The Landower Legacy

GOLDEN JUBILEE

It was at the time of the Queen’s Golden Jubilee when events took a dramatic turn and changed the entire course of my life. I was only fourteen years old at the time and although those momentous occurrences were taking place around me—and I myself played a part in them—I was not aware of their importance until much later. It was as though I looked through a misty glass; I saw them, but I did not understand their significance.

To the casual observer, ours would have seemed to be a very fortunate household. But how often are things what they seem? We were what is called “well-to-do.” Our London residence was in one of the fashionable squares not far from Hyde Park; our comforts were presided over by Wilkinson, the butler, and Mrs. Winch, the housekeeper, between whom there was a perpetual state of armed neutrality, as each was very anxious to maintain superiority over the other. In the early hours of the morning, before members of the family left their beds, the lower echelons of the domestic staff scuttled about, removing the remains of the previous day’s fires in all the grates, polishing, dusting, getting the hot water, so that when we arose, as if by magic, all we needed was waiting for us. They all knew that my father was most displeased if any of them made their presence known, and the sight of a cap and apron scuttling away could mean the dismissal of their possessor. Everyone in the household dreaded his displeasure—even my mother.

Papa was Robert Ellis Tressidor—one of the Tressidors of Tressidor Manor of Lancarron in Cornwall. The family had owned large estates since the sixteenth century and these had been greatly increased after the Restoration. The great West Country families—with very few exceptions—had been firmly for the King at that time—and none was more royalist than the Tressidors.

Unfortunately the family mansion had passed out of my father’s hands and had been annexed (that was the word and I had had to look it up to see what it meant, for I was an inveterate listener and gleaned most of my information about the family from keeping my ears and eyes open) by Cousin Mary. Cousin Mary’s name was always spoken by my father and his sister Imogen, who was his devoted admirer, in a tone of contempt and loathing—but with a flash of envy, I fancied.

I had discovered that my grandfather had had an elder brother, who was Mary’s father. She was his only child and as he was the elder, Tressidor Manor and all its land had gone to her instead of to my father who, apparently, had every right to it, because although he was the son of a younger son he belonged to that superior sex which no woman should attempt to rival.

My Aunt Imogen—Lady Carey—was as formidable in her way as my father was in his. I had heard them discussing the contemptible behaviour of Cousin Mary, who had cheerfully taken possession of the family house and not paused to think for a moment that she was robbing the rightful heir. “That harpy!” Aunt Imogen called her, and I imagined Cousin Mary with a woman’s head and trunk, a bird’s wings and long claws flapping at my father and Aunt Imogen as the harpies did over poor blind King Phineus.

It was difficult to imagine anyone’s getting the better of Papa, and as Cousin Mary had done so I guessed she must be very formidable indeed and I could not help feeling a certain admiration for her which, said my sister Olivia, when I told her of it, was decidedly disloyal. But however much Papa had been defeated over his inheritance, he was certainly the master in his own house. There he ruled supreme, and everything must be done as he ordained. There was a big staff of servants—necessary because of his public life and the entertaining that entailed. He was the chairman of committees and organizations—many of them for the good of humanity, such as the Useful Employment of the Poor and the Rehabilitation of Fallen Women. He was the leader of good causes. His name was often in the papers; he had been called another Lord Shaftesbury and it was hinted that his peerage was long overdue.

He was obviously a great friend of many important people, including Lord Salisbury, the Prime Minister. He did have a seat in Parliament, but he did not take Cabinet rank—which it seemed could have been his for the asking—because he had so many interests outside Westminster. He thought that he could better serve his country by following them than giving his complete attention to politics.

He was a banker and on the board of several companies. Every morning the brougham would come round from the mews and draw up in front of the house. The carriage must be highly polished and the coachman’s livery absolutely correct; and even the little “tiger” who stood at the back as they drove along and whose duty it was to leap down when they reached their destination and open the door must be equally immaculate.

He possessed the two most important qualities of a gentleman of our times: he was rich and he was virtuous.

Miss Bell, our governess, was very proud of him.

“You must remember that your father is the fountain from which all your comforts flow,” she told us.

I immediately pointed out that I had noticed people were not very comfortable in his presence, so perhaps it was not exactly comfort which flowed from that particular fountain.

Our governess often despaired of me. Dear Miss Bell—so earnest, so eager to do well in that task to which God—and the great Mr. Tressidor—had called her. She was conventional in the extreme, overawed by the virtues of her employer, accepting without question his own valuation of himself—which in fact was the general one—constantly aware that however efficient she was, however well she performed her duties, she was merely a member of the inferior sex.

I must have been an irritating child, because I never accepted what I was told and lacked the sense to keep quiet about it.

“Why,” said my sister Olivia, “do you always have to turn everything round to make it different from what we are told?”

It was probably, I replied, because people did not always tell the truth and said what they thought we ought to believe.

“It’s easier to believe them,” said Olivia, which was typical of her. It was why they called her a good child. I was a rebel. I often thought it was strange that we should be sisters. We were so different.

Our mother did not rise until ten in the morning. Everton, her lady’s maid, took her a cup of hot chocolate at that hour. She was a great beauty, and there were frequent pieces about her in the society columns of the newspapers. Miss Bell showed them to us from time to time: “The beautiful Mrs. Tressidor” at the races … dining out … at some charity ball. They always described her as “the beautiful Mrs. Tressidor.”

Olivia and I were overawed by her beauty just as we were by our father’s towering goodness. I remarked that they both made ours rather an uneasy home. My mother was sometimes very affectionate towards us; at others she did not seem to be aware of us. She would embrace us and kiss us fervently at times—especially me. I noticed that and hoped Olivia didn’t. She had sparkling brown eyes and masses of chestnut hair the colour of which, Rosie Rundall, our very extraordinary parlourmaid, whispered to me, Everton took great pains to preserve with mysterious lotions. Keeping our mother beautiful was an absorbing task, apparently. Everton was good at it, and she kept the whole household at bay, demanding absolute quietness throughout when our mother was resting with ice pads on her lids or being gently massaged by Everton’s expert hands. There were continual discussions about the latest fashions.

“It is an exhausting business being a beauty,” I remarked to Olivia, and Rosie Rundall, who happened to be there at the time, agreed with a “You can bet your life on that!”

Rosie Rundall was the most unusual parlourmaid I had ever known. She was tall and good-looking. In fact parlourmaids were always chosen for their appearance. They were the servants seen by visitors, and ill-favoured ones could give a bad impression of a household. I often thought that in Rosie we had the supreme in parlourmaids.

Rosie could be extremely dignified with guests. People noticed her. They gave her a second glance. She was aware of it and received this silent homage with an equally silent dignity. But when she was with Olivia and me—which she contrived to be quite often—she was a different person altogether.

Both Olivia and I were very fond of Rosie. I suppose there were not many people to whom we could show affection. Our father was too good, our mother too beautiful; and although Miss Bell was very worthy, and good for us, I was sure, she was not exactly affectionate.

Rosie was warm-hearted and not averse to flying in the face of authority. When Olivia spilt gravy on her clean pinafore, with a wink.

Rosie had whisked it away, washed it and ironed it in such a short time that nobody knew anything about it; and when I broke a Sevres vase which stood on a whatnot in the drawing room, Rosie took it away and stuck it together again, craftily placing it in an inconspicuous position.

“I’ll be the one to dust it,” she said with a grin. “Nobody will know. What the eye don’t see, the heart don’t grieve for.”

It occurred to me that Rosie went about the world saving a lot of hearts from grief.

On her nights out—one a week (she had insisted on those nights when she first came, and Mrs. Winch, delighted to acquire such a good-looking girl, gave in), Rosie would dress up like a lady. She became quite a different person from the one we knew in white cap and apron. She would look very grand in a silk dress and a hat with a jaunty feather and gloves and a parasol.

When I asked where she went she gave me a little push and said: “Ah, that’s telling. I’ll tell you when you’re twenty-five.” That was a favourite expression of hers. “One of these days, when you’re twenty-five, you’ll know.”

I was always interested to see the important people who came to the house. In the hall there was a beautiful staircase which wound round and round to the top of the house, with a well in the middle so that from the top floor—where the servants’ sleeping quarters, the nurseries and the schoolroom were situated—one could look right down and see what was happening in the hall. Voices floated upwards and it was often possible to glean all manner of surprising pieces of information in this way. There was nothing so maddening—nor so intriguing—as to have a conversation cut short at some vital point. It was a game I thoroughly enjoyed, although Olivia thought it was somewhat shameful.

“Listeners,” she said, quoting adult philosophy, “never hear any good of themselves.”

“Dear sister,” I retorted, “when do we ever hear anything of ourselves—good or evil?”

“You never know what you might hear.”

“That’s true and that’s what makes it exciting.”

The plain fact was that I enjoyed eavesdropping. There was so much which was kept from us—unfit for our ears, I supposed. I just had an irresistible desire to know these things.

So peering down at the guests as they arrived was a source of great enjoyment. I liked to watch our beautiful mother standing at the top of the stairs at the first floor on which were the drawing room and salon where well-known artistes—pianists, violinists and singers—often came to perform for our guests.

Poor Olivia would squat beside me in torment lest we should be discovered. She was a very nervous girl. I was always the ringleader when it was a question of acting adventurously, although she was two years my senior.

Our governess, Miss Bell, used to say: “Speak up, Olivia. Don’t let Caroline call the tune every time.”

But Olivia was always retiring. She was really quite pretty, but the sort of person people simply did not notice. Everything about her was pleasant but ordinary. Her face was small and pale; I was already taller than she was; her features were small, except her eyes, which were large and brown. “Like a gazelle’s,” I told her, at which she did not know whether to be pleased or hurt. That was characteristic of Olivia. She was never sure. Her eyes were beautiful but she was short-sighted and that gave her a helpless look. Her hair was straight and fine, and no matter how it was restricted, strands would escape, to the despair of Miss Bell. There were times when I felt I had to protect Olivia; but for the most part I was urging her to reckless adventure.

I was quite different in looks as well as in temperament. Miss Bell used to say that she would not have believed two sisters could be so unlike. My hair was darker, almost black; and my eyes were a definite shade of green which I liked to accentuate by wearing a green ribbon in my hair, for I was very vain and aware of my striking colouring. Not that I went so far as to think of myself as pretty. But I was noticeable. My rather snub nose, wide mouth and high forehead—in an age when low ones were fashionable—precluded me from a claim to beauty, but there was something about me—my vitality, I think—which meant that people did not dismiss me with a glance, and they invariably took a second look.

This was the case with Captain Carmichael. To think of him always gave me a thrill of pleasure. He was magnificent in his uniform— the scarlet and the gold—but he always looked very handsome in his riding clothes or dressed for the evening. He was the most elegant and fascinating gentleman I had ever seen and he had one quality which made him irresistible to me: he singled me out for his especial notice. He would smile at me and, if there was an opportunity, would speak to me, treating me as though I were an important young lady instead of a child who had not yet emerged from the schoolroom.

So when I peeped through the stairs I was always looking for Captain Carmichael.

There was a secret I shared with him. My mother was in it, too. It concerned a gold locket, the most beautiful ornament I had ever possessed. We were not allowed to wear jewelry, of course, so it was really very daring of me to wear this locket. True it was under my bodice, which was always tightly buttoned up so that no one could see the locket; but I could feel it against my skin and it always made me happy. It was exciting, too, because it was hidden.

It had been given to me when we were in the country.

Our country house was about twenty miles from London—a rather stately Queen Anne building standing in parklands of some twenty acres. It was very pleasant, but it was not Tressidor Manor, I had heard my father say with some bitterness.

However, most of our days were spent there, our needs provided for by a bevy of servants and Miss Lucy Bell, whom I called the matriarch of the nursery. She seemed old to us, but then everyone over twenty seemed ancient. I think she was about thirty years old when she came to us and at this time she had been with us for four years. She was very eager to fulfil her duties adequately, not only because she needed to earn a living, but, I was sure, because she was in a way fond of us.

In the country we had our nurseries—large pleasant rooms full of light—at the top of the house, giving us delightful views over woodland and green fields. We had our own ponies and rode a good deal. In London we rode in the Row, which was exciting in a way because of the people who bowed to our mother on those occasions when she rode with us; but for the sheer joy of galloping over the springy turf, there was nothing like riding in the country.

It was about a month before we came up to London when our mother arrived unexpectedly in the country. She was accompanied by Everton with hatboxes and general luggage and everything my mother needed to make life agreeable. It was rarely that she came to the country and there was a great deal of bustle throughout the house.

She came to the schoolroom and embraced us both warmly. We were overawed by her beauty, her fragrance, and her elegance in the light grey skirt and the pink blouse with its tucks and frills.

“My dear girls,” she cried. “How wonderful to see you! I wanted to be alone for a while with my girls.”

Olivia blushed with pleasure. I was delighted, too, but perhaps a little sceptical, wondering why she should suddenly be so anxious to be with us when there had been so many opportunities which she had allowed to slip by without any apparent concern.

It was then that the thought occurred to me that she was perhaps less easy to understand than Papa. Papa was omnipotent, omniscient, the most powerful being we knew—under God, and then only just under. Mama was a lady with secrets. At that time I had not been given my locket, so I had no great secret of my own—but I did sense something in Mama’s eyes.

She laughed with us and looked at our drawings and essays.

“Olivia has quite a talent,” said Miss Bell.

“So you have, darling! Oh, I do believe you are going to be a great artist.”

“Hardly that,” said Miss Bell, who was always afraid that too much praise might be harmful.

Olivia was blissful. There was a lovely innocence about her. She always believed in good. I came to think that was a great talent in life.

“Caroline writes quite well.”

My mother was looking blankly at the untidy page presented to her and murmured: “It’s lovely.”

“I did not mean her handwriting,” said Miss Bell. “I mean her construction of sentences and her use of words. She shows imagination and a certain facility in expressing herself.”

“How wonderful!”

The expression in the lovely eyes was vague as she regarded the sheet of paper; but they were alert for something else.

The next day the reason for Mama’s visit to the country arrived. It was one of those important occurrences which I did not recognise as such at the time.

Captain Carmichael called.

We were in the rose garden with Mama at the time. She made a pretty picture with the two girls seated at her feet while she held a book in her hand. She was not reading to us, but it looked as though she might be.

Captain Carmichael was brought out to us.

“Captain Carmichael!” cried my mother. “What a surprise.”

“I was on my way to Salisbury and I thought: Now that’s the Tressidors’ place. Robert would never forgive me if I were in the neighborhood and did not call. So … I thought I would just look in.”

“Alas, Robert is not with us. But it’s a lovely surprise.” My mother rose and clapped her hands together looking like the child who has just been awarded the fairy from the top of the Christmas tree.

“You can stay and have a cup of tea with us,” she went on. “Olivia, go and tell them to bring tea. Caroline, you go with Olivia.”

So we went, leaving them together.

What a pleasant tea-time that was! It was early May, a lovely time of the year. Red and white blossom on the trees and the scent of the newly cut grass in the air, the birds singing and the sun—a nice benign one, not too hot—shining on us. It was wonderful.

Captain Carmichael talked to us. He wanted to hear how we were getting on with our riding. Olivia said little, but I talked a great deal and he seemed to want me to. He kept looking at my mother and their glances seemed to include me, which made me very happy. One thing Olivia and I lacked was affection. Our bodily needs were well catered for, but when one is growing up and getting used to the world, affection, really caring, is what one needs most. That afternoon we seemed to have it.

I wished it were always like that. It occurred to me how different life would have been if we had had someone like Captain Carmichael for a father.

He was a most exciting man. He had travelled the world. He had been in the Sudan with General Gordon and was actually in Khartoum during the siege. He told us stories about it. He talked vividly; he made us see the hardships, the fear, the determination—though I suppose he skirted the real truth as too horrible for our youthful ears.

When tea was over he rose and my mother said: “You mustn’t run away now, Captain. Why don’t you stay the night? You could go first thing in the morning.”

He hesitated for a while, his eyes bubbling over with what could have been mischief.

“Well … perhaps I might play truant.”

“Oh, good. That’s wonderful. Darlings, go and tell them to prepare a room for Captain Carmichael … or perhaps I’ll go. Come along, Captain. I am so glad you came.”

We sat on—Olivia and I—bemused by the fascinating gentleman.

The next morning we all went riding together. My mother was with us and we were all very merry. The Captain rode beside me. He told me I sat a horse like a rider.

“Well, anyone is a rider who rides a horse,” I replied, argumentative even in my bliss.

“Some are sacks of potatoes—others are riders.”

That seemed to me incredibly funny and I laughed immoderately.

“You seem to be making a success with Caroline, Captain,” said my mother.

“She laughs at my jokes. The nearest way to a man’s heart, they say.”

“I thought the quickest way was to feed him.”

“Appreciation of one’s wit comes first. Come, Caroline, I’ll race you to the woods.”

It was wonderful to ride beside him with the wind in my face. He kept glancing at me and smiling, as though he liked me very much.

We went into the paddock because he said he would like to see how we jumped. So we showed him what our riding master had taught us recently. I knew I did a great deal better than Olivia, who was always nervous and nearly came off at one of the jumps.

Captain Carmichael and my mother applauded and they were both looking at me.

“I hope you are going to stay for a long while,” I said to the Captain.

“Alas! Alas!” he said, and, looking at my mother, raised his shoulders.

“Another night perhaps?” she suggested.

He stayed two nights and just before he left my mother sent for me. She was in her little sitting room and with her was Captain Carmichael.

He said: “I have to go soon, Caroline. I have to say goodbye.”

He put his hands on my shoulders and looked at me for a few seconds. Then he held me against him and kissed the top of my head.

He released me and went on: “I want to give you something, Caroline, to remember me by.”

“Oh, I shan’t forget you.”

“I know. But a little token, eh?”

Then he brought out the locket. It was on a gold chain. He said: “Open it.”

I fumbled with it and he took it from me. The locket sprang open and there was a beautiful miniature of him. It was tiny but so exquisitely done that his features were clear and there was no doubt that it was Captain Carmichael.

“But it’s lovely!” I cried, looking from him to my mother.

They both looked at me somewhat emotionally and then at each other.

My mother said practically: “I shouldn’t show it to anyone if I were you … not even Olivia.”

Oh, I thought. So Olivia is not getting a present. They thought she might be jealous.

“I should put it away until you’re older,” said my mother.

I nodded.

“Thank you,” I murmured. “Thank you very much.”

He put his arms about me and kissed me.

That afternoon we said goodbye to him.

“I shall be back for the Jubilee,” he told my mother.

So that was how I received the locket. I loved it. I looked at it often. I could not bear to hide it away though, and it gave me added excitement because I had to keep it secret. I wore it every day under my bodice, and kept it under my pillow at night. I enjoyed it not only for its beauty, but because it was a secret thing, known only to myself, my mother and Captain Carmichael.

We came up to London on the fourteenth of June—that was a week before the great Jubilee day. Coming into London from the country was always exciting. We came in from the east side and the Tower of London always seemed to me like the bulwarks of the city. Grim, formidable, speaking of past tragedies, it always set me wondering about the people who had been imprisoned there long ago.

Then we would come into the city and on past Mr. Barry’s comparatively new Houses of Parliament, so magnificent beside the river, looking, deceptively, as though they had weathered the centuries almost as long as the great Tower itself.

I could never make up my mind which I loved more—London or the country. There was a cosiness about the country, where everything seemed orderly; there was a serenity, a peace, which was lacking in London. Of course Papa was rarely in the country and on those occasions when he came, I had to admit peace and serenity fled. There would be entertaining when he came, and Olivia and I had to keep well out of the way. So perhaps it was a matter of where Papa was that affected us so deeply.

But I was always excited to be returning to London, just as I was pleased to go back to the country.

This was a rather special return, for no sooner did we reach the metropolis than we were aware of the excitement which Miss Bell called “Jubilee Fever.”

The streets of the city were full of noisy people. I watched them with glee—all those people with their wares who rarely penetrated our part of London; they were there in full force in the city—the chairmender, who sat on the pavement mending cane chairs, the cats-meat man with his barrow full of revolting-looking horseflesh, the tinker, the umbrella mender, and the girl in the big paper bonnet carrying a basket full of paper flowers to be put in fireplaces during the summer months when there were no fires. Then there were the German bands which were beginning to appear frequently in the streets, playing popular songs of the musical halls. But what I chiefly noticed were the sellers of Jubilee fancies—mugs, hats, ornaments. “God Bless the Queen,” these proclaimed. Or “Fifty Glorious Years.”

It was invigorating, and I was glad we had left the country to become part of it.

There was excitement in the house too. Miss Bell said how fortunate we were to be subjects of such a Queen and we should remember the great Jubilee for the rest of our lives.

Rosie Rundall showed us a new dress she had for the occasion. It was white muslin covered in little lavender flowers; and she had a lavender straw hat to go with it.

“There’ll be high jinks,” she said, “and there is going to be as much fun for Rosie Rundall as for Her Gracious Majesty—more, I shouldn’t wonder.”

My mother seemed to have changed since that memorable time when Captain Carmichael had given me the locket. She was pleased to see us, she said. She hugged us and told us we were going to see the Jubilee procession with her. Wasn’t that exciting?

We agreed that it was.

“Shall we see the Queen?” asked Olivia.

“Of course, my dear. What sort of Jubilee would it be without her?”

We were caught up in the excitement.

“Your father,” said Miss Bell, “will have his duties on such a day. He will be at Court, of course?”

“Will he ride with the Queen?” asked Olivia.

I burst out laughing. “Even he is not important enough for that,” I said scornfully.

In the morning when we were at lessons with Miss Bell, my parents came up to the schoolroom. This was so unexpected that we were all dumbfounded—even Miss Bell, who rose to her feet, flushing slightly, murmuring: “Good morning, Sir. Good morning, Madam.”

Olivia and I had risen to our feet too and stood like statues, wondering what this visit meant.

Our father looked as though he were asking himself how such a magnificent person as he was could possibly have sired such offspring. There was a blot on my bodice. I always got carried away when writing and made myself untidy in the process. I felt my head jerk up. I expected I had put on my defiant look, which I invariably did, so Miss Bell said, when I was expecting criticism. I glanced at Olivia. She was pale and clearly nervous.

I felt a little angry. One person had no right to have that effect on others. I promised myself I would not allow him to frighten me.

He said: “Well, are you dumb?”

“Good morning, Papa,” we said in unison. “Good morning, Mama.”

My mother laughed lightly. “I shall take them to see the procession myself.”

He nodded. I think that meant approval.

My mother went on: “Both Clare Ponsonby and Delia Sanson have invited us. The procession will pass their doors and there will be an excellent view from their windows.”

“Indeed yes.” He looked at Miss Bell. Like myself, she was determined not to show how nervous he made her. She was, after all, a vicar’s daughter, and vicar’s families were always so respectable that daughters of such households were readily preferred by employers; she was also a lady of some spirit and she was not going to be cowed before her pupils.

“And what do you think of your pupils, eh, Miss Bell?”

“They are progressing very well,” said Miss Bell.

My mother said, again with that little laugh: “Miss Bell tells me that the girls are clever … in their different ways.”

“H’m.” He looked at Miss Bell quizzically, and it occurred to me that not to show fear was the way to behave in his presence. Most people showed it and then he became more and more godlike. I admired Miss Bell.

“I hope you have thanked God for the Queen’s preservation,” he said, looking at Olivia.

“Oh yes, Papa,” I said fervently.

“We must all be grateful to God for giving us such a lady to rule over us.”

Ah, I thought. She is the Queen, though a woman. Nobody took the crown from her because she was a woman, so Cousin Mary has every right to Tressidor Manor. Thoughts like that always came into my mind at odd moments.

“We are, Papa,” I said, “to have such a great lady to rule over us.”

He glared at Olivia, who looked very frightened. “And what of you? What do you say?”

“Why … yes … yes … Papa,” stammered Olivia.

“We are all very grateful,” said my mother, “and we shall have a wonderful time together at the Ponsonbys’ or Sansons’ … We shall cheer Her Majesty until we are hoarse, shall we not, my dears?”

“I think it would be better if you watched in respectful silence,” said my father.

“But of course, Robert,” said my mother. She went to him and slipped her arm through his. I was amazed at such temerity but he did not seem to mind. In fact he seemed to find the contact rather pleasing.

“Come along,” she said, no doubt seeing how eager we were for the interview to end and growing a little tired of it herself. “The girls will behave beautifully and be a credit to us, won’t you, girls?”

“Oh yes, Mama.”

She smiled at him and his lips turned up at the corners, as though he could not help smiling back although he was trying hard not to.

When the door shut on them we all heaved a sigh of relief.

“Why did he come?” I asked, as usual speaking without thinking.

“Your father feels he should pay a visit to the schoolroom occasionally,” said Miss Bell. “It is a parent’s duty and your father would always do his duty.”

“I’m glad our mother came with him. That made him a little less stern I think.”

Miss Bell was silent.

Then she opened a book. “Let us see what William the Conqueror is doing now. We left him, remember, planning the conquest of these islands.”

And as we read our books I was thinking of my parents, wondering about them. Why did my mother, who loved to laugh, marry my father, who clearly did not? Why could she make him look different merely by slipping her arm through his? Why had she come to the schoolroom to tell us we were going to see the procession, either from the Ponsonbys’ or the Sansons’, when we knew already?

Secrets! Adults had many of them. It would be interesting to know what they really meant, for when they said one thing, they very often meant something else.

I felt the locket against my skin.

Well, I too had my secrets.

As the great day approached the excitement intensified. No one seemed to speak of anything but the Jubilee. The day before there was to be a dinner party and that meant in addition to Jubilee Fever there was the bustle such an occasion always demanded.

In the morning Miss Bell took us for our usual morning walk. The streets near the square, usually so sedate, were filling with traders selling Jubilee favours.

“Buy a mug for the little ladies,” they pleaded. “Come on. Show respec’ for ‘er Gracious Majesty.”

Miss Bell hurried us past and said we would go into the Park.

We walked along by the Serpentine while she told us about the Great Exhibition which had been set up largely under the auspices of the Prince Consort, that much lamented husband of our dear Queen. We had heard it all before and I was much more interested in watching the ducks. We had brought nothing to feed them with. Mrs. Terras, the cook, usually supplied us with stale bread, but on this morning, because of the coming dinner party, she was too busy to be bothered with us.

We sat down by the water, and Miss Bell, always intent on improving our minds, turned the subject to the Queen’s coming to the throne fifty glorious years before, and she went over the oft-repeated tale of our dear Queen’s rising from her bed, wrapped in her dressing gown, her long fair hair loose about her shoulders, to be told she was the Queen.

“We must remember what the dear Queen said—young as she was and wise … oh so wise even then. She said: ‘I will be good.’ There! Who would have believed a young girl could have shown such wisdom? And not much older than you, Olivia. Imagine. Who else could have made such a vow?”

“Olivia would,” I said. “She always wants to be good.”

It occurred to me then that good people were not always wise, and I couldn’t help pointing out that the two qualities did not always go hand in hand.

Miss Bell looked faintly exasperated and said: “You must learn to accept the conclusions of those older and wiser than yourself, Caroline.”

“But if one never questions anything, how can one find new answers?” I asked.

“Why seek a new answer, when you have one already?”

“Because there might be another,” I insisted.

“I think we should now be returning,” said Miss Bell.

How often, I ruminated, were conversations brought to such abrupt terminations.

I did not care. Like everyone else, I was thinking about tomorrow.

From our bedroom we could see the carriages arriving with all the guests and on such a night as this the square seemed full of them. I supposed we were not the only ones who were giving a dinner party.

It was about eight o’clock. We were supposed to be in bed, for we must be fresh for the morning when we would be leaving the house early so that we should be in our places before the streets were closed to traffic. The carriage was to take us to the Ponsonbys’ or the Sansons’— we had not been told which invitation had been accepted. As we were going with our mother, Miss Bell would have to take her chance in the streets and she was accompanying Everton to some vantage point. The servants had made their arrangements. Rosie was going by herself.

“Alone?” I asked and she looked at me and gave me a little push.

“Ask no questions and you’ll hear no lies,” she said.

I think Papa would be at some function. All I cared about was that he should not be with us. He would have cast a decided gloom over the day.

Having seen the carriages arrive, I went with Olivia to our nook by the banisters and watched the guests received.

Our mother was sparkling in a dress trimmed with pink beads and pearls. She wore a little band of diamonds in her hair and looked exquisite. Papa stood beside her, and in his black clothes and frilled shirt he looked magnificent.

We could hear their voices and catch the occasional comment.

“How good of you to come.”

“It is such a pleasure to see you.”

“What a wonderful prelude to the great day.”

And so it went on.

Then my heart leaped with pleasure, for approaching my parents was Captain Carmichael.

So he was back in London as he had said he would be. He looked very handsome, although he was not in uniform. He was as tall as my father and as impressive in his way as my father was in his—only whereas my father cast gloom he brought merriment.

He had passed on and the next guest was received.

I felt bemused. I dared not wear my locket for I was in my night attire and it would be seen. It lay under my pillow. It was safe there, but I should have liked to be wearing it at that moment.

When the guests had all been received I just wanted to sit there.

“I’m going back to bed,” said Olivia.

I nodded and she crept away, but I still sat on, hoping that Captain Carmichael would come out and I should get another glimpse of him.

I listened to the sounds of conversation. Soon they would go down to the dining room which was on the ground floor.

Then my mother came out with Captain Carmichael. They were talking very quietly and soon were joined by a man and woman. The stood for a while talking—about the Jubilee, of course.

I caught scraps of the conversation.

“They say she refused to wear a crown.”

“It’s to be a bonnet.”

“A bonnet! Fancy!”

“Hush! Lese-majesty.”

“But it’s true. Halifax has told her that the people want a gilding for their money and Rosebery says an Empire should be ruled by a sceptre not a bonnet.”

“Will it really be a bonnet? I don’t believe it.”

“Oh yes, the order has gone out. Bonnets and long high dresses without mantle.”

“It will not be much like a royal occasion.”

“My dear, where she is there could be nothing but a royal occasion.”

Captain Carmichael said, and he had a very clear voice which was audible right to the top of the house, “It’s true, I hope, that she had insisted on modifying the Prince Consort’s rules about divorcees.”

“Yes. Incredible, is it not? She wishes the poor ladies who are innocent parties to divorce to be admitted to the celebrations.”

My father had come out a few seconds before.

“Reasonable, of course,” said the Captain. “Why should they be penalized for what is not their fault?”

“Immorality should be penalized,” said my father.

“My dear Tressidor,” retorted the Captain, “innocent parties are not guilty. How otherwise could they be innocent?”

“The Prince Consort was right,” insisted my father. “He excluded all who were involved in these sordid affairs, and I am glad to say that Salisbury has put his foot down about inviting foreign divorcees.”

“There has to be some human feeling surely,” went on the Captain.

My father said in a very cold voice: “There are principles involved.”

And my mother cut in: “Let us go to dinner, shall we? Why do we stand about here?”

She was clearly changing the subject and as they started downstairs someone said to her, “I hear you will be at the Ponsonbys’.”

“I was kindly asked by Marcia Sanson. My little girls are so looking forward to it.”

The voices faded away.

I sat there for some time thinking: I believe that Captain Carmichael and my father do not like each other very much.

Then I crept into bed, felt my locket safe beneath the pillow and went to sleep.

We were up early next morning and Miss Bell was very careful with our toilettes. She had long pondered, going through our moderate wardrobes deciding on what garments would best do justice to our mother; she picked bottle green for me and crushed strawberry for Olivia. Our dresses were both made on the same lines with flounced skirts, decorous bodices and sleeves to the elbow. We wore long white stockings and black boots, and carried white gloves, and each of us had a straw hat, mine bearing a green ribbon and Olivia’s crushed strawberry.

We felt very smart. But when we saw our mother we realized how insignificant we were beside her splendour. She looked every bit the “beautiful Mrs. Tressidor.” She wore pink, a favourite colour of hers and one which was most becoming. The skirt of her dress was full and flounced and so draped to call attention to a waist, which in that age of small waists, was remarkable. The tightly fitting bodice further accentuated the charm of her figure; she wore a pale cream fichu at the neck which matched the lace at the cuffs of her sleeves. Her hat was the same mingling shades of cream and pink and perched jauntily on the top of her magnificent hair, while its cream-coloured ostrich feather fell over the brim and reached almost to her eyes as though to call attention to their sparkle. She looked young and excited and we all set off in a fever of anticipation.

The carriage was waiting for us, and Olivia and I sat one on either side of her as we rode out of the square.

The horses trotted along for a while and my mother suddenly called to the driver: “Blain, I want you to go to Waterloo Place.”

Blain turned in surprise as though he had not heard correctly. “But, Madam …” he began.

She smiled sweetly. “I’ve changed my mind. Waterloo Place.”

“Very good, Madam,” said Blain.

“Mama,” I cried, “are we not going to Lady Ponsonby’s?”

“No, dear. We are going somewhere else instead.”

“But everyone said …”

“Plans are changed. I think you will like this place better.”

Her eyes were brimming with mischief and an excitement gripped me. I had an inspiration. I had seen that look in her eyes before, and it recalled a certain person who, I believed, had put it there.

“Mama,” I said thoughtfully, “are we going to see Captain Carmichael?”

Her cheeks turned pink, which made her prettier than ever.

“Why? Whatever made you say that?”

“I just wondered … because …”

“Because what?”

“Does he live in Waterloo Place?”

“Close by.”

“So it is …”

“We shall get a better view there.”

I sat back in my seat. Something had been added to the day.

He was waiting to greet us, clearly expecting us. I thought it rather odd that we should have set out as for the Ponsonbys’ when this must have been arranged the evening before.

However, I was too excited to think much about it. We were here and that was all that mattered.

Captain Carmichael’s rooms were small compared with ours, but there was a lovable disorder about them which I immediately sensed.

“Welcome!” he cried. “My lovely ladies, welcome all.”

I liked being referred to as a lovely lady, but it clearly embarrassed Olivia, who was perfectly sure that the description did not fit her.

“You are in good time,” he went on.

“Which is absolutely necessary if we were to get here,” said my mother. “These streets will be closed to traffic soon.”

“The procession will pass this way on the outward journey to the Abbey,” he said, “but you will not be able to leave until after it has returned, which pleases me very much, since it will give me more of the most delightful company I know. Now let me show my beauteous ladies the seating accommodation, and I expect the girls would like to watch what is going on in the streets.”

He led us to chairs in the window from which we had a good view of Waterloo Place.

“The route will be from the Palace through Constitution Hill, Piccadilly, Waterloo Place and Parliament Street to the Abbey, so you are in a good position. Now I daresay you would like some refreshment. I have some very special lemonade for you young people and some little biscuits to go with it—a speciality made for me by my cook, Mr. Fortnum.”

My mother giggled and said: “I believe that to be incorrect. They were made by Mr. Mason.”

“Fortnum or Mason, what matters it?”

I laughed immoderately because I knew that Fortnum and Mason was a shop in Piccadilly, and Captain Carmichael meant he had bought the biscuits from them.

“I will come and help you with the lemonade,” said my mother.

I was astonished. The idea of her getting anything was so surprising. At home she would ring if she wanted a cushion for her chair.

They went out together. Olivia looked a little dismayed.

“It’s exciting,” I said.

“Why did we come here? I thought we were going to the Ponsonbys’. And what does he mean about his cooks? Fortnum and Mason is a shop.”

“Oh, Olivia,” I said, “you are so solemn. This is going to be fun.”

They were quite a long time coming with the lemonade and when they did, my mother had removed her hat. She looked flushed but very much at home, and she made a great show of pouring out the lemonade.

“Luncheon will be served later,” said Captain Carmichael.

I can still remember every moment of that day. There was a certain magic about it, a certain feeling of waiting, like the moment in the theatre when the curtain is about to go up and one is not quite sure what is going to be revealed. But I might have thought that afterwards in view of everything that happened, as one is inclined to do, looking back on important days in one’s life, imagining they were pregnant with foreboding … no, hardly foreboding. I felt nothing of that, only a tremendous excitement, as though something really important was going to happen.

There came the great moment when we could hear the approaching procession. I loved the Handel march; it seemed most appropriate; and there she was—a rather disappointing little figure and yes, in a bonnet. True, it was a rather special bonnet, made of lace and sparkling with diamonds, but nevertheless a bonnet. The cheers were deafening, and she sat there acknowledging them now and then with a lift of her hand, not so appreciative as I thought she might have been of this show of excessive loyalty. But it was a wonderful sight. Her carriage was preceded by the Princes of her own House—her sons, sons-in-law and grandsons. I counted them. There were seventeen in all; and the most grand among them was the Queen’s son-in-law, Crown Prince Fritz of Prussia, clad in white and silver with the German Eagle on his helmet.

There was procession after procession. I was thrilled by the sight of the Indian Princes in their magnificent robes sparkling with jewels. There were among them envoys from Europe, four Kings—those of Saxony, Belgium, Denmark and the Hellenes; and Greece, Portugal, Sweden and Austria—like Prussia—had sent their Crown Princes.

The whole world, it seemed on that day, was determined to pay homage to the little old lady in her lace and diamond bonnet, who had reigned for fifty years.

Even when the procession had passed, I still felt dazed by the spectacle; the music was still ringing in my ears, and I could still see the magnificently caparisoned horses and their brilliant riders while my mother disappeared with the Captain, having mentioned something about luncheon.

The Captain wheeled in a trolley on which was cold chicken, some crusty bread and a dish of butter.

He brought a little table to the window. There was just room for the four of us to sit at it. Deftly he covered it with a lacy cloth.

What a luncheon that was! Later I thought it was like the end of an era, the end of innocence. That delicious cold chicken was like tasting the tree of knowledge.

The Captain opened a bottle which had been standing in a bucket of ice, and he produced four glasses.

“Do you think they should?” asked my mother.

“Just a thimbleful.”

The thimblefuls were half glasses. I sipped the fuzzy liquid in ecstasy, and felt intoxicated with a very special sort of happiness. The world seemed wonderful and I envisioned this as the beginning of a new existence when Olivia and I became our mother’s dearest friends; we accompanied her on expeditions such as this one which she and the Captain between them conspired to arrange for our delight.

Crowds were beginning to gather in the streets below and now that the procession had passed the streets were no longer closed to traffic.

“On the return journey from the Abbey to the Palace she will go via Whitehall and the Mall,” said the Captain, “so the rest of the day is ours.”

“We must not be back too late,” said my mother.

“My dear, the streets will be impassable just now and will be for some time. We’re safe in our eyrie.”

We all laughed. Indeed, we were laughing a good deal and at nothing in particular which is perhaps the expression of real happiness.

The sound of voices below was muted and remote—outside our magic circle. Captain Carmichael talked all the time and we laughed; he made us talk too, and even Olivia did … a little. Our mother seemed like a different person; every now and then she would say “Jock!” in a tone of mock reproof which even Olivia guessed was a form of endearment.

Jock Carmichael told us about the Army and what it was like to serve in it. He had been overseas many times and expected to go to India. He looked at our mother and a faint sadness touched them both —but that was for the future and seemed too far away to worry about.

He was an old friend of the family, he told us. “Why, I knew your mother before you were born.” He looked at me when he said that. “And then … I was sent to the Sudan, and I didn’t see any of you for a long time.” He smiled at my mother. “And when I came back it seemed as if I had never been away.”

Olivia was having difficulty in keeping her eyes open. I felt the same. A dreamy contentment was creeping over me, but I fought hard against sleep, as I did not want to lose a moment of that enchanted afternoon.

Then the street life burst forth. A hurdy-gurdy had appeared and was playing tunes from The Mikado and The Pirates of Penzance. People started singing and dancing; the hurdy-gurdy was rivalled by a one-man band, a versatile performer who carried pan-pipes fixed under his mouth, a drum on his back—to be beaten by a stick tied to his elbows; cymbals on his drum were clashed by a string attached to his knees; and he carried a triangle. The dexterity with which he performed won the great admiration of all, and the pennies rattled into the hat at his feet.

There was one man selling pamphlets. “Fifty Glorious Years,” he called. “Read about the Life of Her Majesty the Queen.” There were two gipsy women, dark-skinned with big brass earrings and red bandanna handkerchiefs tied about their heads. “Read your fortune, ladies. Cross the palm with silver and a fine fortune will be yours.” Then came the clown on stilts—a comical figure who made the children scream with delight as he stumped through the crowds, so tall that he could bring his hat right up to the windows. We dropped coins into it; he grinned and bowed—no mean feat on stilts—and hobbled away.

It was a happy scene—everyone intent on enjoying the day.

“You see,” said Captain Carmichael, “how impossible it would be to get through the streets just yet.”

Then the tragedy occurred.

Two or three horsemen had made a way for themselves through the crowds who good-naturedly allowed them to pass through.

At that moment another rider came into the square. I knew enough about horses to see at once that he was not in control of the animal. The horse paused a fraction of a second, his ear cocked, and I was sure that the masses of people in the square and the noise they were creating alarmed him.

He lifted his front legs and swayed blindly; then he lowered his head and charged into the crowd. There was a shout; someone fell. I saw the rider desperately trying to maintain control before he was thrown into the air. There was a hushed silence and then the screams broke out; the horse had gone mad and was dashing blindly through the crowds.

We stared in horror. Captain Carmichael made for the door, but my mother clung to his arm.

“No! No!” she cried. “No, Jock. It’s unsafe down there.”

“The poor creature has gone wild with terror. He only needs proper handling.”

“No, Jock, no!”

My attention had turned from the square to those two—she was clinging to his arm, begging him not to go down.

When I looked again the horse had fallen. There was chaos. Several people had been hurt. Some were shouting, some were crying; the happy scene had become one of tragedy.

“There is nothing, nothing you can do,” sobbed my mother. “Oh, Jock, please stay with us. I couldn’t bear …”

Olivia, who loved horses as much as I did, was weeping for the poor animal.

Some men had arrived on horseback and there were people with stretchers. I tried not to hear the shot as it rang out. I knew it was the best thing possible for the horse who must have injured himself too badly to recover.

The police had arrived. The streets were cleared. A hush had fallen on us all. What an end to a day of rejoicing.

Captain Carmichael tried to be merry again.

“It’s life,” he said ruefully.

It was late afternoon when the carriage took us home. In the carriage my mother sat between Olivia and me and put an arm around each of us.

“Let’s remember only the nice things,” she said. “It was wonderful, wasn’t it … before …”

We agreed that it had been.

“And you saw the Queen and all the Kings and Princes. You’ll always remember that part, won’t you? Don’t let’s think about the accident, eh? Don’t let’s even talk about it … to anyone.”

We agreed that would be best.

The next day Miss Bell took us for a walk in the Park. Everywhere there were tents for the poor children who were gathered there—thirty thousand of them, and to the strains of military bands each child was presented with a currant bun and a mug of milk. The mugs were a gift to them—Jubilee mugs inscribed to the glory of the great Queen.

“They will remember it forever,” said Miss Bell. “As we all shall.” And she talked about the Kings and Princes and told us a little about the countries from which they came, exercising her talent for turning every event into a lesson.

It was all very interesting and neither Olivia nor I mentioned the accident. I heard some of the servants discussing it.

” ‘ere, d’you know. There was a terrible accident … near Waterloo Place, they say. An ‘orse run wild … ‘undreds was ‘urt, and had to be took to ‘ospital.”

“Horses,” said her companion. “In the streets. Ought not to be allowed.”

“Well, ‘ow’d you get about without ‘em, eh?”

“They shouldn’t be allowed to run wild, that’s what.”

I resisted the temptation to join in and tell them that I had been a spectator. Somewhere at the back of my mind was the knowledge that it would be dangerous to do so.

It was late afternoon. My mother, I think, was preparing for dinner. There were no guests that evening, but even so preparations were always lengthy—guests or no guests. She and my father would dine alone at the big dining table at which I had never sat. Olivia reminded me that when we “came out,” which would be when we were seventeen, we should dine there with our parents. I was rather fond of my food and I could not imagine anything more likely to rob me of my appetite than to be obliged to eat under the eyes of my father. But the prospect was so far in the future that it did not greatly disturb me.

It must have been about seven o’clock. I was on the way to the schoolroom where we had our meals with Miss Bell—we always partook of bread and butter and a glass of milk before retiring—when to my horror I came face to face with my father. I almost ran into him and pulled up sharply as he loomed up before me.

“Oh,” he said. “Caroline.” As though he had to give a little thought to the matter before he could remember my name.

“Good evening, Papa,” I said.

“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 touch 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.