The Landower Legacy

by Victoria Holt

  "Oh," he said, "I do love you, Caroline."

  I did not notice the regret in his voice.

  It was two days later when I received the letter from him. I guessed it had taken him a long time to find the right words.

  "My dearest Caroline,

  "You will always be that for me. This is very hard for me to say, but I do not think it would be wise for us to marry. Love on the rooftops sounds delightful and it would be ... for a time. But you would hate poverty. You have always lived in luxury and I have had enough. We should be so poor. My allowance and yours together . . . two people couldn't live on it.

  "The fact is, Caroline, I'm not in a position to marry ... in the circumstances.

  "This breaks my heart. I love you. I shall always love you. You will always be someone very special to me, but I know you will see that it is simply not practical to marry now.

  "Your heartbroken

  "Jeremy, who will love you till he dies."

  It was the end. He had jilted me. He had believed that because I was supposed to be the daughter of a very rich man he would be marrying an heiress.

  He had been mistaken.

  I felt my happy world collapsing about me.

  His love for me had all been the greatest fantasy I had ever imagined. I did not weep. I was numb with wretchedness.

  It was Olivia who comforted me. She kept assuring me that we should always be together. I must forget all that stupid talk about money. I was her sister. She would make me an allowance and I should marry Jeremy.

  I laughed at that. I said I would never marry him. I would never marry anyone. "Oh, Olivia, I thought he loved me ... and it was your father's money that he wanted."

  "It wasn't quite like that," insisted Olivia.

  "How was it then? I was ready to marry him ... to be poor. He was the one who could not endure it. I never want to see him again. I have been foolish. I feel I've grown up suddenly. I shan't believe anyone any more."

  "You mustn't say that. You'll grow away from it. You will. You will."

  Then I looked at her and I thought: "I believe she was in love with him. She didn't say so. She let me go ahead . . . and discover what he was worth."

  "Oh, Olivia," I cried. "My dear, sweet sister, what should I ever do without you?"

  Then I found the tears came and I felt better for crying there with her.

  But there was a terrible bitterness growing in my heart.

  REVELATIONS OF

  AN INTIMATE

  NATURE

  I had changed. I even looked different. I had grown up suddenly. There was a glitter in my eyes, which had become a more vivid green. I piled my hair on top of my head; it gave me height. I began to think about money—something I had never considered before. I was going to have to be very careful if I were to live on my income.

  I noticed a change in the attitude of the servants towards me. There was less deference than there had once been. I remembered a time when Rosie Rundall had laughed over the protocol in the servants' hall. The ranks of society there were more clearly defined and far more numerous than above stairs.

  Now I was no longer in the position of daughter of the house. I was present more or less on sufferance. Respect for Olivia had increased a hundredfold. She would one day be mistress of the house.

  This was for me a transient period—a time of decision. I would wake in the morning and say, "What are you going to do?" And then I would think of Jeremy Brandon and all I had hoped and planned. I had been so guileless, a foolish romantic girl who had never realized for one instance that when he saw our little home where we were to be so idyllically happy, he was seeing the fortune he expected me to inherit.

  I was wretched. Sometimes I yearned for him; but at most times I hated him. I think my hatred was more fierce than my love had ever been. I had made a complete volte face. Previously I had seen the world peopled by gods and goddesses.

  Now I saw it inhabited by deceitful, scheming people whose entire concern was to get what they could at the expense of others.

  Olivia was the exception. She only was good and it was to her I continually turned for comfort, and she gave herself up entirely to the task of comforting me.

  It did not matter that the money had been left to her, she insisted. It was ours. And as soon as it was hers she would give me half.

  Dear, unsophisticated, loving Olivia!

  I said to her: "I can't stay here."

  "Why ever not?" she demanded.

  "I don't belong here any more."

  "It's your home."

  "No. Everything's changed. The servants make that clear; Aunt Imogen always has ever since she has known and that was the time of the Jubilee. Even Miss Bell has changed."

  "They're not important. This house and all in it will be mine. I shall have plenty of money. Caroline, please share it with me."

  I turned away. It was strange, but the simple goodness of Olivia could reduce me to tears whereas the mercenary deceit of Jeremy Brandon only filled me with bitter resentment and anger.

  "I was thinking of going to see our mother," I said.

  "I'll come with you, Caroline."

  "Oh, Olivia, would you?"

  "I can now . . . can't I?"

  I was not sure. Aunt Imogen had taken up temporary residence in the house—"Until everything is settled," she said. Olivia was an heiress, but she was not yet in possession of her fortune. She would not come into it until she was twenty-one or married and it seemed that the former would be the case—she was now twenty.

  But I had not lost my desire to make plans—even though I now recognized the possibility of their not coming to fruition.

  Aunt Imogen soon put a stop to Olivia's aspirations.

  "My dear Olivia, you could not leave London now. It's such nonsense. You could not possibly go wandering all over France. What would everyone think?"

  "Caroline would be with me."

  "Caroline may go if she wishes. But your father is scarcely cold in his grave."

  Of course Aunt Imogen won the day. Poor Olivia, I feared she would always be frustrated. The consolation was that she meekly accepted her fate.

  Mr. Cheviot turned out to be quite a kindly old gentleman.

  He asked me to go to his offices and there he told me that he had written to my mother and she was delighted that I was going to see her. She was living in a village near a small town in southern France. If I wished he would make the arrangements for my travel.

  I was very grateful to him. He knew, of course, about my broken engagement and that seemed to have made him a little sorry for me.

  I used to wake up some mornings in a state of fear. I suppose that was natural as everything had changed so drastically for me. I had suffered two blows; first the house where I had lived all my life was no longer my home and in spite of my sister's affection I had no place there; secondly there could be few experiences more heartbreaking and humiliating for a young woman than to be jilted on the eve—more or less—of her wedding.

  I was amazed at my anger against those two men—Robert Tressidor and Jeremy Brandon. At least Robert Tressidor had never pretended to care for me and he must have paid for my education and kept me in his house all those years and I supposed I should be grateful for that. As for Jeremy Brandon, he was despicable. He had pretended to care for me when it was the inheritance which he had thought would be mine which was so glitteringly attractive.

  Aunt Imogen had not entirely washed her hands of me.

  "The Rushtons are travelling to Paris," she said. "They will take you with them. It is gracious of them. It is not fitting for one of your age to travel alone. They will see you in the train for the first part of the journey. I have discussed this with Mr. Cheviot, and he thinks it is most satisfactory."

  I was a little relieved for the thought of travelling so far alone was a little daunting. The Rushtons were quite pleasant people. They had two sons—both married—so they were not involved in the London seasons.

  I m
ade feverish preparations to depart and in fact looked forward to getting out of the house. I would be sad to leave Olivia, but she promised that as soon as she was free to do so, she would come to me in France.

  It was about three days before I was due to leave when I received two letters. One was from Cousin Mary.

  I read it eagerly.

  "My dear Caroline," she had written,

  "I have, of course, heard what happened.

  "I have not written before to you as I should have done but I am no letter writer, and although I have thought of you often I have not got around to putting pen to paper. I remember well your visit and have wanted you to come back to see me. But then you were away at school and time flies.

  "Well, what I want to say now is, that I shall be glad to see you at any time. You can look on this as a home if you wish it. I, myself, would be pleased if you did.

  "It is strange to think that we are no longer related. But I never did think much of blood ties. Relations are thrust on us. Friends are of our own making and I believe—and I hope—that you and I will always be good friends.

  "My dear Caroline, I am well aware that at the moment you must be somewhat bemused. I want you to know that I heartily disapprove of my self-righteous cousin's action and I was shocked when I heard—as a member of the family—what had happened.

  "Bless you, my dear, and I repeat, there is a home for you here if you want it. Don't imagine that I offer this out of charity. I assure you I am thinking of my own pleasure.

  "Affectionately,

  "Mary Tressidor."

  I smiled as I read that letter. It brought back memories of her so vividly. I felt a longing to be with her, to see the old house, to ride out again past Landower ... to see Jago and Paul, whose image had been with me so long before it was replaced by Jeremy Brandon, the traitor.

  That letter did a great deal to cheer me. I supposed if I had not been preparing to go to my mother I should have made plans to set out for Cornwall immediately.

  I would write to Cousin Mary and explain.

  I turned to the other letter which I had momentarily forgotten. I did not know the handwriting. I slit the envelope and read:

  "Dear Miss Caroline,

  "I've heard what's happened and it's a shame.

  "I wanted to talk to you, to explain why I was not there that night when I was to be there to let you in.

  "It wasn't my fault.

  "If you could come and see me on Wednesday, I'd tell you all about it.

  "Rosie (Rundall that was, Russell now)."

  I was astonished and very excited at the prospect of seeing Rosie again. I was on the point of showing the letter to Olivia, but on second thoughts I decided not to. I would tell her after I had seen Rosie.

  I looked at the address at the top of the letter. I knew the street well. It was one not very far away from us, with a row of delightful, though small, Georgian houses. She must have been married and married "well" as they say.

  No one tried to stop my going. I was no longer Miss Bell's concern. At least, I thought, I have gained my freedom. Perhaps something good —however slight—comes out of every disaster.

  I arrived on time and when I knocked on the door it was opened by a smart parlourmaid. I said I had come to see Mrs. Russell, and the girl said: "Come in, please. Mrs. Russell is waiting for you."

  I was taken to an elegantly furnished drawing room on the first floor.

  "Miss Tressidor," announced the girl.

  To my amazement Rosie—soignee in a teagown of pale lavender— rose and took my hand, very much the mistress of the house.

  The door shut on us and the formal hostess was immediately replaced by the Rosie Rundall I knew.

  She laughed and hugged me.

  "Miss Caroline!" she cried. "My word! You've changed you have."

  "I could say the same for you, Rosie."

  "That you could. Well, this is nice, eh? Here you are come to see me in my own little house."

  "So you married, Rosie?"

  She winked at me. "Not me. When my fortunes changed I changed my name. Rosie Rundall died a sudden death and Rosie Russell appeared. I reckon we ought to have some tea first. I'll ring for it ... They'll bring it almost at once. It's all ready. I've got them well trained. Well, you'd expect me to, wouldn't you, seeing as how I was once in the business myself . . ."

  "Rosie," I said, "this is incredible . . . and wonderful too. What happened? I always knew you were no ordinary parlourmaid."

  She put her fingers to her lips. "Later. It wouldn't do for my maids to know too much. So just at first we'll talk about the weather and the little things ladies discuss when they pay friendly calls."

  The tea was wheeled in on a trolley by a different maid from the one who had opened the door for me. Rosie eyed the tray with expert eyes.

  "Thank you, May," she said kindly but dismissively.

  I felt laughter bubbling up within me.

  Rosie poured the tea and then said: "Now . . . We'll keep our voices low. Servants have a way of listening at doors. Don't I know it!" She winked at me in the old manner. "I'm not complaining. I like them to talk with servants at other houses. It's the best sort of information agency you can get. Friends don't know what goes on in families like servants do."

  "Do explain everything, Rosie."

  "I've wanted to tell you for a long time. I didn't like you to think I'd just walked out and you coming back in all your Cleopatra clobber." She laughed. "I'll never forget the sight of you with that snake thing round your neck. You looked a treat. I said to myself, 'My word, Miss Caroline . . . she's got what it takes.' They'll be after you like flies round the honeypot. You'll have to make sure you're the one that gets the honey . . . not them."

  "Rosie, what is all this about?"

  She poured out more tea and looked at me with her head on one side.

  "You've grown up now, Caroline," she said, "and I know what's happened. You're not the heiress everyone thought you'd be. You've got a bit, but not much."

  "How do you know all this?"

  "Gossip, dear. It was the talk of the town, wasn't it? That great, good man dying . . . him who'd looked after all the Fallen Women." She was consumed with laughter. "That's the bit I like," she went on. "And so he ought . . . considering he might on one or two occasions have tripped them up."

  "What do you mean, Rosie?"

  "Well, I'm coming to that. I couldn't have told you before . . . though I wanted to, on account of you thinking I might have let you down that night. You're on your own now. You're not one of the protected ones. You've got to know about things . . . life and all that. I figured that now all the wool should be pulled away from your eyes. You've got to look at what they call stark reality."

  "I agree with that. I've been a fool . . . ignorant . . . dreaming away . . . making everything look so lovely and quite different from what it really is."

  "That's how most of us are, love, when we start out. But we've got to grow up and the sooner we start doing it the better for us. You remember when I was working at the house ... the parlourmaid with a difference, eh? Well, the difference was that I didn't want to be a parlourmaid all my life. I had plans and I had the face and the figure and the brains to make my ideas work. I had to be in London. I had to have somewhere to live. I had to be right in the center of things. So those nights . . . once a week ... I used to go to Madam Crawley's in Mayfair. It was a beautiful house, very pleasant . . . the most expensive in London ... or one of them . . . and she wouldn't take anybody. Now this might shock you a bit, but as I said you've got to face up to life. I used to go to Madam Crawley's to, er . . . entertain gentlemen."

  She leaned back to look at me and I felt the colour slowly flow into my face.

  "I see you understand," she said. "Well, these things go on, and there's all sorts in them . . . people you wouldn't expect. Do you know I earned more in a few hours at Madam Crawley's than I did in a whole year in service. I worked it out. I was once as innocent a
s you used to be. I'd been in service from the time I was fourteen. There was the master of the house who took a fancy to me. He seduced me. I was too frightened to say anything. And after that I met someone in a teashop and she told me how she went on and how she was saving to make a life for herself and perhaps get married and live decent ever after."

  "I understand, Rosie, I do."

  "I knew you would. There's always rights and wrongs of any situation. Nothing's all good . . . nothing's all bad. I learned a lot, and I saved money . . . quite a tidy bit. I had plans to retire by the time I was thirty, say. Then I'd be very comfortable . . . but I had a windfall, and it's that I want to tell you about."

  Coming in addition to everything else that had happened so recently this left me quite bemused. I should have guessed something like it of course . . . those evenings out, those fine clothes . . . everything pointed to it. But perhaps that was how it seemed now that I knew. I was sure no one else in the house had had any notion of how Rosie spent her nights out.

  "I was doing very well," she went on. "I had my nice nest-egg.

  And then there was this night. Oh I could almost die of laughing thinking of it. Caroline, are you sure you understand . . . that you want me to go on?"

  "Of course I do."

  "Well, you're a big girl now. Cast your mind back to that night. There you were ... all got up as Cleopatra. I was to open the door for Olivia and then nip round to the back and let you in. It was one of my nights out, remember? Well, as soon as you'd left for the ball I went out. I had to be back by eleven. Old Winch and Wilkinson were very sharp on that. They would have liked to stop my jaunts but I wasn't having any of that. They didn't want to get rid of me. I was a good parlourmaid. The mistress and master liked me to be seen by the guests. The right sort of parlourmaids are a very important part of a well-run household."

  "I know that, Rosie. Do get on."

  "Well, on that night when you were at the ball, I went to Crawley's. Madam said, 'There's a rich gentleman coming tonight. One of our best clients. I'm glad your visit coincides with his.' She shook her head at me and said, as she was always saying, 'I could put such good business in your way, if you would live in.' But I wasn't for that. I wanted my freedom to come and go and once a week is all a girl needs at this sort of game. I had a beautiful silk dressing-gown which I used to receive my gentlemen in. There I was with nothing on but that and I went into the room where I found my gentleman. And there he was stark naked . . . lying on a bed waiting for me. I stared at him. Who do you think he was?"