Pool of St. Branok

by Philippa Carr

  “What did you expect … Peter’s grandson and that unconventional life.”

  “I wonder if he will come to see us.”

  “He will,” I said. “He said he would.”

  “People don’t always keep their word, dear.”

  “But he meant it.”

  “But people do mean things when they say them … and then they forget.”

  I was sure he would not.

  I thought about him for a long time afterwards, and then the memory began to fade.

  A year passed. We had heard from Aunt Amaryllis at intervals. Peterkin and Frances had added another wing to their house of refuge; Jonnie and Geoffrey were away at school most of the time. Peter’s hopes for Matthew had been realized with the end of Little Johnny’s government and the beginning of Lord Derby’s ministry and their son-in-law had his post in the Cabinet. Peter’s grandson had changed quite a lot. “He is becoming more and more like one of us. He is really quite an English gentleman now … or almost. Peter is concerned about him. He thought he might like to go in for estate management, and he is going to ask you if you will have him at Cador for a time … say a month or two … just to see how he likes that kind of life. Peter thinks he might be rather suited to it.”

  “Of course he may come and stay a while,” said my father. “I daresay it might be just the thing for him. He was brought up on what they call a property in Australia. No doubt he was born to the life.”

  My mother said she would write to Amaryllis at once; and I felt excited at the prospect of seeing him.

  A few days later I saw Grace Gilmore for the first time. I had taken my horse, Glory, down to the beach for I loved to gallop her over the sands at the edge of the water. It was very rarely that anyone came down there at that spot. The stretch of shore was only about half a mile from the harbor and it was part of Cador land, but there was no restriction about people’s using it.

  I was surprised when I saw a young woman there. She was seated on an upturned boat close to the old boathouse which was never used nowadays and she was staring out to sea.

  She looked startled when she heard me galloping towards her. I pulled up.

  “Good afternoon,” I said.

  She returned my greeting. She was quite young—just under eighteen, I decided. There was something about her which interested me. She looked serious, anxious, and when she saw me, a little alarmed.

  I wondered who she was, and that natural curiosity, deplored by Mrs. Penlock, always got the better of me. She was a stranger and we rarely saw strangers here. Visitors were usually relations of the inhabitants and their presence was always a matter of gossip. I had heard nothing of this one.

  “It’s a lovely day,” I went on. “Are you staying here?”

  She replied: “I’m staying a few days at the Fisherman’s Rest.”

  “Oh? Are you comfortable there?”

  “Well … yes.”

  I knew the Pennylegs had little to offer paying guests; there were so few of them. I believed there were only two rooms available and they were small and cramped. Most of the trade was provided by the local miners and fishermen.

  “Are you staying long?”

  “I’m unsure.”

  She was not very communicative.

  She said suddenly: “Do you live here?”

  I nodded and pointed upwards to where Cador stood, on the top of the cliff.

  “It’s magnificent,” she said.

  I warmed to her as I always did to anyone who praised Cador.

  “Is this your boathouse?” she asked.

  “I suppose so. It is never used.”

  She interested me, but then people always did … particularly strangers. I fancied I detected a certain tension in her. Then I told myself it was my imagination again.

  I said goodbye and rode up the incline through the gorse and valerian and sea pinks to Cador.

  I forgot all about her until next day when I saw her again.

  I was with my mother in the garden. She had come through the courtyard and was standing there looking at us. She seemed very sad and pathetic.

  My mother said: “Good afternoon. Do you want to see someone?”

  “Are you the lady of the house?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I met your daughter.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “On the sands by the old boathouse. Are you staying at the Fisherman’s Rest still?”

  She nodded. “I was wondering if there was any work …”

  “Work?” echoed my mother.

  “I’d do anything,” she said with an air of desperation, which I could see touched my mother as it did me.

  “Watson, the butler, engages staff,” said my mother. “You could see him.”

  I imagined Watson. He would be condescending. What work could he give her? As far as I knew we did not need another servant and she did not look like a house- or parlormaid, or anything like that. She was good-looking in a severe sort of way. Not the kind who would attract Watson.

  “I … I can sew,” she said.

  My mother looked at me. I could see that the girl had aroused her sympathy as she had mine and we both wanted to do all we could to help her.

  I read my mother’s thoughts. This might be a possibility. Clothes were bought on trips to London or even in Plymouth. There was one stylish dressmaker there. But I had often heard my mother say: “How I wish we had dear old Miss Semple here.” Miss Semple had had her room in the attics somewhere and up there was a big airy and light room which had been used as a sewing room. Miss Semple had worked there until she died three years ago.

  At that moment the girl swayed a little; she would have fallen to the ground if my mother had not caught her.

  “Poor soul, she has fainted,” said my mother. “Help me, Angelet. Get her head down. That will revive her.”

  In a few seconds she had opened her eyes.

  “Oh forgive me,” she said.

  “My dear child,” began my mother, “we’re going to take you into the house. You need to rest a while.”

  We took her into a room leading off the hall where people waited if they wanted to see my parents about anything.

  “Ring and tell someone to bring me some brandy,” said my mother.

  I did so.

  The girl was sitting in a chair. She said: “I’m all right now. I’m sorry. It was foolish of me.”

  “You’re not all right,” said my mother firmly. “You’re going to rest a while.”

  A servant brought the brandy which the girl took half reluctantly. She seemed to recover a little.

  She half rose to her feet but my mother gently pushed her back into the chair.

  “Tell me,” she said. “Where have you come from? And why is a girl like you looking for work?”

  She smiled ruefully. “It’s no use pretending, is it? I have to find work … quickly. I’m desperate. I have nowhere to go.”

  “I thought you were staying at the Fisherman’s Rest,” I said.

  “I have to leave tomorrow. I have no …”

  “Why did you come here?” asked my mother.

  “I knew there were one or two big houses in the neighborhood. I thought I might find work in one of them. So …”

  “I see,” said my mother. “And where have you come from?”

  “My home was in Barnton … in Devon. My father was the rector. He was much older than my mother and my parents were not young, either of them, when they married. I was the only child. I looked after my father and when my mother died … well, it was not easy. He was ill for some time and he had to retire. All his savings were used up. There were some debts and when everything was sold I had very little. I knew it wouldn’t last. I had to find something I could do. You see, I have never been trained for anything but I used to do a lot of sewing for people in the neighborhood and acquaintances. I’m really good at it …” she ended almost pleadingly.

  My mother had made a decision. “You could see how you l
iked it here,” she said. “We had Miss Semple who worked for us for years. She died three years ago. We were all very fond of her and she has never been replaced. Her room has never been used and there is the sewing room next to it.”

  Her face was illumined with joy. She said: “Do you really mean it …?”

  “Of course,” replied my mother. “Now let us be practical. I’ll take you up to see the room right away.”

  She had taken my mother’s hand; her eyes were closed. I thought she was going to burst into tears, but she did not.

  My mother was faintly embarrassed by this show of gratitude. She said quickly: “I suppose you have some things which you will want to bring.”

  “I have a few clothes at the Fisherman’s Rest. That’s all.”

  “I’ll show you your room and then you can go to the inn and collect your things. You can settle in right away.”

  “You are so kind … This seems too wonderful to be true.”

  We took her up and showed her the rooms. In the sewing room was a big table at which Miss Semple had sat; and there were the dummies she used, and in the drawers of the table her cottons and tape measure just as she had left them.

  She told us then that her name was Grace Gilmore, and that she hoped one day to repay us for all the kindness we had shown her.

  That was how Grace Gilmore came to Cador.

  There was a certain resentment below stairs where what was called “Interference from the Top” was not approved of; but my mother told them that Miss Gilmore was a genteel young lady who had fallen on hard times and she wanted them all to be as helpful towards her as possible.

  Watson and Mrs. Penlock both agreed that they would do all they could to help “the young body” settle in and they implied that although it was Watson’s prerogative to engage staff, they did see that sewing was something outside his domain; so perhaps on this occasion it was not such a breach of household protocol as it had at first seemed.

  Later that day, Grace Gilmore arrived with her personal belongings and was settled into the rooms at the top of the house.

  She was very eager to begin work and we soon discovered that she was an excellent seamstress.

  “We’ve been lucky,” said my mother. “And she is a lady, which is a help too. We must be very kind to her, poor girl. She has had such a bad time and she is really quite young. I have no doubt that she could help Miss Prentiss in some ways.”

  I was pleased that we had been able to help her. Grace Gilmore interested me. There was something mysterious about her.

  Benedict arrived at Cador. He was even more handsome than I remembered.

  “Why,” he cried, “you’ve grown. You’re almost a young lady now.”

  He laughed. I noticed that he had beautiful white teeth and his eyes were bluer than I remembered.

  “I’m settling in now,” he said. “I’ll soon be as English as you.”

  My parents greeted him with pleasure and in a few days he seemed to become part of Cador. He spent a good deal of time with my father. Jack was very taken with him and he was soon popular with the servants.

  Whenever I could be with him I would. He seemed to enjoy my company. But of course he had come with a purpose and he was kept busy. He was full of enthusiasm for the estate; and when he was not with my father he seemed to be with John Polstark, our manager. He was very popular with all. I knew that in the kitchen they discussed him constantly, especially the younger and more frivolous maids.

  “He’s what you might call one of them charmers,” was Mrs. Penlock’s verdict. “You girls want to watch out with them sort. They can be all nice words and smiles till they get what they want from you girls … and then it’s ‘Goodbye, I’m off now to the next.’ But she herself was not immune. She would simper a little when he was near. He was full of good will and if he did cast a sparkling eye on the younger and prettier of the girls, he did not forget the older ones either. He would give the same sort of attention to Mrs. Penlock herself—who admitted to being in her sixties, but I was sure she had forgotten to add a few years for she had been at Cador when my mother was a girl and had not been exactly young then. He made everyone feel that there was something special about them which he found lovable. I supposed that was called charm.

  I tried to discover what it was about him which had that effect on people. It was more than just his attitude towards them; he was the sort of man who wanted power and I came to the conclusion that that was the very essence of masculine attraction.

  My mother talked to me about him.

  “He seems to have a way of making himself known,” she said. “He has only been here a short time and he is making an impression.”

  “There is something different about him,” I answered. “He’s unlike anyone else I know.”

  My mother smiled. “He’s getting along with John Polstark and your father. They seem to think he will make a good estate manager.”

  “What do you think Uncle Peter intends to do? Buy him an estate somewhere?”

  “Probably … but for himself I should imagine. He’ll keep a firm hand on it and perhaps let Benedict manage it.”

  “I shouldn’t think Ben would want that.”

  “No. He’s like his grandfather, I daresay. He would want to have complete charge. It will be interesting to see what happens. They’re a strong-willed pair. By the way, Miss Gilmore is settling in well, I think. Don’t you?”

  “She’s so grateful, it’s almost embarrassing.”

  “Poor girl! I don’t know what she would have done if we hadn’t taken her in. She seemed pretty desperate. She has asked me for a day off.”

  “A day off! So soon!”

  “She’s got an old aunt who lives somewhere near Bodmin. She wants to go and see her and tell her that she’s settled and where she is and all that, I suppose.”

  “I thought she hadn’t got any relations.”

  “I don’t think she said that. Well, this is her father’s sister … and I daresay she is very old … as the father was. In any case I have said she may go.”

  “Near Bodmin, you say?”

  “She mentioned Lanivet.”

  “That’s some little way.”

  “She said she would be away one night and she was so grateful when I said that would be all right. I think she is going to be very useful. She’s made a very good job of that alpaca. You know I was very fond of that costume. I didn’t want to discard it, but the bottoms of the sleeves were so marked. She’s done something so that it doesn’t show. And she’s tightened up the skirt which was too loose. It almost looks like new. Dear old Semple was getting a little past it though she would never admit it. I don’t think she could see very well towards the end.”

  “I think you are rather pleased with Miss Gilmore, Mama.”

  “It is nice to be able to do a good turn to someone and find you’ve done yourself one too.”

  “Is she getting on all right with the servants now?”

  “I think they consider her something of an outsider.”

  “Well, anyone who comes from the other side of the river is that.”

  My mother laughed. “She is quiet and causes no fuss. I don’t know what goes on in the kitchen. It’s like the case of Miss Prentiss. They are so strict about levels of society that they are a little complicated to follow. She seems to have become quite friendly with Miss Prentiss.”

  “Perhaps they both feel they can be friendly without upsetting the rules of protocol.”

  “That must be so. However, she is going off in the morning.”

  I often wondered about Grace Gilmore. There was an air of mystery about her which intrigued me. I did not mention it to anyone. They would say—or even if they didn’t say it they would think it—that I was daydreaming again. I imagined her life with the poor old rector—so feeble and demanding. I was sure she had waited on him, caring for him, living for him and letting her own life slip away.

  My mother would say: “You are building up what isn’t
there, Angel. That imagination of yours. … It’s all very fine but don’t let it run away with you.”

  I saw Grace Gilmore going to the station to get the train. There was something purposeful about her. I smiled and wished her a good journey.

  I began to wonder whether she would come back. There was a certain unreality about her. It occurred to me that she might suddenly disappear and we would never hear of her again. I was so obsessed by this thought that when I returned to the house I went to her room. Everything was neat and tidy. I looked in the wardrobe. Her clothes were hanging there. Her nightdress lay neatly folded under her pillow. Yes, I was inquisitive enough to look there.

  It was the room of someone who intended to return.

  In the afternoon I went riding with Ben and all thought of Grace Gilmore departed during such a pleasant time.

  He talked about running an estate of his own.

  “Like Cador?” I asked.

  “Just like Cador only bigger.”

  I laughed. “Everything about you has to be bigger than everyone else’s.”

  “I admit it.”

  “Do you realize that this estate has been built up over hundreds of years?”

  “I do.”

  “And you are going to come and start and immediately have something bigger?”

  “It is what I should like.”

  “We don’t all get what we like.”

  “I intend to.”

  “ ‘Pride goeth before a fall.’ ”

  “Oh, moral, are we?”

  “It’s supposed to be true.”

  “I shall be prouder than ever and not fail … just to prove it’s wrong.”

  “I should be rather disappointed if it were, when I think of the number of times I have had to write it out for Miss Prentiss.”

  “It is a great game to prove the moralists wrong. And for every one of these adages there is a contradiction.”

  “ ‘Too many cooks spoil the broth’ and ‘Many hands make light work’?”

  “Exactly. So I shall make my own laws. They will be the laws of Reason.”

  “Oh, Ben, it is nice to have you here.”

  “Shall I tell you what is the nicest thing about being here?”

  “Yes, do.”

  “Angel is here.”