she needs."
I believed Nanny Loman was a very sensible woman; and I knew the worth of Miss Bell.
"Death in childbed," she said, "is no uncommon occurrence, alas. Olivia should never have undergone another pregnancy so soon. It was most unfortunate."
"She knew, I think."
"She was not really happy towards the end," said Miss Bell.
No, I thought, indeed she was not. She must have known he was losing money, for she had murmured something about debts. And Flora Carnaby . . . she knew of that too. Servants whisper, I supposed. Those things which were not intended for her ears reached her in some way. It could so easily happen.
Before I left Jeremy talked to me.
"Thank you, Caroline. Thank you for all you are doing for Livia."
"I am doing what Olivia asked me to before she died."
"I know."
"She was aware that she was going to die."
He hung his head, implying that his grief had overcome him. I was sceptical. All the old hatred I had felt for him when he had told me he did not want me without a fortune, swept back.
"I don't think she was very happy," I said pointedly.
"Caroline ... I shall want to see my daughter sometimes."
"Oh, shall you?"
"But, of course. Perhaps you will bring her to me ... or perhaps I will come to see you."
"It's a very long journey," I reminded him. "And you would find it rather dull in the country."
"I should want to see my daughter," he said. "Oh, Caroline, I'm so grateful to you. To be left with a young daughter ... I feel so inadequate."
"You couldn't be expected to excel in the nursery as I am sure you do in other fields."
"Caroline, I shall come."
I studied him intently and thought: Oh yes, he will come.
Was that a certain gleam I detected in his eyes? Now he was looking at me as once he had before. He would see me against the background of a country mansion, and I could see that he found the picture as attractive as it had been once before against another setting—which had however proved without substance. This one was undoubtedly real.
I was amused. Oddly enough he helped to assuage my grief a little. Thinking of him and his motives made me forget for a while the memory of my sister lying cold and lifeless in her bed.
Th
ere was great excitement when I arrived in Lancarron with my nursery cavalcade. It was the talk of the place for at least a month.
People called to see the child, to hear the latest about the new arrangements at Tressidor. The nurseries were more spacious than those in the London house and although they had been cleaned and made ready there were new acquisitions needed. I plunged feverishly into the buying of new curtains and equipment, everything that was wanted for a modern nursery. To work hard all day, to go to bed tired so that I was too exhausted to brood was the best thing possible.
My life was doubly full. There were the estate matters which had fully occupied me before but now there was the child as well and I was determined to be the sort of mother to Livia that Olivia would have wished.
I had the excellent Nanny Loman and the ever watchful Miss Bell; but I wanted Livia to have a mother in me, and I spent every possible moment with her. I arranged a meeting between Nanny Loman and the guardian of Julian's nursery, and it was fortunate that the nannies—as Nanny Loman put it—immediately took to each other. There was hardly a day when Julian was not at Tressidor, or Livia at Landower.
I saw less of Paul because when I rode out I was usually in haste on some mission or other. I had no time for dallying on the moors or in the lanes.
Jago was amused. He called me the New Woman. Caroline, the clucking hen with her one chick. He was still making mysterious trips to London and talking vaguely about machinery, and wheels within wheels and contracts which were pending.
"Why do you bother?" I asked. "We all know there is only one reason for these mysterious trips."
"And what is that?" he asked.
"A secret woman."
"You'll be surprised one day," he retorted.
I didn't think very much about him; but I did think a great deal about Livia.
I was getting more and more fond of Julian, who was delighted by the turn of events. He looked happier and asserted himself quite vigorously and adopted a somewhat protective attitude towards Livia. I longed for a child of my own. The nursery was big. I had daydreams of seeing it full of my own sturdy little ones. But I should need a husband. Was I going to be frustrated forever?
In spite of my desire to shut him out, Paul would creep into my thoughts. He was a sad man nowadays, but he could be so different. I often thought of him as he had been when I had first seen him on the train. Powerful. In charge, that was how I had thought of him. Master of his fate. But even then he had been worried about the estate and had been returning from Plymouth where he had possibly been to arrange a loan to bolster up the old place. But he had still had his dignity then, his honour.