Time of the Hunter's Moon

Rooks' Rest

WHEN I went back to school, I quickly slipped into the old routine and it felt like coming home. In a few days even the girls settled down. Teresa had changed considerably; she had almost lost that scared look she had had before and was able to mingle more easily with the other girls.

Daisy Hetherington wanted to know how she had behaved during the holiday and I was delighted to be able to tell her that everything had worked out very well indeed.

"Teresa's trouble was that she was lonely and felt unwanted," I explained. "As soon as she saw that we were glad to have her, she changed and became just a normal happy girl."

"How fortunate if all our troubles could be so easily solved," said Daisy, but she smiled, well pleased, and I said that if there was no objection she was invited for Christmas.

"I daresay those cousins will be as ready to forsake their duties at Christmas as in the summer," was Daisy's comment.

Then she went on to discuss the term's work.

"We put on a little entertainment at Christmas," she said. "I know it seems far away but you'd be surprised how much preparation is needed and it gives the girls something to think about instead of mooning nostalgically over the summer holidays. I thought you with Miss Eccles and Miss Parker could put your heads together, and of course Miss Barston for the costumes. We do it in the refectory one night and then we have been invited to repeat it at the Hall when some of the people from the village come to see it. This year I understand Sir Jason will be away and, as he has said nothing about lending us the Hall, I suppose we shan't have it there this time. He did tell me that he planned to stay away some time."

I said I would consult with Miss Eccles and Miss Parker and we would submit the results of our conference for her approval.

She bowed her head graciously and said that it would not be quite the same with no performance at the Hall. "It makes a difference to the neighbourhood when the squire is not in residence."

I was to agree with her as the weeks passed. I would ride now and then past the Hall and remember the day of Teresa's accident and that twilit tête-à-tête in the courtyard. I found it hard to stop thinking about him and wondering why he had taken the trouble to come to Moldenbury to say goodbye to me.

I guessed that when he came back Marcia Martindale would expect him to marry her and it occurred to me that he might have wanted to get away to make up his mind what he must do. He had said something about coming to terms with his conscience. Was he referring to the death of his wife or his obligations to Marcia Martindale? It could be either ... or both. My presence bothered him-just as his bothered me.

But I could forget him now that he was no longer there. I felt free. I very much enjoyed my work; I got on well with Daisy and my fellow teachers and I believed I was getting somewhere with the girls.

Daisy told me that she had a waiting list this term.

"More applicants than I have room for," she said complacently. "I think they are beginning to realize that they get the Schaffenbrucken treatment here. And of course there are so many parents who are against sending their daughters abroad ... especially when they can get the desired result in England."

Daisy was implying that my presence was an asset to the school and I couldn't suppress a rather smug feeling of satisfaction.

The term went on. English lessons, deportment, social graces, dancing waltzes and cotillions, taking the girls for their rides. Each day had its little drama such as who should be chosen for Prince Charming and Cinderella; whose drawing would be selected as the best of the month; who should be chosen by Mr. Bathurst to partner him in the waltz he was teaching. Mr. Bathurst was a young man of dark Italianate good looks and was a great favourite with the girls, and there was always excitement on the days when he came to the school to take the dancing class, which resulted in much romantic speculation. His visits were awaited with great anticipation and he was jealously watched, and the eider girls vied for the favour of being chosen by him to demonstrate the steps.

Autumn came. It was the time of Hunter's Moon. A whole year since I had gone into the forest and met the stranger! It seemed longer. I suppose that was because so much had happened. I was beginning to convince myself that I had imagined the whole thing; and I should have loved to see Monique, Frieda or Lydia again so that I could assure myself that we really had all been in the forest together on that day.

Fiona Verringer was at length chosen to play Cinderella and Charlotte was Prince Charming. They were the inevitable choices because Fiona was so pretty and Charlotte so tall. Charlotte was delighted and far more manageable than before, being absorbed in her role.

During November we were rehearsing and Mr. Crowe, the music master, wrote some songs for the girls to sing and there was great activity in Miss Barston's class putting the costumes together.

One morning I went into the town and in the little draper's shop I came face to face with Marcia Martindale. She seemed quite a different person from the heart-broken woman I had met in the courtyard. She was serene and friendly and asked me to call.

"I should be so pleased if you would," she said. "One doesn't see many people and it would be a great treat. Do you ever get a few hours free?"

I said I had a free afternoon on Wednesday unless something happened, such as one of the other mistresses being indisposed. Then I should be expected to take her class.

"Shall we say Wednesday then? I'll be so delighted if you can come."

I accepted, I have to admit, with alacrity for I was very eager to discover more about her. I tried to pretend to myself that her relationship with Jason Verringer was of no interest to me, but that I wanted to make her understand that circumstances had thrust me into the position of dining with him-as she had found us on that night when she had been so clearly distressed.

So I went to tea with Marcia Martindale.

It was a very unusual afternoon. The door was opened by a little woman with a sharp dark face rather like an intelligent monkey's. She had hair which was almost black, stiff and coarse, and stood out en brosse round her small face; her eyes were small and very dark; they seemed to dart everywhere, missing nothing.

She said: "Come in. We're expecting you." And she smiled, showing large white teeth, as though my coming was some tremendous joke.

She took me into a drawing room most graciously furnished with Queen Anne furniture which suited the house.

From a sofa Marcia Martindale rose and held out both her hands to me. She was dressed in a peignoir of peacock blue silk. Her hair was loose and about her forehead was a velvet band with a few brilliants in it which might have been diamonds. There was a similar band about her throat. She looked dramatic as though she were about to play some tragic role like Lady Macbeth or the Duchess of Malfi. Yet again she was quite unlike the woman I had so recently met in the draper's.

"So you have come," she said in a low voice; then raising it a little. "Do sit down. We'll have tea now, Maisie. Will you tell Mrs. Gittings?"

"All right," said the woman who was clearly Maisie, with more alacrity than respect. In her cockney voice was a jaunty suggestion of equality. She was a striking contrast to Marcia Martindale. She went out as though she were finding it difficult to suppress her mirth.

"My friends get used to Maisie," said Marcia. "She was my dresser. They get very familiar."

"Your dresser?"

"Yes. I was in the theatre, you know, before I came here."

"I see."

"Maisie remembers the old days. It was good of you to come. Particularly as you have so little free time."

"We're busy at the moment. We are putting on a pantomime for Christmas."

"Pantomime?" Her eyes lighted up and then became contemptuous. "I started in it," she went on. "It gets you nowhere."

"I think it is most interesting that you were an actress."

"Very different from being a schoolmistress, I daresay."

"They are poles apart,'-' I agreed.

She smiled at me.

"You must miss the theatre," I went on.

She nodded. "One never really gets used to not working. Particularly if ..."

She shrugged her shoulders and at that moment there was a tap on the door and a squat, middleaged woman trundled in a tea trolley on which were sandwiches and cakes and everything we should need for tea.

"Over here, Mrs. Gittings," said Marcia in rather loud ringing tones. And then more quietly: "That's right. Thank you."

Mrs. Gittings gave me a look and a nod and went out. Marcia surveyed the tea trolley as though it were John the Baptist's head on a charger. I did not know why these allusions kept occurring to me. It was simply because everything here did not seem quite natural. I wished Eileen Eccles were with me. We should have a hilarious time laughing over it all I was sure.

"You must tell me how you like your tea. I do think it is so good of you to come. You can't believe what a pleasure it is to have someone to talk to.

I said I liked it weak with a little milk and no sugar. I stood up and took the cup from her. Then I sat down. There was a little table beside me on which I set my cup.

"Do have one of these sandwiches." She seemed to glide towards me, holding out the plate, even infusing a certain amount of drama into that ordinary action. "Mrs. Gittings is very good. I'm lucky. But I do miss the theatre."

"I can understand that."

"I knew you would. I expect you wonder why I bury myself in the country. Well, there is the little one. You must see Miranda before you leave."

"Your little girl? Yes, I should like that."

"It's for her sake, really." She threw back her head with a gesture of resignation. "I shouldn't be here otherwise. Children break into one's career. One has to make a choice."

There were many questions I should have liked to ask, but I supposed they were all too personal. I became intent on stirring my tea.

"You must tell me all about yourself," she said.

I told her briefly that I lived with my aunt and that this was my first post; but I sensed that she was not really listening.

"You are very young," she said at length. "Not that I am much older than you ... in years."

She sighed and I presumed she was referring to her superior experience of life. I felt she was probably right about that.

"And," she said, coming to the point which I was sure was the reason why she had been eager for me to visit her, "you have already become friendly with Jason Verringer."

"Well, hardly friendly. There was that accident and I had to stay at the Hall with the girl who had been thrown from her horse. You remember you came when I was there."

She regarded me steadily. "Oh yes. Jason went to great lengths to explain. He was most apologetic. But I told him that in the circumstances he had to entertain you."

"It wasn't a matter of entertaining. I would have been perfectly happy with a tray in the sick room."

"He did say that was out of the question ... A guest in his house and all that."

"He seems to have gone into the matter pretty thoroughly."

"Of course he would enjoy your company. He likes intelligent women ... if they are pretty as well, which you undoubtedly are, Miss Grant."

"Thank you."

"I understand Jason very well. In fact when he comes back ... Well, there is an understanding you see. There is the child, of course, and his poor wife ... That's over now..."

I understood that she was telling me I was not to take seriously the attention Jason Verringer had bestowed on me. I wanted to tell her not to worry. I should certainly not attempt to be a menace to her and I was really quite indifferent to the plans she had made with the odious man.

I said coolly: "I am absorbed in my career. I was going in with my aunt at one time but that came to nothing. The Abbey is a most interesting school and Miss Hetherington a wonderful woman to work with."

"I am so glad you are happy. You are different from the, others."

"Which others?"

"The mistresses."

"Oh, you know them?"

"I have seen them. They look like schoolmistresses. You don't exactly."

"I am one, nevertheless. Tell me about the parts you played."

She was nothing loth. Her greatest success had been Lady Isabel in East Lynne. She stood up and burying her face in her hands declaimed: "Dead. Dead. And never called me Mother."

"That was the deathbed scene," she told me. "It used to entrance the house. There wasn't a dry eye in the place. I played Pinero's Two Hundred a Year. Lovely. I liked drama best. But there was nothing to touch East Lynne. That was a certain success."

She then gave me little extracts from other parts she had played. She seemed quite a different woman from the one I had first seen on the lawn with the child or in the draper's shop. In fact she seemed to change her personality every few minutes. The quiet fond mother; the lonely woman pleading for a visit; the heart-broken mistress of the courtyard scene; the charming hostess; and now the versatile actress. She slipped from role to role with perfect ease.

We talked about Cinderella which we were doing at school. She had played in it once. "My first part," she cried ecstatically, clasping her hands about her knees and becoming a little girl. "I was Buttons. You must have a good Buttons. It's a small but effective role." She looked upwards with adoration at an imaginary Cinderella. "I was a very good Buttons. It was then people began to realize I had a future."

The door opened and Mrs. Gittings came in leading a little girl by the hand.

"Come and say Hello to Miss Grant, Miranda," said Marcia slipping easily into the part of fond parent.

I said Hello to the child who surveyed me solemnly. She was very pretty and had a look of her mother.

We talked about the child and Marcia tried to make her say something but she refused, and after a while I looked at my watch and said I should have to be back at school in hall' an hour. I was sorry to hurry away but she would understand.

She was the gracious hostess. "You must come again," she said, and I promised I would.

Riding back to the Abbey I thought how unreal everything had seemed. Marcia Martindale appeared to be acting a part all the time.

Perhaps that was to be expected since she was an actress. I wondered why Jason Verringer had become enamoured of her and what part he could play in such a household. I felt there was something very unpleasant about the whole matter and I wanted to put them both out of my mind.

The term passed with greater speed than the previous one, which might have been because I was becoming so familiar with the school. Lessons, rehearsals, gossip in the calefactory, little chats with Daisy ... I found it all absorbing.

There was no doubt that I was a favourite with Daisy who, I knew, congratulated herself on having imported a Schaffenbrucken product into the establishment; and I really believed she attributed the growing prosperity to my presence.

She would ask me to her sitting room and over cups of tea talk about the school and the pupils. She was delighted in the change in Teresa Hurst and was relieved that I could be relied upon to take her off her hands when the cousins defaulted.

As the terra progressed the main item of conversation was the coming pantomime.

"The parents come to see it, so it is very important that we have the right kind of entertainment," Daisy said. "Parents are not very perceptive where their own daughters are concerned and are apt to think that they are budding Bernhardts - but they can be highly critical of others. I want them to notice how well all the girls enunciate, how they move with a particular grace, how they enter a room and are free from any gaucherie. You know what I mean. I should think a good many parents will come to see the pantomime. They will have to make their own arrangements, of course. The hotel in Colby will be full, but some of them can stay a few miles off at Bantable. There are some big hotels there. They can then travel back with their daughters. We have never had as many as we did for the Abbey Festival. That was last year. We'll do it again next. It should be in June. Midsummer Night is the best. It's light then and of course it is so effective among the ruins. Such a wonderful setting. It was most impressive ... quite uncanny in fact. The seniors were in their white robes. You really would have thought the monks had come to life again. We had some lovely singing and chanting. It was a great occasion. I daresay we have some of the costumes put away somewhere. I must ask Miss Barston."

"An Abbey Festival with the girls dressed as monks. That must have been really exciting."

"Oh it was. The Cistercian robes ... and I remember we had torches. I was terrified of those torches-though I must say they did add something to the scene. Girls can be so careless. We came near to having an accident. It would be better if we could do it in the light of a full moon. But that's for the future. Now let us concentrate on Cinderella. I hope Charlotte will not show off. Other parents won't like it."

"I am sure she will do very well. And Fiona Verringer is going to make a charming Cinderella." And so we went on.

The term progressed and I did not see Marcia Martindale during it, but I did on two occasions meet Mrs. Gittings wheeling the child through the lanes. I stopped and talked to her. She seemed devoted to the child and I liked her. She was a rosy cheeked homely woman with an air of honesty, quite a contrast to the flamboyant actress and her truculent cockney dresser.

I talked to her and I confess to a curiosity to know how she fitted into such a household. She was not the sort of woman to talk much of her employers but one or two revealing observations slipped out.

"Mrs. Martindale be an actress twenty-four hours of the day. So you can never be sure whether 'tis what she means or whether she be playing a part, if you get my meaning. She'm fond of the child but forgets her sometimes ... and that's not the way for children." And of Maisie. "She be such another. Got her two feet on the ground though, that one. I don't know. It be like working in some sort of theatre ... not, mind you, Miss Grant, as I've ever worked in one. But I say to myself, Jane Gittings, this b'aint no theatre. This be a real live home and this be a real live child. And if they forget it, see you don't."

On the other occasions when I saw her-that was nearer the break-up for the Christmas holiday, she told me she was going to stay with her sister on the Moor just over the holiday. "Mistress, her be going to London and her'll take Maisie with her. That gives me a chance to take the little 'un with me. My sister's a one for babies. I reckon it was a real pity she never had one of her own."

Somehow I could not imagine Marcia Martindale as mistress of the Hall. But it was no concern of mine and there was plenty at this time with which to occupy myself.

Cinderella was a continual source of panic and joy. Fiona had a pretty singing voice and we had found an exuberant wicked stepmother and two ugly sisters whose spirits were difficult to restrain, and who were determined to add touches of their own, to the despair of Eileen Eccles. Then Charlotte's costume didn't fit in a manner to please Miss Barston and there was pandemonium about that.

"For Heaven's sake!" cried Eileen. "It can't be worse at Drury Lane!"

There was the task of decorating the school and setting up a post box so that the girls could send Christmas cards to each other. On the morning before Cinderella was performed we had our postal delivery and two of the younger girls had postman's caps and very solemnly opened the box which had been set up in the refectory, and the cards were delivered to the various classes. There were gasps of oohs and ahs and much embracing and many expressions of heartfelt thanks.

A record number of parents came to watch Cinderella; they applauded wildly, declared it was charming and much better than last year's Dick Whittington, and it didn't matter in the least that one of the ugly sisters fell sprawling on the stage and her shoe went hurtling into the audience and that the second ugly sister forgot her fines and the prompter's voice was so loud that it could be heard all over the hall.

Everyone said it was delightful. Daisy was congratulated.

"Your girls have such beautiful manners," said one parent.

"I'm so glad you notice," replied Daisy smiling. "We are so insistent on deportment. More so I believe than in so many of these fashionable finishing schools."

It was triumph indeed.

The girls had gone and Teresa and I would be departing on the next day for Moldenbury. Another term was over. It had been a very interesting and pleasant one and it was partly due to the fact that Jason Verringer was absent. That fact gave a certain peace to the surroundings.

Christmas was a real success. Teresa had so looked forward to it that I feared she might have set her hopes too high and suffer disappointment.

But no, everything went perfectly.

We arrived a week before the Day and I was glad of that because it gave Teresa time to enjoy the anticipation of Christmas and all the preparations which I had often felt were more enjoyable than the feast itself.

She was able to help Violet with the pudding and the Christmas cake. All of which Violet said should have been done by this time. But there was Teresa sitting on a chair stoning raisins and shelling nuts, watching Violet like a dedicated priestess stirring the pudding and calling everyone in to have a stir, even the man who helped in the garden three times a week.

"Everyone must have a stir," said Violet mysteriously. "Otherwise ..."

She did not finish the sentence but the silence was more ominous than words could have been.

Then there was the smell which seemed to pervade the house while the puddings bubbled away in the copper in the little laundry room and Teresa was there when Violet, with the long stick which was used for pulling out clothes, expertly stuck the end through the loops in the pudding cloths and triumphantly lifted them out while we all looked on in wonder. There was the all-important little taster-a small basin with just enough for four in it. We would taste that after dinner and give our unbiased verdict.

It was wonderful to see Teresa's delight in these small happenings, and her face was very serious when her portion of the taster was placed before her. We tasted-all eyes on Violet, the connoisseur of Christmas puddings.

"A little too much cinnamon," she said. "I guessed it."

"Nonsense," said Aunt Patty. "It's perfect." "Could have been better."

"It's the best pudding I ever tasted," declared Teresa.

"You didn't taste last year's," said Violet.

"Well, I can't see anything wrong with it," insisted Aunt Patty. "I only hope next year's is half as good."

"So do I," said Teresa.

And there was a little silence which Aunt Patty quickly filled. Teresa had found a way into this home and she was welcome. I think both my aunt and Violet were gratified and delighted that she enjoyed being with us so much. But we had to admit that at any time she could be sent for by relations or even her parents.

I hoped Teresa did not notice the pause and we went on with the inquest on the taster.

Then there was the decorating. Aunt Patty had left this for us to do so that Teresa could share in it. We picked holly and ivy which was hung in the rooms and we made a wreath to hang on the door. We went carol singing with the church party and to Midnight Service on Christmas Eve after which we came back to hot soup at the kitchen table and, when we had finished it, Aunt Patty bustled us off to bed.

"You'll want to sleep late if you don't get off to bed," she said, "and that will shorten the great day."

In spite of our late night we were all up early on Christmas morning. The presents were lying under the tree and would be distributed after dinner which would be eaten at one o'clock. Aunt Patty, Teresa and I went to church; Violet stayed behind to cook the goose. After service many of us congregated in the porch to wish each other a happy Christmas and then Aunt Patty, Teresa and I walked home across the fields humming Come All Ye Faithful.

We all declared the goose was done to a turn, except Violet who insisted that it had been in the oven five minutes too long; the pudding lived up to the expectations established by the taster and the opening of presents began. Aunt Patty had woollen gloves for Teresa and Violet's offering was a scarf to match. I had bought her brushes and paints because rather to our surprise she had begun to improve with her art. She was not as good as Eugenie Verringer, Eileen had said, but her progress was remarkable. We were touched because she had painted pictures for us all and had had them framed in Colby. There was a bowl of violets for Violet very appropriate, we all declared; for Aunt Patty there was a garden scene with a girl seated on a chair wearing an enormous hat which covered her face, which was a mercy for I was sure that Teresa would never have managed anything so demanding; and for me a landscape with a house in the distance which looked a little like Colby Hall.

In the afternoon Aunt Patty and Violet dozed while Teresa and I went for a walk, skirting the woods where the pale wintry sunshine glinted through the bare branches of the trees and taking the path across the stubbly fields, revelling in the smell of the damp earth and watching the jackdaws and rooks looking for food on the broken soil.

We did not speak much but there was a contentment about us both.

In the evening there were visitors. Aunt Patty had made many friends in the village and we played childish games like In the Manner of the Word and Animal, Vegetable and Mineral, refreshing ourselves with sandwiches and Violet's parsnip and ginger wines.

Then there was Boxing Day when the postman and dustman came for their Christmas boxes, solemnly presented in sealed envelopes with Merry Christmas written on them; and visiting the vicarage in the afternoon for muffins and tea and Christmas cake with icing on top.

Violet, being a little gratified because the icing was a trifle hard, wondered whether she ought to tell the vicarage cook to put a drop-not much mind you-of glycerine in it next year to soften it.

This problem occupied her all the way home. Should she or shouldn't she? And we all took sides over this matter although I suppose none of us-except Violet - cared either way.

But that was how it was. There was so much delight and pleasure in the simple things. I watched Teresa's animated face and felt ashamed of myself. I had known so many Christmases like this but I had never really appreciated them before.

The holidays were over and there was Aunt Patty waving goodbye on the platform, cherries bobbing on her hat and Violet telling us that she was sure the sandwiches she had packed for the journey would be dry before we ate them.

"See you at Easter time," called Aunt Patty. "Hot cross bun time," added Violet.

I looked at Teresa. She was smiling, clearly looking forward to Easter and hot cross buns.

That term seemed dull compared with the others. The first had been exciting because I was settling in and I had had my encounters with Jason Verringer. During the term leading up to Christmas I had been busy with rehearsals and so on. Now that was over and this term seemed like an anticlimax. For one thing Jason Verringer was still away. Fiona and Eugenie had naturally been at the Hall for Christmas and an elderly cousin and her husband had come to take charge of them. I gathered from Teresa that they had done very much as they liked and that the elderly cousins had quickly given up trying to exercise control.

When I asked them how they had enjoyed Christmas, Eugenie had laughed and said with a rather malicious twinkle in her eyes: "It was quite interesting, Miss Grant!" and Fiona replied demurely: "We enjoyed it very much thank you."

Eugenie and I were in a state of what I called armed neutrality-and of course Charlotte Mackay was with her in this. They had never forgiven me for preventing their sharing a room and they would, I knew, discountenance me if they had the chance, but now they did seem to respect my authority and of course I held over them the threat of curtailing their riding if they did not behave well.

It was different with Fiona. She was a docile girl, very pretty and easily led and I was sure if left alone would not have looked for trouble. Teresa was my stalwart ally and the rest of the girls in my section were ordinary kind-hearted creatures who might be led astray by others but were quite ready, and really preferred, to be amenable. I think they were all a little impressed by the change in Teresa and I tried to imagine what descriptions she gave of Aunt Patty's house. I suspected that she made a visit there sound like a trip to the Promised Land.

However, I was becoming more and more aware that I had the special gift of winning the respect of my pupils without a great deal of effort, which is one of the primary needs of any who wish to teach.

So the term went smoothly, too smoothly perhaps, and I, like Teresa, was looking forward to returning to Moldenbury.

Halfway through January the snow came and it was difficult to keep the rooms warm in spite of big fires. The bitter North wind seemed to penetrate even the thick walls of the Abbey, and the ruins, white with snow, were fantastically beautiful- and even more uncanny in moonlight. The girls enjoyed it; they built rival snowmen, had snowballing baffles and tobogganed clown the slight incline above which the Abbey stood. The roads were treacherous and for over a week no vehicle could reach us. Daisy was, of course, prepared for such an emergency and there was plenty of food, but the girls enjoyed feeling cut off and many of them were hoping that the icy conditions would continue. Some of the servants were saying that Devon had never known such weather and what was the world coming to?

"Disaster," commented Eileen Eccles. "When the temperature in Devonshire falls below freezing, the world is coming to an end. Some of them ought to be transported to the north of Scotland; then they would learn what winter is."

Before the end of the month the thaw set in, and I went into the town. Mrs. Baddicombe the postmistress detained me for a gossip as no one else was in the shop, which served groceries and many other things besides being a post office.

Eileen had warned me that Mrs. Baddicombe was what she called "the town recorder" in as much as she knew all that was going on and her mission in life was to make sure that she spread the news throughout the community with as much speed as possible.

She was a tall spare woman with dull opaque eyes and a great deal of pepper and salt hair, which she wore piled high on her head with a frizzed fringe. She talked incessantly while she weighed parcels and handed out stamps or dealt with the commodities of the store.

"Oh, Miss Grant, it be nice to see 'ee. How have 'ee been getting on at the school during this terrible weather? I said to Jim (Jim was her husband who sometimes helped in the shop and was noted for his somewhat taciturn silences. "His refuge against that flow of talk," said Eileen.) weather be terrible. I didn't see a soul in the shop for days."

I said we had managed but Miss Hetherington would like the goods sent up as soon as possible and I had an order for her.

"Jim will bring 'em up as soon as he can. There's everybody wanting things now. Fair run out they had. Who'd have thought we'd have such weather here in Devon. It's the worst for fifty year they'm telling me. Her from Rooks' Rest have sent up this morning. She don't come herself ... oh no ... too grand. Sends that London woman. Never could abide her. Looks like she's laughing at you all the time. That's London, I suppose. Thinks she's smarter than we be. Oh no, Madam hardly ever comes in herself. Why, you'd think she was my lady already."

"Oh ... you mean Mrs. Martindale."

"That's her," Mrs. Baddicombe leaned forward and lowered her voice. "I reckon we'll have her up at the Hall soon. Hm ... well, least said soonest mended. Her ladyship now, she was a lovely lady. Never saw much of her lately ... but to go like that ... and her in Rooks' Rest, his house ... all at the disposal of Madam if you please. And there she is having the baby and all that. I reckon it's real disgraceful. Of course, you know they've got the devil in them."

I ought not to be listening. It would be more dignified to make my excuses and yet, to tell the truth, I found the opportunity to discover something irresistible.

"Well, you've not been here long, Miss Grant, and you're up at that school and that Miss Hetherington, she be a fine lady, places her order regular and there's no question about paying ...

That's what I like. Not that Hall bills ain't paid. I wouldn't say that-but the goings on! They've always been a wild lot ... got the devil in them. Well, he's gone away to make a respectable delay. Couldn't marry her right away could he? Even he has to wait a year for decency's sake. I reckon come Easter we'll have the church bells ringing for them. A wedding when the last time they was tolling for a funeral."

"Well, Mrs. Baddicombe, I'd better be going ..." It was a feeble attempt and Mrs. Baddicombe was not easily dismissed.

She leaned further over the counter.

"And how did her ladyship die? Well it happened nice and convenient, didn't it? Madam has the little bastard and her ladyship takes her dose of laudanum. But this be Verringer land and there's no gainsaying that. The things that goes on .. . and them two young ladies up at the school. Miss Eugenie's got a lot of Verringer in her. But I reckon there'll be trouble when he marries her. There's so much people will stand and no more. I reckon they ought to take another look at her ladyship."

Someone had come into the shop and Mrs. Baddicombe started back.

It was Miss Barston who wanted stamps and sewing cottons.

I waited while she was served, said goodbye to Mrs. Baddicombe, and Miss Barston and I came out of the shop together.

"That woman is a pernicious gossip," said Miss Barston. "I always discourage her when she starts on me."

I was a little ashamed. I should have done the same, but I was very eager to learn all I could about Jason Verringer and Marcia Martindale.

After the snow the weather turned mild and almost springlike. I met Marcia Martindale in the town. She stood talking for a little while and told me how wretched she had been when snowed up, and reproached me for not coming to see her. I made an appointment to call the following Wednesday if no sudden duties were imposed on me.

I rode over. It was a dampish day with a reluctant sun glinting out now and then through the clouds. I glanced up at nests in the elms and passed under the porch with the golden jasmine trailing over it and rang the bell.

It was opened by Maisie who said: "Come in, Miss Grant. We're expecting you."

Marcia Martindale rose to greet me; she was dressed in black, soft and clinging; she had a magnificent figure; and about her neck was a heavy golden chain; and she wore gold bracelets, three on each wrist.

She looked like a character from a play but I could not think which. She took both my hands in hers. "Miss Grant, how good of you to call."

"I reckon my lady needs a bit of cheering up," said Maisie grinning at me. "She's in mourning today."

"Mourning?" I said and my heart beat with fear. I thought something had happened to Jason Verringer. "For er ..."

Maisie winked. "For the past," she said.

"Oh, Maisie, you are a fool," said Marcia. "Get off with you and tell Mrs. Gittings to bring us tea."

"She's doing that," said Maisie. "She heard Miss Grant come."

"Do sit down, Miss Grant. I am sorry you fend me in this sad state. It is an anniversary."

"Oh dear, would you rather I went and came another time?"

"Oh no, no. It is so cheering to have you. I hate being shut in, which is what happened with all that snow. I was nostalgic for London. It is rather quiet here; all this waiting."

I replied that the snow had been restricting but that the girls had enjoyed it.

She sighed. "It is five years ago that it happened." "Oh?"

"A great tragedy. I'll tell you about it after they've brought the tea."

"How is the little girl?"

She looked rather vague. "Oh... Miranda. She is well, Mrs. Gittings is so good with her."

"I thought she was. I've seen them once or twice in the lanes. She took her away for Christmas, didn't she?"

"Yes. I was in London. I had to have Maisie with me. One needs a maid. And for all her faults Maisie is very good with hair and clothes. She's devoted to me, though sometimes you wouldn't think it. And Mrs. Gittings just loves having Miranda. She takes her to some relations on Dartmoor. She says the moorland air is good for the child."

"I am sure it is."

"Ah, here is the tea."

Mrs. Gittings wheeled in the trolley as she had on an earlier occasion, nodded to me and I asked if she were well and had enjoyed Christmas.

"It was wonderful," she said. "Miranda loved it and you should have seen my sister. She loves little ones. Always asking when we're coming again."

"I have promised Mrs. Gittings that she shall take Miranda soon," said Marcia.

Mrs. Gittings smiled and went out.

"Such a good soul," said Marcia. "I can trust her absolutely with Miranda."

She poured the tea and said: "Well, you have discovered me in the midst of my mourning. I am sorry if I am a little depressing. It was so tragic."

"Yes?"

"Five years today when I said goodbye to Jack."

"Jack?"

"Jack Martindale."

"Was he your ...?"

"My husband. We were so young ... very very young ... striving then, both of us. I had had my successes. It was in East Lynne that we met. He was Archibald to my Isabel. Young love is rather beautiful, don't you think, Miss Grant?"

"I cannot speak from experience, but I expect it is."

"Oh, you must be a late starter."

"I probably am."

"Well, my dear, be thankful for that. When one is young, one can be so impulsive. But between Jack and me it was right from the very beginning. We were married. I was just seventeen. It was idyllic. We played many roles together. We brought something to our parts. Everyone said so. But then I began to surpass him. Jack loved me passionately but he was a little hurt. You see I was the one the audiences came for. Without me he could not draw audiences at all."

She rose and stood with her back to the window, her arms across her breast. She looked very dramatic.

"So he went away. I didn't try to stop him. I knew he had to make his own way. There was this chance to go to America. It was for him alone. Some manager had seen him ..."

"And he didn't want you too?"

She looked at me coldly. "It was a male lead he was searching for."

"Oh, I see."

"You wouldn't understand about the theatre, Miss Grant." She was still rather cold. "However Jack went." She stood for a moment tense. It was like the end of the act when the curtain is about to fall and the time has come to deliver the last telling line.

"The ship was struck by an iceberg ... three days out from Liverpool."

She dropped her hands and walked to the tea trolley.

"It's a very sad story," I said, stirring my tea.

"Miss Grant, you can have no idea. How could you ... living as you do so quietly ... teaching .. . You can't imagine how an artist feels ... shut up here ... after such a tragedy."

"I can very well imagine how anyone would feel after such a tragedy. One does not necessarily have to be an artist to feel grief."

"Jack was lost. I went on working. Nothing could stop that. And then ... it must have been two years later I became friendly with Jason. He has a pleasant house in London. In St James's ... and he was always interested in the theatre. He used to come often to watch me. He's a very exciting man ... when you get to know him. He was crazy about me. Well, you can guess how it happened. Of course I shall never forget Jack, but Jason is here and that place of his is very attractive. He seemed a little tragic too. That family of his, always living in that mansion for hundreds of years and then there were no heirs and that disastrous marriage of his. Then there are only two girls. You know what I mean. Of course it was a sacrifice for me. A child is so restricting. There is all the time while you're waiting for it to be born, to say nothing of the discomforts. And then when it comes ... But I did it ... for Jason ... and I think I can be happy when everything is settled."

"You mean when you marry Sir Jason?"

She smiled at me. "It can't be just yet, of course. There had to be this interval. People in a place like this ... you know, so narrow. They say all sorts of cruel things. I said to Jason, `What do we care?' But he said we had to step warily. There was a lot of talk, you know, and most unpleasant talk."

"Gossip can be dangerous," I said, with a touch of conscience, having so recently indulged in it with Mrs. Baddicombe.

"Devastating," she said. "I was in a play once about a man whose wife died ... rather as Lady Verringer did. There was Another Woman."

"I suppose it is a not unusual situation."

"Men being men."

"And women women," I said, perhaps a trifle coolly.

"I agree. I agree." She rose from the trolley and paced to the window. She stood there for a few moments, and when she turned she was in a different role. She was no longer mourning a husband. She had become the bride of a new one.

"Well," she said, turning to me and smiling. "The wheel turns. Now I have to make Jason happy. He dotes on little Miranda."

"Oh does he?"

"When he is here. Of course, he has been away such a long time. But when he returns we shall have wedding bells. The waiting is irksome. But he had to go. It is not easy with me being here ... so close ... and all the talk."

"No, I suppose not."

"I might even join him before he comes back. He can be very persistent and he is trying to persuade me to go to him."

"All I can do is wish you well."

"There will be horrid gossip, but one lives that sort of thing down, doesn't one?"

"I suppose one does."

There was a tap on the door and Mrs. Gittings appeared with Miranda.

"Come here, my darling," said Marcia, now the doting mother.

The child approached but, I noticed, clinging very tightly to Mrs. Gittings' hand.

"My little one, come and say how do you do to Miss Grant."

"Hello Miranda," I said.

The dark eyes were turned to me. She said: "I've got a corn dolly."

"A what, darling?"

Mrs. Gittings said: "It's hanging on the wall in my sister's cottage. Miranda always says it is hers." "How old is she?" I asked.

"Nearly two," said Mrs. Gittings. "Quite a big girl, aren't you, pet?"

Miranda laughed and snuggled up to Mrs. Gittings' skirts.

It was quite clear who had Miranda's affection in that house.

I felt a great desire to get away. I was tired of hearing of Jason Verringer and his affairs. It was all rather distasteful and there was an air of such unreality in that house that I never wanted to see any of them again-except perhaps Mrs. Gittings and the child.

After a while Miranda was taken away and I left. I had the excuse that I must get back to the school. As I rode home I thought what a pity it was that the school was so close to the Hall and a part of it really. It made escape difficult. But I certainly would not again visit Rooks' Rest in a hurry.

It must have been only two weeks later when I ran into Mrs. Gittings with Miranda in the town. Her rosy face lit up with pleasure when she saw me.

"Why, it's Miss Grant," she said. "Lovely day, isn't it? Spring's on the way. I came in with Miranda in the dog cart. She loves that, don't you, Miranda? We've got one or two bits of shopping to do before we go away.

"Oh, are you going away?"

"I'm taking Miranda with me down to my sister."

"You'll love that. Miranda too."

"Yes. She'll see her corn dolly, won't you, pet? And Aunt Grace, that's my sister. Very fond of Miranda, she is, and Miranda's fond of her. It'll be lovely on the moors. I was brought up there. They say you always want to go back to your native spot."

"How will they get on without you at Rooks' Rest?"

"They won't be there. The house is to be shut up tin I'm told when to go back."

"So Mrs. Martindale is going to London, is she?" "Farther than that, she says. She keeps rather quiet about it, but sometimes it comes out. She is going to him."

"To him?"

"To Sir Jason. Somewhere on the Continent. Maisie will go with her."

"Do you think they will get married out there .. . wherever it is?"

"Well, that's what she seems to have in mind."

"I see."

"I can't wait to get to the moors. It was nice seeing you, Miss Grant. I think Miranda quite took to you."

I said goodbye and felt faintly depressed.

What a sordid affair, I thought, as I rode back to the Abbey.

Teresa came to me in a state of great distress.

"It's the cousins," she said. "They want me to go to them for Easter. Miss Hetherington sent for me in her study. She said she's just heard. I said I don't want to go but Miss Hetherington says I'll have to."

"Oh Teresa," I said. "Aunt Patty and Violet will be so disappointed."

"I know." There were tears in her eyes. "Violet was going to show me how to make hot cross buns."

I said: "Perhaps we can arrange something. I'll go and see Miss Hetherington."

Daisy shook her head grimly.

"I have often wondered about the wisdom of your taking Teresa home with you. I know Patience and Violet and the effect they'd have on a girl like Teresa. Poor child, she was almost demented when I told her."

I said: "Surely it can be explained to them."

"I don't think they'll change their minds. It's not that they want her. I can read between the lines. They feel they look remiss in the eyes of the parents as they are supposed to be looking after her, and two vacations away from them is a bit too much. She'll have to go for Easter and then perhaps it can be arranged that you take her in the summer holidays which are the longer ones."

"We shall be so sad. You see, she quickly became part of the household."

"That's the trouble. One has to be careful with girls like Teresa. They become so intense. She became too involved too quickly."

"It was just holidays she had with us in an ordinary little home."

"My dear Cordelia, no house is ordinary with Patience in it."

"I know. She is quite the most wonderful person.

I was so happy for Teresa to have a share in all that." "You're too sentimental. Let Teresa go for Easter and I am sure it will be all right for the summer." "Couldn't we explain it to them?"

"Explanations would make it worse. They'd feel more guilty. They are just making this gesture to preserve their kindly image with the parents. We'll have to let them this time. And perhaps Teresa will make it so that they don't want her again for a very long time." Daisy smiled grimly. "Oh come, Cordelia, it's not so tragic as all that. Just this once. Teresa has to learn that life is not a bed of roses. It'll be good for her and make her all the more appreciative of Moldenbury next time."

"She's appreciative enough already."

Daisy shrugged her shoulders. "She'll have to go," she said firmly.

Poor Teresa was heart-broken and her grief cast an air of tragedy over the rest of term.

When I waved her off with the rest of the girls the day before my departure we were both of us on the verge of tears.

It was a sad household at Moldenbury. Teresa would have been very gratified to see how we missed her.

Aunt Patty said: "Never mind. She'll be here for summer and those are the long holidays."

"We shan't see her again," said Violet prophetically.

Everyone in the village asked where she was. I had not realized what a part of the household she had become. We decorated the church with daffodils and I was regretful thinking of how she would have enjoyed that. The hot cross buns did not seem nearly such a treat as they would have done had she been there.

"She loved it so much here," I said, "and she made us all realize how fortunate we are to have each other."

"I always knew that, dear," said Aunt Patty, solemn for once.

I went for long walks and thought about Marcia Martindale on the Continent with Jason Verringer. I imagined them on the canals of Venice, strolling beside the Arno in Florence, riding down the Champs Elysées, visiting the Colosseum in Rome ... all places I longed to visit.

I thought rather maliciously: They are worthy of each other, and I am sure they will get all the happiness they deserve.

It was the day after Easter Monday, in the mid afternoon, and I was in the sitting room reading when I heard the gate click. I got up and looked out of the window. Teresa was coming up the drive carrying a suitcase.

I dashed out. "Teresa!" I cried.

She flew at me and we hugged each other. "Whatever are you doing here?" I asked.

"I just came," she replied. "I got on a train and came. I couldn't stand it any longer."

"But what of the cousins?"

"I left a note for them. They'll be glad. I was such a nuisance to them."

"Oh Teresa," I cried, trying to sound stern but only conveying my pleasure.

I called up the stairs. "Aunt Patty. Violet. Come down at once."

They came running. For a few seconds they stared at Teresa. Then she flung herself at them and the three of them were in a sort of huddle while I stood looking on and laughing.

I said: "It's really rather awful. She's just walked out on the cousins, leaving a note."

Aunt Patty was trying not to laugh and even Violet was smiling.

"Well, I never!" said Aunt Patty.

"She just packed a suitcase and came."

"Ail that way by herself," said Violet looking shocked.

"She's nearly seventeen," I reminded them.

"I knew the way," said Teresa. "I had to go to London first. That was the tricky part. But the guard was helpful. He showed me."

"What about those cousins?" asked Violet. "They'll be out of their minds with worry." "With relief," said Teresa.

"And you just left a note," I said.

Teresa nodded.

"I'll write to them immediately explaining that you arrived safely and I'll ask their permission to let you stay for the rest of the holiday," I said.

"I shan't go back if they say No," said Teresa firmly. "I couldn't bear to think of you all eating hot cross buns without me." She turned to Violet. "How did they come out this year?"

"Not as good as last," said Violet predictably. "Some of them lost their crosses in the baking."

Teresa looked mournful and Violet went on. "We could make another batch. There's no law I know of that says you can only eat them on Good Friday."

"Oh, let's do it," said Teresa.

She was back. It was wonderful and we were all delighted.

In due course I received a letter from the cousins thanking me for my interest in Teresa. They knew how she had enjoyed the holidays spent at my home, but their great concern was not to impose, and if I found I had had enough of Teresa I was to send her back to them at once. I had asked their permission for her to spend the summer holiday with us and it was graciously-and I felt eagerly given.

When I showed the letter to Teresa she was overcome with joy.

We went into the village where she was warmly greeted by almost everyone and reproached by some for missing the Easter services.

She was pink with pleasure.

So it was a happy holiday after all. But soon it was time for us to return to school-and that was the end of the peaceful days.