The Landower Legacy (33 page)

“Yes, very. But I didn’t have much chance in France. I only rode once.”

“That was when you had your fall.”

“Yes. It was when …”

“When Paul Landower visited you.”

“He hired the horses and we went into the mountains.”

“We haven’t any mountains here. Only Brown Willy, and he won’t match up to the Alpes Maritimes.”

I laughed. It was good to be with her. She was so matter-of-fact, so full of normality. She was no dreamer.

I said impulsively: “It’s good to be with you, Cousin Mary.”

“I was hoping you’d feel that. Caroline, I want to talk to you very seriously.”

“What, now?”

“No time like the present. Have you thought about doing anything—”

“You mean … earning a living?”

She nodded. “I know how you’re placed. I got it all from Imogen. My cousin left you nothing, but you have a little from your maternal grandfather.”

“Fifty pounds a year.”

“Not exactly affluence.”

“No. I have been thinking a great deal. But then I was with my mother and it seemed I might have to stay. Alphonse very kindly offered me a home with them but … Olivia too.”

“If I know anything about you you’re a young woman who wants her independence, are you not? Of course you are. Therefore I expect you will want to
do
something.”

“I could be a governess, I suppose. A companion to someone.”

“Ugh!” said Cousin Mary.

“I quite agree.”

“Definitely unsuitable. Of course it is.”

“When I passed Jamie McGill’s lodge I thought of having a little cottage and keeping bees. Can one make money by selling honey?”

“Very little, I imagine. Oh no, Caroline, that’s not for you. You say you’ve been thinking. I’ve been thinking, too.”

“About me?”

“Yes, about you. Now, I’m beginning to feel my age a bit. Not so spry as I used to be. A touch of what they call ‘the screws’ meaning the old rheumatics in the joints. It slows you down a bit. I’ve thought of asking you many times … but it seemed you’d marry, which I suppose would have been the best thing for you if it had been the right man.”

“Why, Cousin Mary, you follow the general trend of thinking. The best thing a woman can do is pander to the needs of some man. Why shouldn’t she keep her independence? You have done so … very successfully.”

She looked at me sharply. She said: “Don’t brood on that defaulter. Congratulate yourself rather. There are men and men. I know very well that a woman wants to choose very carefully and it often happens that she makes the wrong choice. I agree with you that it’s better never to marry than to marry the wrong one. But if you could find that paragon of a man and have children of your own … well, that’s about the best thing, I reckon. But don’t set too great a store on it. The world’s full of good things, and independence and freedom to be yourself is one of them. And in marriage you have to give up that to a certain extent. Make the most of what you’ve got. That’s what I’ve always done and it hasn’t turned out too badly. Now listen to what I have to say. I want you to help me. I want you to learn about the estate. There’s a great deal to do. There are all the tenants to look after. Jim Burrows is a good manager, but it’s the landowners who set the pace. I’ve always taken a personal interest. That’s what was wrong at Landower … until now. I’d like you to learn about things, get to know the tenants, to write letters for me … and generally learn all about it. I’ll pay you a salary.”

“Oh no, Cousin Mary. Certainly not.”

“Oh yes. It has to be on a business footing. Just as if I were employing you. But I shouldn’t let it be known just yet that I was doing so. People are so inquisitive … they talk too much. You’d find it interesting. You’d earn some money. It would be more profitable than keeping bees, I assure you. Believe me, you’d find it very interesting. Now what’s it to be?”

“I-I’m overwhelmed, Cousin Mary. I think you’re doing this to help me.”

“I’m doing it to help myself. I can tell you / want help … but not from an outsider. I think you’re cut out for the job. So that’s settled.”

“You are so good to me.”

“What nonsense! I’m good to myself. You and I are two sensible women, are we not? Of course we are. I can’t stand any other sort.”

“I had thought that I shouldn’t stay here … that I ought …”

“Give it a chance,” she said. “I shall never forget your woebegone little face when we said goodbye last time. I said to myself ‘There’s one who’s got a feel for this place.’ And that’s what it takes. It will be a great relief for me to have you with me.”

“Well, I don’t want to be paid.”

“Now I’m beginning to believe you’re not so sensible as I thought after all. Didn’t someone say the labourer was worthy of his hire? You’ll
be paid, Caroline Tressidor, and no nonsense about that. Why is it people always get on their high horse when it’s a question of money? What’s wrong with money? It’s necessary. We can’t go back to bartering goods, can we? Of course we can’t. You shall be paid. Not excessively, I promise you. Just what I would pay someone I called in to give me a hand. And with that, and what you’ve got, you’ll be an independent young lady. And there are no contracts or anything like that. You come and go as you please.”

I felt the tears coming to my eyes. It was strange that I, who had hardly shed a tear over Jeremy’s perfidy and when confronted with the avarice of Paul, now wanted to weep for the goodness of Cousin Mary.

I said rather tremulously: “When do I start?”

“There’s no time like the present,” said Cousin Mary. “Get into your riding things and I’ll take you round and show you something of the estate this morning.”

Jamie McGill was in his garden as we rode out and he came to greet us.

“Lovely morning, Jamie,” said Cousin Mary.

“Aye, Miss Tressidor, Miss Caroline. It’s a fine morning.”

“Bees all happy?”

“That they are. They’re glad Miss Caroline is back.”

“It’s very nice of them to be so welcoming,” I said.

“Bees know,” he told me gravely.

“There you are!” said Cousin Mary. “If the bees approve of you, you’re the right sort. That’s so, is it not, Jamie? Of course it is.”

He stood with his cap in his hand while the light breeze ruffled his sandy hair.

“Poor Jamie,” said Cousin Mary as we rode on. “Though perhaps I should say, Lucky Jamie. I’ve never known anyone who has that complete contentment. It’s due to coming to terms with life. I suppose. Jamie has what he wants. He doesn’t look beyond that. A roof over his head, enough to eat, and his friends about him … chief of which are the bees.”

“Perhaps the simple life is the best.”

“There’s a lot to be said for simplicity. Well, here we are. These woods along here are the dividing line between Tressidor and Landower. There used to be conflict in the old days. Whose woods were they? Now they’re a sort of no-man’s land. I would first like to call on the Jeffs. Their cottage is decidedly damp and Jim Burrows thinks something ought to be done about it … I shall introduce you as my
cousin’s daughter,” she went on. “That’s what we thought you were. No point in going into complicated relationships.”

I said: “It’s odd to think that we are not related. I continued to think of you as Cousin Mary even after …”

“I never did believe in all that nonsense about blood’s being thicker than water. Who was it said we choose our friends but our relations are thrust upon us? How true! I never thought much of my cousin Robert nor his sister Imogen for that matter. However, my cousin’s daughter you stay. How’s that? All right, eh?”

“If it makes it easier.”

“Just at first anyway.”

We were received with pleasure by the Jeffs.

“I remember Miss Caroline,” said Mrs. Jeffs. “It must be well nigh … well, bless me if I can remember how many years since she were here.”

“It’s five,” I told her.

“My word, you’ve shot up since then. I remember how you used to ride round with Mr. Jago.”

“Fancy your remembering.”

“Oh yes. That were the time when there was trouble up at Landower. I do recall how Jane Bowers and her husband Jim were that worried as to what was going to happen to the estate. My patience me, there was rumours going round. There’s been Landowers up at the house as far back as anyone could remember. Jim Bowers’s grandfather and great-grandfather … they’d all been on Landower property. Praise God, ‘tis all well now and Landowers be where they belong to be and Landower tenants be safe in their homes.”

Cousin Mary discussed the damp at some length with Mr. and Mrs. Jeffs and when we left them and were riding along in silence I thought of Mrs. Jeffs’ words about people being safe in their homes. So the marriage had brought some good to others as well as to the Landowers. He wouldn’t have been thinking of that though. He would merely have been considering what he would gain.

I felt the bitterness rising and I did my best to suppress it. I did not want Cousin Mary to know that I had been so foolish as to look on Paul Landower as someone very important to me.

We were soon calling at one of the other cottages to talk of further matters, and from there we set out for the farms.

As we were riding home Cousin Mary said: “That’s one of the most important parts of the job—to get to know the tenants. They’re
hard-working people for the most part and many of them work on the farms. I like to feel that they are comfortable and happy. That is how to make a contented estate and you can’t have a prosperous one without that contentment.”

As we were riding through the gateway we met a woman coming out.

She seemed vaguely familiar.

“Oh, Miss Tressidor,” she cried, “I was just calling on you. I see that your visitor has arrived.”

“You must come back to the house,” said Cousin Mary. “This is Caroline Tressidor, my cousin’s daughter. This is Mrs. Landower, Caroline.”

I felt my heart begin to beat very fast. I could not stop myself studying her intently. She sat her horse well and her riding habit was immaculate. Her light sandy hair was visible under her riding hat; her eyes were light blue and very piercing. They were what I noticed first, for they were very lively and seemed to dart everywhere—almost avidly, as though their owner was intent in taking in every detail.

“Well, just for a moment,” she said. “I just wanted to say welcome to Miss Caroline. As a matter of fact I was calling to ask you if you would dine with us tomorrow evening.”

“That’s good of you,” said Cousin Mary. “We’d love to come, wouldn’t we, Caroline? Of course we should. Ho, James,” she called to one of the grooms who was crossing the courtyard. “Take our horses. Mrs. Landower is coming in for a while.”

We dismounted and I saw that she was considerably shorter than I and I noticed—a little maliciously I admit—that she had rather a plump figure, which made her look dumpy.

“I’ve been showing Caroline something of the estate,” said Cousin Mary.

“Do you like the country, Miss Caroline?” she asked. I could detect the faint touch of the north in her speech and it brought back to me vividly that meeting at the inn with Jago when we had been waiting for my horse to be shod.

“Oh yes, yes indeed I do,” I replied.

“You’ll have something to drink,” put in Cousin Mary, making it a statement rather than a question.

“Thank you,” she replied.

“In the winter parlour, I think,” went on Cousin Mary. “More cosy.”

One of the maids had heard us come in and was beginning to say, “Mrs. Landower called …”

“It’s all right, Betsy. We were in time to catch her. Bring some wine will you, to the winter parlour … and some of cook’s wine biscuits.”

In the winter parlour we awaited the arrival of the wine.

“Your face seems familiar to me,” said Mrs. Landower.

“Well, we did meet before. Do you remember the inn … before you saw the house.”

“Oh, of course. You were there with Jago. I do remember that. But you’ve changed so. You were only a child then.”

“I was fourteen.”

“But you’ve grown up a lot since.”

“Everyone here keeps telling me that.”

“It’s something that happens to us all,” said Cousin Mary. The wine was brought and she poured it into glasses and I passed round the biscuits.

“Dinner, you say,” said Cousin Mary. “That sounds delightful. I want Caroline to get to know everything that goes on here … quickly.”

“I was most anxious to meet her. After all, we are neighbours, aren’t we? Did I see you only once? I can’t believe it. You are so familiar to me … although you’ve grown so much. You’ll have to meet my little boy.”

“Oh yes. Cousin Mary was telling me about him.”

“He’s beautiful. They say he takes after the Landowers.” She grimaced.

“Oh,” said Cousin Mary, “I expect he’s got a bit of you in him. Perhaps he’ll be like your father. Now, there’s a man I respected deeply.”

“Dear old Pa,” said Gwennie Landower. “A pity he had to go and die just when he’d got what he wanted.”