‘I shall never now build a house anywhere; but it makes no difference—this has been a clear sign to me that literally the Manor has its power to keep its—victims—within its walls. The children must never try to leave it.’ He rested a moment as though exhausted; rallied his strength. ‘If your situation is made clear to my—our—cousins, surely that will be sufficient to influence them to leave the little girls here under your care, with Madame in overall charge—and she is to be trusted; and the governess—’
‘Who is not to be trusted,’ said Hil.
‘Not trusted? She’s a very pearl; what ever fault could you find in her?’
‘I spoke involuntarily and I wish I hadn’t. It’s only that—you know that I get odd fancies, believe that I see into the future…’ But he would not trouble a dying man with his fathomless fears. ‘I know of nothing against her: nothing. Nothing real.’ But he suddenly looked shrewdly into the pale, anxious face. ‘You have no idea—? No thought in your mind—?’
‘A thought in my mind is all it could ever be,’ said the Squire, wearily. ‘But it has been there. Unthinkable: my poor Anne not yet a year dead. And yet—to leave one here who would have a real, legal control over Lyneth and Christine. And what has she to lose?—a poor governess with no future—’
‘Madame hints,’ said Hil, suddenly inexplicably dry, ‘that she has at least a past.’
‘—poor foolish woman, she is frightened of finding Mees taking precedence over her here—’
‘—and with some justification, it begins to appear?’
The Squire seemed hardly to hear him, lifting the glass again to his lips, shakily setting it down gain. ‘I am a dying man. She would become mistress of wealth, of all this great manor, a ready-made family, two children whom already she truly loves…’
‘And a promising future,’ said Hil, grimly, ‘as a highly eligible widow.’
‘Well—I told you it was but a thought, passing through my ever searching mind…’
A scutter of hooves on the gravel outside and they went scampering by, gaily waving towards the window in hopes that Papa might be there and would glance out at them. Miss Tetterman followed them soberly in her own neat habit of the customary sepia brown, with a small hard hat. Their father looked out with love at the two happy faces with their shining, blue eyes and the soft, fair curls. ‘It is enough to kill a man with the pain of it,’ he said, ‘to have such terror for them.’
‘For all three of them,’ said Hil, but he spoke below his breath. He said instead: ‘Seen from this side, with no glimpse of the scar, she is a pretty enough creature, after all; and very sweet.’
Now it was the Squire’s turn to look sharply into his brother’s face. ‘You have no such thoughts as mine?’ And he sat up very straight, a flush rose in his pale face, his frail hand gripped on the arm of the chair. ‘It is not for you, Hil, to marry and bring more children to this doomed race. You are of the blood, the blood of this branch of the family, whatever curse lies upon us, lies on you too.’
‘I remarked simply, Squire, that she is quite a pretty girl.’
But the sick man shook and trembled. ‘Here am I, condemning my children to solitude for the rest of their lives, condemning these lovely girls to a life without love and marriage, rather than risk the tragedies that came to their poor mother, to my mother, and to hers and to hers. Will you now introduce a new generation… And this girl herself, will you bring down on her innocent head whatever forces there are that threaten us? What woman marrying into this family has ever known an hour of health and happiness?—whether she be of the Hilbourne blood or not…’
Hil said, almost savagely: ‘Such considerations didn’t move you when you yourself contemplated making her a Hilbourne bride.’ But his heart smote him. ‘Forgive me, brother, forgive me—I don’t mean to wound you. And set your mind at rest, no such intention has ever so much as occurred to me.’ He rose and pressed Sir Edward gently back to rest against the pillows of his chair, took the shaking hand and folded it round the wine glass. ‘Compose yourself, you have nothing to fear from me.’
The high flush faded, he shook now with something other than fear. ‘Put some more logs on the fire, James, it grows so cold, so cold…’ But it was a chill that they both too well knew. Hil said: ‘I’ll build up the fire, but it won’t warm the room, I fear. In this old library, unchanged for so many generations—whatever threatens us comes always very close. Is it the room itself? Remember that you once dreamed—?’
‘After Anne’s death. If only I could recollect… Some malediction was pronounced: that seems to force its way into my mind but no more than that. Only the words, “Never again… Never again…” ’
‘If we could know what exactly lay behind it. The precise terms, as it were, of the curse, if a curse there was.’
‘The family annals have been searched through, often enough. A history going back two hundred and fifty years, of broken, unhappy marriages, the deaths of young children, of girls in childbirth: but seemingly indiscriminate, applying to those of the blood but also to those brought into the family as wives or husbands, with no such heritage…’
There must be more in the way of investigation to be done. If I were to make a far more thorough search—’ Hil rose to his feet. ‘You’re exhausted, I’ve stayed too long—and said too much. We’ll meet again, another day: meanwhile, I’ll seek to discover more, something more specific.’
‘God knows whether even that is wise. To meddle with the unknown.’
‘We can’t go on with this cobweb of terrors—let me at least try to trace some thread running through it all. Meanwhile, be at peace. You may yet recover your strength, it isn’t all hopelessness and, whatever may happen, you know that I shall never, while I live, cease my love and care for the children; and the old Walloon is a tower of strength, love or unlove her as we may. And there is this excellent young woman—this—this pearl, as you have called her…’
And the cold grew terrible, grew terrible, clutching with icy hands about his heart. One day, this pearl would betray, would destroy them all.
CHAPTER 8
FREE TIME FOR THE governess was considered by Madame Devalle to be by no means a matter of necessity but Edouard had insisted, with his usual foolishness, that Miss Tettyman—no one nowadays bothered to correct him as to her name—must have regular hours of leisure and, moreover, be made free of transport if she wished to go into the village or even to town. She said, speaking in French: ‘Very well, then, today she may take the children to try their new shoes.’
‘That would hardly be a holiday for her. She must be free of them now and again. How would you like never a moment to yourself?’
‘I am not a servant, mon cher. Et plus que ça, two of them at a time, they give me the headache, it is too much for me.’
‘A governess may have a headache as well as another.’
‘If she is so delicate, she had better not take such a position. After all, is it such a penance,’ said Tante Louise, somewhat shifting her ground, ‘to sit quietly and read to two children on a wet afternoon?’
‘No, and that’s what I myself will do, on this particular wet afternoon. Owain is driving her in the dog-cart wherever she wishes to go.’
‘Yes, well you had better look out for this Owain,’ said Madame, her speech increasing in rapidity as her irritation irrationally grew, ‘and see that your treasure doesn’t go making a fool of herself. What else is she good for, poor scarred creature, with no dot to bring to a marriage, nothing but a few false pretensions to gentility? And he’s not a bad looking young lout—’
He gave her a look or sick rage, be quiet, Louise! You have an ugly mind.’
‘And she has an ugly face; and, I strongly suspect, an ugly past to go with it.’
‘Be quiet, I tell you!’
‘Oh, yes—be quiet! And let you be the one to make a fool of yourself. Better leave her to her stable boys. You would not be the first master of the house into whom she had got
those little claws of hers. Oh, you never believe me; but, for example, why do you think she drives down to the village today? She goes to post a letter, one which she won’t leave on the hall table for Tomos to collect.’ As he struggled to his feet and made for the door, in his feeble haste stumbling as he went, she cried out after him: ‘With Sir Charles Arden’s name on it, my dear, and—listen to this and see how you like it!—in the care of an accommodation address.’
For Tante Louise was not without her informant in that house. She of the many grievances, and most of them concentrated nowadays upon the governess with her airs and graces and need to be waited upon, had discovered where her bread might be buttered—with however sparing a hand. Olwen the upstairs housemaid, with an ear to every keyhole and a talent for fiddling open every locked drawer.
Still—what right had a governess to secret conversations and secret correspondence and secret possessions hidden away in secret drawers? And if Madam felt no qualms of conscience as to discovering them, certainly Olwen need not.
And, sure enough, Miss Tetterman was posting a letter—hurriedly scribbled, upon unexpected notice being given of her afternoon’s freedom. To: Sir Charles Arden, and at an accommodation address. ‘I think you had best not write to me here again. I believe I am increasingly spied upon. And pray send no more gifts. Cherish them as I may, and all that they speak to me, it grows increasingly difficult to parry questions. I am safe and well and sufficiently happy and you will not need me to tell you that I constantly think of you and with how much longing. But it is all too dangerous, the woman I told you of is jealous and spiteful. Supposing she were to write to her ladyship, I think she is by no means beyond it. If you positively must, then address me in the care of the post office of this village, always remembering that I may be able to call here not more often than once in two or three weeks. In haste, A.’
Owain, whatever might be Tante Louise’s suspicions, seemed very happy to be sent off to amuse himself elsewhere and, the rain holding off after all, Tetty went for a long, thoughtful walk along the riverside; nor was he apparently so eager for her company as to return with any great despatch at the hour appointed. Standing waiting for him in the shelter of the lych gate, she saw that Hil was riding down the road towards her. He came up to the gate and dismounted. ‘I heard that you were in the village, and came to meet you.’
She had hardly seen him since the Christmas party, and never alone. Now her heart left its present cares and lifted a little. ‘To meet me?’ But she caught at a sudden fear. ‘There’s nothing wrong—?’
‘No, no, your treasures are all right. What is the nurse-maid for? I just thought… It is a little lonely for you, taking your few leisure hours all by yourself, and with so little to amuse you in this place.’
‘Oh, yes…’ she said, confused. ‘It’s very kind of you. But I do very well. I’ve been for a walk along the riverbank.’
‘You can walk along the river at any time. But then of course you are in a scramble of children and dogs and sometimes an intruder like myself.’ He gave her the same sort of little deferential bow that he gave to the Squire. ‘But perhaps I’m an intruder now?’
‘Oh, Hil!’ she said. ‘Of course not!’
‘I thought Owain might ride my horse home and I could later drive you back in the dog-cart.’ He looked around at the small huddle of buildings with its one little shop-cum-post-office. ‘There is not much to do, but the church is very old and interesting. Would you care for a tour of it?’
Doubts and questions scurried like mice about her mind. It was all a little strange—this sudden access of forethought, of consideration, of an attempt at a special friendship; and underlying it somehow, faintly, an air of purpose. Observing her hesitation he said with an ironic lift of the eyebrows: ‘Or perhaps you think Squire Hilbourne’s farm factotem not a suitable escort for so polished a young lady as yourself?’
‘Oh, Hill!’ He was so—beautiful: there was never any other word for it—standing there, slender and arrow-straight with his deep blue eyes and his curl of auburn hair. Tears filled her eyes. ‘You say that to be unkind. When have I ever…? We both know very well that you are no factotum.’
‘Will you do me the honour then to walk through the church with me?’ As she hesitated, he added coolly: ‘Or will you not? If not, here comes Owain with the trap and you are most welcome, I assure you, to go home with him.’
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Since you round off your invitation so graciously, I’ll take you at your word and go home.’
But he caught at her wrist and held it almost—fiercely. ‘No, no—stay! I’m sorry. I…’ He made a sort of helpless movement with his head, glancing away from her. ‘You confuse me.’ And he left her, going to meet the groom, exchanging a few words with him, seeing to the securing of the pony and trap, sending off his own horse with Owain in the saddle; returned and, taking her lightly by the upper arm, led her up the path and into the church. She said to cover her onrush of mixed emotions: ‘It’s a very old church?’
Very old: crouching, squat, beneath its squat, square tower. ‘And very large for so small a parish?’
‘You forget that this was an abbey once and this would be its church. It survived when King Henry razed the monastery and threw out the monks and it was all handed over to Sir Edward Hilbourne, the Squire of that day. Sir Edward chose to lease off the lands piecemeal and leave the buildings, as they gradually fell into ruin, to be robbed of their stones for the farms and cottages surrounding it. He himself enlarged his own manor house and extended his demesne, on the further side of the stream. But this also is all Hilbourne land.’ With his hand still at her elbow he guided her up the centre aisle. ‘And here is his tomb.’
All dark marble and bronze, with the two bronze figures lying so stiffly asleep there, hand in hand, Edward Hilbourne, and Catherine, his wife: she would have been christened no doubt for Henry’s first Queen, not yet supplanted by the sloe-eyed Anne Bullen. Supporting their feet, in the long, narrow shoes, was the customary small dog, rather touchingly lying supine with his legs in the air. She reached up to pass her palm over the smooth bronze muzzle. ‘It seems to bring it all back to life,’ she said. ‘It reminds one that they were real people, not just walking effigies. I daresay this was a favourite pet?’
‘I would think so. Most of these creatures were formalities. But in this case, there does seem an air of familiarity and only a dog much loved and petted, will lie like that, flopping about easily with no fear of attack from any quarter. Catherine, ten years younger and surviving him.’
The names and dates of their seven children were inscribed round the sides of the tomb. ‘They seem to have been a thriving family,’ said Hil, off-handedly. ‘They all outlived their parents.’ He led her slowly down the side-aisle, idly commenting, and then: ‘This one was not so fortunate. His daughter died in childbirth, leaving only one surviving twin boy.’
‘Here is her beautiful memorial, all in bronze—1574-1592.’
In a great niche in the wall, the rigid figure, seated, life-size, with its praying pointed hands, a tiny mannikin lying stiffly in the spread lap as though a corpse sat upright, nursing the corpse of a miniature grown-up. Propped against her knee, the figure of a young man, head thrown back in an attitude of death, a second tiny figurine in the crook of his arm. ‘ “Isabella, widow of John Lloyd”—widow, Hil, and she could only have been eighteen or nineteen! “Daughter of Sir Edward Hilbourne, Squire of Aberdar Manor. Died in childbirth”.’ She looked more closely. ‘She’s the same Isabella whose portrait hangs at Aberdar—so closely resembling Lyneth and Christine.’
‘And here is the tomb of Sir Edward, her father. Well, well—lived to see his daughter and her husband dead in the same year; and here is Henry, his only son, killed in the same hunting accident that destroyed the son-in-law, John Lloyd. What could any man have done to deserve such a life of tragedy?’
‘The son, Henry, married, but having as yet no children: so how fortunate th
at Isabella’s one surviving twin at least was a boy, to carry on the line. Though, in fact, the inheritance may pass through the female line?’
‘Yes, that’s how Christine, the elder by the hour, is heir to the manor. I must try to discover whether or not this was a later arrangement, made because so many children were lost at birth, or died very young.’
‘Has this occurred, then, all down through the family history?’
He said carefully: ‘It’s almost as though there were a curse upon them.’
They passed on down a side aisle, stepping, she with delicate reluctance, upon the great flagstones, often with brass inlays, that marked the resting places of the family. She suggested: ‘I sometimes think—with his anxiety about the children meeting with others—that the Squire believes in a curse, and wishes the line not to continue into further tragedy.’
‘I think you may be right,’ he said.
‘Ah—yes! And so you begin to enquire more closely into the family history—and bring in the governess to assist you?’
He looked down at her, smiling. ‘You have a quick mind, Miss Tetty, haven’t you?—in that pretty head of yours.’
Her heart gave a small lurch. She said: ‘You are rather kinder to me, today, Hil, than you have been in the past.’
‘I have these strange—misgivings. I feel angry urges to, as it were, warn you. But I tell myself that it may be only fancy and I should not punish you, resent you, whatever may be the right word, because of my own imaginings.’
‘But what is it that you imagine?’
‘I wish I could know more exactly. I suppose it’s in some way tied up with this idea of a family anathema.’
‘Surely in these modern days, no one still actually believes in such things?’
‘You’ve suggested yourself that the Squire does.’
She said sadly, ‘He’s ill, weary, anxious about the possibility of his leaving his children to the care of others…’
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