"Leave it to me," he said. "I'll see to it."
Then smiling, he went out with Caroline, leaving her alone in the library caught up by her intermingling emotions, deciding that life in the outside world was more complicated than life in a convent.
As they rode out of the stable Fermor said: "What a bad temper you are in this morning!"
"I?"
"Certainly you. Weren't you rather rude to that poor girl?"
"I thought what I said was necessary.*'
"Necessary to hurt her feelings!"
"I wonder whether you would have been so solicitous of her feelings if she had had a squint and a hare lip."
"Would you have been so anxious to hurt her feelings if she had?"
"That is not the point."
"My dear Caroline, it is the point."
"You can't teach her to ride."
"Why not? I'm sure she'll make an excellent horsewoman."
"You forget she is only employed here."
"I may have forgotten, but you reminded me . . . remember . . . right there before her."
The tears filled her eyes. She said: "I can't help it. It makes me so unhappy to be . . . slighted . . . like that ... to be humiliated before a servant."
He could be very cold sometimes; he was cold now. He said: "It was you who humiliated yourself, treating her as you did."
He rode on in advance of her; she stared at his straight back and blinked away the tears. She thought: I am so unhappy. He does not love me. He never did. He will marry me because-, the marriage has been arranged. I would marry him if the whole world were against us.
They had reached the cliff path and she was glad that they had to pick their way carefully.
"We'll get down on to the beach," he said. "We'll have a gallop over the sand."
"All right," she answered.
She was thinking: Perhaps she'll be no good on a horse. Perhaps she'll have a violent fall . . . spoil her looks. She might even break her neck. That was a terrible thought and she was sorry she had had it. She did not mean to be unkind. If only her father had brought
her a poor middle-aged woman who needed kindness, how kind she would have been!
She was more composed when they were on the beach, and she came level with him. He turned his head and seeing her thus was greatly relieved.
"Come on," he said; and they were off, past the great rocks in which were streaks of pink quartz and amethyst, sending the seagulls squawking out of their path.
He began to sing for very enjoyment.
"On Richmond Hill there lives a lass ..."
She heard his voice mingling with the drumming of hoofs on the sand.
Melisande had been in the house six weeks when the thought came to her: I must not stay here. I must go away.
She was panic-stricken at the thought, for where should she go? How could she be happy away from here ? If Caroline had wanted her she could have been happy; but Caroline showed her so clearly that she had no right to be here. The French lessons continued— they were more or less a command from Sir Charles—and they played duets on the piano, but this Caroline could do as well as she could and so, as far as music was concerned, Melisande could teach her nothing. They did a little embroidery together, but here again Caroline was so much more efficient with the needle. Sometimes in the evenings she would join in a game of whist, taking Miss Holland's place if that lady was too tired to play or was suffering from one of her frequent headaches. But even that had to be taught her, for she had never played the game before. She and Sir Charles would be partners on these occasions; she wished that Fermor would partner her. Sir Charles would admonish her gently: "Oh, Mademoiselle, that was rather impetuous playing. You see, had you waited I could have taken that trick ..." She had the impression that he wished to be indulgent but that he was afraid of seeming too eager to excuse her; whereas Fermor would come boldly in to her defence. Whist did not therefore ease the tension; and she often wondered what she had to offer for her board and lodging, for a place in this lovely mansion.
To her it seemed such an exciting place with its great hall which, she had heard, had done service as a ballroom, and in which, in the old days, the whole family including the servants had taken their
meals; she could have spent many interested hours in the galleries with the portraits of long dead Trevennings; there were parts of the house which had not changed since the days of Henry VIII; there was the magnificent carved staircase, and the large lofty rooms with their latticed windows and diamond-shaped panes, and those fascinating deep window seats. The servants* quarters were the most ancient; to descend to the great stone-floored kitchen with its huge fireplace and cloam oven, to see the cellars, the pantries, the butteries, was indeed to step back into the past.
There was so much that she had grown to love. She enjoyed rising early, leaping out of bed to stand at her window and watch the sun rise over the sea which seemed different every day. Sometimes it sparkled as though an extravagant god had scattered diamonds on its surface; sometimes it was overshadowed by mist, a creeping thing that seemed to be coming slowly onwards, but never came; she was excited to see it angry, lashing the rocks, contemptuously throwing up a broken spar, a mane of seaweed; to see it in a merry mood, tossing up the spume on the summit of its wave, catching it as a child catches a ball. She would look out across the sea to the Eddy-stone Lighthouse, like a slim pencil in the clear morning light, away towards Plymouth in the east and Looe Island in the west. It was a joy to ramble over the rocks, to stand alone watching the effortless flight of seagulls, to wander in the fields and lanes; she found great pleasure in walking down into the town and along by the quay, calling a greeting to the fishermen sitting at their cottage doors mending their nets, to walk out on the jetty and feel the salt sea air in her face; she liked to look back at the grey houses of the towns, the cottages on both sides of the river, some little more than huts, some much grander with their ornamental ridged tiles which she had learned were called the pisky-pows because they had been made so that the piskies might dance there during the night; and the piskies were friendly to those who gave them an alfresco ballroom.
There was so much to know, so much to learn; she was the friend of them all because they knew how anxious she was to be their friend. They would call her in to drink a little metheglin or mead, blackberry or gilliflower wine, to taste a piece of raisin cake, which they called fuggan—but that was for special occasions; there was always a piece of heavy cake or saffron cake for the young foreign lady at any time.
She had as many friends in West Looe as in East Looe. People were always glad to see her whom they called the little Mamazel. And although there were some in West Looe who would resent her friendship with the people who lived on the other side of the river, and some in East Looe who thought she owed allegiance to them— for the two towns liked to keep themselves apart—they forgave
in Mamazel that which would have seemed duplicity in others.
Melisande knew of these resentments but she pretended not to. She was not, for the sake of East Looe, going to cut from her list of friends that wonderful old woman, Grandmother Tremorney, any more than she would, for the sake of the West, give up her friendship with old Knacker Poldown. Old Knacker—and he was so small and wizened that it was easy to understand why he had been so named— with his talk of the mines and the adventures he had there until he retired and came to live on the east side in a grand house with a pisky-pow on the roof, was too good to miss; but so w r as old Lil Tremorney sitting outside her cottage, purring at her pipe, with her tales of the lovers she had had.
Melisande had so many friends and she could not bear to leave them. Only yesterday she had been called in to Mrs. Pengelly's to see the new baby and taste a bit of the kimbly which had been saved for friends. It was a delicious cake made especially for the child's christening and she was honoured to receive her share.
How could she give up such things ?
There was something else whi
ch she had to give up, and she had to admit to herself that it was what she would miss more than anything.
Fermor had been teaching her to ride for some weeks. Sir Charles had given his permission. He seemed secretly pleased and said he thought it was an excellent idea, and it was a good thing to let Fermor pay for his lessons in French. Fermor had declared that there must be a lesson every day, and he said he would not return to London until he had made Melisande into a proficient horsewoman.
He was kind and friendly, but she was becoming more and more conscious of an underlying wickedness within him.
One day during a riding lesson she realized that she could no longer shut her eyes to the danger of her position.
Her horse bolted suddenly and made straight for the cliff's edge. Immediately she was aware of the thudding of Fermor's horse's hoofs close behind her. In an instant he was between her and danger.
The horses were at a standstill, and for a few moments Melisande and Fermor remained stationary in breathless silence, with the scent of the sea and the heather in their nostrils, looking at each other. She was conscious of the deep feelings they aroused within each other.
Suddenly he became flippant. "Don't do that again," he said. "That horse is valuable."
She was still trembling. "It does not matter about me then?"
He came close and touched her arm. "You are more precious than all the horses in the world," he said in deep and solemn tones.
She was in no mood for more instruction that day. "We'll go back to the stables," he said. "You're shaken."
They walked their horses soberly back to the stables. He helped her to dismount and as he did so held her while he gazed steadily into her eyes.
Then he bent his head and kissed her cheek lingeringly. He said: "You will ride to-morrow." It was a statement, not a question. "You're scared, Melisande," he went on. "You're very scared. When you're scared of something, face it, look it straight in the eyes. Don't run away from it. If you do, you'll remain scared all your life. Whereas if you look it straight in the eyes, you may find it is something you have been a fool to miss."
She knew that he was not referring to riding only.
She was certain now that she ought to go away.
"I must go at once," she said. "I have things to do." He did not seek to detain her and she hurried into the house.
She met Miss Pennifield on her way to the sewing-room. Miss Pennifield's face was flushed a patchy red, her lips were quivering, and in her hand she carried a dress.
"Is anything wrong, Miss Pennifield?" asked Melisande.
Miss Pennifield was obviously near tears. She held up the dress and shook her head wearily; she could not trust herself with words. Melisande followed her into the sewing-room; it was a relief to divert her attention to someone else's problems.
"This is the second time I've unpicked it," said Miss Pennifield. "There's no pleasing her."
"Can I help you?"
"'Tis kind of you, Mamazel. I'm at my wit's end, I do declare."
She sat down and spread the dress on the table. "It's the sleeve. She says it don't fit. She do always say the sleeves don't fit. She's in one of her moods this morning. I do declare they get worse and worse. If only it was a flaring temper I could stand it, but it's a quiet sort of rage . . . brooding like and cruel."
"Poor Miss Pennifield! What's wrong with the sleeves?"
"First it be too bunchy here . . . then it be too bunchy there. There be no pleasing her. I don't know when I'll get through."
"I could finish off the skirt hem while you do the sleeves."
"Will you then? 'Tis good of you, and a relief to talk to someone. Sometimes I say to myself I'll be glad when Miss Caroline do marry and go to London, though I'll have one the less to work for. She wasn't always like this . . . come to think of it. I don't know. I think she's fretting for marriage like. There's some as is like that. Why it should be so, a maiden like myself can't say."
"Are these stitches all right? I was never very good with the needle."
"Keep them a bit smaller, my dear, and just a mite more even. We can't have her complaining about the stitches as well as the set. 'Tis Mrs. Soady's belief that Miss Caroline should be married quick. But I reckon she won't be no better then, for he ain't the sort that's going to grow more loving after marriage ... as Mrs. Soady says. I couldn't say . . . being a maiden like."
"You have always earned your living at sewing, Miss Pennifield?"
"Why yes, my dear . . . sewing of a sort. . . . Lace-making too. Me and my sister Jane."
"You like it?"
"Oh, 'tis a hard life. Though better here in the country among the gentry than in the towns, I do hear. There was a time when me and Jane was both put to the lace-making to Plymouth. Travelled there we did through Crafthole and Millbrook and Cremyll Passage on the coach, then over the Tamar. My dear life! What a journey! And we was put with a lady to Plymouth. There was eight or nine of us . . . all little things—some not more than five years old. Whenever I be a bit upset about bunchy sleeves and the like, I think of lace-making to Plymouth. Then I be satisfied with my lot. That's why I be thinking of it now, I daresay. Sitting there in a sort of cupboard it were . . . wasn't much more ... a cupboard of a room . . . nine of us and the bobbins working all the time . . . and we dursen't look up for fear of wasting a second. So much we had to do or go without supper—and that weren't much; but it seemed a terrible lot to go without."
"Poor Miss Pennifield!" Melisande saw herself stitching shirts in the Convent needlework room. How she had hated it! And yet how fortunate she had been!
Her eyes were filled with sympathy and Miss Pennifield said: "Why, what a dear good little soul you be!"
"I wish I could sew better. I wish I could sew as quickly and neatly as you do."
"You come to it in time."
"Do you think I could? Do you think I could be a dressmaker? Perhaps I could. You see, Miss Pennifield, I cannot sew, but I know how to set a bow on a dress, or a flower ... or how a skirt should hang . . . even though I cannot do the sewing. Perhaps I could be that sort of dressmaker."
"My dear life, who knows? But you wouldn't wish for to be a dressmaker, my dear. A young lady as speaks French so well, and English not bad . . . why, you be an educated young lady. You be a companion. That's like a governess. 'Tis a cut above a dressmaker."
"Miss Pennifield, tell me about you and your sister . . ." Melisande paused to consider herself. She had changed since she had been in the Convent and had chattered ceaselessly; she had wanted to talk
about herself, her dreams and desires; she had not been eager to listen to others. She said quickly: "Don't tell me about the woman in Plymouth. That makes me sad. I want to laugh. Tell me about the happy times. There must have been happy times."
"Oh yes," said Miss Pennifield, "there was happy times. Christmas time was the best. Decorating the church. Mr. Danesborough, he was a merry sort of gentleman. But we moved away from his church when I was little, and we lived near St. Martin's then. Mr. Forord Michell ... he were the vicar then. We'd decorate the church with holly and bay, and we'd go round a-gooding, which I'll tell 'ee, as you'd not know being not of these parts, was going round begging for sixpence towards our Christmas dinner. We'd go to all the big houses both sides of the river . . . this house and Leigh, Keverel, Morval and Bray . . . then we'd go to Trenant Park, Treworgey and West North. Then we'd go wassailing. We'd get one of the men to carve us a bowl and we'd decorate it with furze flowers, and we'd go begging a coin that we could fill the bowl and drink to the wassail."
Miss Pennifield began to sing in a small reedy voice:
"The mistress and master our wassail begin Pray open your door and let us come in With our wassail . . . wassail . . . wassail . . . And joy come to our jolly wassail.
"Ah, there was a merry frolic, I can tell 'ee. We'd black our faces. We'd dress up and dance in the fields and some of us would be so far gone in merriment—and like as not with too much methe-glin an
d cider—that we'd call on the piskies to come and join us. Oh, they was jolly frolicking times! Then there was Good Friday. I remember when we did all go down to the beaches, with knives to get the horned cattle off the rocks, and we'd have sacks to put 'em in and we'd bring them back for a real feast. But May Day was the best day ... if 'twas not Midsummer's Eve when we'd go out on the moors for the bonfires. Yes, May Day was best. Then we'd get together and wait till midnight, and there'd be fiddlers there too, and we'd all go to the farms nearby and they'd give us junket and cream or heavy cake and saffron or even fuggan. They dursen't refuse for, you do see, 'twas an old custom. The Little People don't like them that is too mean or too busy for old customs. Then we'd dance in the fields. We'd do the old cushion dances that was beautiful to watch. But it wasn't all feasting and dancing and games—oh, dear me no. Bringing home the may was a solemn thing. They'd been doing it for years—so I be told—before there was Christians in these parts, so said Mr. Danesborough, and he was terrible clever
and knew much about these parts. When we brought home the may some of us would have whistles and we'd pipe it home like. Those was wonderful times . . . though there was much wickedness among them as took advantage of the dark. Though I know nothing of that . . . being a maiden like."
And so, as they talked, Miss Pennifield was laughing and gay again; she had forgotten that Miss Caroline had frightened her; and even when she took the dress back and Caroline admitted grudgingly that it would do, she still had that aura of happiness about her.
Melisande was subdued after Miss Pennifield had left her. What a sad life! she thought. To be a dressmaker! She tried to picture herself, old like Miss Pennifield, with eyes that seemed to be sinking into her head through too much sewing. Yet if she left this house, where would she go ?
But to brood on unpleasantness was not a habit of Melisande's. She went to the kitchen and asked if she might have supper with them instead of on a tray in her room.
Mr. Meaker was in doubt; he was not sure that that was right, and he had been in some very big houses. Mrs. Soady, flattered and delighted, said, Who was to know ? And it was a matter for Mamazel herself to decide. She set about making a special muggety pie for, as she confided to Mr. Meaker, she had heard that people set a powerful lot by French cooking, and she would show the little Mamazel that Cornwall could compete. Muggety couldn't fail to do this and there should be fair-maids to assist as well as a hog's pudding.
It began in Vauxhall Gardens Page 10
