The Landower Legacy

by Victoria Holt

He was unlike any person I had ever known and it was his presence, as well as the splendours of the house, which had made this one of the most exciting afternoons I had ever spent.

  His looks were outstanding; that strength, tempered with melancholy, appealed to my deep sense of all that was romantic. I wished that I had a great deal of money so that I could buy Landower and hand it back to him.

  I was young; I was impressionable; Paul Landower was the most interesting person I had ever met and I was tremendously excited at the prospect of seeing more of him.

  Jago said as we rode home: "Paul was unlike himself. He's usually so restrained. I was surprised he talked so much ... in front of you . . . about the house and all that. Very odd. You must have made some sort of impression, said the right things or something."

  "I only said what I thought."

  "He's not usually so friendly."

  "Well, I seem to have made a good impression."

  "I believe you and the whole of Cornwall have made a good impression on each other."

  When I reached home I wanted to tell Cousin Mary where I had been. I found her in the sitting room. She looked rather subdued, I thought.

  I burst out: "You'll never guess where I've been. Jago took me to Landower to see the house and I met Paul again. He was very friendly and gave me tea."

  I had expected her to be astonished. Instead she just sat staring at me.

  Then she said: "I'm afraid I've had news from London, Caroline. It's a letter from your father. You are to go back. Miss Bell is coming next week to take you."

  I was distressed. It was over. I had had such freedom. I had grown to appreciate Cousin Mary. I wanted to go on calling on Jamie McGill, learning more and more about him and his bees and his wicked brother, Donald. Most of all I wanted to become friends with the Landowers.

  I was fond of Jago but something had happened since that afternoon with Paul. I had thought about him after the meeting on the train but that encounter in that most fascinating of houses had been a landmark in some way. How could a person one hardly knew loom so important in one's life?

  I wasn't sure. There was a certain magnetism about him which I had never discovered in any other person. He was not handsome by conventional standards; he looked as though he might be prone to dark moods—but perhaps that was because of the desperate position in which he found himself now. I felt his tragedy deeply; I understood what he must be suffering at the prospect of losing his heritage; and I longed to help. He felt it more than Jago ever could. Jago was by nature lighthearted, perhaps more resilient. I wondered about their father and what he must be suffering at this moment.

  Why should I allow their misfortunes to colour my life? I hardly knew them, and yet ... I felt so strongly that it must not happen, that some solution must be found.

  I had felt great sympathy for Jago, but how much more strongly did I feel for Paul. I was growing up fast. I had begun to do so since that day when I had watched the Jubilee procession from Captain Carmichael's windows.

  I knew now that my mother and he were lovers, that my father had discovered this and that I had, in a sense, betrayed them. He must have suspected them; I had just added the final proof. It was all becoming more clear. That was why he could not bear to see me. I had been the harbinger of disaster. I had forced him to see the truth, and for that reason he had wanted me out of his sight until he could bear to look at me again.

  Yes, I was growing up and that made me more susceptible to emotions—certain rather special emotions which might be roused by a member of the opposite sex.

  I wanted to be alone to think.

  Cousin Mary had been upset too. She had been pleased to have me with her. I had an idea that she would have liked me to make Tressidor Manor my home. I could have done that quite easily, for I was beginning to realize that what I had thought of as "home" for so long was no real home at all if home meant love and security, as it should to a child. I had never had that. But I had found something like it with Cousin Mary.

  She said: "Well, you must come and stay again, Caroline."

  She was not demonstrative but I could see that she was deeply moved.

  I did not want to talk to anybody. I saddled my mare and rode out. I wanted to be alone. I went onto the moors. I rode over the grass, past huge boulders and trickling streams. Then I tethered my horse and stretched out on the grass and thought: This time next week I shall not be here.

  Jago found me there. He had heard that I had ridden off in that direction from a woman in one of the cottages on the edge of the moor who had been pegging out her clothes and seen me ride by. He had been riding round for the last half hour looking for me.

  He sat down beside me.

  I said: "I'm leaving. I have to go back to London next week. My governess is coming to take me. My father says I must go."

  He picked up a blade of grass and started to chew it.

  "I wish you'd stay," he said.

  "How do you think I feel?"

  "You like it here."

  "I want to stay. There's so much . . ."

  "I thought nothing much happened in the country and all the excitement was in London."

  "Not for me."

  "I ought to take you to the house," said Jago. "Paul took quite a fancy to you. He said you couldn't take it all in in one visit."

  "I should love to come. I should love to see more of the house but

  "Well, it won't be ours much longer. That seems to be the general opinion."

  "I am sure your brother will think of a way of keeping it."

  "That's what I used to say, but I can't think how. Paul's used to getting his own way, but this is different. They're determined on a sale. The trouble is to find someone who can afford to buy it."

  "If you sold it you'd be rich."

  "Rich . . . without Landower."

  "But your family's debts will be settled and you can start again."

  "With a farm ... on the estate which was once ours!"

  "It's tragic and I'm sorry."

  "And now you're talking of going. You're not going to let them send for you . . . just like that, are you?"

  "What can I do?"

  "Run away. Hide . . . until the old governess returns to London in despair without you."

  "How?"

  "I'll hide you."

  "Where? In one of the dungeons at Landower perhaps?"

  "It sounds inviting. I'd bring you food every day, twice a day, three times a day. There aren't many rats there."

  "Only a few?"

  "I'd see that you were all right. You might go to the farmhouse, the one that is going to be our home. No one would think of looking there for you. You could disguise yourself as a boy."

  "And go away to sea?" I said ironically.

  "No. What would be the good of that? You might as well go to London. The plan is to keep you here."

  Jago went on making wild and absurd plans for my escape. I was comforted listening to him, even though I could not take anything he said seriously.

  At last, reluctantly, I rose to go. I had wanted to be alone to think but I was glad he had found me, for he had made me laugh with his ridiculous schemes, and in planning to escape from my unhappiness I had temporarily forgotten it. The fact that there were people who wanted me to stay did a little to alleviate my grief at the prospect of my departure. I was pleased to have so many friends. There was Jago, Cousin Mary and even Jamie McGill. He had hastened to tell me that the bees had buzzed mournfully and were sad that I should not be visiting the lodge much longer. Jago was really sorry and I wondered whether Paul would be.

  It was fortunate that Jago had found me for on the way home I realized that something was wrong. Jago looked down at my horse and said: "She's cast a shoe. That must be put right immediately. Come on. We're not far from Avonleigh and there's a smithy there."

  I dismounted and together we led our horses the quarter of a mile to the village of Avonleigh. We went at once to the blacksmith, who was at work. He look
ed up with interest when he saw us.

  The not unpleasant smell of burning hoof was in the air.

  "Good day, Jem," said Jago.

  "Why, if it b'aint Mr. Jago. What can I do for 'ee then?" He caught sight of me. "Good day to 'ee, Miss."

  "The lady's horse has lost a shoe," said Jago.

  "Oh, be that so? Where's 'er to?"

  "Here," said Jago. "How soon can you do it, Jem?"

  "Well, soon as I've done with this 'un. Why don't you and the lady go along and take a glass of cider at the Trelawny Arms. 'Tis particular good . . . their own brew. I can tell 'ee so from experience. Go and do that and then come back. Like as not I'll have the little lady all ready for 'ee then."

  "It's the best thing to do," said Jago. "We'll leave both horses, Jem."

  "Just so, Mr. Jago."

  "Come along," said Jago to me. "It's the Trelawny Arms for us. Jem's right. The cider is good there."

  It was a small inn, a hundred yards or so along the road from the blacksmith's. The signboard creaked in the faint breeze. It depicted that Bishop Trelawny of "And Shall Trelawny Die" fame.

  A woman who, I presumed, was the landlord's wife, came to talk to us. She knew Jago and called him by his name.

  He explained that I was Miss Caroline Tressidor.

  She opened her eyes wide and said: "Oh, this be the young lady from the Manor then. Come to stay with us for a little while. And what do 'ee think of Cornwall, Miss Tressidor?"

  "I like it very well," I assured her.

  "Her horse cast a shoe," Jago explained, "and we've a little while to wait while Jem gets to work on it. So we thought we'd come along and try your cider. It was Jem who recommended it."

  "Best in the Duchy, he always says. And although it be my own, I'm ready to agree with him."

  "I know. But Miss Tressidor will put it to the test, Maisie."

  "She shall do that, Mr. Jago."

  We sat down at one of the tables in a corner. I studied the room with its small leaded windows and heavy oak beams. There was an array of horse brasses round the big open fireplace. It was a typical inn parlour and some two hundred years old, I guessed.

  Maisie brought in the cider.

  "Are you busy?" asked Jago.

  "We've two people staying—a father and daughter. They're here for a day or two. It keeps us busy." She smiled at me. "We don't reckon so much on staying-guests. Most people stay in the town and we'm too near Liskeard. 'Tain't like the old days! 'Tis more an in-and-out trade, if you do know what I mean."

  I said I did and she left us to sample the cider.

  "No need to hurry," said Jago. "Old Jem will be a little while yet. Just think . . . We'll probably never come here again. Let's make the most of it."

  "I don't want to think like that. I was beginning to forget that I had to go home soon."

  "We'll think of something," promised Jago.

  Just at that moment the guests came into the inn parlour—a man and a young woman who were clearly father and daughter. They both had the same sandy hair, alert light eyes and scanty brows. She might have been a year older than Jago. They gazed round the parlour and as the girl's eyes immediately fell on us they kindled with interest.

  "Good day to you," said the man. He had an accent which I did not recognize, except that I knew it did not come from near these parts.

  We acknowledged his greeting and he went on: "Cider good?"

  "Excellent," replied Jago.

  "We'll have some then. Gwennie, go and order it."

  The girl rose obediently and the man said: "You don't mind if we join you."

  "Indeed not," said Jago. "This is a public room."

  "We're staying here," said the man.

  "For long?" asked Jago.

  "Just a matter of days. So much depends on if what we've come to see turns out what we want."

  The girl returned and said: "It's coming, Pa."

  "Ah," he said. "That's good. I'm as dry as a bone."

  Maisie brought in the cider.

  "Are you all right, sir?" she asked of Jago; and he told her that we both found the cider excellent.

  "You just let me know if you want more."

  "We will," said Jago.

  Maisie went out and Jago grinned at the man. "It might be a little potent," he said.

  "That's so, but it's good stuff. Do you live round hereabouts?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you know a place called Landower Hall?"

  I opened my mouth but Jago flashed me a warning look.

  "Indeed I do," he said. "It's the big house of the neighbourhood." He threw me a mischievous glance. "Though some might claim that the more important house is Tressidor Manor."

  "Oh, that's not for sale," said the girl. "It's the other one."

  Jago looked stricken for a moment. Then he said brightly: "So you are interested in Landower Hall?"

  "Well," said the man with a laugh, "it happens to be the reason why I'm here."

  "You mean that you are considering buying the place?"

  "Well, a good deal will depend ... It has to be suitable."

  "I think they're asking a high price."

  "It's not so much a matter of the brass. It's finding something that suits us."

  "You come from the north, don't you?"

  "Aye, and thinking of settling in the south. I've still got interests up there, but there are those who can look after them for me. I fancy a different life. I plan to be a squire of some sleepy estate right down in the country . . . away from everything I've ever known."

  "Do you think you would like to be right away from the home you have known?" I asked.

  "Can't wait to get away from it. My lawyer thinks this might be just the thing for us. What I've always wanted. Stately old home . . . somewhere with roots. Gracious, you know. Now that Mrs. Arkwright's passed away—that's my wife—we've wanted to get away, haven't we, Gwennie?" The girl nodded. "We've talked about it. Gwennie will be the lady of the manor; I'll be the squire. The climate's softer down here than where we come from. I've got chest trouble. The doctor's advice you know. This seems just the place."

  "Have you seen this mansion yet?" I asked.

  "No, we're going tomorrow."

  "We're so excited," said Gwennie. "I shan't sleep a wink tonight, thinking of it."

  "You like old houses, do you, Miss—er—Arkwright?" asked Jago.

  "Oh, I do that. I think they're wonderful . . . standing there all those years . . . just facing the weather and getting the better of it. Think of all the people who've lived there. The things they must have done. I'd like to know about them ... I'd like to find out."

  "You've always wanted to know what people were up to, Gwennie," said Mr. Arkwright indulgently. "You remember what Mother used to say. She said you had your nose into everything. 'Curiosity killed the cat,' she used to say."

  They both smiled and then were a little sad, no doubt remembering Mother.

  "I have heard that that house has not stood up so well to the weather," said Jago.

  I added my comment to his. "/ heard that a great many repairs had to be done ... a complete restoration, some say."

  "Oh, I've gone into all that," said Mr. Arkwright. "Nobody's going to pull the wool over John Arkwright's eyes. My lawyers are smart. They'll assess what's to be done and that will be taken into consideration."

  "So you have already considered that," said Jago somewhat forlornly.

  "I heard the place was falling down," I said.

  "Oh . . . it's not as bad as all that," put in Mr. Arkwright. "It'll need a bit of brass spent on it ... no doubt of that."

  "And you don't mind that?" asked Jago incredulously.

  "Not for a place like this one. Roots in the past. I've always wanted to be part of such a place."

  "But it won't be your roots," I pointed out.

  "Oh well, we'll have to do a grafting job." He laughed at his own joke and Gwennie joined in.

  "You are a one, Pa," she said.


  "Well, I'm right. I'll be the squire. That's what we want. And don't you like the idea, eh, Gwennie?"

  Gwennie said that what she had heard of the place made her feel it was just what they were looking for. "There's a hall with a minstrels' gallery," she added.

  "We'll have dances there, Gwen. That we will."

  "Oh," she said, raising her eyes ecstatically. "That'll be . . ." She sought for a word. "It'll be famous . . . really famous."

  "You won't be afraid of the ghosts, of course," said Jago.

  "Ghosts!" cried Gwennie in a tone which clearly implied that she was.

  "Well, there are always ghosts in these old houses," went on Jago. "And they get very active when new people take over. All the Landower ancestors ..."

  Mr. Arkwright looked in some concern at Gwennie. "Oh, come on, Gwen. You don't believe in that nonsense, do you? There's no such thing, and if there are one or two . . . well, that's what we're paying good money for. They won't hurt us. They'll be jolly glad we've come to keep their home still standing."

  "Well, that's one way of looking at it," said Gwennie, with a faint smile. "Trust you, Pa."

  "Course it's the sensible way. Besides, ghosts give a bit of tone to an old place."

  Gwennie smiled but she still looked uncertain.

  "Happen it is the place for us," said Mr. Arkwright comfortingly. "Reckon our search is well nigh over."

  Jago rose. "We've got to get back to the smithy. One of our horses lost a shoe. We came in to taste the cider while we were waiting."

  "It's been nice talking to you," said Mr. Arkwright. "Come from these parts, do you?"

  "Not far away."

  "Do you know the place well?"

  "I know it."

  "Lot of rot about ghosts and things."

  Jago put his head on one side and shrugged his shoulders. "Best of luck," he said. "Good day to you."

  We came out into the open and made our way to the smithy.

  "Can you imagine them at Landower?" I asked.

  "I refuse to think of it."

  "I believe you frightened Miss Gwennie."

  "I hope so."

  "Do you think it will do any good?"

  "I don't know. He's only got to see the place to want it. He's got what he calls the 'brass,' and he's got his lawyer and he'll drive a hard bargain, I don't doubt."