The Gentle Prisoner

by Sara Seale

  "That was charming," Shelley said when they had finished. "Now, please help yourselves to what you want."

  A tousled black head looked round the door and Shelley exclaimed:

  "Martin! Why aren't you in bed and asleep?"

  "I heard them singing," the boy said, sidling into the room. 'Carol-singers, like you told me, Shelley. I wanted to see them."

  "Oh-ho!" said Colin. "And who is this young man? Another enchanted mortal?"

  "He's my husband's nephew, Martin Penryn," she said, drawing the boy to her. "Martin, this is Mr. - er - Colin, and this is Mr. Willy, and this is Mr. Jake, only I'm not sure which is which."

  They all laughed, then helped themselves to drinks while Martin leant against Shelley and nibbled chocolate biscuits. Colin sat in Nicholas' chair, talking nonsense and quoting a great deal while he watched Shelley with his bright blue eyes, and even Jake and Willy, although they said little, relaxed and did ample justice to Shelley's hospitality.

  Later, more carols had to be sung for Martin, and Shelley shyly joined in, while the fire sank lower and shadows crept out of the corners of the room. The Louis XVIII clock struck the hour with its thin, silvery chime, and Colin jumped up.

  "Midnight!" he exclaimed. "The witching hour of all fairytales. We must be gone."

  "Is this a fairy-tale?" Martin enquired, his head already nodding drowsily.

  "Of course! And if we don't go at once we shall be turned into pumpkins. 'For night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast. And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger ...' Princess Shelley, I thank you for our feast. We shall meet again."

  "I don't think so," said Shelley politely. "No one ever comes here."

  "We shall meet again," he repeated, and took her hands as she waited in the hall to see them off.

  "How did you get here?" she asked belatedly.

  "Our chariot - otherwise our derelict car awaits without the gates."

  Her eyes widened.

  "But the snow!"

  "It's not deep yet on the roads."

  "How did you get in? The gates are locked at night."

  "That was to be expected in the ogre's castle. We came the usual way - over the wall. Good night." He lifted her hands and kissed her fingers lightly. "You are very lovely," he said in a small soft voice, and was gone.

  The next morning Shelley awoke wondering if it had all been a dream. She looked out of her window, but fresh snow had fallen in the night, covering all tracks, and it was as if they had never been.

  Baines greeted her smilingly at breakfast time and she said to him:

  "The carol-singers did come last night, didn't they, Baines?"

  "Oh, yes, ma'am," he said. "And very nicely they sang -quite a cut above the usual. But then they would be, seeing they are professional young gentlemen."

  "They told me they were mummers," she said, pouring her coffee.

  "A fancy way of saying they were actors," he replied. "I understand they are playing over at Polzeal for Christmas week."

  "Oh!" Shelley wished she did not know. She would like to have kept that evening enchanted and anonymous.

  "It's a mystery to me how they got here," Baines said. "For old Isaac at the lodge never let them in."

  "They came over the wall," said Shelley, and grinned at him suddenly.

  He smiled, but shook his head at the same time.

  "Oh, dearie me," he said. "That wouldn't please Mr. Nicholas. It's his collection, you see. If people can get over the wall, it's no use locking the gates. I must speak to Isaac and get him to cut down the creeper."

  Shelley sighed. Sometimes she thought Garazion was very like a prison, with its locked gates and its guardian wall.

  "Is Martin all right this morning?" she asked.

  "As right at a trivet, but Mrs. Medlar wasn't best pleased he

  was up half the night. She'll no doubt complain to you, ma'am."

  "Then I'll keep out of her way," said Shelley briskly.

  She managed to evade the housekeeper for the morning and she and Martin went down to the plantation to choose a tree.

  Then Shelley started to run, dodging round the tamarisks pursued noisily by Martin until, finally, she allowed herself to be caught and pelted with snow. There was a soft thud and a snowball fell at their feet, then another and another. Someone was throwing them over the wall.

  "Who could that be?" Shelley said, and shouted "Hi! Do you know you hit me, whoever you are!" she cried indignantly, opening the gate with a flurry of dislogded snow.

  Someone laughed and a remembered voice said:

  "Good morning, princess."

  He was standing close in by the wall, his fair head uncovered, a bright blue muffler, which matched his eyes, wound round his neck.

  "I'm sorry if I hit you," he said. "But I had to attract your attention, and I couldn't see what I was hitting, you know."

  She laughed.

  "You really do drop from the skies, don't you? How did you get here this time?" "Walked."

  "What, from Polzeal?"

  "No, only from the village. The buses are still running. How do you know I come from Polzeal?" She smiled.

  "Oh, we hear things, even at Garazion." "Been making enquiries?" Her nose went in the air.

  "Certainly not. My servant happened to tell me." His eyes crinkled at the corners.

  "It's no good being haughty," he told her. "Last night you were the princess and very delightfully dignified, but today you're just a little girl with a handkerchief round your head and snow on your lashes. Come for a walk."

  She rubbed her lashes with her mittened fingers.

  "We're supposed to stay in the grounds in case of drifts," she said doubtfully, and he laughed.

  "I know all the drifts, I've come through them. They're not so bad," he said. "But perhaps the little boy - "

  "No, no, I want to come, too," cried Martin.

  "Very well. Each of you take a hand and away we go."

  He swung them along, one each side of him, and ran them through small drifts until they were breathless, then he swung Martin up on his shoulder and turned again for home.

  "Will you ask me to lunch?" he said, and as she hesitated, added with a twinkle: "I won't pinch the collection."

  "It isn't that," she said, embarrassed. In fact she did not quite know why she hesitated. "Of course, do come."

  "On second thoughts, perhaps I won't. We'll meet each day, much more romantically, at the postern gate."

  "Each day?" Her eyes were startled.

  "Why not? I have so many things to say to you, Shelley."

  He set Martin down at the gate, and he ran ahead into the garden.

  "Must we always have the boy with us?" asked Colin with a lift of the eyebrow.

  "No," said Shelley slowly. "He usually rests for an hour after lunch, but - "

  His eyes crinkled at her.

  "But you think we need a chaperone?"

  "Of course not."

  "How charming you are when you blush. Will you meet me tomorrow in your green mittens and the handkerchief tied under your chin?"

  "I don't know," she said, and he started to walk away.

  "I'll be there, anyway, and if you don't come, I shall throw snowballs over the wall and probably hit the aged retainer on the head. Au revoir!"

  She met him at the gate the next afternoon. They walked to Penzennen's Pool and she told him the legend of the wicked Penzennen who had drowned there and was so evil that nothing lived in the water and no creature drank from it.

  "Quite in the right tradition, princess," he mocked. "Are

  there any more spells laid hereabout? I think you yourself have a spell laid on you." "How do you mean?"

  "I don't quite know. I think perhaps you are the Sleeping Princess locked in your castle until the Prince comes to waken you."

  He spoke lightly enough, but his bright eyes scanned her face with alert curiosity, and he was puzzled by the strange look which came, fleetingly, into her eyes.

  "Wh
at made you come all this way in the snow that night to sing carols?" she asked him gently. "Baines said we were too isolated. Carol-singers - the usual ones, I mean - haven't been here for years."

  His smile was apologetic and completely charming.

  "I must confess to you, Mrs Penryn, it was a bet," he said.

  "Abet?"

  "Rumours - and legends, reach beyond the moor in Cornwall, you know. There is a legend that the dark Penryn carried off a young maiden for a bride and keeps her imprisoned behind a high wall, so fearful is he of somebody stealing his most prized possession."

  The colour came into her cheeks.

  "How absurd!"

  "Isn't it like that?"

  "Of course not. Nicholas - my husband has been a - a sort of recluse for years. He - he had a bad accident a long time ago."

  "So I've heard. And traffics with the devil, so superstition says. Old Nick will come and get you, they tell their children when they're naughty."

  The tears came into her eyes.

  "That's abominable!" she cried. "He's kind and-and -" "But a little frightening? Oh, Shelley, my sweet child, don't take me seriously. I didn't mean to hurt you. Anyone, you know, who has lived as your husband has for so long, must fall victim to local superstition - especially in these parts. That was the reason for the bet. Willy wagered I'd never get inside the house and I took him up and made him come, too. Also, I must confess I was curious."

  She smiled reluctantly. It was impossible to be angry with him for long.

  "Well, you won your bet," she said. "Now, I must be getting home. Martin will be looking for me." "Tomorrow, then?" "No."

  "Oh, cruel princess! But all princesses are cruel, aren't they? They set their suitors impossible tests, and chop off their heads when they fail."

  "Except the right one," she said with gentle malice.

  "Yes, except the right one," he agreed, and his expression was puckish.

  But she saw him most days. Sometimes Martin came with them, and sometimes she met him alone, and for the first time, she knew that she had been unbearably lonely.

  He was a delightful companion, full of a flow of nonsense that was touched with tenderness for her, and, for the first time, since she had come to Garazion she could talk freely and without thought. She had known few men besides her father before she married Nicholas, and certainly none as young or experienced as Colin, but she recognized her own kind and was happy, for was he not the playmate she had never had, the friend with whom she could share her own most secret thoughts?

  Two days before Christmas it snowed again, and she went to meet Colin through a flurry of falling flakes.

  "Let's walk," he said. "It's too cold for sitting about."

  They strode along the crisp moorland tracks, swinging their jeined hands, and sometimes Shelley skipped beside him, snatching the handkerchief from her head and letting the snow-flakes settle on her hair.

  "How young you are," he said tenderly. "Young and so unspoilt. I wish I'd met you sooner, Shelley."

  She replied unexpectedly:

  "You mightn't have cared for me away from Garazion."

  He glanced down at her quickly, surprised by her flash of perception. Was it true, he wondered? Was it the unreality of the situation which gave her such charm for him? But he said:

  "I should have cared for you anywhere," and indeed she had for him and, he thought, for all men, a rare quality which drew forth gentleness.

  "Do you know tomorrow's Christmas Eve?" he said, and she stopped dead.

  Christmas Eve, and Nicholas would be returning. Amazingly, unbelievably, she had forgotten all about him.

  "How guilty you look!" he laughed, and brushed the snow from her hair.

  "I'd forgotten," she said slowly. "I'd quite forgotten. Nicholas comes back tomorrow." He regarded her with gentleness.

  "Shelley, do you love your husband?" he said. He had never asked her about her marriage. It had nothing to do with their own relationship.

  She did not answer directly but said instead:

  "He once told me he didn't expect love from any woman."

  His eyes were bright and questioning, but he said lightly enough:

  "Why ? Is he such a monster?"

  "I think," she said haltingly, "he must be very sensitive about his face. He is - badly disfigured, you see."

  "So I've heard. And does that revolt you?"

  "No, oh, no," she said, and added gently: "One gets used to ugliness, you know."

  "One gets used to anything, they say," he retorted. "So you don't love him. I didn't suppose you did."

  He wanted to probe deeper. There was something childlike and unawakened about Shelley, and he began to feel a curiosity concerning her husband, but she said, starting to walk on again:

  "Nicholas married me and I'm grateful to him for so much, and sometimes" - her voice lifted in surprise - "sometimes, I think I'm sorry for him."

  "Pity? There's many a relationship that has sprung out ofthat."

  "No," she said. "One doesn't pity Nicholas." He left the subject at once and began asking her about her life before she had married Nicholas.

  "You've led a very sheltered life, haven't you?" he said. "In your convent school and now behind your high wall. You're rather like Prunella. Do you know Housman's little play?"

  Her face lit up with pleasure.

  "Yes, we did it once. I was Prunella and I still remember every word. 'The love I fear to lose, the love I find: Those who might miss me - those who I might miss ...' Do you ever do the play, Colin?"

  "It's in our repertoire. We turn it on if we get stuck. It's easy to act and has a great charm."

  They had reached the gates and Colin said.

  ''Tomorrow in the summer-house? I have a Christmas present for you."

  "Oh, Colin!" Her eyes were soft. "Well, it must only be for a little while. Martin and I have to put up our holly."

  "I'll be there."

  He had been waiting for half an hour before she slipped out and she seemed flustered.

  "I mustn't stay," she said. "Isaac has brought in the tree and he and Mrs. Medlar are quarrelling as to where it shall stand and Martin's working up for a crying fit. He is overexcited."

  "And so are you over-excited, my pretty child," he said looking into her flushed face. "Not starting your old enemy the temperature, are you?"

  "No, I don't think so. But we're late with our decorations, and we must have all the mess cleared up before Nicholas gets home, and I must change my dress because he doesn't like to see me untidy and - "

  "Stop it, stop it," he said gently. "Relax, my child, or you'll be a nervous wreck by the time that husband of yours gets back. Look, I've brought your present. It's nothing very much."

  He thrust a small parcel into her hands and she opened it eagerly. It was a tiny Crib, the figures all beautifully carved from wood, and she exclaimed softly:

  "Oh, Colin ... how lovely ... Look at the little donkey and the ox ... and the kneeling figures ... how beautifully

  they're carved. Where did you find it?"

  "It's local work. There's an old chap in Polzeal who does carving for a hobby. I thought you might like it."

  She looked up at him, immeasurably touchedbythesensitive-ness he had shown in the choice of his gift.

  "Thank you, dear Colin," she said. "I shall always treasure it. I've something for you, too. I couldn't go out and buy anything, so I'm afraid it's second-hand. Look, it's my medallion of St. Christopher. We all had them at school - I've worn mine since I was ten."

  He took the medallion from her turning it over gently in the palm of his hand.

  "I shall be all the fonder of it for that," he said. "But isn't it like giving away your luck?"

  "No, only sharing it. I want you to have it - it's all I could find for you."

  "Thank you, Shelley," he said gently, and slipped the medallion in his breast pocket.

  They stood looking at each other, and a little scurry of wind blew round the s
ummer-house, sprinkling them with snow.

  "After today," he said steadily, "you don't want me to come here any more, do you, Shelley?"

  Her eyes widened.

  "I can't lose you," she said a little piteously. "You're the only friend I have."

  "We could meet on the moor." "Could we?"

  "Or -" His eyebrows lifted, "I could even come to the house and make a formal call."

  "No," she said quickly. "I don't want you at Garazion. I can't explain, but I don't want you at Garazion."

  He was silent. Now was the time he should make the break, he knew. Now, before it was too late and she ceased to be the child he had found, for this was Pierrot's old game.

  "I'll walk to Penzennen's Pool each morning at half-past-eleven," he said brusquely.

  "I don't know," she said. "I don't know, Colin. I must go now."

  "A happy Christmas, princess," he said, and kissed her

  gently on the forehead, just as Nicholas did when he said good night.

  She was late going up to change, and she was still in her room, trying to hook up her dress when Nicholas arrived. She called out in answer to his knock, and turned, still struggling with her dress, to greet him. "Hullo!" she said.

  He watched her a little curiously, in silence, and the disfigurement to his face seemed to be more cruelly marked than she remembered.

  "Well, Shelley, how are you?" he said, then, and took her hands in his.

  "Oh, you're cold!" she laughed, and he went over to the fire.

  "Yes, it's a cold night. When I've warmed my hands, I'll do your dress up for you."

  "I can manage," she said, and started searching for hooks and eyes again.

  He stood by the fire, warming his hands, and she noticed again their strength and shapeliness, as the firelight flickered on the strong, delicate veins. His train was late, he told her, and the snow delayed the car. He had told Baines to put back dinner half an hour.

  "Did you have snow in London?" she asked.

  "Not much. I gather it's been quite thick here."

  He left the fire, and turned her gently round with her back to him.

  "Much better let me do it," he said, and began hooking up her dress with competent speed. Every now and then his fingers touched her bare skin, and she stood very still waiting until he had finished, when he turned her round again.