Freedom from lessons was a relief. Cousin Mary said that as I found such pleasure in the library, the perusal of great writers was the best education I could get and would be more important for me in the future than the multiplication table.
It was certainly a pleasurable way of educating oneself.
Whenever I went out walking or riding I liked to go past the lodge gates where I often saw Jamie—almost always in his garden. He would call a respectful Good morning. I wanted to stop and talk to him and ask about the bees, but there was something in his attitude which deterred me from doing this. But I promised myself that one day I would.
One day I came face to face with a rider in one of the narrow lanes.
"Why," he cried, "if it isn't Miss Tressidor!"
I recognized him as the younger of the travellers in the train.
He saw that and grinned. "That's right. Jago Landower. That's a frisky little mare you're riding."
"A little frisky perhaps. That doesn't bother me. I've ridden a great deal."
"In spite of coming from London."
"We ride there, you know. And we have a place in the country. When I'm there I'm always in the saddle."
"I can see that. Are you going back to the Manor?"
"Yes."
"I'll show you a new way."
"Perhaps I already know it."
"Well, you're not going the right way if you do. Come on."
I turned the mare and walked her beside him.
"I've looked for you," he said. "I wonder I haven't seen you before."
"I haven't been here very long, you know."
"What do you think of Cornwall?"
"Very . . . fascinating."
"And how long will you stay?"
"I don't know."
"I hope you won't go away too soon . . . not until you have got to know us really well."
"That's very welcoming, I must say."
"What about the dragon?"
"The dragon?"
"The lady jailer."
"Do you mean my governess, Miss Bell? She went back to London the next day."
"So you are free."
"She was not really a lady jailer."
"Wrong words. A watch-dog. How's that?"
"She was sent to look after me and she did that."
"I see you are a very precious young lady. I'm surprised that they let you out on your own. Oh, but that is My Lady Mary, teaching you self-reliance."
"Miss Mary Tressidor has shown me the countryside, and I am quite capable of looking after myself."
"I can see that. And how do you like the ancestral home? And how do you like Lady Mary? We always call her Lady Mary at Landower. She really is a very important lady."
"I'm glad you appreciate that. This seems a long way round."
"It is what is called a long cut as opposed to a short one."
"So you are taking me out of my way?"
"Only a little. If we had gone the way you were going, our encounter would have been too brief."
I was flattered and rather pleased, and I liked him.
I said: "Your brother was very quick to notice the name on my luggage and realize who I was."
"He's very bright, but on that occasion it did not require a great deal of perception. We had been informed that there was to be a visitor at Tressidor and we were well aware who. Your father was well known here. My father knew him and his sister Imogen. Some people thought he would inherit. But it went of course to Lady Mary."
"Who was the rightful heiress."
"But a woman!"
"Do you share the general prejudice?"
"Not at all. I adore your sex. And Lady Mary has shown she is as capable—far more, some say—as any man. I am just telling you why it was we knew you were coming and were to arrive on that particular day. Very few people travel down from London. We saw you when we passed the carriage and my brother said, 'Did you see the girl with the lady who is obviously her governess? I wonder if that could be the much heralded Miss Caroline Tressidor. Let's go back and find out.' So we did."
"I'm surprised that you went to so much trouble."
"We go to a great deal of trouble to find out what's going on at Tressidor. Look! There's Landower. Don't you think it's splendid?"
"I do. You must be very proud of such a home."
He was momentarily downcast. "Yes, we are. But . . . for how long . . . ?"
I remembered what Cousin Mary had said about there being trouble at Landower and I said: "What do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing. Yes, it is magnificent, isn't it? The family has been there since . . ."
"Since the beginning of time, according to Joe, the coachman."
"Well, perhaps that rather overstates the case. Since the fifteenth century actually."
"Yes. I heard you stole a march on the Tressidors."
"How well versed you are in local history!"
"Not as well as I should like to be."
"Well, there's time."
I knew where I was now and I broke into a canter. He was beside me. Very soon I saw the lodge gates.
"Not such a long cut, was it?" he said. "It's been delightful talking to you. I hope I'll see you again soon. Do you ride every day?"
"Almost every."
"I'll look out for you."
I rode into the stables, well pleased with the encounter.
After that I saw him frequently. Whenever I rode out he seemed to be there. He became my guide and showed me the countryside and he talked a great deal about the old legends and the customs and superstitions which abounded in this part of the world. He took me onto the moors and pointed out the weird formation of some of the stones, which had been put there, some believed, by prehistoric man. There was an air of mystery about the moors. I could really believe some of the fanciful stories he told me of piskies and witches.
"What a pity you didn't come earlier," he said. "You could have taken part in the ceremony of Midsummer Eve when we gather here at midnight and light our bonfires to welcome the summer. We dance round them; we become merry and a little wild and perhaps like our prehistoric forefathers. To dance round the bonfire is a precaution against witchcraft, and if you scorch your clothes that means you will be well protected. Ah, you should have been here for Midsummer's Eve. I can see you dancing, with your hair wild—a real Tressidor."
He showed me a disused tin mine and told me of the days when tin mining had made the Duchy prosperous.
"That's what we call an old scat ball," he said, "a disused mine. It's said to be unlucky. The miners of Cornwall were the most superstitious people in the world—apart perhaps from the Cornish fishermen. Their lives were full of hazards, so they looked for signs of good and evil. I suppose we should all be the same. Do you know, they used to leave food at the mine head for the knackers who could wreak evil on those who offended them. The knackers were supposed to be the spirits of Jews who had crucified Christ and could not rest. Why they should have travelled to Cornwall was never explained—nor how there could be so many of them. But do you know, there were miners who swore they'd seen a knacker—a little wizened thing, the size of a sixpenny doll, but dressed like one of the old tinners—that means an old miner. What do the knackers do now that so many mines are closed, I wonder. Perhaps they go back to where they belong. Now this particular shaft is said to be specially unlucky. You must not go near the edge. Who knows, some knacker might take a fancy to you and decide to take you with him wherever he belongs."
I loved to listen to him and urged him to tell me more, so I heard of the wassailing at Christmas when the great families provided spiced ale from which everyone drank. "Waes Hael," said Jago. "That's Saxon and means 'to your health.' Lots of our customs go back before Christianity came here, which explains why we are such a pagan lot."
He told me how they danced up at the big houses at Christmas, how the carol singers—called Curl Singers by the local people—came and joined in the merriment; how the guise dancers appeared on twel
fth night, masked and disguised, dressed as historical characters and frolicked out of doors and in and out of houses. Then there was Shrove Tuesday when it was permissible to rob the gardens of the rich, and how May Day was as important as Christmas and Midsummer's Eve, when all ages assembled in the streets of the towns with fiddles and drums.
They danced and feasted and set out to gather in the May, cutting branches of the sycamore trees and making them into whistles which sent out shrill sounds as they danced into the country and brought home the May. There was the Furry Dance, which was performed ceremoniously in Helston every year, and as fervently, if less orderly, all over Cornwall.
I had a notion that he was trying to show me how exciting life was here, and that he was pleased that I had come, and this made him very happy.
He loved to talk and I was a willing listener. He succeeded in making me feel that I wanted to witness for myself some of the customs about which he talked so enthusiastically.
But it began to dawn on me that often his gaiety was forced and I guessed that something was worrying him. When I asked him he shrugged it aside; but there came a time when he told me what was on his mind.
We had ridden past an empty farmhouse on the edge of the Landower estate. He said: "The Malloy family lived here for generations. There was only one son and daughter left and they had no feeling for farming. The man went to Plymouth and became some sort of builder. He took his sister with him. So the farmhouse is vacant."
"It's a very pleasant house," I said.
"H'm."
"I'd like to look at it. Could we go in?"
"Not now," he said firmly, and turned his horse away as though he could not bear to look at the place.
Later I discovered why. We had taken our horses onto the moor. It was invigorating there. I sat stretched out on the grass propped up by a boulder. Jago sat beside me.
I said: "What's wrong? Why don't you tell me?"
He was silent for a few moments. Then he said: "You know that farmhouse I showed you?"
"Yes."
"That may be our home soon."
"What do you mean?"
"We may have to sell Landower."
"Sell Landower! What do you mean? Your family has been there since the beginning of time."
"I'm serious, Caroline. We can't afford to live there. The place is almost falling about our heads and a fortune needs to be spent on it and soon ... if it is going to survive."
"Oh, I am sorry, Jago. I know how you feel."
"Paul is frantic, but he can't get any help. He's staying in Plymouth now . . . seeing lawyers and bankers . . . trying to raise money. He won't give up, though they say it is hopeless and nothing can be done but let the house go. Paul thinks he'll do something . . . somehow. He's like that. If he makes up his mind he won't let go. He keeps saying he'll find a way. But you see we need a fortune to spend on the structure and to save the roof. Everything has been neglected too long, they say. You think that because a house has stood for four hundred years it is going to stand forever. It would ... if we could save it. But we can't, Caroline, and that's all there is to it."
"What will you do?"
"They've come to the conclusion that we shall have to sell."
"Oh no!"
"Yes. The lawyers say it's the only thing. My father is deeply in debt. Creditors are pressing. He has to find money somehow. We're lucky, the lawyers say, to have the farmhouse to go to."
"How awful for you. And all those ancestors ..."
"There's only one hope."
"What's that?"
He burst out laughing. "That nobody will buy it."
I laughed with him. I was sure he was joking. He liked to tease me. Which was why I was never sure how much he was making up when he told me of the customs of the people.
Now I felt sure that he did not mean what he said. There was no danger of Landower's passing into other hands. How could it?
I raced him home. He waved a merry goodbye, saying: "Same time tomorrow."
I was sure all was well at Landower, or at least it wasn't half as bad as he had said it was.
A few days later I was going for a walk and as I came to the lodge Jamie McGill appeared.
"Good afternoon, Miss Caroline," he said.
"Good afternoon. It's rather sultry today. Do the bees know that?"
His expression changed. "They do indeed, Miss Caroline. They know about the weather all right. They know fast enough when a storm's coming."
"Do they really? They are fascinating, I know. I've always been interested in bees."
"Have ye now?"
"Oh yes. I'd love to know more about them."
"They're worth knowing." A bee flew over his head and he laughed. "He knows I'm talking about him."
"Does he really?"
"Lazy old thing."
"Oh, is he a drone?"
"Yes, he is. He does nothing but enjoy himself while the workers go about collecting the nectar and the queen's in the hive laying the eggs. His day will come though. When the queen's off on her hymeneal flight."
"Have you always been interested in bees?"
"Interested in creatures, Miss Caroline. I've had hives before I came here. Never so many though. They're miraculous little creatures. Clever, hard-working. You know what to expect from them."
"That's a great asset ... to know what to expect. Your flowers are lovely too. You have a way with those, I gather, as well as with the bees."
"Yes, I love the flowers ... all growing things. I've got a little bird in here." He jerked his head towards the lodge. "Broken wing. Don't think it will ever be quite right, but maybe it will mend a bit."
A cat came out and mewing rubbed itself against his legs.
"Have you any other animals?" I asked.
"There's old Lionheart. He's the Jack Russell. He can give a good account of himself. He and Tiger the cat are permanent residents, so to speak."
"And the bees, of course."
"Oh yes, and the bees. The others come and go. This bird . . . he'll be here for a little while yet, but living in a cottage is no natural life for a bird."
"How sad for it to be crippled. Particularly if it remembers the days when it was free. Do you think birds do remember?"
"I think God has given all creatures powers, Miss Caroline, just as He has given us." He hesitated for a while then he went on: "Would you like to step inside for a while? You could see the little bird."
I said I should indeed like to.
The dog came out rather fiercely to inspect me.
"All right, Lion. It's a friend."
The dog paused, eyeing me suspiciously. Jamie stooped to pat him and the dog's slavish devotion was apparent.
It struck me then that this was a happy man.
He showed me the bird with the broken wing. He handled it lovingly and I saw that the bird, in his gentle hands, ceased to be afraid.
He had a pleasant little parlour, scrupulously clean, and in this we sat and talked about the bees. He said that if I cared to, one day, when it was a good time, he would take me out and introduce me to them.
"I'll have to protect you first. They don't always understand. They might think you had come to attack the hive."
His conversation interested me in rather the same way that Jago Landower's did. I asked questions and he answered, obviously delighted by my interest. He told me how he had started with one swarm and now he had ten good stocks of bees in his garden.
"You see, Miss Caroline, you must understand them. Respect their feelings. They've got to know you for a friend. They know I'll shelter them against extremes of heat and cold. It's practical really to give them the best conditions for constructing the combs and rearing the young. Oh, I've learned a lot. Trial and error, you might say. I reckon now I must have the most contented apiary in Cornwall."
"I'm sure you're right."
"My bees have nothing to fear. They rely on me and I rely on them. They know they'll be looked after when the weather's too ba
d for them to forage for themselves. One day I'll show you how I feed them through wide-mouthed bottles full of syrup. That's when it gets cold though. They mustn't have too much moisture. When I boil the sugar I put a little vinegar in it. That prevents it crystallizing. Oh, I'm being tiresome, Miss Caroline. Once get me on to the subject of bees and I don't know when to stop."
"I find it very interesting. When can I actually look at the hives?"
"I'll speak to them tonight. I'll tell them all about you. I'll say there's a sympathetic soul . . . They'll understand. Mind you, they'd soon find out for themselves."
I thought he was a little too fanciful, but he interested me and I took to calling on him when I passed. Sometimes I went into the lodge, at others I had a little chat at the door.
Cousin Mary was rather pleased. "It isn't everybody who'll take the trouble to show interest in him. He's a good man. I call him our Scottish Saint Francis. He was the one who was always looking after the animals, wasn't he? You know that. Of course you do."
I felt now that I had three good friends—Cousin Mary, Jago Landower and Jamie McGill, and I was beginning to enjoy life in Cornwall. I could scarcely believe that it was such a short time ago when I had been dreading coming here.
Cousin Mary talked to me about the past when my father and Aunt Imogen used to stay at Tressidor for their summer holidays.
"The two brothers didn't get on very well, my father and your grandfather, that is. My father used to laugh and say, 'He thinks he's going to get Tressidor Manor for his son. He's going to have a bit of a surprise.' "
"I know how my father felt about that," I said.
"Yes. I'd never give up Tressidor. It's mine . . . till the day I die."
I asked her what she thought about the Landowers. Could it really be true that they might have to sell?
"There are rumours," she replied. "Have been for a long time. It will break the old man, because it's his fault, you see. They've had gamblers in the family before but he's the one who's brought it all to a head. If Paul had been born a little earlier it might have stopped the rot. I've heard he really cares for the place and has a flair for management and might have had a chance of pulling the place round. The trouble is not only the old man's debts but the fact that the house needs instant repairs. Oh, it's folly not to take these things in time."