It was not until they were in sight of the manor-house, and she saw a light shining out from her tower window, as though someone had lit a light there to guide her home, that she suddenly wondered whether Sir Benjamin and Miss Heliotrope were dreadfully anxious about her. She was very penitent, for she had not given a thought to them for hours.
‘Quick, Wrolf,’ she said, tugging at his ruff. ‘Hurry! Hurry!’
But Wrolf refused to be hurried, and gazing up into her face he gave her a reassuring look . . . He knew they were not anxious.
And when they reached the lighted hall the spectacle presented by Sir Benjamin and Miss Heliotrope, seated at the table in front of the fire devouring pork chops and onions, baked apples, and custard, while Wiggins and Serena lapped bread and milk from bowls set upon the hearth, was not one that suggested anxiety.
‘Safe home,’ said Sir Benjamin, but not as though he had doubted that she would be. And he was wearing his best waistcoat, she noticed, the one embroidered with yellow roses and crimson carnations, and his great ruby ring. People don’t bother to put on their best clothes when they are anxious.
‘You’re late, dear,’ said Miss Heliotrope, but not as though she minded.
In spite of the big tea she had eaten Maria found that her Merryweather appetite was still functioning quite nicely, and she was sorry to see that Sir Benjamin, who had been concentrating upon the pork and onions, had left very little for her to concentrate upon, and that Miss Heliotrope, before whose place the baked apples and custard had been set, was evidently not suffering from indigestion tonight. But she need not have worried, for the kitchen door now opened a crack and the heads of Marmaduke Scarlet and Zachariah the cat appeared one above the other in the aperture.
‘Should the young Mistress and the dog Wrolf deign once more to enter my humble apartment they will find within it two small collations designed respectively for the satisfaction of the inward cravings of a high-born young female and her faithful canine attendant,’ said Marmaduke.
Maria and Wrolf deigned, with speed. The kitchen, lighted by the glow of the great fire, was gloriously cosy. The canary, as yet uneaten by Zachariah, was singing lustily. On the table was set a roasted pigeon in a silver dish, an apple dumpling, and a pot of cream. On the floor was a huge mutton bone. Wrolf fell to without more ado, but Maria, though her supper smelled so delicious that it set her nose quivering like a rabbit’s, went first to the wide hearth and looked in the ashes.
Yes, there was another series of pictures drawn there. First came a picture of Serena, leaping along on three legs, her ears streaming behind her with the wind of her going, then came once again that outline of the sickle moon that stood for herself, and then the outlines of two small square solid houses such as a child draws.
Maria laughed out loud in delight. Serena had brought the message and Zachariah had written it on the hearth. ‘Serena says Maria is safe as houses.’
‘Oh, clever Serena!’ cried Maria. ‘And clever Zachariah!’
Zachariah walked round and round her in circles, his tail held as usual in three coils over his back, pressing against her skirts, and purred and purred and purred.
3
But the discovery of the pictures on the hearth was not the last of Maria’s discoveries that day. There was still one more to come.
When she had finished her delicious supper and gone back to the hall she found it empty, but candlelight shining from beneath the parlour door told her where she would find everybody. And there they all four were, Wiggins and Serena sleeping before the fire and Sir Benjamin and Miss Heliotrope beside them, seated one on each side of the small table that usually stood against the wall with the chessmen and workbox upon it . . .
And they were playing chess . . . Those frozen chessmen were being used again at last. The little red dogs and white horses were prancing over the black and white squares, and the kings and queens and knights and bishops were all drawn up in battle array, and they were not frozen any more. In the glow of the firelight and candlelight they were made not of ivory but of opal and pearl. They were alive.
‘Oh!’ cried Maria in delight. ‘You’re using the chessmen again!’
Sir Benjamin looked up, and Maria saw that his face was redder than ever and that his brown eyes had a very startled expression in them, as though he were doing something that he had never expected to find himself doing again.
‘I haven’t played chess for more than twenty years,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I used to play chess with — well — that’s an old story.’
‘Whatever made you do it now?’ demanded Maria.
‘When we came into the room they looked so unused,’ said Sir Benjamin. ‘Not like the harpsichord, which looks somehow quite different since you came. Before I knew what I was saying, I had suggested to Miss Heliotrope that we should have a game.’
‘Where’s the workbox?’ demanded Maria. ‘The workbox that stood on the table beside the chessmen? That’s unused too. What have you done with the workbox?’
‘Was there a workbox?’ asked Sir Benjamin vaguely.
Miss Heliotrope gazed about her over the top of her spectacles. ‘I think I put it on the floor somewhere,’ she said.
‘On the floor!’ exclaimed Maria indignantly. Then she saw it down in the corner and pounced on it. ‘If you’re using the chessmen, I’m going to use the workbox,’ she said.
‘Certainly, my dear,’ said Sir Benjamin. But he was intent on the game, and she doubted if he had heard what she said. Nevertheless, she had his permission, the permission to open the workbox that had not been given her the other day. She carried it over to the window-seat, sat down and held it for a little while in her lap, sniffing the lovely faint scent of the cedarwood. Then she lifted the lid and looked inside.
The box was lined with quilted ivory satin, and fastened against the inside of the lid by loops in the satin were a beautiful little silver thimble and a pair of scissors. Inside the box was a half-finished piece of embroidery, neatly folded. Maria took it out and unfolded it, and it was a waistcoat of white satin embroidered with white moon-daisies with yellow centres like little suns, each daisy backed by green leaves so that it showed up against the white satin. It was nearly finished. There were only a few leaves not yet completed.
Maria set the workbox on the seat beside her, and spread the waistcoat out on her lap. Then she looked across at Sir Benjamin, sitting opposite her, too absorbed in his chess to notice what she was doing. The candlelight gleamed upon the beautiful embroidered waistcoat he was wearing. Maria looked from one piece of work to the other. The flowers were different, but the design was the same. One could not doubt that the same hand had worked them both — and — and — yes — the same stitches had been used in the embroidery of the flowers upon the lavender bags that Loveday had made for Miss Heliotrope . . . Loveday had worked both these waistcoats.
Maria sat very still, thinking very hard. The waistcoat in her lap looked, she thought, as though it had been made of the same satin as the wedding dress that she had been wearing only that afternoon. It looked as though it, too, had been made for a wedding. Moon-daisies with centres like yellow suns. Moon and sun.
Suddenly she remembered something Marmaduke Scarlet had said on the day she had first visited him in the kitchen and he had praised Miss Heliotrope. ‘A distinct improvement upon the other duenna who resided here once before with the other young mistress.’
And then she remembered what Loveday had said about old Elspeth, who had once lived at the manor-house, but had quarrelled with Marmaduke and refused to live there any more. Sir Benjamin had made her porteress, and then she had quarrelled with him too. But she must have been friends with Loveday, for Loveday had known when she died and had taken her place in the gatehouse inside the hill.
Maria suddenly saw it all. Her curiosity was satisfied. Loveday as a girl had lived here with her governess, even as she, Maria, was living here now with hers. And Loveday and her governess had driven about in the lit
tle pony-carriage. And Loveday had ridden Periwinkle and loved Wrolf. And she would have married Sir Benjamin, but they quarrelled, and she went away. Maria remembered that Old Parson, when she had breakfast with him, had talked about the tune that Maria had liberated from the harpsichord, and said: ‘It must have been the last one she played before she shut the harpsichord. Yes, I remember that she played it that night. It was her last night at the manor. That was twenty years ago.’
Maria had not known then who he was talking about. It was Loveday, of course. Loveday and Sir Benjamin had quarrelled that night and Loveday had gone away to the town beyond the hills and married the lawyer, Robin’s father, instead . . . And Wrolf had gone back to the pine-woods . . . But she loved this valley so much that when her husband died she had to come back to it.
But she had been too proud to let Sir Benjamin know she had come back, too proud to try to make it up. What had Sir Benjamin and Loveday quarrelled about, Maria wondered? Whatever it was, it was time they made it up, now that Sir Benjamin’s and Marmaduke’s dislike of women had been slightly mollified by the good behaviour of herself and Miss Heliotrope.
‘I must make them make it up,’ said Maria to herself with great determination.
But first there was Paradise Hill to give back to God. That was the next thing. Maria folded up the waistcoat and put it away, tucked the workbox under her arm, and went quietly towards the tower stairs. For she must go to bed early because she had to be up early in the morning for her next adventure. There was, however, one more thing that must be done before bed.
With her hand on the latch of the tower door she said in commanding tones, ‘Sir Benjamin! Sir!’
Her relative looked up, considerably startled, for never before had he been addressed in his own house in quite such a royal manner.
‘Sir Benjamin,’ said Maria, ‘you have no right to the money that you get from selling the wool that is sheared from the backs of the sheep you keep on Paradise Hill.’
‘Indeed, Maria!’ ejaculated Sir Benjamin. ‘And why not, pray?’
‘Sir Wrolf stole Paradise Hill from God,’ said Maria firmly. ‘And tomorrow Old Parson and all the children and I are going to give it back to God. It won’t be yours any more.’
‘Dear me,’ said Sir Benjamin.
‘You must give me your word, Sir,’ said Maria, ‘that you will not keep the money for yourself any more, but will give it to the poor.’
‘My income will be considerably depleted,’ said Sir Benjamin in rather dry tones.
‘You could eat less,’ suggested Maria helpfully.
‘Maria!’ ejaculated Miss Heliotrope in horror. ‘What a way to speak to your cousin!’
‘I’m speaking to him for his good,’ said Maria.
Sir Benjamin suddenly flung back his head and roared with laughter, the same genial roaring that Robin had indulged in earlier in the evening. ‘Very well, Maria,’ he said. ‘Your Highness’s commands shall be obeyed.’
Maria went up to bed happy in the knowledge that her curiosity upon many subjects had been completely satisfied that day . . . But she still did not know where Marmaduke Scarlet slept.
CHAPTER NINE
1
LOVEDAY MINETTE kept her promise and next morning Maria was awakened by a kiss upon her cheek, light as the touch of a butterfly’s wing, and opening her eyes looked up into what she thought for a moment was an angel’s face. Then she saw who it was and smiled.
‘Mother Minette,’ she said.
Loveday laughed. ‘I’ve been called by many names in my life,’ she said, ‘but that’s the best of all. Now get up quickly, Maria! You’ve a lot to do this morning.’
Maria jumped up at once, and Wiggins, who happened to be lying on her feet, was sent catapulting into the air to land flat on his back on the floor in no very good temper. He lay there, growling crossly, all four legs in the air, until Loveday took a sugar biscuit from the tin on the mantelpiece and placed it on his chest. Then he catapulted right way up again, ate the biscuit and was happy.
‘You knew just where to find that biscuit, Mother Minette,’ said Maria, as she washed herself in the silver basin. ‘When you were a girl and slept in this room, did Marmaduke Scarlet make them for you too?’
Loveday Minette, in the middle of lifting Maria’s riding-habit from the chest, paused in astonishment. ‘What makes you think I slept here when I was a girl?’ she demanded.
‘I just guessed,’ said Maria, getting into her petticoats. ‘After all, where else could you have slept? Sir Benjamin and his mother had the rooms in the other tower. Your governess Elspeth would have had the big bedroom in this one, just as Miss Heliotrope does now. Did you sit here a great deal? Or did you sit mostly in the parlour? Where did you sit when you were making your wedding dress? And Sir Benjamin’s waistcoat?’
‘Maria!’ cried Loveday in consternation. ‘Has anyone been talking to you about me?’
‘No,’ said Maria. ‘I’ve just been putting two and two together.’
‘You are so good at arithmetic, Maria, that you frighten me,’ said Loveday.
‘I’ve sense,’ said Maria, gently taking her habit from Loveday and putting it on. ‘And I shouldn’t wonder if I’m not the first Merryweather to have it. I must have got it from my mother, because my father had none. And I don’t believe you and Sir Benjamin have any, either. If you had you wouldn’t have quarrelled. Why did you quarrel?’
‘It’s too long a story to tell you now,’ said Loveday hastily.
‘You’ll have plenty of time to tell me as we go through the park to the village,’ said Maria. ‘Mother Minette, you must tell me. Loving mothers and daughters don’t have secrets from each other.’
Loveday Minette made no answer. She handed Maria her feathered hat, flung her own grey shawl round her shoulders, and led the way through the little door that was just the size for Moon Maidens and dwarfs, and down the tower stairs to the hall, Wiggins following after.
In the hall they found Wrolf and Serena waiting for them and — most astonishing — Zachariah also.
‘Is Zachariah coming?’ asked Maria in surprise. ‘I thought he never went anywhere with anybody.’
‘This is a very great occasion in Moonacre history,’ explained Loveday. ‘And so all the animals who take a special interest in you are rallying round you. Periwinkle is outside. I saddled her for you. Robin is at the church with the other children.’
They went out and down the steps, and found Periwinkle waiting patiently by the mounting-block.
‘You ride Periwinkle and I’ll ride Wrolf,’ said Maria. ‘It won’t matter that you have no habit. She goes very quietly.’
‘I know that,’ said Loveday softly, as she mounted expertly from the mounting-block. ‘My darling Periwinkle!’
Periwinkle whinnied softly and affectionately, and then looked lovingly at Maria, lest she should be jealous.
‘The Merryweather animals all seem to live to a very great age, don’t they?’ said Maria, as she mounted upon Wrolf’s back and noticed the grey hairs in his ruff.
‘They know they are needed,’ said Loveday.
‘Yes, they’ve sense,’ said Maria thoughtfully. The guidance and protection of their animals, she was realizing more and more, was absolutely essential to the not-very-sensible Merryweathers.
It was still so early that the moon was hanging like a lamp in the sky above the cedar-tree and the stars twinkled very faintly. But in the east, behind Paradise Hill, the sky was like a rose, and in the west over the sea a bank of pearly clouds was outlined with pure gold. There was plenty of time, and the two Moon Maidens rode slowly along the moss-grown road beneath the trees. Periwinkle’s hoofs made no sound on the moss and Wrolf’s padded feet were always silent. Serena, Zachariah, and Wiggins, coming along behind, were talking to each other, but so quietly that their conversation was not audible. It was just the right sort of still moment for the telling of tales.
‘Tell me now, Mother Minette,’ pleaded Maria.<
br />
2
‘Like you, I was not born at Moonacre Manor,’ said Loveday. ‘I was born in Cornwall, where the sea thunders against the great rocky cliffs and the geraniums are the loveliest in the world. I lived there until I was ten years old, when my parents died, and I came to Moonacre Manor with my governess Elspeth, to be brought up by Lady Letitia Merryweather, my aunt by marriage and the mother of Sir Benjamin. She had been widowed early in her married life, but she was a capable woman and brought up her son so well and managed the estate so skilfully that Moonacre flourished under her rule. She was strict and severe, and I did not love her, though I am sure now that she must have meant to do her best for the little penniless orphan that I was, arriving at Moonacre possessing nothing in the world but the clothes on my back and ten flower-pots with cuttings of geraniums in them, those glorious salmon-pink geraniums that are the pride of Cornwall.’
‘So that’s why there are so many geraniums in your house,’ murmured Maria.
‘Yes,’ said Loveday. ‘The ones at my house, and Old Parson’s also, are all the descendants of those original ten cuttings. If I brought sorrow to Moonacre, at least I brought geraniums too.’
‘Go on,’ prompted Maria softly.
‘My father and Sir Benjamin’s father and your grandfather were brothers,’ said Loveday. ‘There were only the three of them, and each of them had only one child; Sir Benjamin, myself, your father; and so now the Merryweathers are a very small family, just Sir Benjamin and myself and you.’
‘Well,’ said Maria stoutly, ‘what we lack in quantity we make up in quality. You couldn’t find three nicer people. And how two such nice people as you and Sir Benjamin came to quarrel I cannot imagine . . . Go on about the quarrel, Mother Minette . . . What did you quarrel about?’
‘The geraniums,’ said Loveday in a very small voice.
‘The geraniums!’ gasped Maria. ‘But how in the world could you have such a dreadful lifelong quarrel just about geraniums?’