Kinnefer, passing through the hall, paused and smiled as she saw me hesitate.
‘Why don’t you go in, Miss Westall? It’s a wonderful library, so I’m told—though I wouldn’t know much about books myself, but you’ll find the room quiet and you’ll be glad to get a day’s rest, no doubt, before you begin work.’
‘So it’s a library,’ I said, pleased. ‘I’d love to see it.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I thought you’d be fond of books. Well, you can browse there to your heart’s content. With another smile she hurried off and as soon as she was gone I eagerly turned the handle and went in.
I gave a little sigh of pleasure as I saw the room that lay before me. It was long and flooded with light from the mullioned windows with their deep stone embrasures. Comfortable and well-worn armchairs were placed here and there about the room and on the polished floor before the chimneypiece was a thick bearskin rug. Each wall of the room was lined with books, their red morocco and brown nutty leather gleaming richly in the shadows.
Tall, parchment-shaded floor-lamps were placed at either end of the room and I could visualise it in winter with snow thick and crisp on the lawn outside, the fire crackling in the wide grate and the lamps casting a soft glow as one curled up in a wide armchair and perused one of those enticing books.
I wandered eagerly to the shelves. There was such a choice that I found it impossible to make up my mind: I was like a child gazing into a sweetshop, uncertain what to select.
My eye was caught by a book beautifully bound in tooled leather and reaching it down I found that it was an old history of Cornwall. When I opened it I saw to my surprise that the flyleaf was inscribed in a schoolgirl’s careful best handwriting, ‘For Garth’, and signed ‘Diana Seaton’. But even if it hadn’t been signed I think I should have recognized Diana’s writing. I could imagine her laboriously inscribing her name in the book she had so carefully selected.
I turned over the leaves slowly, then became engrossed in a chapter concerning the Fowey Gallants. It told of a band of Elizabethan adventurers who had raided Normandy. Somehow it was easy, sitting in this quiet room, with its atmosphere of having witnessed many strange deeds, to visualize those violent days.
When I had finished the chapter I idly riffled the pages and a sheet of writing-paper fell out and fluttered to the floor. I bent to pick it up and once again I saw it was covered with Diana’s writing—only this time it wasn’t laboured and careful: rather it was an untidy scrawl that slanted wildly across the paper as though the writer were driven by overwhelming distress and somehow, as I held it in my hand, it was as though from that letter, written so long ago, emanated some of the emotion that had gripped its writer.
I felt my heart beat fast with excitement as I read, Darling, darling Garth, Oh, how can you be so cruel? You know so well that even a kind glance from you will make me happy for the day, yet lately you have been so cold and distant. You have eyes only for Armanell. Oh, I know she is very beautiful and compared to her I am just your silly, loving, mousy little cousin, but I do love you, Garth. Remember that! So much more than Armanell does or can. If I were older I could make you love me. I’d know how to. I realize that in your eyes I am gauche and awkward and a nuisance, but when you went riding with Armanell today I only wanted to follow on Toby. I shouldn’t have made up on you or anything, or made a nuisance of myself. Anyway, Toby is too fat to gallop. But to send me home was too unkind. You were so cross and disdainful and really I didn’t mean to spy. I just wanted to see you—to keep you in sight, even although you had eyes only for Armanell. I know I won’t sleep tonight, because I am too heartbroken. Why are you not kinder to me? I cannot help loving you: that is my great misfortune. Oh, I know people smile and say,
“She will grow out of it” because I am young, but I know in my heart I shall love you till the day I die. I know you are reading this book, because I have watched you leave it on your chair: so after dinner tonight when you come into the library you will find this letter. Do please smile at me tonight and I shall know that we are friends again.
Your heartbroken and loving
Little Diana.’
I let the sheet of paper flutter from my fingers. I felt utterly shattered. The emotion was so raw and revealing. It was such a mixture of childishness and pathos. ‘Toby is too fat to gallop’, and the poignancy of ‘I shall love you till the day I die’. And so she had! I realized that now. Was this the quiet, reserved Diana I had known, whose life had seemed like a tidy work-box, each article in its appointed place? How little I had known her! Or rather, how little she had allowed me to know her. She had been hiding her fierce love for her cousin Garth, as one keeps a shameful secret, her pride rebelling against making public the fact that her love was unrequited. At that moment I felt a fierce dislike well up for the man who had caused her such anguish.
I closed my eyes. I could almost picture the scene on the moor: the child trotting frantically after her handsome cousin and the beautiful Armanell, only to be summarily dismissed with contempt when Garth had detected her. No doubt his companion had been gratified, I decided, then realized that subconsciously, ever since I had heard of Armanell I had disliked and suspected her. But my feelings were vague and nebulous. They had nothing of the intensity of dislike I felt for Garth Seaton. Diana had been right in describing her love for him as a misfortune. To care for such a man would be a calamity. But Diana’s love had turned to hate—or had it? Was it never more perhaps than a fierce and overwhelming jealousy of Armanell, the girl, she had suspected, was to take over her old home as Garth’s bride? Had this been what had driven her to suspect Garth had contrived her father’s death?
I let the book slip from my fingers. I was confused and doubtful.
It was difficult to adjust myself to this new concept of Diana Seaton. It was as though this revelation had taken away the cornerstone of my confidence. I was no longer sure of anything.
CHAPTER FOUR
I GAVE a start as the door opened suddenly and Mrs. Kinnefer bustled into the room. She appeared to be in what for her was a state of agitation. Her face was pink and her manner extremely formal. ‘Sorry to disturb you, I’m sure, Miss Westall, but I thought as after all he’s your charge, so to speak, it was only my duty to tell you.’ She paused and drew a deep breath.
I gazed at her blankly, still gripped by the sombre atmosphere of the room and the letter I had found. ‘Tell me what, Mrs.
Kinnefer?’ I asked dazedly.
She drew herself up and pursed her lips disapprovingly at what she evidently considered an inadequate reaction on my part. ‘Just that Emile is missing.’
‘Missing? But he can’t be,’ I exclaimed in astonishment.
Mrs. Kinnefer quivered indignantly. ‘But he is, Miss Westall.
We’ve looked everywhere for him and I can tell you that’s not an easy task in a place this size.’
‘Perhaps he’s somewhere in the grounds,’ I suggested.
Mrs. Kinnefer shook her head. ‘No, one of the servants saw him with Melinda in the picture gallery shortly before he went missing.
Anyway, the men have searched the outhouses and stables.
There’s no sign of him. It’s as though he had disappeared into thin air.’
‘But of course Melinda knows where he is,’ I said with a sense of foreboding.
Mrs. Kinnefer nodded grimly. ‘There’s no doubt of that, but she won’t say a word. She’s as stubborn as a mule: just says it was her turn to seek and she couldn’t find him anywhere; though why on earth she doesn’t let us know where he’s gone is beyond me.
There’s simply no understanding the child. The sooner her parents return from abroad and take responsibility for her the better I’ll like it!’
But while Mrs. Kinnefer had been talking I was remembering Melinda’s glee when she had shown me the secret passage. She was undoubtedly proud of her discovery and although she was cautious of imparting her secret to those in authority who might put an end to her a
ctivities she was, I guessed, very anxious to exploit her find; and what better way than to trap the unsuspecting Emile?
I got to my feet, restraining the urge I felt to rush out, find Melinda and shake her secret from her, I tried to appear as casual as possible. I could imagine the scenes that would ensue should Mrs. Kinnefer learn of Melinda’s latest exploit, for I hadn’t a doubt that poor little Emile was trapped in the secret passage and must be terrified out of his wits.
‘Where’s Melinda now?’ I asked as calmly as possible.
‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ Mrs. Kinnefer said. ‘Not that it makes any odds where she is, for she won’t say a word! I declare if it weren’t for that poor child being missing I shouldn’t care if I never saw Melinda again. She’s been nothing but a nuisance since she came. She’s as sweet as pie, of course, when Mr. Garth’s here, but no sooner is his back turned than she behaves like a little brat.’
To my relief she didn’t follow me when I headed for the picture gallery. It was evident that she considered I was wasting my time. I saw her point of view too when I reached the long gallery, for apart from the pictures in the heavy gilt frames that hung on the panelled walls there was nothing there except the Jacobean benches between the long windows: the polished oak floor gleamed like a mirror.
Light filtered dully through the long, leaded windows and I was very conscious of being alone: the rest of the household seemed very far away and utter silence lay over the gallery.
I walked slowly, scanning the walls, remembering Melinda’s gleeful description of how she had discovered the secret passage. A prissy lady with bulgy-eyed dogs, she had mentioned, but now all I could see were enormous canvases of what appeared to be long-dead Seatons; grave-looking men: except for the varying costumes of the different periods it was hard to distinguish one from another under the coat of amber varnish that seemed to give them all the same colouring and appearance. There were family groups too of severe- looking ladies in lace caps surrounded by plump, pantalooned children; and sombre landscapes, all of which gave the impression of being painted during an approaching storm. After travelling the full length of the right-hand side of the gallery I looked at the narrower wall that ran at right angles, but there was no sign, although I scanned each picture closely, of the prissy lady with the bulgy-eyed dogs.
I hurried my steps, feeling a rising panic. What would it be like in the passage?. Would there be enough air for the child? Was he already dead? I felt my heart thud and my knees turn to jelly. What would Garth Seaton think if he returned to find that I had been neglectful of my charge? I must find Emile, I thought desperately, and soon! Then as I traversed the opposite side a thought struck me which caused me even more panic: suppose Melinda, in her perversity, had made up the story of the lady with the dogs and it was a completely different picture beneath which the secret panel was. I looked around wildly. It could be any picture! It would take time to try the panel under each one. Again, perhaps the entrance to the passage didn’t begin in the gallery at all—perhaps in some remote room in this enormous pile. I crossed where a window intersected the rows of pictures and as I did so a sudden flood of light came through the tinted leaded panes and with a gasp of relief I saw that there was indeed the picture that Melinda had described.
And Melinda had been accurate in saying the lady was prissy: she had the small cupid’s bow mouth and arched supercilious eyebrows that seem peculiar to the ladies of the eighteenth century: her piled-up hair was ornamented with satin bows and at her feet were two pug dogs that gazed out of the picture with fierce, bulging eyes.
I glanced around quickly. To my relief there was no one around.
I pressed frantically around the bevelling of the panel under the picture. With a gasp of relief I heard a click and the panel slid back. I gazed in. The passage was much wider than I had expected and I stepped in gingerly, for in spite of my terrors about Emile I was dreadfully afraid of spiders and crawly things. However, the air wasn’t damp as I had expected: in fact, it was dry and dusty. It wasn’t really a passage in the accepted sense, I decided; simply the space between the great outer walls and the panelling of the gallery. It led straight ahead without any twists and turns; nor was it completely dark, for here and there thin slivers of light had penetrated through the panelling where it had warped with age. I hurried along, but there was no sign of Emile and I began to wonder if I had misjudged Melinda. But where on earth was he? I began to feel panic rise in me. Then, quite suddenly, I saw that light was flooding through a square on the left-hand side of the passage and to my astonishment I saw that I was looking into my own bedroom and, what was even. more astonishing, that Emile was sitting composedly on the bridal chest surveying his surroundings with every sign of interest.
When I clambered out of the passage he showed not the smallest sign of distress and his grubby face showed no evidence that he had even shed a tear. ‘How did you manage to open the panel?’ I gasped. ‘I thought you were—were—’ I hesitated. There was no point in frightening the child by letting him know the fate that I thought Melinda had planned for him.
‘I’ve heard about secret passages,’ he said with a pleased smile.
‘Melinda thinks she is very clever, but I have a book at home all about priests’ holes. The panel in your room was not shut properly,’ he said a little severely. ‘I could see right in.’
So the wretched Melinda had not even closed the panel completely, I thought furiously.
Now that I had found Emile safe and sound my first resolve was to expose Melinda’s villainy, yet as I accompanied Emile downstairs, my determination wavered.
Afterwards I was not able to explain to myself why I had not informed Mrs. Kinnefer of the circumstances in which I had found Emile. There was nothing to explain it except some prescience that in the future my knowledge of the secret passage would be of inestimable value to me when I was no longer Judith Westall, self-possessed and independent, but a frantic helpless creature immersed in a situation over which she had no control.
Mrs. Kinnefer’s eyes opened wide with astonishment when she saw us approach. ‘Well, how on earth did you find him? Why, the poor child looks scared out of his wits!’ she exclaimed. She pulled Emile towards her and enveloped him in a perfunctory hug that was completely without warmth.
Emile, however, hardly corresponded to Mrs. Kinnefer’s description. He had the same air of bland composure that he had possessed when he first arrived. None of his recent adventures seemed to have made the smallest impression on his remarkable sangfroid.
Mrs. Kinnefer released him, evidently faintly disappointed by his lack of response. She called a passing maid with the air of authority that she could instantly assume when addressing one of her underlings. ‘Bessie, take Master Emile to the schoolroom and give him some cake and milk. Poor child,’ she said, as Bessie bore Emile away, ‘I do feel for him. So far from his family and at the mercy of that wicked, wicked child! Now that we’ve found him we must keep an eye on him, for dear knows what Mr. Garth would say if we had to get in touch with him and own up that the child was missing. The very thought makes me shudder. However, all’s well that ends well and I’m sorry to have disturbed you when you were having a good read. I often wish I could relax with a book, but I never seem to have the time. It’s one thing after another.’ She sighed resignedly and bustled away with an air of satisfaction.
It was only too clear that Mrs. Kinnefer revelled in her position of authority. How would she feel if and when Garth Seaton took a wife? I wondered. Did she ever have forebodings that some day he might return from his travels with the news that he was bringing a bride to Tregillis? It would mean the end of her autocratic reign—a cold and bleak prospect for someone used to being in complete control of domestic affairs at Tregillis.
I remembered with a stab of dismay that Diana’s letter must be lying on the library floor. I must replace it immediately in the book in which I had found it and return the volume to its place on the shelf.
However, as I made my way towards the library, I was sidetracked by seeing Melinda steal through the hall door.
Evidently she had been hiding in the grounds and awaiting developments. She looked, I thought, scared and apprehensive.
Was she perhaps only now fully realizing the danger Emile might be in and regretting her prank?
However, she soon disabused me of this gratifying thought. ‘I’m hungry,’ she announced, staring up at me with her strange, glassy eyes.
‘Do you realize,’ I said coldly, ‘that only for the fact that I remembered the secret passage, poor Emile might have died?’
‘No, he wouldn’t,’ she muttered sullenly. ‘There’s plenty of air there. I know: I’ve stayed in it for ages.’
‘Well, at any rate he might have been terrified out of his wits.
How could you do such a horribly cruel thing to a little boy you’ve never even seen before?’
She scuffed the slated floor with the top of her shoe. ‘I’ve heard about him,’ she said darkly. ‘Uncle Garth has gone to stay with his mother in France. They’ve a castle there with turrets and moats and torture chambers. I’d love to see it—especially the torture chambers, but he wouldn’t take me.’
So Melinda, young as she was, was already suffering from a bad attack of jealousy concerning her beloved Uncle Garth!
‘Why don’t you make friends with Emile?’ I suggested. ‘He’s having something to eat now in the schoolroom. You could say you’re sorry, perhaps, and make friends with him.’
She considered this and then nodded. ‘I’ll make friends, if you like—anyway I’m hungry.’
I took this as a small victory and she led the way up several flights of stairs and into a rather shabby room at the back of the house. It was evident that generations of Seatons had done their lessons there, for it had a well-used look. The table was ink-stained and scarred and a huge brass fire-guard stood in front of the empty chimneyplace. Through the open door of one of the tall green-painted cupboards I could see a broken ball-frame and untidy bundles of tattered and ancient textbooks and exercise books.
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