Road to Paradise Island

by Victoria Holt

  Wait till morning, said my cowardly self.

  But of course it was a challenge. Besides, how could I sleep with

  my thoughts going round and round in my head, asking myself Why? Why?

  Deliberately I got out of bed, thrust my feet into slippers and put on my dressing gown. My fingers were shaking a little as I lighted a candle.

  I opened my door and listened. The house was very quiet.

  I started to mount the stairs, pausing on each step, thankful because I knew the place so well that I was fully aware of the position of creaking boards.

  I was in the corridor now. I could see there was still a haze of dust. I could smell the peculiar smell like nothing I had known before ... the smell of age, of damp, of something not quite of this world.

  I stepped over a broken piece of wood. I was in the room.

  I let the light fall over the walls and ceiling. In candlelight the stains stood out more than they had before. Then I had seen the room through the daylight which came from a window in the corridor. What were the stains on the wall just by the bed ... and on the other wall too? I lifted my candle. Yes, and on the ceiling?

  I almost turned and ran.

  I felt that this room held a terrible secret. Frightened as I was, the urge to remain was stronger than my fear, not exactly forcing me to stay, but begging me to.

  Perhaps I imagined that afterwards. And yet I believed that something... someone ... had called me up here on this night... that I was to be the one to discover.

  I stood for what seemed like minutes but which could only have been seconds, looking about the room, and my eyes kept coming back to those stains on the walls and ceiling.

  "What does it mean?" I whispered.

  I was silent, listening, as though I expected an answer.

  I took a cautious step forward. I was very much aware of the chest of drawers.

  Some impulse led me over to it. I put my candle on the top of it and tried to open the top drawer. It was stiff and difficult to open, but I worked hard at it and suddenly it began to move.

  There was something in it. I bent down. A small hat of grey chiffon with a little feather in the front held in place by a jewelled pin; and beside it another hat trimmed with marguerites.

  I shut the drawer. I felt I was prying and it seemed to me that somewhere in this strange room in the dead of night, eyes were watching me and I had an uncanny feeling that they were willing me to go on.

  I shut the drawer quickly and as I did so I noticed that from the

  second drawer something was protruding slightly—as though that drawer had been shut in a hurry. I tried to open it and after a little difficulty I succeeded. There were stockings, gloves and scarves. I put in my hand and touched them. They felt very cold and damp. They repelled me in a certain way. Go back to your bed, my common sense urged me. What do you think you are doing here in the middle of the night? Wait and explore with Philip and Granny M tomorrow. What would she say if she knew I had already been here. "You have disobeyed orders. William Gow said it might not be safe. The floor could give way at any moment."

  I had taken out some of the things and as I was putting them back, my fingers touched something. It was a piece of parchment rolled up like a scroll. I unrolled it. It was a map. I glanced at it hastily. It looked like several islands in a vast sea.

  I rolled it up and as I was putting it back my hand touched something else.

  Now my heart was racing more wildly than ever. It was a large leatherbound book and on the cover was embossed the word Journal.

  I put it on the top of the chest and opened it. I gave a little cry, for written on the flyleaf were the words Ann Alice Mallory for her sixteenth birthday May 1790.

  I clutched the side of the chest feeling suddenly dizzy with the shock of my discovery.

  This book belonged to the girl in the forgotten grave!

  I don't know how long I stood there staring down at that open page. I was overwhelmed. I felt that some supernatural force was guiding me. I had been led to uncover the grave and now ... the book.

  With trembling fingers I turned the pages. They were full of small but legible handwriting.

  I believed then that I had the key to the mystery in my hands. This was the girl who had been buried in the grave and forgotten, the possessor of the jaunty hats in the drawer, the fichu, the gloves. And she was Ann Alice Mallory—my namesake.

  There was something significant in this. I had been led to this discovery. I had the feeling that she was watching me, this mysterious girl in her grave, that she wanted me to know the story of her life.

  I picked up the journal and turned to leave the room. Then I remembered the map which I had put back in the drawer. I took it out, and picking up my candle walked cautiously from the room.

  Reaching my bedroom, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the dressing room mirror. My eyes looked wild and my face very pale. I was still trembling a little, but a great excitement possessed me.

  I looked at the journal which I had placed on my dressing table. I

  unrolled the map. There was an expanse of sea and a group of islands to the north and then some distance away another island ... all alone. There was some lettering close to it. I peered at it. It was small and not very clear. I made out the words Paradise Island.

  I wondered where it was. I would show it to Philip and Benjamin Darkin. They would know.

  But it was the journal which I was eager to read.

  Somewhere a clock struck one. I would not sleep tonight I was sure. I would not rest until I knew what was in that journal.

  I lighted another candle and taking off my dressing gown and slippers got into bed. Making a rest for my back with pillows, I opened the journal and began to read.

  ANN ALICE'S JOURNAL

  May 30th 1790 On my sixteenth birthday, among the gifts which were presented to me was this journal. I had never before thought of keeping a journal and when the idea first came to me I dismissed it. I should never be persistent enough. I should write in it enthusiastically for a week or so and then I would forget all about it. That is no way to keep a journal. But why not? If I write in it only the important things that would be the best way. Whoever would want to remember that it had been a fine day yesterday or I had worn my blue or my lavender gown. Such trivialities were of no importance even when they occurred.

  Well, I have promised myself that I will write in it when the mood takes me or when there is something so momentous that I feel I must put it down when it happened so that if I want to refer to it later I shall have it here ... exactly as it was, for I have noticed that events change in people's minds and when they look back they believe that what they might have wished to happen actually did. I want none of that. I shall strive for the truth.

  Life here in the Manor goes on very much the same from one day to the next. Sometimes I think it always will. So what shall I write about? This morning I was with Miss Bray, my governess, as usual. She is gentle and pretty and in her early twenties and I have been very happy with her for the last six years. She is the daughter of a vicar and at first my father thought she was too young for the post, but I am glad he decided she might come in spite of that for ours has been a very happy relationship.

  When I look at the date I am reminded that it is two years since my mother died. I don't want to write about that. It is too painful and everything changed then. I long for the days when I used to sit beside her and read to her. That used to be one of the happiest times of the day. Now she is dead I turn to Miss Bray for comfort. We read books together but it is not the same.

  I wish I were not so much younger than my brother Charles. It

  makes me feel so much alone. I have heard the servants say I was "an afterthought," which is not a very significant thing to be. I do not think Papa is very interested in me. He does his duty by me, of course, which has always meant delegating the care of me to others.

  I walk a little, I ride a little; I visit people in the v
illage and take what are called "comforts" to them. And that is my life. So what sense is there in keeping a journal?

  June 20th How strange that I should have decided to write in this book. Something has happened at last. It is nearly a month since I wrote that first bit and I thought I never would write in this book again. And now this has happened and I believe there is some comfort in writing down what one feels when one is distraught.

  It is my dearest Miss Bray. This morning she came to me looking prettier than ever. I should be happy, of course, for she undoubtedly is. It seems ironical that the same event should have such a diverse effect on two people who are so fond of each other.

  She said to me as we were grappling with a rather turgid paragraph in the Sterne novel we were reading, "I have some news, Ann Alice. And I want you to be the first to know."

  I was eager to stop and ready for a cosy chat.

  "James has asked me to marry him."

  James Eggerton, the vicar's son, was on one of his periodical visits to his father. He had a living of his own in a parish some fifty miles away and was therefore in a position to marry.

  "But you will go away, Miss Bray!" I cried.

  "I'm afraid so," she said, dimpling. "Never mind, you'll have another governess... much cleverer than I. You'll enjoy it."

  "Of course I shan't." I felt my face set into apprehensive lines.

  Miss Bray put her arms about me and cuddled me in that endearing way she has.

  "I have thought for some time that he was going to ask me," she explained, "and when he didn't I thought I was mistaken. And all the time he was trying to pluck up courage."

  "You'll go right away."

  "I'll ask your father if you can come and stay."

  "It won't be the same."

  "When there is change, nothing is ever the same. Life would be rather dull if it went on in the same old way forever, wouldn't it?"

  I said: "I want it to be dull. I don't want you to go."

  "Oh come," said Miss Bray. "This is really a very happy event."

  I looked into her face and saw how truly happy she was, and I thought how selfish it was of me not to rejoice with her.

  *

  July 4th How the days fly! I have tried to be pleased for Miss Bray because she is undoubtedly happy and James Eggerton goes about looking as though life is a perpetual joke and he is living in some seventh heaven.

  I saw my father on the stairs that morning. He patted my head in his rather awkward way and said: "We shall have to find another Miss Bray, shan't we?"

  "Papa," I said, "I am sixteen. Perhaps ..."

  He shook his head. "Oh no... you need a governess for another year at least. Well find someone as nice as Miss Bray. Never fear."

  Miss Bray is busy getting her trousseau together. She is a little absent-minded. I fancy she does not always see me when I'm there because she is looking into a blissful future with the Reverend James Eggerton.

  I feel a little lost and lonely. I walk a great deal on my own and I ride, but I am always supposed to take someone with me and one of the grooms can't take the place of Miss Bray.

  August 1st Miss Bray is leaving at the end of the month. She is going to her home in the Midlands and will be married from there. I am thinking about her less now because I am concerned for my own future. The new governess is arriving tomorrow. Papa called me into his study to tell me about her. He has met her. He went up to London to see her. I was a little resentful because I felt he should have taken me. After all, I am the one who will have to spend so much time with her. I do not hope for another Miss Bray but I do want someone like her.

  "Miss Lois Gilmour will be arriving tomorrow," said Papa. "She will come before Miss Bray goes so that Miss Bray can initiate her into her duties. I am sure you will like Miss Gilmour. She seems to be a very efficient young woman."

  I do not want an efficient young woman. I want Miss Bray or someone exactly like her; and I do not think Miss Bray could have ever been called efficient. She has always been a little absent-minded and is especially so now and her learning has been inclined to lean in one direction. Books, music and the like, which has always suited me. She is hopeless at mathematics.

  Miss Gilmour sounds formidable.

  I am full of apprehension.

  August 2nd Today was the great day. That is, the arrival of Miss Lois Gilmour.

  I was watching from an upper window when she arrived. Miss

  Bray was with me. From the carriage stepped a tall slim young woman, quietly but very elegantly dressed.

  "She does not look much like a governess," I said, and then I wondered whether I had hurt Miss Bray who for all her prettiness was scarcely elegant, being a little on the plump side and what is called "a little woman.' 1 She is cuddly, sweet and feminine—but never elegant.

  The summons came very soon. I was wanted in the drawing room.

  I went down in trepidation. Papa was there and with him the elegant young woman who I had seen alight from the carriage.

  "This is Ann Alice," said Papa.

  "How do you do, Ann Alice?"

  As she took my hand I looked into her eyes which were large and deep blue. She was beautiful in a way. Her features were clear-cut, on classical lines; her nose was rather long but very straight; her lips inclined to be full. Warm lips and cold eyes, I thought.

  But I am prejudiced against her for the unreasonable reason that she is not Miss Bray.

  "And Ann Alice, this is Miss Gilmour who is so looking forward to teaching you."

  "I am sure," said Miss Gilmour, "that you and I are going to get along very well."

  I am not quite so sure.

  "Miss Bray, as you know, has been with Ann Alice for ... for... " began Papa.

  "Six years," I said.

  "And now she is leaving to get married."

  Miss Gilmour smiled.

  "I think you might take Miss Gilmour to her room," said my father. "And when you are ready perhaps you will take tea with my daughter and me, Miss Gilmour. And after that Ann Alice can introduce you to Miss Bray."

  "That seems to me very satisfactory," said Miss Gilmour.

  It has been a strange afternoon. I snowed her her room. I felt she was assessing everything, the house, the furnishings and me. She has been too friendly too suddenly. She has said more than once that she is sure we are going to get along very well.

  I fancied she was more at home taking tea with my father than with me alone. I wish I could rid myself of this uneasy feeling. I am sure it will be all right, for she seems eager to make it so, and if I am, too, how can we fail to be happy together?

  Miss Gilmour talked a great deal over tea and I have been thinking how strange it was that my father, who was rarely at home at

  this hour, had gone to the trouble, not only of being here to receive her but of taking tea with her as well. In a way they had seemed to ignore me. Anyone would have thought she was coming to be governess to him instead of me, I remarked afterward to Miss Bray.

  Miss Gilmour talked a great deal about herself. She came from Devonshire where her father had owned a small estate. He had been robbed by an unscrupulous agent who had escaped with the family's priceless possessions. Her father had never recovered from the shock and had had a stroke. She herself had been left almost penniless and forced to earn her living, and must do so in the only way open to a gentlewoman of some education.

  My father was most sympathetic.

  "But I must not burden you with my troubles," said Miss Gilmour. "In fact, I am sure they are now at an end. I feel I am going to be happy here with Ann Alice."

  "We shall do our best to make you so," said my father, as though she were an honoured guest rather than someone in his employ.

  Miss Gilmour might not be exactly beautiful but she has what I can only describe as an allure. My father seems to have recognized that.

  I introduced her to Miss Bray as we had arranged. I was very eager to know what Miss Bray thought of her. But my dear governess i
s already living in the future and I can see that she is ready to accept Miss Gilmour's own view of herself ... just as my father appears to be.

  I wish that I did not feel uneasy and I am glad I started writing in my journal because I can now capture what I actually feel at the time when it is happening. Perhaps I shall be laughing at my foolishness in a little while. I hope so. But I want to put on record that I felt it.

  October 10th It is some time since I wrote in my journal. That is because I have felt disinclined to do so. I have been very sad since Miss Bray's wedding. Why is it that one only appreciates people when one has lost them. I went to her wedding. It was a very happy affair and everyone—except myself—thinks it is an ideal outcome—so it may be for Miss Bray and her Reverend gentleman, but I can hardly say it is for me.

  This is an entirely selfish point of view, I know, and I must be happy for Miss Bray—Mrs. Eggerton now. But how difficult it is to be happy for others when their happiness means one's own despair. Well, perhaps despair is too strong a word. I do write the most extraordinary things in this journal. It seems to have an odd effect on me. It is almost as though I am talking to myself. Perhaps that is the purpose of journals. That is why they are such a private matter and so useful in recording life as it is really lived and not suffused with a rosy glow or

  abject gloom—however one would want to represent the event after it has faded a little from the mind.

  And Miss Gilmour? What is it about her? I do not know. She does not insist that I work hard. She is interesting. She is clever, knowledgeable. But she is not like a governess.

  What makes me feel rather wistful is that there is no one in whom I can confide. My brother Charles was always at what they call the "Shop" in Great Stanton and was deeply involved in the business there. He went away some months ago on an expedition to some of the uncharted places of the Earth. I sometimes wish I were a man so that I could share in such adventures.

  But I want to think about Miss Gilmour so I must write about her. I want to know about her and now that I am writing more in my journal I feel I am getting to know more about myself as well as other people. I have always been interested in people, always wanted to know about them. Usually one can draw them out. I can at any rate. I believe I have a special gift for it. But not with Miss Gilmour. I always feel that she has secrets. I imagine I can see secrets in her eyes. They are such strange eyes. They glitter. They are a deep shade of blue and her eyebrows and lashes are very black—so is her hair. I fancy she blackens her brows and lashes because sometimes they seem darker than others.