The Landower Legacy

by Victoria Holt

  "You seem in a great hurry."

  "Oh no, Papa."

  "You saw the procession yesterday?"

  "Oh yes, Papa."

  "What did you think of it?"

  "It was wonderful."

  "It is something for you to remember as long as you live."

  "Oh yes, Papa."

  "Tell me," he said, "what most impressed you ... of everything you saw?"

  I was nervous as always in his presence and when I was nervous I said the first thing which came into my head. What had impressed me most? The Queen? The Crown Prince of Germany? The Kings of Europe? The bands? The truth was that it was that poor horse which had run amok, and before I had realized it I had blurted out: "It was the mad horse."

  "What?"

  "The er—the accident."

  "What accident?"

  I bit my lip and hesitated. I was remembering that my mother had implied that it would be better not to talk of it. But I had gone too far to retract.

  "The mad horse?" he was repeating. "What accident?"

  There was nothing for it but to explain. "It was that horse which ran wild. It hurt a lot of people."

  "But you were nowhere near it. That happened in Waterloo Place."

  I flushed and hung my head.

  "So you were in Waterloo Place," he said. "That was not as I thought." He went on murmuring: "Waterloo Place. I see ... I think I see." He looked different somehow. His face had turned very pale and his eyes glittered oddly. I should have thought he looked bewildered and a little frightened, but I dismissed the thought; he could never be that.

  He turned away and left me standing there.

  I went to the schoolroom. I had done something terrible, I knew.

  I was beginning to understand. The manner in which we had gone there in the first place when we thought we were going somewhere else ... it was significant, the way Captain Carmichael had been expecting us, the looks he and my mother exchanged . . .

  What did it mean? I knew the answer somewhere at the back of my mind. There are things the young know . . . instinctively.

  And I had betrayed them.

  I could not speak of it. I drank my milk and nibbled my bread and butter without noticing what I was doing.

  "Caroline is absent-minded tonight," said Miss Bell. "I know. She is thinking of all she saw yesterday."

  How right she was!

  I said I had a headache and escaped to my room. Miss Bell usually read with us, each taking turns for a page—for half an hour after supper. She thought it was not good for us to go to bed immediately after taking food, however light.

  I thought I would get into bed and pretend to be asleep when Olivia came up, so that I should not have to talk to her. It was no use sharing suspicions with her. She would refuse to consider them—as she always did everything that was not pleasant.

  I had taken off my dress and put on my dressing gown. I was about to plait my hair when the door opened and to my dismay Papa came in.

  He looked quite unlike himself. He was very angry and he still wore that rather bewildered look. He seemed sad too.

  He said: "I want a word with you, Caroline."

  I waited.

  "You went to Waterloo Place, did you not?"

  I hesitated and he went on: "You need not fear to betray anything. I know. Your mother has told me."

  I was obviously relieved.

  He continued: "It was decided on the spur of the moment that you would get a better view from Waterloo Place. I don't agree with that. You would have been nearer at either of the others which had been offered. But you went to Waterloo Place and were entertained by Captain Carmichael. That's so, is it not?"

  "Yes, Papa."

  "Did you not wonder why the plans had been changed so abruptly?"

  "Well, yes ... but Mama said it would be better at Waterloo Place."

  "And Captain Carmichael was prepared for you, he provided luncheon."

  "Yes, Papa."

  "I see."

  He was staring at me. "What is that you are wearing round your neck?"

  I touched it nervously. "It's a locket, Papa."

  "A locket! And why are you wearing it?"

  "Well, I always wear it, not so that it can be seen."

  "Oh? In secret? And why pray? Tell me."

  "Well . . . because I like wearing it and ... it shouldn't be seen."

  "Should not be seen? Why not?"

  "Miss Bell says I am too young to wear jewellery."

  "So you have decided to defy Miss Bell?"

  "Well, not really ... but ..."

  "Please speak the truth, Caroline."

  "Well er—yes."

  "How did you come by the locket?"

  I was unprepared for the shock my answer gave him.

  "It was a present from Captain Carmichael."

  "He gave it to you yesterday?"

  "No. In the country."

  "In the country. When was that?"

  "When he called."

  "So he called, did he, when you were in the country?"

  He had snapped open the locket and was staring at the picture there. His face had turned very pale and his lips twitched; his eyes were like a snake's and they were fixed on me.

  "So Captain Carmichael made a habit of calling on you when you were in the country."

  "Not on me ... on . . ."

  "On your mother?"

  "Not a habit. He came once."

  "Oh, he came once, when your mother was there. And how long was his visit?"

  "He stayed two nights."

  "I see." He closed his eyes suddenly as though he could not bear to look at me nor at the locket which he still held in his hand. Then I heard him murmur: "My God." He looked at me with something like contempt and, still holding the locket, he strode out of the room.

  I spent a sleepless night, and I did not want to get up in the morning because I knew there was going to be trouble and that I had, in a way, created it.

  There was a quietness in the house—a brooding menace, a herald of disaster to come. I wondered if Olivia sensed it. She gave no sign of doing so. Perhaps it was due to my guilty conscience.

  Aunt Imogen called with her husband, Sir Harold Carey, and they were closeted with Papa for a long time. I did not see Mama, but I heard from one of the servants that Everton had said she was confined to her bed with a sick headache.

  The day wore on. The brougham did not come to take Papa to the bank. Mama remained in her room; and Aunt Imogen and her husband stayed to luncheon and after.

  I was more alert even than usual, for I felt it was imperative for me to know what was going on, and my efforts were rewarded in some measure. I secreted myself in the small room next to the little parlour which led off from the hall and where Papa was with the Careys. It was a cubbyhole really in which was a sink and a tap; flowers were put into pots and arranged by the servants there. I had taken a vase of roses and could pretend to be arranging them if I were caught. I could not hear all the conversation, but I did catch some of it.

  It was all rather mysterious. I kept hearing words like scandalous, disgraceful and: "There must be no scandal. Your career, Robert . . ." and then mumbles.

  I heard my own name mentioned.

  "She should go away," said Aunt Imogen emphatically. "A constant reminder . . . You owe yourself that, Robert. Too painful for you

  "It must not seem . . ."

  I could not hear what it must not seem.

  "That would be too much ... It would provoke Heaven knows what . . . There's Cousin Mary, of course . . . Why shouldn't she? It's time she did something for the family. It would give us a breathing space . . . time to make some plan ... to work out what would be best ..."

  "Would she?" That was my father.

  "She might. She is rather . . . odd. You know Mary. She feels no remorse . . . Probably has forgotten all the upset she's caused. It's an idea, Robert. And I do really think she should go away . . . I'm sure that's best. Shall I get in touc
h with her . . . Perhaps better coming from me. I'll explain the need . . . the urgent need ..."

  What the urgent need was I could not discover; and I could not stay fiddling with a vase of roses any longer.

  The days dragged on and the sombre atmosphere prevailed throughout the house. I did not see either my father nor my mother. All the servants knew that something unusual was going on.

  I caught Rosie Rundall alone in the dining room and I asked her what was happening.

  She shrugged her shoulders. "Looks like your Mama has been too friendly with Captain Carmichael and your Papa don't like it much. Can't say I blame her."

  "Rosie, why are they blaming me?"

  "Are they?"

  "I was in the flower room and I heard them say I should go away."

  "No, not you, love. I expect that they meant your Mama. That's who they meant." She shrugged her shoulders. "This will blow over, I reckon. Such things happen in the highest circles, believe me. Nothing to do with you ... so you stop worrying."

  At first I thought she must be right and then one morning Miss Bell came into the schoolroom, where we were waiting to begin our lessons and said: "Your mother has gone away for a rest cure."

  "Gone where?" I asked.

  "Abroad, I think."

  "She didn't say goodbye."

  "I expect she was very busy and she did have to leave in rather a hurry. Doctor's orders." Miss Bell looked worried. Then she said: "Your father has told me that he puts great trust in me."

  It was all very strange.

  Miss Bell cleared her throat. "You and I are going to make a journey, Caroline," she said.

  "A journey?"

  "Yes, by train. I am going to take you to Cornwall to stay with your father's cousin."

  "Cousin Mary! The harpy!"

  "What?"

  "Oh nothing. Why, Miss Bell?"

  "It has been decided." • "And Olivia?"

  "No. Olivia will not accompany you. I shall travel with you to Cornwall, stay a night at Tressidor Manor, and then return to London."

  "But . . . why?"

  "It is just a visit. You will come back to us in due course."

  "But I don't understand."

  Miss Bell looked at me quizzically, as though she might not understand either—and yet on the other hand she might.

  There was a reason for this. Possibilities flitted into my mind like will-o'-the wisps on misty swamps. None of them was quite tangible enough to offer me an explanation which I could accept.

  THE GHOSTS

  IN THE

  GALLERY

  Sitting in the first-class carriage opposite Miss Bell I felt that what was happening to me was quite unreal and that I should soon wake up and find I had been dreaming.

  Everything had come about so quickly. It had been on a Monday when Miss Bell had told me that I was going away, and this was only Friday and here I was on my journey.

  I was excited naturally. My temperament made it impossible for me not to be. I was a little scared. All I knew was that I was going to stay with Cousin Mary, who was kindly allowing me to visit her. The duration of the visit had not been mentioned and I felt that was ominous. In spite of my craving to experience new ways of life I felt a sudden longing for the old familiar things. I was surprised to discover that I did not want to leave Olivia, and that had she been coming with me my spirits would have been considerably lightened.

  She was going to miss me even as I missed her. She had looked quite desolate when I had said goodbye.

  She could not understand why I should be going—and to Cousin Mary of all people. Cousin Mary was an ogre, a wicked woman who had done something dreadful to Papa. Why should I be going to her?

  Pervading all my emotions was a terrible sense of guilt. I knew in my heart that I had brought about this terrible calamity. I had betrayed my mother; I had told that which should have been kept secret. Papa should never have known that we had been to Waterloo Place on Jubilee Day; and in addition to telling him that, I had carelessly allowed him to see the locket.

  He was annoyed about my mother's friendship with Captain Carmichael and I had betrayed it; and it seemed that, as a punishment, I was being sent to Cousin Mary.

  I wanted so much to talk of it, but Miss Bell was uncommunicative. She sat opposite me, her hands folded in her lap. She had seen the luggage deposited in the guard's van. One of the menservants had come with us to the station and looked after it, under the supervision of Miss Bell, of course, and all we had with us in the carriage was our hand luggage safely deposited in the rack above. I felt a rush of affection for Miss Bell, for I should be losing her soon. Her duty was merely to take me to Cousin Mary and then return. I should miss her well-meaning, authoritative manner at which I had often laughed with Olivia and which I knew, because of an absence from any other quarter, had brought serenity and security into my life.

  Occasionally I caught a glimpse of compassion in her eyes when they rested on me. She was sorry for me and that made me sorry for myself. I was angry. I knew that married ladies should not have romantic friendships with dashing cavalry officers; they should not meet them secretly. Yet knowing this, I had betrayed my mother. If only I had not talked to my father! But what else could I have done? Could I have lied? Surely that would not have been right. And he had come upon me so suddenly when I was in my dressing gown and had not had the time to hide my locket.

  It was no use going over it. It had happened and because of it my life had been disrupted. Now I was snatched from my home, from my sister, from my parents . . . well, perhaps that did not matter so much as I saw so little of Mama and far too much—for my comfort—of Papa. But everything was going to be new now, and there is always something alarming about the unknown.

  If only I knew everything. I was too old to be kept in the dark; at the same time they considered me not old enough to know the whole truth.

  Miss Bell was talking brightly about the countryside through which we were passing.

  "This," I said with a touch of irony, "will be a geography lesson with a touch of botany thrown in."

  "It is all very interesting," said Miss Bell severely.

  We had pulled up at a station and two women came into the compartment—a mother and a daughter, I guessed. They were pleasant travelling companions and when we lapsed into easy conversation they told us that they were going as far as Plymouth and that they made the journey once a year when they visited relatives.

  We chatted comfortably and Miss Bell brought out the luncheon basket which Mrs. Terras, the cook, had packed for us.

  "You will excuse us," she said to the ladies. "We left early and we have a long journey ahead."

  The elder of the ladies said how wise it was to come so prepared. She and her daughter had eaten before they left and there would be a good meal awaiting them on their arrival.

  There were two legs of cold chicken and some crusty bread. I remembered Waterloo Place with a sudden pang of misery. It seemed far away—in another life.

  "It looks delicious," said Miss Bell. "I'm afraid we shall have to use our fingers though. Dear me!" She smiled at our companions. "You will have to forgive us."

  "It is difficult travelling," said the elder woman.

  "I have a damp flannel which I brought with me, suspecting something like this," went on Miss Bell.

  We ate the chicken and the little cakes which had been provided by a thoughtful Mrs. Terras for our dessert. Miss Bell produced a bottle of lemonade and two small cups. Yet another reminder of Waterloo Place.

  I felt rather drowsy and, rocked by the rhythm of the train, dozed. When I awoke I was startled, for a moment wondering where I was.

  Miss Bell said: "You've had a long sleep. I must have nodded off myself."

  "We've come into Devonshire now," said the younger of the two ladies. "Not much farther for us to go."

  I looked out of the window at the woodlands, lush meadows and the rich red soil. We went through a tunnel and when we emerged, there was
the sea. I was enchanted by the sight of the white frilled waves breaking about black rocks. I saw a ship on the horizon and thought of my mother going abroad. Where? When would she come back? When should I see her again? When I did I would ask her why I had been sent away. I know I told my father that we had been to Captain Carmichael's but it was only the truth, and I know that he saw my locket. But why send me away because of that?

  Melancholy descended on me as I wondered what Olivia was doing at that moment.

  Our travelling companions were collecting their things together. "We shall soon be in Plymouth," they said.

  "Then," added Miss Bell, "we shall cross the Tamar and be in Cornwall."

  She was trying to inspire me with enthusiasm. I was interested but I could not stop thinking of Cousin Mary—the harpy—who had to be faced at the end of the journey, and the dreadful knowledge that Miss Bell would go away and leave me there. She had suddenly become very dear to me.

  We were coming into the station.

  The ladies shook hands and said it had been pleasant travelling with us. We waved goodbye and they went hurrying away to meet someone who was waiting for them.

  People were scurrying along the platform. Many were getting off the train and some were getting on. Two men passed and looked in at the window.

  Miss Bell sat back in her seat, relieved when they passed on.

  "For a moment I thought they were coming in," she said.

  "They scrutinized us and decided against us," I said with a laugh.

  "They probably thought we would prefer to travel with ladies."

  "Very considerate of them," I commented.

  But apparently I was wrong, for just as the guard was blowing the whistle, the door was thrust open and the two very same men came into the compartment.

  Miss Bell drew herself back in her seat not at all pleased by the intrusion.

  The two men settled themselves in the vacant corner seats, and as the train puffed out of the station I took covert looks at them. One was little more than a boy—I imagined he was two or three years older than I. The other I imagined to be in his early twenties. They were elegantly dressed in frock coats and bowler hats, and these last they took off and laid on the empty seats beside them.

  There was something about them which claimed my attention.

  They both had thick dark hair and dark heavy-lidded eyes—very bright, as though they missed little. I knew what it was that attracted me. It was a certain vitality; they both seemed as though it were something of an ordeal for them to sit still. I guessed they were related. Not father and son—the difference in age was not great enough. Cousins? Brothers? They had similar strong features—somewhat prominent noses which gave them an arrogant look.